Gin #2
Once inside, Birdie locked the door behind them and, finger to lips, pulled them deep into a labyrinth of air-cooled serving towers, just as the plans had indicated.
Antiaircraft guns and radar and running a complex this big required computer power—this was where the servers were held. And while nobody was needed in the corridors, which was a blessing, two hot and sweaty soldiers—and one diminutive Birdie—stuck out like a sore thumb.
Marcus and Dean followed Birdie until the little pilot guided them to a tiny staff room perhaps twice the size of a linen closet and distinguished from such by a microwave, a mini fridge, a love seat, and a small couch—and a lavatory around the corner.
“All the comforts of home, I see,” Marcus said, collapsing on the couch in a cloud of dust.
“Cartel guys are like any other employer,” Birdie said, coughing behind a grimy hand. “Except his employees carry guns and it’s hard to dispose of bodies out here. Barrera wants his guys to not think about rebelling, he’s got to not treat them like chickens waiting for the axe.”
“But he’s not going to let them get too fat and happy either,” Marcus concluded, and Birdie nodded.
“I heard a lot hiding out under that fucking supply truck. Dean, you were spot on about the two Russian guys on the heater for fucking up. They came back with us—I could hear their hard-soled shoes ringing on the floor of the canvas-covered truck, for fucks sake. The truck pulled in, the guys got out, and they had a fucking escort to go see Gael Barrera. I wouldn’t put odds on those guys making it through another night, you know what I mean? ”
“But they’re alive now?” Dean asked.
“Yeah. There’s a sort of… well, it’s not quite a jail. It’s more like a controlled barracks. Our guys were put in there, under guard, and the bitching was loud and in Russian. The whole compound could hear it down the hall.”
“Too bad they made you, me, and Bailey at the hospital,” Marcus said with an unhappy glance at Dean. “It would be great if Barrera took them out himself and thought he was done with it.”
Dean nodded. Their plan, such as it was, was contingent upon the family— all of the family—being separated from the military part of the compound.
“Bird,” Dean said, feeling the pain of this in his gut. He and Marcus had hard lines—and he was pretty sure Birdie did too. “Is there any way to take the whole compound out without putting the family in danger?”
Birdie grimaced. “I can give you about eighty percent,” Bird said frankly.
“But for us to really cripple them, all it would take would be to use the C-4 on the antiaircraft gun and the computer station. Once we take out their surveillance, their computing power, their infrastructure—I’m saying.
It took ten years to build this shit up. ”
But the Russians. And their information….
Dean started to pace. “Marcus,” he said slowly, reaching out absently to touch the file cabinet, “what would be the one thing that would make Gael Barrera focus on somebody besides the witness to the Bratva hit?”
“I don’t know. A carpet bombing by the US military? A turf war with one of the other cartels?”
Dean felt it then, the tingling sensation that came with it . The idea that was going to solve all their problems. The it.
“Maybe Bratva breaking out their two hit men and blowing up the antiaircraft array?”
Marcus and Birdie stared at him.
“Why in the fuck would they do that?” Marcus asked in disbelief. The hit men had fucked up—Bratva would as soon cut them loose, particularly since their partnership with Sangrino de Corazón was going so swimmingly.
“I don’t know, comrade,” Dean replied in Russian. “Why would they?”
Marcus’s face went blank, which meant he was rapidly assimilating everything Dean had just said. In Russian he replied, “I haven’t the faintest idea. But I think it should happen.”
“Da,” Dean said, his mind darting around like a million fish.
In English he said, “Bird, we’re going to need some cartel uniforms and some AK-47’s.
You’re in charge of the C-4. Marcus has the bags.
Blow up the computers, the antiaircraft array, hell, even the weapons.
Everything in the northeast quadrant of the compound, go for it.
But if you so much as see a doll or smell a diaper—”
“Abort, abort, abort,” Birdie said, nodding like this was a crapton of relief. “What’s our exfil?”
“Well, I assume you’re going to leave the hangars alone?” Marcus asked.
Birdie grimaced. “I’d love to fly out of here, but we’d have to get to the planes, and taking one of the fucking Jeeps would be really goddamned dangerous.”
“Suggestions?” Dean asked.
Marcus closed his eyes, and Dean knew he was running Birdie’s map through his head. He opened his eyes and said, “Two things. One is a Jeep would be dangerous—it would leave our heads and faces exposed.”
“We know this….” Dean made go-on motions with his hands.
“It would be perfect if our two Bratva boys escaped in a Jeep, you think?”
“Oh my God,” Dean said, and just like the tingle meant he had it , the shudder meant Marcus had put the cherry on top of it and turned it into the sundae of his dreams. “They’ll be so busy chasing the damned Jeep—”
“They won’t even realize we’re the ones in the plane,” Birdie finished on a cackle, and they all took a collective breath.
“So,” Dean said. “Where does everybody eat or gather?”
“There’s a mess hall toward the center of the compound,” Birdie said. “From what I heard, Barrera eats there at night, talking among the troops, that sort of thing, and then he retires to the civilian villa, where he plays daddy dearest with what is probably an entire fucking romper room of kids.”
“Okay, then,” Dean said. “We should have a complete division. No civilians in this part of the compound. Marcus and I break the Russians out, making a hell of a ruckus in Russian , and then we get those boys to a Jeep. Then, while they’re standing on it and distracting the rest of the compound, Bird, you’ll have our exfil prepped and the C-4 ready to blow.
We’ll spend the night shift out and about getting the lay of the land—maybe dropping some C-4 nodules if we’ve got time—and then catch eight hours here. It’s not used a lot, is it, Bird?”
Birdie indicated no with a jerk of the chin. “Did you spot the dust on the file cabinet?”
“Yes, and the drawers are empty. I could tell. No, this place doesn’t get many visitors.” Dean let out a puff of breath. “Which is good news. Between the club chair and the couch and one person sitting on guard at the table, we might get some sleep. It’s glacial in here.”
“Glorious,” Marcus mumbled. Dean smiled at him wearily as Marcus’s chin touched his chest.
“Well, maybe you and Marcus can rest here for an hour or two,” he said to Birdie. “I’m going to take a cruise around the compound and see if I can’t get some uniforms while nobody’s at the commissary.”
Birdie’s plans had indicated barracks and a commissary—much like any military organization anywhere.
Well, why not? So much of South America had been destabilized by American CIA interests in the eighties and nineties that building up a dependable government had taken sweat, blood, and lives.
The cartels had filled in the vacuum—and often offered a stability that the governments at the time hadn’t.
Unfortunately their brutal origins bred brutality, and the now-thriving government of Mexico was having a hell of a time fighting what amounted to small fascist regimes in the middle of their country.
It was a mess. Dean, for all the numbers that fell behind his IQ, couldn’t untangle it.
All he knew was that he didn’t like it when people got hurt.
Trafficked people. People who fell susceptible to drugs.
People hurt in violent crimes. He and Marcus had long since started to work on the least violent options to help people not involved in the cartels just live their damned lives—and that included Bailey.
The fact that he wanted to see Bailey again, longed to spend some time with Bailey in peace—or making love, which was not peaceful—made this the most important mission Dean and Marcus had ever attempted.
It was absolutely imperative that Bailey be allowed to live his life in peace after this, whether or not that peace included Dean.
With this in mind, he scouted the complex and found the laundry and the closed commissary.
Quietly, he let himself into the commissary and stole three of the requisite uniforms—green khaki, ribbed tanks, red kerchiefs, and hats.
It was a simple getup, without stars and bars, and Dean thought part of the reason a uniform was required was to delineate people in the military part of the compound from people in the civilian part.
He was pretty sure that when cartel personnel were sent off campus to do business, they dressed in civilian clothes, the better to sneak into people’s lives and homes and perpetrate mayhem.
He changed into one set of the uniforms and grabbed two AK’s from the armory, also located in the commissary.
He thought about giving one to Birdie but thought Birdie would be better off with a service revolver.
The AK’s had a massive pushback that the revolver didn’t.
Birdie was probably strong enough to wield one, but Birdie’s real strength relied on stealth.
Besides—carrying one buddy’s extra weapon over his shoulder while strapped with a personal revolver was one thing, but carrying two was ridiculous.
He returned to the staff room well and truly exhausted and more than ready to catch his nap, slipping in a mere breath before a claxon blared over speakers placed all over the compound, probably to indicate changing of the shift.
“Jesus,” Marcus blurted, sitting bolt upright from the couch. “Bird, you couldn’t have warned us?”
“Didn’t know!” Birdie snapped, scrambling to stand by the comfy chair that had served as a sleeper. “Holy shit! How long were you gone?”
“Couple hours,” Dean said, yawning. “Brought you guys presents. Next person who sneaks out needs to bring food.”
“I slept all day under the fucking truck,” Birdie muttered. “Had cold packs most of the time. Comfy as a kitten.”
“I’ll do it,” Marcus volunteered, standing and starting to strip. He used the small sink and the faucet to dampen his tank and wipe his pits down as he did so, because he’d always been meticulous. “I’m starving.”
Dean yawned and nodded as he stripped off his overshirt and used it to cover himself when he took Marcus’s place on the couch. “Same,” he said.
“Yeah, you get some sleep.” Marcus chuckled. “Knowing where to find the dining hall will be essential for what we’re doing tonight.”
Dean grunted and closed his eyes, as safe here as he’d been under the parachute in the desert but admittedly more comfortable. “Plan later,” he muttered. “Bird, water’s in the plane.”
“Will do, boss,” Birdie told him, and that’s all he had to remember for a few.