Page 38 of Vaquero
Chapter Fourteen
Julio lay flat in the weeds, his face to the dirt and his weapon beneath him, making sure no reflection from the blazing fire showed off his scope. He’d been hit. Upper arm. Nothing serious. But Meg Duncan’s warrior friend had finally arrived, and they were flying off together. That was the best way for this nightmare day to end. She’d spoken of her buddy with some degree of tenderness. She’d probably worked with Charlie Brown enough to know what kind of man he was. Julio had to respect that. Meg deserved someone who’d fight for her. She deserved a hero. Looked like she had one now.
Wasn’t that a kick in the heart? When the Blackhawk lifted off, just before it veered north, Julio lifted his chin and stole one last look, but only to make certain she was aboard the bird this time. Then he wished he hadn’t. There they sat together, Meg and her hero, their legs dangling off the side, his big arm around her shoulders, and her leaning into him like a lover. At least like his best friend. He had his lips on the side of her head, over her bandana. Looked like he was kissing her.
Something ripped deep inside Julio, in that dark, isolated corner where a single ray of Meg’s brightness had so briefly shone. Felt like a sucking black hole had cut through his chest like the São Francisco River cut through Minas Gerais. Stole his breath like he’d taken a sucker punch to his solar plexus. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t swallow. Didn’t want to think about what Charlie Brown might be telling Meg up there in that chopper. Probably sweet nothings. Or lies. She might even be peering up at him and believing him. Thanking him. Promising him God knew what.
Julio ran his fingers through his short, wiry hair, remorseful at how things had turned out. But thankful Meg was finally on her way to safety. She never should’ve been in these Highlands in the first place, given her partial paralysis. But watching her leave with some bigshot Ranger named Charlie Brown?Madre de Dios!It hurt just the same.
Instead of bouncing to his knees once the chopper’s running lights disappeared into the night, Julio took it slow and careful, lifting up and out of the dirt. Like it or not, he was injured. He took a quick moment to take care of his bleeding bicep. He’d been grazed. No big deal. Jerking his blow-out kit from his pocket, he tied his wound off with the belt that worked as his tourniquet. He’d clean that wound later. If he lived.
Right now, Senator Sullivan expected a thorough sitrep, which required absolute assurance the designated target had been neutralized. For that, Julio needed to see the corpse. Not that he expected to find one. Not that he’d file paperwork or take one last photo as proof if he did. Things like that just weren’t done in the elite, black ops world Senator Sullivan commanded. The only things Sullivan wanted to hear was two little words:Job complete.
Not like Julio could transmit them. Meg still had his phone.
It’d only been a year or so since the SOBs, the name of Sullivan’s clandestine workforce, had been created. Sullivan had originally tagged it with a politically correct moniker: Strike Back Force. Only former SEAL Chance Sinclair, Sullivan’s first recruit, never liked it. One of three brothers, all former SEALs, Chance had promptly changed the name to Sons of Bitches, aka SOBs. What’d Sullivan expect from a former SEAL? Compliance? He should’ve known better. When you hired hard men, you got what you asked for. And the Sinclair Boys were some of the toughest.
All SOB teams consisted of three team members and all operated on a strict eyes-only, don’t talk, don’t tell, protocol. Every last one of them operated outside the law, yet all were comprised of men and women who’d honorably served America, some of the men as spec ops guys while in the military, CIA, or FBI SWAT. Some as hardened Department of Homeland Defense and Border Patrol agents. After continually witnessing man’s depravity to man and various nations’ failures to protect the common people, everyone Sullivan tagged to work with him pledged their allegiance to make a difference. Their goal was simply to turn the tide of evil in the world while it was still doable. Sounded simple. Was anything but.
Each team had a designated leader and two followers. Made things easier. None took their assignments lightly, and each decision to end a life required a unanimous vote by all team members, then team leaders. Sullivan demanded a unanimous vote to end any target. Once the yays and nays were in, he assigned the job to the most appropriate team. From that point on, the team leader assigned one of his people to perform the actual hit. No reports were filed afterward. No forensic evidence was collected at any scene. Once the selected agent reported back withJob complete, Sullivan and the SOBs moved on to the next despot, tyrant, or psychopath killer.
Surprisingly, among men and women who’d seen what most combat-hardened SEALs, Green Berets, Rangers, PJs, and SWAT officers had seen, there tended to be more unanimous votes than not. Discussions, when they surfaced, were brief, punctuated with rapid-fire acronyms, and buried in code. But decisive and final. Predators existed. The SOBs vowed to end them. One by one, they were getting the hardest jobs done.
Were the SOBs a behind-the-scenes organization created to exact justice for crimes against man and nature? Hell, yeah. Was it legal? Authorized? Moral? In a redacted, change-the-names-to-protect-the-innocent kind of way, maybe. Didn’t matter to Julio. He’d already lived through the worst a man could survive. All he knew now was that a man on his own—any man—could still make a difference. At least until his dying day.
But he still had no phone. Guess that call to Sullivan would have to wait.
Not like it mattered. Since Sullivan enlisted Ranger and Nightstalker assistance, good old Charlie Brown would’ve reported how he’d rescued the orphans and former Corporal Duncan by now. No doubt he wouldn’t end his mission with the standard SOB sit rep. He’d brag and provide details, maybe even a written after-action report, like good guys did.
Too bad Sullivan hadn’t employed any good guys. Too bad Julio no longer cared. Meg Duncan didn’t need him. She never truly had. Their brief interlude had been more about adrenaline than romance. Caring for orphans would fill the holes in her life. Hell, she actually had a life. All Julio had coming at him was another far-off target to eliminate. Another monster to neutralize.
Steady on his feet now and his arm wrapped for the time being, he aimed for the point of detonation. He should hurry. Verifying Zapata’s death couldn’t be hard. No one could’ve survived that blast. But Julio’s heart was no longer in the assignment. His boots felt heavy, as if he were walking through wet concrete. His spirits were low.
The woman who’d breathed life back into his heart was gone from Brazil and from his life. And with her departure, nature’s bright vibrant colors once again dimmed into the customary blacks and grays he’d been used to. The night sky overhead, which he knew was full of stars, seemed darker with the orange flames licking at the heavens like they were. No stars were visible. Even in death, Oz had robbed the night of life. In a way, that blank, black sky was Domingo Zapata all over again. Still protected and alive. Still aching to kill innocent victims with the cruelest violence, to paint himself with their blood. Still sucking the life out of everything good, pure, and holy.
But for a moment today, with Meg, Julio had actually felt alive. Maybe even good. At least better. He’d actually breathed like he wanted to live. His blood had boiled. He’d tasted hope, and it had come from Meg’s sweet lips. The honey of her mouth. Her breath.
But no more. Fumes from the latest underground explosions punctuated this godforsaken pit of death and despair.
Shaking his head to clear the regret ringing in his ears, Julio approached the edge of the crater he’d created with that single well-placed shot. Another loud pop from below declared that Oz had stockpiled plenty of fuel below the surface. That explained the successive explosions at first impact. Also explained the burgeoning crater that, even now, swallowed another fiery mouthful. If the ground kept collapsing as quickly as it was, the warheads would soon fall into the burning abyss.
As it was, the mobile launchers were twisted metal carcasses. Two lethal payloads lay loose on the ground between two of the transport vehicles. The third balanced precariously, half-on, half-off its trailer. The three nukes appeared intact, though. Their casings weren’t dented, only scorched and scuffed.
He doubted they’d detonate, but they might already be leaking radiation. Therein lay Brazil’s next problem. Sullivan needed to get a nuclear safety hazmat team in here soon. But Julio suspected Sullivan already knew that, courtesy of Charlie Brown. The guy was no dummy. He had Meg, didn’t he?
Not only had all other vehicles been incinerated, but Oz, his army, and every last one of the Russians had been evaporated as well. There were no bones or bodies anywhere. No blood. Not even a whiff of the barbecued pig. The equipment shed behind the vehicles was gone as well. Only smoking ash and the active fire in the ever-growing hole in the pit remained. Only the odor all dead things left behind...
Julio nodded to himself, satisfied that Oz hadn’t survived this hit. He couldn’t have, not as quickly as the fuel pumps blew. This job was done. It was time to step back and complete Sullivan’s second assignment, organize and lead the deadliest of SOB teams. TheDia de Muertos.
But Julio would have to guard these missiles until Sullivan’s hazmat team showed. South America was heavy with bands of guerillas, all out for world domination, fame, and glory. If any of them took possession of these nukes, there’d be hell to pay.
Turning his back on the fiery grave, Julio dusted his palms on his thighs and called it a day. Not a great day, but sufficient. It hadn’t ended precisely how he’d wanted, but that was life for you. Full of heartache and lost chances. Not fairy tales. Certainly not happy endings.
Sullivan would be at Dover Air Force Base, Delaware, by now. Dover housed the Air Force Mortuary Affairs Operations. It was there the dignified transfers of all military remains were handled, processed, and made ready to go home to their families. Santiago would’ve accompanied Diego’s and Seb’s bodies to Dover. Julio needed to know precisely how his friends died. He needed to know who’d killed them and why. He had to get to New Mexico.
But first… He would finish this mission. He’d set up a makeshift camp somewhere above the pit. He’d keep watch over the nukes. He’d fish and he’d hunt the nearby forest until either Sullivan’s team or the Brazilian army showed. Then he’d fade to black without anyone ever knowing he’d been there. He’d find a way back to Rio, and from there, to his new responsibility in New Mexico.
Julio crooked his neck and looked up into the night sky. If there were stars there, he couldn’t see them, not through the thick veil of smoke and ash in his way. “Adios,” he whispered to the woman who’d shot through his life like a falling star. “I’m sorry I lied, but it’s best if we don’t meet again. I will miss you, but you deserve better.Vaya con Dios, mi amigo.”
Go with God, my friend.
