Page 50 of Vaquero
Chapter Twenty
Julio set off another remote charge. Then another. He’d spotted the infiltrators sneaking up on the Matryoshkas, first at the lip of the gravel pit, then when a group of around twenty men headed down the trailhead leading to ground zero. Had to be one of Oz’s main competitors, because there were dozens of soldiers this time, and they’d brought substantial firepower. All were dressed in the uniform of the day: camouflaged pants bloused into leather boots, matching shirts. Like the Crips and Bloods, these gangsters seemed to prefer specific colors. Oz might have liked red, but these yahoos wore gold berets accompanied by gold bandanas at their neck. Might as well have had targets painted on their foreheads. The gold made them easy to spot, easier to kill.
All were equipped with the weaponry that drug lords the world over chose, AK-47s or its equivalents. Jeeps and ATVs rumbled up to the edge of the pit, each bristling with fifty caliber machine guns, all ready for war.
Swallowing past his dry throat, Julio brought his detonator up and remotely set off the explosives fore and aft of the marching group on the trail. Men screamed. Others jumped off the trail and tumbled down the steep walls. Still others folded where they’d stood, killed by the blast.
Julio set off another charge, this one up top along the edge. He’d planned well. Three Jeeps and the truck with the AK exploded where they’d stopped. More screaming. More dead enemies.
Alert now and running for their lives, the Russian agents below were urgently signaling their helo for immediate lift-off. Which was plain not going to happen.
Julio ducked his eye back to his scope, his breathing steady and his head back in the game. Ending Oz’s frenemies would have to wait. The immediate threat to Brazil—the Matryoshka Dolls—came first. In less time than it took to detonate those initial four charges, he targeted the Sikorsky’s aft gas tank in his crosshairs. The two women were halfway up the rope by then, their exfil quickened by the helo’s mechanical winch. Another woman in black stood at the open side door, waving them upward, waiting to haul them inside.
Normally, Julio would’ve felt bad neutralizing women. Not these gals. They were killers, plain and simple. Mercenaries with no conscience or heart and responsible for heinous, brutal crimes.
One shot. That was all it took to drop the big Sikorsky out of the sky. Only Julio hadn’t aimed for the gas tank. Instead, he’d targeted the pilot. With a single shot through the side door and into the cockpit, he hit the back of the pilot’s helmet. Julio knew he’d been successful when the person at the controls leaned forward, and the helo aimed bubble first into the flaming pit. With an enormousOOOMPF, the dying aircraft’s rotors tilted and slashed everything in its path. Gravel, dirt, and debris. Eventually, the steady pounding impact tore the bird apart. Those deadly rotors zinged through the air like samurai swords. One final explosion blasted the helo into fragments.
By then, Julio was taking fire. It was time to move. He cast one last look at the Sikorsky to make sure he’d ended that threat. As expected, both agents were nowhere to be seen. He did catch the fireworks show when the helo impacted right where they’d been standing, though. Again there would be no bodies, and Julio was okay with that.
Moving faster now, he stepped back into his world of shadows and death. But something was terribly off. He could feel it in his gut and in the air. At the back of his neck. Like someone had him in their crosshairs. He knew damned well that more than just these opportunistic assassins were out there. If Russians had made it this far inside Brazil, any other country could be there as well. Which would spell all-out civil war if they weren’t apprehended.
He heard it then. The rapid fire of a machine gun, but not coming from that armed group near the pit.Madre de Dios, who else is here?
Fast-tracking toward the sound, he couldn’t believe his eyes. Charlie Brown. Some woman. Both dressed in some kind of space suits without helmets. Had to be nuclear hazmat suits.
Quickly, but covertly, Julio worked his way around the lip of the gravel pit. By then, he knew he was up against an organized army, and CB had walked into the middle of it. He must’ve thought he was outflanking the group that had headed into the pit. That was when the second contingent trapped him and his companion. When the vehicles blew, he and his companion found themselves caught in a wicked crossfire. The only thing keeping them alive was the trunk of the massive fallen tree they’d taken cover behind. Thankfully, Julio had the higher ground.
Methodically, he began a war of attrition, a war of one. History had proven many times over that well-placed snipers could change the course of battles. Firing and reloading, he worked with precision and skill, intent on turning the tide, saving CB and his lady friend. Julio picked off the men between him and CB first, then started on the group on CB’s far side.
Again and again, all while taking enough flack that would worry most men, Julio worked steadfastly and surely. At last, CB was able to lift his head and safely return fire. He hadn’t yet spotted Julio, but that was the way sniping was meant to be.
Those soldiers working their way around the other side of the pit were the problem. Too soon, they’d be at the site where Julio had hastily concealed his munitions dump. And he was running low. Only had a dozen mags left. He hated to blow his stockpile, but soon there’d be no choice.
Julio fingered the detonator that would end their advance. Interestingly, those men suddenly fell back, and began firing into the trees. Someone out there had a mini-gun and was laying down suppressive fire.Gracias a Dios.It was about time.
Whoever was coming, they were fierce and steady. Reminded Julio of a quote he’d come across on an online sniper forum he frequented:“From a place you cannot see, comes a sound you will not hear.”He never knew who’d said it originally, but it was spot on in the dark world of covert operators. And right now, the person no one could see was gradually turning the tide. Just like Julio had done.
Someone yelled over a bullhorn then, and every last one of the opposing forces turned tail. As quickly as it had started, the shooting ceased. Julio flattened into the dirt and shrubs where he’d taken cover. He needed to stay out of sight until he knew who he was up against. Might just have been Mayor Velasquez and his people come back to save him. Julio wouldn’t put anything past Susana. She knew where that stockpiled ammo was, and she’d have no problem fighting alongside men.
Like Meg...
Damn. His mind circled back to her every chance it could.
“That you, Hotrod?” Charlie yelled over the roaring inferno caused by the helo’s demise below.
“You’re a fuckin’ genius, Gregor!” some gruff sounding male bellowed back.
“Yeah, well, it’s Charlie Brown to you, asshole.” Charlie stood then and dusted the seat of his pants.
So did the woman with him. He put a hand on her shoulder and bent down to look into her face. Whatever he’d asked her, she brushed it off and jerked a large bag up from the ground. Whoever she was, the woman definitely had attitude.
But who’d engaged the soldiers near the stockpile? Julio wanted to know. Stealthily, he eased onto his knees, but just as he did, a sharp stab of pain radiated up his right thigh. Damn it. He collapsed to his belly with a quiet groan.He’d been hit, and this time, he was really bleeding. He hadn’t felt the round when it tagged him, only the blood leaking out of his body and soaking into his pants.
Firefights were like that. They got surreal quickly. Too quickly. Once adrenaline spiked, it created a buzz in a guy’s head, a feeling of fierce masculinity, and an unreal sense of invincibility. Sensory overload was real, and it was dangerous. A warrior in the middle of making lightning-fast split decisions could only handle so much. Fog of war was real. Insignificant bruises and wounds often went unfelt and unnoticed until battles ended and brains kicked back online. That was how heroes were made and also how they died. More men and friends than Julio could count had saved their teams at the expense of themselves, all because of Mother Nature’s miracle drug called adrenaline.
“You’re bleeding!” a familiar voice cried out.
Meg? She was here? And holding a mini-submachine gun?
