Overwatch: A Thriller Page 20

  0100 LOCAL HOURS

  Logan quietly navigated the rough terrain. Alpha Team moved in a wedge formation, with three four-man groups making up each section of the larger wedge. Logan was in the center team of the formation, behind Commander Vargas and in front of Special Agent Foster.

  He carried his Kimber .45 and an HK UMP .45 caliber, although he hoped he wouldn’t have to use either one inside the villa. His Mark II fighting knife was in a thigh-rig sheath one of the FES members had provided. One of the HRT’s dark olive-green flight suits provided several cargo pockets for the other tools of his lethal trade. Over the flight suit he wore a lightweight Kevlar vest outfitted with nylon loops used as attachments for the magazine and equipment pouches. On his head was a FES boonie cover, darkening his face already camouflaged with various shades of paint.

  Each FBI HRT member wore a helmet that contained a built-in communications system, but Logan had selected the FES communications setup since it was similar to the throat microphone he’d used in Force Reconnaissance.

  John Quick had done the same; however, in addition to his M1911, he’d picked an M4 carbine from the HRT as his assault weapon. Along with his KA-BAR fighting knife, he carried two Claymore mines, several bricks of C-4 explosives, detonators, and several feet of detonation cord. He loved the explosives but despised the additional weight, since he liked to move quickly and lightly.

  Both teams had programmed each other’s frequencies into their internal networks, but the standing orders were for only Commander Vargas and Lieutenant Commander Concepción to crosstalk as needed.

  The insertion had been executed flawlessly. The helos had encountered no other air traffic during the entire flight. Logan knew it was one thing to operate safely in Iraq, where all aircraft were US-controlled, but it was entirely another thing to conduct a low-altitude helo assault in a populated country that wasn’t considered a war zone—at least not yet—and contained commercial air traffic.

  The only suspenseful moment had occurred minutes after the helicopters had landed and shut down their engines after unloading their passengers. As the men gathered in the clearing, a pair of headlights had appeared on the horizon more than a mile and a half away. The headlights had momentarily traveled toward them and then suddenly turned left, disappearing into the darkness to the southeast.

  Logan looked at his digital watch: 0103. Moving quickly . . .

  They’d covered more than four and a half kilometers. They were close to their separation point, where Alpha Team would break off to the north and Bravo Team would continue to the west-southwest. At this pace, they’d be in position ahead of schedule.

  Logan was apprehensive at the ease with which the operation was unfolding. He knew from experience that these things never went off without complications. Murphy’s Law was always in effect.

  He shrugged the thought away and kept moving, ignoring the November chill in the night air.

  CHAPTER 38

  CAMP FALLUJAH, IRAQ

  1 NOVEMBER 2008

  1100 LOCAL HOURS

  Cain Frost sat in a small conference room in the living quarters of the deputy commanding general of Multi-National Forces–West, Brigadier General Travis Thurman. The general was apprising him of the security situation, which had dramatically improved after the surge of 2007. The camp was preparing to close operations and move to Al Asad, which would be the last remaining US military base during the announced drawdown of US forces.

  HRI personnel continued to support convoy operations and private security for several of the remaining facilities, but there’d been neither incoming indirect fire to the camp nor IED attacks in almost twelve months. Conditions were radically different from the last time Cain had been in-country.

  Fallujah was the first stop on Cain’s “inspection trip” to the various camps and bases where his personnel operated. It was the perfect cover to conceal his real objective: get to Haditha and acquire the object.

  A break in the weather had afforded them an opportunity to leave Camp Frost early this morning, but another batch of sand and wind was moving in from the west. As a result, he and his forces weren’t going to be leaving for Ramadi until tomorrow.

  It required all his mental discipline to focus on the general’s words, especially when his thoughts continuously looped back to the Syrian treasure buried in the desert, waiting for him to discover it.

  He smiled as the general made some comment about how Cain’s support would be critical for the transfer of forces and equipment to Al Asad. He was about to respond when his secure BlackBerry buzzed in its holster on his right hip.

  He looked down and saw a number he recognized but hadn’t heard from in weeks.

  Why the hell is he texting me? This can’t be good.

  “Excuse me, General, that’s my chief of operations back in Baghdad. Do you mind if I step outside and call him back? He says it’s important.” He smiled sincerely as he delivered the lie.

  “Absolutely. In fact, I’m going to go grab another cup of coffee. Can I get you one? I didn’t sleep well last night, but I still woke up early to hit the gym.”

  Cain was impressed. The general looked to be in his early fifties, but he maintained himself well. “Sir, that would be wonderful.”

  “Cream and sugar?” the general asked.

  “Just black, sir.”

  “Aha. A man after my own heart. No man should drink coffee with any of that froufrou shit in it.”

  Cain laughed at hearing a hardened Marine Corps general use the word froufrou. “I certainly agree. Please excuse me, sir.”

  He stood up, left the conference room, and walked outside. The heat of the day was building, but compared to the summer months, it was downright comfortable.

  He opened the text, and what he read turned his blood cold. “Operation under way to capture JB in Mexico. Hours away. Just briefed. President approved.”

  Short and concise—but it was more than enough to send Cain’s mind into overdrive. His source was close to the president, and his information was one hundred percent reliable.

  I have to warn Juan, he thought. I need more time.

  It was a few minutes past eleven o’clock in the morning in Iraq, which meant it was just past two o’clock in the morning in Mexico.

  He brought up a new message and typed, “Location compromised. Get out now! Will contact you in 24 hours.”

  He hit send and waited as the text message was digitally encrypted and sent across the global cellular network.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he dialed Juan’s cell phone number on the off chance he might reach him. No answer. He tried again. Still no answer. He couldn’t risk leaving a voice mail.

  He ended the call and returned inside to finish the discussion with General Thurman. It was painful, forcing himself to engage in this charade. Even as he smiled and appeared calm, his emotions raged, and his heart pounded at the thought of Juan’s potential capture.

  Other than Scott, he’s the only one who knows everything.

  CHAPTER 39

  LOS TOROS COMPOUND

  0540 LOCAL HOURS

  Logan gazed through the night-vision binoculars Commander Vargas had handed to him. Since the team had moved into their final position over an hour ago and assumed a surveillance posture, they’d observed limited movement inside the compound. Logan had seen only three guards, each individually patrolling in the same pattern around the villa. Every eight to ten minutes, one of the them passed directly by the patio rear entrance.

  Their final assault position provided an unobstructed vantage point of the entire back side of the villa. The team was hidden near the base of one of the foothills at an elevation slightly higher than the roof. A small copse of trees, bushes, and jagged boulders provided concealment as they waited for zero hour.

  Logan’s presumption about the compound wall had been correct. It was at least fifteen feet tall, and after further discussion, both Logan and Commander Vargas immediately scratched the idea of try
ing to scale it. It’d take time they just didn’t have, and once the security forces spotted them, they’d be sitting ducks. It was too risky.

  That left one option—a hard entry. Fortunately, the team had packed plenty of explosives, and one well-placed C-4 charge would demolish a large-enough section of the wall to allow the team to move in rapidly. Since Bravo Team would be doing the exact same thing—Commander Vargas had coordinated with Lieutenant Commander Concepción to detonate only on his mark—security would likely be confused about the direction of the explosion. Simultaneous explosions might buy them a few precious seconds as they assaulted the villa.

  They’d chosen their breaching point directly in line with the rear patio entrance. The initial chaos should provide them enough time to cover the fifty meters from the wall to the glass doors. It’d be close, but Logan thought they’d be able to breach the house before reinforcements arrived.

  Logan turned to Commander Vargas, lying prone underneath the bush with him, and speaking in a low voice—whispering carried words farther—said, “Three men? Where the hell are the rest? This can’t be that easy.”

  Commander Vargas watched the compound as one of the foot patrols appeared at the left rear corner of the house, illuminated by the rooftop flood lights pointed down at the perimeter wall at a forty-five-degree angle. “I have no idea. Maybe they keep a minimal security posture at night. Hell, maybe El Fuego is so arrogant he assumes no one would dare attack his home.” He hesitated and then said, “Honestly, I just don’t know.”

  “I guess it’s a moot point because in four minutes we cover this last hundred meters as quickly as we can, breach, and then we’ll find what we find.” The foot patrol was now halfway to the rear entrance. “I just pray to God our luck holds out. It looks like we’ll have enough cover to reach the wall without being spotted by the cameras.”

  They’d identified the security cameras immediately, one mounted on a metal rod at each corner of the villa’s roof. The cameras operated on timers, but what had shocked both men was the fact that the cameras were synchronized to swivel in a pattern that resulted in all four cameras either facing inward or outward at the same time. More importantly, each camera completed one rotation every sixty seconds.

  As soon as the cameras turned inward at 0545, Commander Vargas would radio Bravo Team to utilize the blind spot and execute their final approach.

  Logan handed the binoculars to Commander Vargas and made his last-minute preparations. He pulled the charging handle of the UMP to ensure a round was chambered and checked that the safety was still on.

  The sense of focus Logan had experienced before every mission during his tenure in Force Reconnaissance returned, his senses heightened in a sharpened state of clarity. His mind welcomed the calm. All thoughts of Sarah, Daly, and the rest of the world disintegrated in his consciousness, his focus solely on the mission.

  Showtime, Juan—or whoever the hell you are. I’m coming for you.

  * * *

  INSIDE THE LOS TOROS COMPOUND

  0544 LOCAL HOURS

  Juan Black—whose given name in a previous life was Marcos Bocanegra—stirred from a deep slumber, a headache forming as he opened his eyes.

  Shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine.

  The dinner with Ricardo Ortega had lasted into the early-morning hours. Juan had known he’d be feeling the effects this morning, but he didn’t want to be rude to his host.

  Wine hangovers are the worst.

  The former 7th Special Forces Group member sat up in bed. He still wore his trousers and a white tee shirt from the night before. He rubbed his eyes, stood up, and looked out the curtains of his bedroom window. The dark mass of the foothills filled his view in back of the villa. It reminded him of several counter-drug operations he’d conducted in South America. The irony was that those operations had ultimately led to his current employment.

  After he’d washed out of selection school for Delta, he’d been so full of resentment and anger that he’d left the military altogether and contacted a midlevel cartel member with whom he’d once had a standing arrangement. He’d proffered his services for full-time employment, wholly grasping the implications of his choice. As it turned out, his moral flexibility suited the position perfectly, and he’d never looked back.

  Still dark outside. What time is it?

  And that was when he heard his BlackBerry vibrate.

  What the hell?

  He grabbed the phone and immediately saw several missed calls and one text message, all from Cain Frost’s extremely private and secure personal number.

  This can’t be good.

  Three people on the planet knew the scope of Cain’s plan, as well as the real intended target. Juan was one of those men; the other was Scott Carlson, Cain’s second in command.

  Cain knew Juan was hiding in the Los Toros compound. The original plan had called for him to travel through Mexico and South America, eventually arriving in Venezuela. From there, his ultimate destination was Maracaibo, the Venezuelan city named after its lake. A bank account had been established there in a false name, another identity to which only he had the official documents. He’d planned on remaining in Maracaibo until the looming geopolitical storm blew over.

  He opened the message and read “Location compromised,” and his military training immediately kicked into overdrive. His mind was already formulating an escape plan as he closed the BlackBerry, holstered it, and grabbed his hiking boots.

  He cursed himself for having missed the call and the message.

  No point crying over spilled milk. Have to get out now.

  As he finished tying the second boot, two simultaneous explosions thundered throughout the compound, shattering the quiet Mexican morning.

  He should’ve realized they’d be coming for him. A slight edge of fear insinuated itself into his thoughts, and as a siren blared throughout the compound, he forced himself to take a deep breath. As he closed his eyes, one word flashed behind them: escape.

  CHAPTER 40

  ALPHA TEAM

  1 NOVEMBER 2008

  0547 LOCAL HOURS

  As Logan crossed the open grass between the breached wall and the sliding patio doors, he looked inside the house for movement, his HK at the ready position, eyes scanning over the top of the iron sights. He preferred the sights for this type of work; there was less chance of error than with a scope.

  He knew the guards would be coming soon from either the house or around the sides. He was in front of the right column, next to Commander Vargas, who had the lead for the left column. As Alpha Team quickly covered the distance to the rear entrance, Logan was amazed at the ease with which their entry had occurred.

  Once 0545 had arrived, both Alpha and Bravo Teams had synchronized their final movements, covered the remaining distance from their observation posts, and planted the C-4 charges at each location.

  As Logan had waited, memories of Fallujah had led to slinking doubts in his subconscious. He knew how quickly these operations could hit a proverbial wall. It was usually then that the bodies started piling up. But when Commander Vargas and Lieutenant Commander Concepción coordinated the detonations—again, without any resistance—Logan’s mind immediately refocused, his hard resolve and battle-heightened awareness crushing any lingering uncertainty.

  Twenty-five feet to go . . . twenty . . . fifteen . . . His mind ticked off the distances. Then, just as he’d expected, members of the security force finally arrived to counter the assault.

  Two men, similarly dressed in dark pants and black shirts, holding modified M4s, appeared in the gigantic kitchen, now full of light from the multiple candelabras hanging from the ceiling. The low-level of illumination outside must have masked the assault forces’ movement: the men didn’t spot them until Logan and Commander Vargas were less than ten feet away from the back doors.

  Logan saw the man on the right squint in disbelief, but even as he tried to react, he was too slow. Logan raised the muzzle of the UMP a few
inches, a move that took him less than half a second after practicing it thousands of times in the Marine Corps.

  As the man raised the M4, Logan fired three rounds, the UMP set to semiautomatic mode. The first round shattered the right patio door before veering off target as a result of the impact, glass showering the kitchen floor. Even though it missed, the first round cleared the way for the second and third bullets, which struck the man squarely in the chest and stopped him in his tracks as a look of surprise and pain appeared on his face. He fell to the floor, dead from the .45-caliber slugs.

  Commander Vargas dealt with the shooter on the left in a similar fashion, but instead of the glass door altering the bullet’s trajectory, his first round somehow maintained its course and struck the man in the throat. The man dropped his M4, but as he raised his hands to his neck, the second and third bullets struck him in the forehead and right cheek, shattering the right side of his face as he died.

  Both Logan and Commander Vargas stepped through the now-empty doorframes, expecting additional resistance from any of the kitchen’s three large, dark entrances.

  They were now inside the enemy’s lair, susceptible to ambushes and other nasty surprises. Logan knew their success depended on how well the security forces had been trained to defend a direct assault.

  Hopefully, not well at all.

  Logan and Commander Vargas took positions along a twenty-foot-long marble countertop that ran through the middle of the kitchen. Their weapons were pointed down the main hallway as the remainder of Alpha Team entered the villa. Two members of the FES team remained at the compound wall to ensure no one tried to escape behind them.

  “They’re either waiting for our next move, or we caught them totally off guard,” Logan said quietly. “Either way, we need to go now before they try to coordinate a counterattack. The stairway is in the main hallway. Leave four men here to hold this position. No one gets out.”