Overwatch: A Thriller Read online

  Time to end this confrontation, he thought, as he prepared for additional resistance from any remaining forces.

  The maneuver turned out to be unnecessary.

  John circled around a large machine and discovered the carnage the grenades had produced. “Cease fire!” he yelled, and the covering gunfire from the observation area immediately stopped.

  Each M67 grenade had a kill radius of five meters, a little more than fifteen feet. Unfortunately for the security teams, they were only two to three meters apart, and the accuracy of the throws had been lethal. All six men were dead, killed by shrapnel from multiple grenades.

  The two men in the center team had taken the brunt of it. They’d been hit by shrapnel from all three grenades, their bodies mangled. John stopped and reached for his microphone as the other Bravo Team members confirmed their targets were dead and removed their weapons.

  It was time to check in with Mike back at the airport.

  “Command, this is Bravo Team. We’ve secured the secondary building. It’s a meth lab—and now out of commission. We also secured the garage. Actually, we destroyed it. We’re moving out front to wait for air support. Alpha Team leader has gone after the target, who managed to escape the villa. El Fuego is dead. We have one friendly KIA, and Alpha has at least four.”

  John heard Mike say, “Acknowledge all, Bravo. As soon as you have the target and are inbound, I’ll call the Mexican army in to clean up.”

  “Roger, Command. Out for now.”

  John raised his voice to get Lieutenant Garcia’s attention. “Time to move out front and establish a security perimeter and wait for extraction once Logan has the target.” He looked around at the spreading flames, disgust on his face. “Let this place burn.”

  As he turned back toward the destroyed office, a loud vibration grew in intensity, rattling the walls and the ravaged equipment. John felt the floor shake and smiled.

  Here comes the cavalry, he thought, as the two gunships approached the compound, one intent on landing while the other provided air support to Logan.

  * * *

  SPECTER ONE COCKPIT

  Captain Anthony Ramirez, copilot of Specter One, scanned the hillside through his Starfire forward-looking infrared radar—or FLIR—camera system. The images were displayed in real time on a small screen directly in front of him on the helicopter’s instrument panel. The FLIR had been the last upgrade the crew had installed, and it was working beautifully.

  He watched as the gray, desolate images of the foothills below slowly passed underneath them. The gunship hovered directly over the compound in order to gain a vantage point of the entire hillside.

  Captain Ramirez was still in disbelief as he surveyed the carnage below. One gigantic structure on the south side of the compound was completely demolished, flames still shooting up into the dawn sky. Another building adjacent to the villa was on fire, a fire that seemed to grow in intensity by the minute. Even the rear of the main villa now had smoke billowing from several broken second-story windows.

  He knew that the assault force had suffered several casualties, and he hoped they’d given as good as they got.

  As the pilot steadied the helicopter five hundred feet above the compound, Captain Ramirez moved the joystick next to the display. The spherical pod underneath the nose of the gunship turned to face the hillside, and Captain Ramirez zoomed out to gain a wider picture of the area.

  There! Movement!

  He looked forward out the window, searching for the nearest landmark with his eyes as he said, “Alpha, this is Specter One. Target spotted, approximately one hundred fifty meters due north of the compound and fifty meters west of the breach in the wall. Looks like he’s trying to move up into the hills.”

  He looked over to see the pilot point through the helicopter’s windshield, indicating he had a visual on the target as well. “He’s crouching near a large outcropping of several boulders. What are your instructions, Alpha?”

  “Roger, Specter One. I’m in pursuit on foot.” Captain Ramirez heard the pounding of footsteps in the background, followed by fast but controlled breathing when they stopped.

  “I’m about to exit the compound. How about providing some direct fire to keep him pinned down while I work my way up? But whatever you do, do not—I say again, do not—hit him. We have to get him alive. I should be on his location in two to three minutes. Keep your eyes on me and let me know when I’m approximately thirty meters from the target. I’ll let you talk me in from there. Breaking cover now. Open fire!”

  The pilot of the gunship pulled the trigger on the flight stick, aiming fifty meters above the boulders as he unleashed a volley of 20mm rounds from the GIAT cannon on the port side of the aircraft.

  The helicopter shuddered with each shot—Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!—in rapid succession. Captain Ramirez watched as the rounds impacted north of the moving target, shattering small trees and sending clouds of dirt and debris high into the air.

  As soon as the firing stopped, the target changed course and began to move down the slope. “Alpha, target is moving down the hillside toward you. I have visual on you both. He’s approximately fifty meters from you.”

  He heard Logan say, “The underbrush is too dense. I can’t see him yet. Fire another volley above him and see if you can push him closer to me.”

  “Roger, Alpha.” The pilot opened fire once again, sending another volley of 20mm shells into the hillside below. The resulting impacts echoed off the hillside and had the desired effect. The target moved a little faster down the hillside.

  “Alpha, he’s only twenty meters from your position, but he’s also moving away now. You should be able to intersect him in ten seconds or so.”

  “Roger, Specter One. Fire off one more ten-shot volley to mask my movement and then hold fire. I should have him by then.”

  “Roger, Alpha. Good luck. Call us if you need us.”

  There was no response. Captain Ramirez watched as the pilot opened fire, peppering the hillside. On his display, he saw the two light-gray shapes move in diagonal lines until they intersected and converged on his screen as the last shell exploded. He zoomed in to watch the ensuing engagement, silently cheering on Logan West.

  * * *

  ON THE GROUND

  The helicopter’s covering fire had masked Logan’s movements up the hillside as he weaved his way through the small trees and rough terrain. As Juan Black emerged from behind a large bush directly in front of him, Logan launched himself into the air. He barreled into the unsuspecting man at full speed and slammed his shoulder squarely into Black’s side as the last shell from the gunship exploded above them on the hillside, showering them with dirt and rocks.

  Logan was rewarded with a grunt of pain as he drove Black into the ground. Before he could make another move, Black, obviously trained in hand-to-hand combat, attacked.

  As the two men landed on the hillside, Black tried to wrap his left arm around Logan’s head, delivering a swift punch to Logan’s left side. Logan ducked under the arm and moved to the right. He countered with his open right hand to push Black’s arm away and delivered a vicious punch to Black’s face, striking him squarely in the nose.

  He heard the distinctive reward of breaking bone and crunching cartilage. Blood burst from Black’s nose, temporarily stunning him.

  Logan had to find a way to subdue the man without killing him. He used his momentary advantage to mount Black’s chest and deliver a series of three punches to the man’s face, trying to connect with his jaw.

  Black masterfully deflected each blow. As Logan used his arms to shift his position, Black brought both forearms down, forcing Logan to lose his leverage and fall forward into Black’s body. Having closed the distance, Black tried to head-butt his assailant’s nose, hoping to share his pain and level the playing field.

  Logan turned his head to the right at the last second. The top of Black’s head squarely struck his left cheek, connecting with the still-healing wound. Fresh blood
dripped from Logan’s cheek, and he felt Black try to buck him off. Logan rolled away and pressed off the ground with both arms, propelling himself even farther from Juan Black.

  Keeping his eyes locked on his target, he cautiously stood. Black did the same. The man’s eyes, cold with malevolence, glared at him intensely, and before Logan could speak, Black opened his mouth.

  “Mr. West, I was wondering if you were going to join us.” His voice was distorted and muffled by his broken nose. “Honestly, I had hoped not, but here you are.”

  Logan saw that Juan wasn’t armed. Must not have had time to grab his guns. Too bad.

  “That’s right, asshole. I know your real name isn’t Juan Black, and you already know what I want. So you can make this easy”—he paused for emphasis—“or we can do this my way. It’s your choice.”

  Black leered at him, his teeth flashing white through a red mask of blood. “I always tell my men, ‘If you talk the talk, you better walk the walk.’ I guess now it’s time to put my money where my mouth is. You Force Recon types are always so serious,” he said, ignoring his own Special Forces background. “Or maybe it’s just a Marine thing. You all think you’re special.” The contempt was visible on his bloody face. “Regardless, I’m going to remind you right now that you’re not.”

  “So an honorable duel between two professionals, is it?” Logan asked. “But before we do this, you care to tell me which unit you were with? Or do I have to beat it out of you?”

  The man laughed out loud. “I’ll tell you one thing, Mr. West. My real name is Marcos. That’s the only goddamned piece of information I’m going to give you.”

  “Fair enough, Marcos. Enough chitchat. I’m already sick and tired of your bullshit.”

  During the conversation, Logan had positioned himself slightly above Marcos on the hillside, hoping to gain the upper hand. Fighting on uneven terrain was especially difficult. The key was balance, and fortunately, Logan’s was exceptional.

  Now only a little more than five feet away from Marcos, Logan opened the second round of their encounter. Instead of lashing out with a punch or kick, he used his right foot to kick up a small, jagged rock the size of a golf ball into Marcos’s face, along with a cloud of dirt.

  Definitely not the typical move, but screw it. I need him alive, no matter what.

  Logan rushed forward as Marcos tried to wipe the dirt from his eyes. He only succeeded in mixing his blood with the grime, which made it worse. Marcos’s eyes burned, and he lashed out with his right fist in a desperate attempt to defend himself.

  His punch only struck thin air. Logan easily dodged it and hammered Marcos’s left side with a powerful blow.

  Even as the punch connected, Logan moved behind Marcos—who roared in frustration—with blinding speed and lashed out with his left foot in a short side kick. He struck Marcos behind the knee.

  The blow buckled him, and as he fell, Logan snaked his left arm around his prey’s neck, his right arm tight behind Marcos’s head and locked into his left bicep. He squeezed and flung himself backward, landing on his back on the hillside.

  The fact that he was above Marcos at an elevated angle increased his leverage. He squeezed harder, his muscles flexing and constricting around Marcos’s neck, cutting off circulation to his head.

  Within seconds, Marcos’s writhing suddenly stopped, and Logan knew the fight was over. As he pulled one last time, he growled into Marcos’s ear, “When I said ‘an honorable duel,’ I lied. I don’t fight fair. I fight to win. Night, night, sweetheart.”

  They were the last words Marcos heard before he passed out.

  CHAPTER 42

  QUETZALTCOATL INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  Logan sat in the hangar, watching intently as Commander Vargas questioned Marcos Bocanegra. As the interrogation had unfolded over the last hour, each detail of Cain Frost’s lethal conspiracy had been revealed, to the increasing horror of the assembled men.

  Once Logan had secured the target, the remainder of the operation had gone according to plan. Both gunships had landed inside the compound—which had been razed to the ground, a smoldering ruin, all buildings, including the villa, destroyed—and loaded both teams, the target, and all casualties before the Mexican army unit arrived to secure the facility.

  There’d been no sense of urgency, since a full sweep of the compound had discovered no surviving security personnel. Logan believed in karma, and he figured all of them got what they deserved.

  Evil men deserve no mercy. His time in Mexico had reaffirmed that conviction.

  Currently, Mike was speaking to his uncle on the phone, trying to secure an immunity deal for Bocanegra. It had been his only demand. The man formerly known as Juan Black was playing his last card, his ace in the hole.

  John watched the interrogation on a computer monitor broadcasting the session to the main area of the hangar, which was now empty except for Logan, John, and Mike.

  The rest of the assault force was recovering from the intense combat and tending to the wounded and the five dead team members: two FBI HRT shooters and three FES operators. A separate hangar had been converted into a makeshift morgue until transportation could arrive to return the FBI agents home.

  Mike had informed FBI headquarters. The Bureau was now in the process of notifying the agents’ families. The Mexican navy was doing the same for its fallen warriors.

  The interrogation unfolded as smoothly as any Mike had witnessed. Commander Vargas had used no force whatsoever. He hadn’t needed it.

  Mike had told Marcos from the very beginning that he could offer a presidential pardon in return for a full disclosure of the details and information leading to the prevention of whatever attack was planned.

  Marcos, aware of the gravity of his situation, knew it was the only offer he was going to receive, and he’d agreed. He might have been a trained killer and a mercenary for hire, but he was smart enough that self-preservation still guided his actions, especially when he had no other options.

  Once the deal had been reached, he’d disclosed what all of them had feared: the plot involved an attack that would change the geopolitical landscape of the Middle East.

  Cain Frost planned to launch a tactical nuclear attack on the Quds Force headquarters in Iran? It would start an all-out war and draw the US right back into another massive conflict just as Iraq was beginning to stabilize. It was utter insanity, Logan thought as he watched the live feed.

  Mike pushed the end button on his phone. “My uncle is in the process of checking with Cain Frost’s staff back at his headquarters in northern Virginia to determine if he’s actually in Iraq. And if so, where. My uncle is using some senator’s office as a proxy in case Frost finds out about the inquiry: it seems he has a source in the White House. We’ll know in a few minutes. If this is true, guys, this is absolutely apocalyptic. And all for revenge . . . unreal.”

  John stared at the monitor and shook his head in disbelief. “You know, I completely understand his motivation.”

  Mike and Logan looked at him.

  “Think about it, Logan. Hell, we were the ones that found his brother. I still can’t believe what I saw. It was horrific and utterly inhumane. I still have visions of it in my head, and I know they’ll stay with me until the day I die.”

  Logan and John had been stunned to discover the identities of the two men they’d failed to rescue in 2004.

  Marcos’s tale involved one of the most powerful men in the world, a man who’d established an empire in the private security business—Cain Frost.

  Cain Frost’s older brother, Steven, had been a case officer for the CIA working in US-occupied Iraq to pursue reported weapons of mass destruction.

  He and his partner, William Karimi, were lured into a trap by an insurgent group led by the infamous Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. The information al-Zarqawi had received on the American agents had been provided by none other than the Iranian Quds Force, who’d infiltrated the Green Zone and carried out the deception successfully. The Quds Forc
e agents wanted to bloody the nose of the CIA, regardless of al-Zarqawi’s Sunni faith, inflicting damage to America’s will to sustain its operations in Iraq. They’d succeeded.

  Logan and his men had borne witness to the sinister plan firsthand. It was only a few years later, after Cain Frost had created Hard Resolutions Incorporated—HRI—and used millions to fund his own personal investigation into the death of his brother, that he’d discovered the identities of the Quds Force agents.

  The events of the last few days were the result of a blood debt.

  Cain and his chief of operations, Scott Carlson, who’d been with Cain since 2005, had personally hunted down the Iranians responsible. Cain had killed one man himself, but he’d left his chief of operations to deal with the second agent.

  Scott Carlson had taken his time with the man, methodically inflicting tremendous pain. Marcos had seen the video, and he’d cringed at some of the sadistic techniques Scott had used.

  In the middle of the torture session, the man had tried to bargain for his life, offering the most valuable piece of information he’d guarded. It was something an insurgent leader had told him soon after the US began its occupation of Iraq.

  It was the location to a tactical nuclear device contained in a briefcase. It had reportedly been designed by the Syrians with assistance from the Pakistanis and North Koreans at a hidden facility in the Syrian Desert.

  The weapon had been transported to an insurgent group in western Al Anbar Province. The group had planned to use it in Baghdad to destroy the fledgling Shia government. Fortunately, before the insurgents could strike, they’d been discovered and hunted down by the US military in the city of Haditha.

  Before the insurgent commander had been killed, he’d personally dispatched a courier to al-Zarqawi. The trusted courier had in his possession two items. The first was an Iraqi flag. On the back of the flag, a series of numbers had been printed in such a way as to appear as if they were a serial or tracking number.