Act of justice, p.8
Act of Justice, page 8
The man arched his back and lifted her into the air for a second. Locking his left fist in the crook of his elbow, he drove her feet to the ground and put his mouth to her right ear.
Charity smelled his warm, bad breath on the side of her face. He spoke to her in Spanish, but the words were foreign to her. She dug her fingernails into his forearm, but the heavily muscled limb only tightened around her throat. Hacking and gasping, her arms flailing in the setting sun, she spotted the drone controller in her hands.
“Voy a exprimirte la vida. Y cuando estés muerto te desnudaré y — I'm going to squeeze the life out of you. And when you're dead I'll strip you and—”
Charity threw her arm over her shoulder, shoving the joystick in the direction of Bad Breath’s voice. She got in three more strikes before hearing him groan. The arm loosened around her neck. She leaned forward as much as she could, swallowing and gulping for air. Her mind seeing Dahlia on the training mat, Charity heard the woman’s words…
“…rotate the hips before you throw a punch…use your elbows; they’re the sharpest points…”
Charity looked to the right and drove her right boot down on the inside of Bad Breath’s ankle.
He yelled.
She wrenched his wrist away from her windpipe, rotated her hips and threw a roundhouse right elbow behind her. The sharpest point on her body connected with something hard. Her right forearm, from elbow to fingertips, went numb. She spun around and cocked her left arm. First two knuckles, Cherry, or you’ll break your—
Bad Breath froze in place for a moment before his body went limp and dropped to the ground, his arms folding under him. The side of his face slammed into the hardpan earth.
Her one arm ready to throw a punch and the other dangling by her side, Charity gaped at the motionless lump—carrying a sidearm and dressed similarly to Martinez’s men. A few seconds later, she stood straight and retreated a couple paces toward the Land Rover. “Well I’ll be a son-of-a—” she clutched her throat and coughed, “pup.” Backpedaling, thinking of Dahlia, while staring at her adversary, Charity held her tingling elbow and flapped the smarting arm. She was right. She kicked the passenger door shut and ran around the vehicle, taking little time to toss the drone into the back of the SUV.
Climbing behind the steering wheel, she flexed the fingers of her right hand, but the prickly sensation in the elbow remained. “Why in the world,” her voice was raspy and deeper than usual, “do they call it a funny bone anyway?” With her left hand, she started the engine and worked the gearshift. “I fail to see the humor.” She rocked her right foot forward and the Toyota sped away, the tires throwing dirt further into the woods.
… … … … …
5:36 p.m.
Having cleared the main level of the guesthouse, Hardy and Cruz stood in the kitchen. He nodded at her, and she threw open a door.
His weapon-mounted flashlight lit up the staircase leading to the basement. “Clear. Watch yourself.” He descended the wooden steps, his mind envisioning a hand coming through a gap between the planks and grabbing his ankle. Halfway down, he squatted and pointed the DDM4 toward the right side of the open space before whipping the muzzle around and covering the left half. His right index finger twitched and moved toward the trigger. He quickly returned the digit to the frame, hurried down the steps and fast walked to a far corner of the dark, damp and musty cellar.
Sitting on the floor, a woman and two small children were huddled together. The whites of her eyes visible in the ambient light, the woman had an arm around each kid, clutching them close to her body, as she gaped at the approaching gunman.
Pumping a hand at the threesome and slowing his pace, “Cover me, Cruz,” Hardy slung his rifle and showed the woman his open hands. “Don’t be afraid. We’re here to help.” He knelt in front of the trio. The light beam bounced off the floor, providing plenty of visibility. He regarded the little girls; they were in fetal positions, faces buried into the woman’s chest.
Crying, “Por favor no nos hagas daño — Please don’t hurt us,” the woman held the girls tighter to herself. She repeated her plea several times.
Knowing Doctor Rossi’s family spoke fluid Spanish, Hardy had prepared for this moment, asking Cruz to teach him a little of the language on the flight from D.C. He put fingertips to his vest. “Chicos Buenos — Good guys.” He pointed at her, “Eres Emily…” before gesturing at the youngsters, “Mariana…Maria?”
Barely tilting her head to one side, the woman opened her mouth, but only stared at the man in black. A second later, she nodded once. “Sí,” she whispered.
“Somos Americanos. Estamos aquí para ayudar — We’re Americans. We’re here to help.”
Water droplets streaking down her cheeks, Emily released one child, looked upward and touched her forehead, heart, left and right shoulder, making the sign of the cross. “Gracias Jesus, gracias.”
Hardy smiled at the children. “Estamos aquí para llevarte al tocino.” He received two blank stares before he regarded the mother.
Her eyebrows coming together, Emily cocked her head at him.
Cruz took a step backward at tapped his shoulder. “You better let me take it from here. Cover me.”
Frowning, Hardy stood, whirled around and aimed his weapon at the staircase. “What did I do?”
Cruz took a knee and repeated Hardy’s words, swapping out one word. “Estamos aquí para llevarte a casa — We’re here to take you home.”
Following a short exchange with her female rescuer—in Spanish—the mother chuckled and the girls giggled before all three were on their feet.
With her kids hugging Cruz’s legs, Emily wrapped her arms around Cruz’s shoulders. “Gracias, gracias. Dios te bendiga — God bless you.”
Hardy half turned his head and saw everyone standing. “Let’s move out. Keep the hostages between us.”
Cruz shouldered her weapon and directed the mother and daughters to stay between her and Hardy. “Copy that. We’re ready.”
Hardy led the women up the stairs. “Care to let me in on the joke, Cowboy?”
Cruz smiled. “You said we were here to take them to bacon.”
His eyebrows furled downward.
She put her first boot on the bottom step. “Tocino means bacon…casa means home.”
He flashed a disappearing grin. Cut me some slack, Cruz. I only had an hour to learn another language. He bobbed his eyebrows. Although… he reached the kitchen and leveled his gun at the bodies on the floor, bacon does sound good right about—a short burst of gunfire pierced his thoughts. “Ow!” Hardy grabbed his left leg. “Damn it.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 14: Paper Cuts Hurt
“Get back.” Holding his wound with one hand, Hardy fired the rifle with the other, into the pile of bodies. Sitting upright, a lone gunman fell back onto the floor, his head thudding off the hardwood boards.
“Hardy,” screamed Cruz, while taking the steps two at a time and slipping by the hostages.
Hardy limped sideways a couple of paces and emptied the DDM4 into the rest of the corpses before retreating and leaning back against the wall.
She rushed into the kitchen, weapon up, spied the carnage and looked his way.
Favoring his smarting leg, “We’re clear,” Hardy yanked out the empty magazine and rammed a full one home.
Cruz noticed his frame, thirty degrees off to one side. “Where are you hit?”
He pressed the bolt release. “Left leg…just above the knee.”
Slinging her SBR behind her, she dropped to her knees, found the hole in his pant leg, stuck two fingers inside and ripped open the material. She twisted her body, and the low-in-the-sky sun bounced off walls and shone on his leg. She felt around the injury.
His hips jerked and his left knee buckled a bit.
Cruz pulled out her hand and squinted at his skin.
He saw blood on her fingertips. “How bad is it?”
She pursed her lips and shook her head. “It’s just a scratch.”
“What?”
She got to her feet and wiped her hands on her pants. “Honestly, it’s like a…step up from a paper cut. It’ll need some attention when we get the time, but…”
He stood straight, gradually putting more weight on the bad leg before bouncing once and squatting down a short ways. “Huh. I guess it is fine.” He bent over and rubbed the spot. “It sure hurt like hell when I first got hit.” He signaled the hostages and glimpsed Cruz. “Take rear guard and let’s get moving.”
Cruz guided the former prisoners by her and fell in step behind them, her weapon at the ready.
His rifle shouldered and leading the way, Hardy crossed the living room and headed for the door they had entered, limping for his first few paces before his gait returned to normal. “In my defense…paper cuts can hurt quite a bit you know.”
Backpedalling, Cruz curled up one side of her mouth, aimed the 300 AAC Blackout at the guesthouse’s interior one last time, spun around and ran out of the structure.
Hardy leapt off the porch and jogged toward the second of two Land Rovers, parked bumper to bumper; doors wide open. Down on one knee, rifles up, forward elbow resting on their other knee, Dahlia, Charity and Ramirez had taken defensive positions around the vehicles. None of them looked at their teammates exiting the house. Their eyes, and the muzzles of their guns, scanned their areas of responsibility.
Hardy stopped at the back door of the rear SUV and spied the hostages. “Let’s go. Let’s go.” He motioned toward the four-by-four. “Vamonos.” When they had crawled into the backseat, he slammed the door, “Mount up, people,” and ran to the front passenger door of the lead Toyota. Cruz was last to climb into the seat behind him. Ramirez worked the gear selector and stomped on the gas pedal.
Dahlia shut the driver’s door and shifted the transmission into ‘drive.’ Charity backed into the seat next to her and wrenched on the door. The vehicle peeled away and followed the other Land Rover through the gates. Seconds later, they were speeding down the road, heading for the Gulf of Venezuela.
Charity leaned her rifle against her seat, muzzle down, while rubbing her throat.
Out of the corner of her eye, Dahlia spotted the redness on the other woman’s neck. “You okay?”
Charity patted the driver’s forearm, “Thanks to you,” before retracting the hand and massaging the back of her neck.
Dahlia scowled. “What happened?”
“I’ll tell you when this is over.” A moment later, Charity noticed the look on her teammate’s face and smiled. “I’m fine…really.” She faced forward and dipped her forehead toward the windshield. “Right now, we have a job to finish.”
After gawking at the younger woman, and not finding any bullet holes, Dahlia produced two, skinny brown teddy bears from a vest pocket; a last-minute purchase from the hotel gift shop. “Here.” She jerked her head toward the backseat, “Would you mind?”
Charity grinned at the toys, twisted in her seat and held a bear in front of each child.
The girls gaped at the black-eyed fluffy animals before looking up at their mother. Getting a nod from their parent, Mariana and Maria struck like snakes, snatching the bears and clutching them close to their chests.
Her eyes flicking back and forth from the road ahead to the girls’ reflection in the rearview mirror, Dahlia smiled.
Pivoting back around, Charity glimpsed her partner. “That was nice of you.”
Dahlia shrugged a shoulder. “They’ve been through a lot. It can’t hurt to have a friend.”
… … … … …
6:13 p.m.
Four miles east of Capatarida, Venezuela
The Land Rovers bounced over uneven terrain, their tires dropping into potholes and sending their occupants scrambling to grab something solid. The road was a matted path with two, dirt tire tracks; tall grass and trees were on either side. The limbs were close enough to swat vehicles as they passed.
The Toyota sunk into another hole, and Hardy stiff-armed the center console to stay upright, as a branch wiped the right side of the SUV. He flicked his eyes toward the driver. “Are you sure this leads to the coast,” the vehicle bucked, “and not,” Hardy gripped the door, his shoulders swaying, “to some dead end?”
“Trust me.” Ramirez smiled. “This isn’t the first time I’ve shuttled someone out of the country.” He jerked the steering wheel left and right, avoiding a larger pothole. “Like I told you, it’s a shortcut and,” stepping on the gas pedal to clear a rise, “we stand a better chance of not coming across any,” he made finger quotes with one hand, “safety checkpoints.”
… … … … …
Charity turned away from Dahlia. “…and I threw the drone in the back and got out of there.”
Grasping the steering wheel with both hands, Dahlia made adjustments as her Toyota rocked back and forth from a pothole; at the same time, a branch swiped the passenger side. She glimpsed her teammate. “Well I’m sure as hell happy you’re okay, but,” she navigated around another big hole in the road and accelerated to get up a hill, “if it were me…I’d have put two in his skull.” They coasted down the other side and took a sharp bend in the path. “You know, just to make sure he was down and out for sure.”
Charity half smiled at the other woman.
Dahlia shook her head. “I’ve seen too many bad people get up and get back into the fight. Next time, drop him and put a bullet—”
“Dahlia,” Charity broadened her smile, “it’s okay. I’m safe and all is good.” Growing up with only brothers, Charity often wondered what it would have been like to have an older sister. She turned away, but gave Dahlia a quick peep out of one eye and inwardly beamed.
“Uh oh,” the driver pumped the brakes and leaned left. “This doesn’t look good.”
Charity faced forward, her eyes growing wider. Ahead of Hardy’s vehicle, an open-top Jeep was parked sideways in the road. Four armed men impeded everyone’s progress. “Is this one of those safety checkpoints?”
“Yup.” Dahlia moved her DDM4 to between her knees, muzzle left of the brake pedal.
… … … … …
Hardy squeezed his 300 AAC Blackout tighter and eyed the four men dressed in ragged pants. T-shirts or dingy muscle shirts covered their torsos; each man held a rifle across the front of his body. “Who are they?”
Combing his mustache with his fingers, Ramirez squinted at the approaching bandits. “They’re just some scumbag locals, who prey upon the weak and powerless. They take what they can from people and let them pass.” He fished out a wad of cash from his pocket.
“And what happens when they find out we’re,” he lifted his rifle a little higher, “not weak and powerless?”
“Hide the guns, I’ll pay them off and we’ll be on our way.”
Hardy shot a look over his shoulder and scanned the area behind his team before turning back around and glaring through the windshield. Two men walked toward him, down the tire tracks in the road, while the other two stayed near the front of the Jeep. He leaned right, closed his left eye and observed the four men, almost forming a straight line. Just like a carnival game. “I’ve got a better idea.”
Having caught the tone of her man’s voice, Cruz put her thumb on her DDM4’s safety, while pulling the gun’s stock deeper into her shoulder.
Ramirez stopped counting bills and faced his male passenger.
Hardy tapped his earpiece. “Get the hostages below the seat and wait for my signal. Phoenix, you’ve got nine o’clock; Red Ryder, six.” After receiving acknowledgements from Dahlia and Charity, he pulled on the door latch with his left hand. “Cowboy, take three.”
Cruz prepped her door. “Copy that.”
Ramirez shifted his eyes toward Cruz—her body was coiled, ready to strike. “Uh,” he came back to Hardy, “what are you doing?”
“I’m going to…” Hardy glimpsed the CIA man out of the corner of his eye, “win a teddy bear for my girlfriend.”
Ramirez frowned.
Hardy shouldered his door open, lowered his right foot onto the hardpan earth and half stood. His left foot still planted on the vehicle’s floor, he raised the SBR between the door and the SUV’s body.
All four of the robbers fumbled to get their guns on target.
Two trigger pulls later, Hardy dropped the first man.
One thief managed to get off an errant shot; the bullet zipped into the grass.
Hardy put the red dot on the second man and worked the trigger two more times. He kept the rhythm going—acquire target, double tap, acquire target, double tap—mowing down the combatants from nearest to farthest in less than three seconds.
… … … … …
Having gestured for Emily and her girls to duck below the seats, Dahlia sat straight again. She opened her door a crack and grabbed the DDM4 with both hands.
Charity mimicked her partner’s posture. “What signal? What’s the signal going to be?”
A moment later, both of the women saw Hardy rise up from his Land Rover, gun blazing.
“I’m guessing that,” Dahlia threw open her door, “would be the signal.” She scurried to take her position, covering the left half of the road.
Charity jumped out, ran behind the SUV and knelt, pointing her rifle in the direction they had come.
… … … … …
While Ramirez dragged the last corpse into the tall grass, Hardy drove the Jeep as far off the path as he could before a close cropping of trees prevented him from going any further. He rushed back to the road and gave the immediate area another look. “All teams, let’s get those vehicles mobile.” Weapon up, he scanned the tree line and the path ahead of them.
The Toyota stopped and the passenger door opened. Hardy climbed inside. “Go.” He saw Cruz in his peripheral vision, as he peeked out the back window to make sure the second Land Rover was coming. Turning back around, he exhaled a big breath and rested his SBR on the floor between his legs.
