CHAPTER 1
Four kilometers outside the town of Xphil
Campeche Region, Mexico
Crunch.
Sergeant Vincent Brandt froze
as a twig snapped underfoot. The rest of his team pulled to a stop, paused,
waiting. The wilderness surrounding them seemed to draw in a breath, as well.
The multitude of insects
stopped their persistent pre–dusk buzzing. Only a light breeze rustled the
large leaves of the mahogany trees. Then even that died down. Brandt glanced up
to find a toucan with its striped bill staring at him, cocking its head from
side to side. Apparently, the gaily–colored bird was trying to figure out why
in hell anyone would approach this close to a Los Zetas cartel’s campsite.
Brandt was beginning to wonder that himself.
It wasn’t the fact that a well–placed CIA asset’s cover had
been blown. No, it was that the CIA hadn’t bothered to tell anyone about it.
Not the DEA, not the DoD—hell, not even the Red Cross. The agency had gone all
trigger–happy and mounted their own rescue mission of their asset. Which of
course meant Brandt and his men now had to go rescue those captured CIA
operatives, plus apparently a foreign operative who had wound up in the mix.
So here were Brandt and his team, deep in the Mexican
jungle, missing the bulk of their leave, trying to avoid the cartel’s patrols
and ending up another drug war statistic. They should have been in the Florida
Keys pretending to fish, but really just having a moment to take a load off. “Blowing
off steam” was what the head docs called it. Brandt called it second survival.
Out here in the jungle you stuffed it all down. The fear.
The nerves. The fact that none of them had a successful relationship. Brandt’s
mother was all about getting grandkids, however unless he stumbled onto some
smart, funny, hot chick in the middle of the jungle, that was not very likely
to happen.
The tension of all that had to go somewhere. Hence the
fishing—priming the pump for the next mission. But no, instead they were in
Mexican drug cartel–filled jungle. Awesome.
Svengurd, the team’s tall point man, swiveled his head from
side to side, making sure that no one else had heard the snap of that branch.
Finally, Svengurd moved them forward again, pushing further into the jungle,
following his GPS signal, since there weren’t any trails leading to the Zetas’
back door.
Brandt waited until Lopez followed Svengurd. Usually the
corporal was their vehicle procurement officer, or, as Lopez liked to call it,
their “get, get, getaway driver.” Brandt had, of course, squashed that
nickname.
Today they needed Lopez’s gun in the mix. If they couldn’t
quickly and quietly get the hostages out of this makeshift camp, a getaway car
wasn’t going to do them any good.
Svengurd’s fist clenched. Brandt stopped mid–stride. Had the
point man spotted a sentry, or the camp itself? Glancing down, he checked his
GPS monitor. They were still a good two hundred feet from the coordinates the
CIA had given them. But then again, this was the same agency that had gotten at
least two of their men killed and another two captured.
He would trust Svengurd’s instincts over any coordinates.
Confirming Brandt’s suspicions, the point man flashed
fingers from his eyes towards a figure, no, make that two figures, in the
jungle. Make that two young figures. Boys, really. Boys of no more than
thirteen who carried M4 carbine machine guns with grenade launchers attached.
Brandt had discretion, of course. They could shoot the enemy
combatants down without a warning. It galled Brandt, though. It wasn’t these
kids’ fault they had been born in one of the poorest regions of the world and
had been taken advantage of by the cartels for cheap, disposable security.
Svengurd and Lopez were set up to take the shot, but Brandt
gave a sharp shake of his head. Despite their age and circumstance, the team
still couldn’t have the child soldiers raising any alarms. There had to be a
way to achieve a
Four kilometers outside the town of Xphil
Campeche Region, Mexico
Crunch.
Sergeant Vincent Brandt froze
as a twig snapped underfoot. The rest of his team pulled to a stop, paused,
waiting. The wilderness surrounding them seemed to draw in a breath, as well.
The multitude of insects
stopped their persistent pre–dusk buzzing. Only a light breeze rustled the
large leaves of the mahogany trees. Then even that died down. Brandt glanced up
to find a toucan with its striped bill staring at him, cocking its head from
side to side. Apparently, the gaily–colored bird was trying to figure out why
in hell anyone would approach this close to a Los Zetas cartel’s campsite.
Brandt was beginning to wonder that himself.
It wasn’t the fact that a well–placed CIA asset’s cover had
been blown. No, it was that the CIA hadn’t bothered to tell anyone about it.
Not the DEA, not the DoD—hell, not even the Red Cross. The agency had gone all
trigger–happy and mounted their own rescue mission of their asset. Which of
course meant Brandt and his men now had to go rescue those captured CIA
operatives, plus apparently a foreign operative who had wound up in the mix.
So here were Brandt and his team, deep in the Mexican
jungle, missing the bulk of their leave, trying to avoid the cartel’s patrols
and ending up another drug war statistic. They should have been in the Florida
Keys pretending to fish, but really just having a moment to take a load off. “Blowing
off steam” was what the head docs called it. Brandt called it second survival.
Out here in the jungle you stuffed it all down. The fear.
The nerves. The fact that none of them had a successful relationship. Brandt’s
mother was all about getting grandkids, however unless he stumbled onto some
smart, funny, hot chick in the middle of the jungle, that was not very likely
to happen.
The tension of all that had to go somewhere. Hence the
fishing—priming the pump for the next mission. But no, instead they were in
Mexican drug cartel–filled jungle. Awesome.
Svengurd, the team’s tall point man, swiveled his head from
side to side, making sure that no one else had heard the snap of that branch.
Finally, Svengurd moved them forward again, pushing further into the jungle,
following his GPS signal, since there weren’t any trails leading to the Zetas’
back door.
Brandt waited until Lopez followed Svengurd. Usually the
corporal was their vehicle procurement officer, or, as Lopez liked to call it,
their “get, get, getaway driver.” Brandt had, of course, squashed that
nickname.
Today they needed Lopez’s gun in the mix. If they couldn’t
quickly and quietly get the hostages out of this makeshift camp, a getaway car
wasn’t going to do them any good.
Svengurd’s fist clenched. Brandt stopped mid–stride. Had the
point man spotted a sentry, or the camp itself? Glancing down, he checked his
GPS monitor. They were still a good two hundred feet from the coordinates the
CIA had given them. But then again, this was the same agency that had gotten at
least two of their men killed and another two captured.
He would trust Svengurd’s instincts over any coordinates.
Confirming Brandt’s suspicions, the point man flashed
fingers from his eyes towards a figure, no, make that two figures, in the
jungle. Make that two young figures. Boys, really. Boys of no more than
thirteen who carried M4 carbine machine guns with grenade launchers attached.
Brandt had discretion, of course. They could shoot the enemy
combatants down without a warning. It galled Brandt, though. It wasn’t these
kids’ fault they had been born in one of the poorest regions of the world and
had been taken advantage of by the cartels for cheap, disposable security.
Svengurd and Lopez were set up to take the shot, but Brandt
gave a sharp shake of his head. Despite their age and circumstance, the team
still couldn’t have the child soldiers raising any alarms. There had to be a
way to achieve a
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