go.”
Hutch reached the guards first. After confirming that yep, they were dead, he motioned an all clear.
The rest of the team blitzed the last few meters through the steaming, acrid darkness and flattened themselves against the side of the building. Dillon whispered into his mike one last time before they’d go in. “Chase, you got flash?”
One click for yes came over his headset and he motioned for Chase to check the door. Not locked. No real surprise there. Hell, why lock a door when you had a room full of amped-up men with fully loaded Uzis?
He took a deep breath and signaled for the team to move.
Now, finally, maybe, he’d get a fix on Sanchez.
Chase opened the door, tossed in a flashbang grenade, and immediately took cover against the outer wall.
The jarring, intermittent blast thundered through the room and into the night. The team rushed the door--a phalanx of men, hardware, and fury.
Six startled rebels looked up from what they were doing, mouths open, eyes wide. Hands reached for weapons. Team One went full auto. The Colombians never stood a chance. They went down, all six eliminated in less than three seconds.
Dillon glanced around. Something wasn’t right. According to their intel, there should have been, at the very least, a total of twelve men. So far they’d only seen eight.
He signaled for his men to break off into groups of two and check the other rooms. They were all back in the central room in less than one minute. All of them except Chase and Wolf.
Wolf’s voice came over Dillon’s headset a little freaked. “We’ve got trouble, boss.”
His muscles tensed. “Location?”
“Third room southeast of the entrance.”
“Roger.” Damn. This op was supposed to be cut and dried. Take out the lab goons. Capture and secure whoever was in charge. Get intel on Sanchez. Then blow the place.
Before Dillon could signal his team, shots sounded down a hallway. Chase and Wolf came hauling ass backward, spraying bullets.
Dillon shouted over the gunfire. “Sit-Rep!”
Chase fired another burst. “Trap door. About thirty guys down there, maybe more. I recognized Sanchez. Heard Vega’s name mentioned. They’re having a friggin’ Lord of the Cartels meeting down there. Room’s packed. They’ve got an alternate exit east side.”
Wolf yelled, “Op’s over. Let’s go!”
Sanchez is here . Right now, just yards away, El Tigre is in his den.
Dillon ran a dozen scenarios through his mind in seconds. Nothing played out. Thirty-plus men, all armed to the teeth, against his eight--
His team wouldn’t stand a chance. If they’d been able to take the targets by surprise, maybe. If they’d had better intel, been more prepared, had different weapons--
Too late, and too close quartered, to toss in a grenade.
Footsteps pounded. Up, and no doubt out, that friggin’ east exit.
Shit. They needed to move. He pumped his arm and yelled, “Everybody back! Take the boats!”
He waited until his last man was out the door before starting out himself. He would’ve made it too, except that he tripped, like an Olympic champion, over a dead body.
Voices raised, teeth bared, five tangos rounded the corner firing their weapons at anything that moved.
Off balance, Dillon fired a double burst into the fray. Before he could get off another round, a bullet ripped into his thigh, and his first thought was, damn, the movies got it right. First, there was that wide-eyed shock, then the ow-holy-fuck-I’ve-just-been-shot split second before the white hot pain hit and he went down. What the movies didn’t show was the person who’d just been shot screaming like a schoolgirl when they landed with a hard thud on the injured leg. Good thing Dillon wasn’t much of a screamer. Whoever said it took a while to feel the searing offense of a bullet had probably never been shot.
Hutch reached the guards first. After confirming that yep, they were dead, he motioned an all clear.
The rest of the team blitzed the last few meters through the steaming, acrid darkness and flattened themselves against the side of the building. Dillon whispered into his mike one last time before they’d go in. “Chase, you got flash?”
One click for yes came over his headset and he motioned for Chase to check the door. Not locked. No real surprise there. Hell, why lock a door when you had a room full of amped-up men with fully loaded Uzis?
He took a deep breath and signaled for the team to move.
Now, finally, maybe, he’d get a fix on Sanchez.
Chase opened the door, tossed in a flashbang grenade, and immediately took cover against the outer wall.
The jarring, intermittent blast thundered through the room and into the night. The team rushed the door--a phalanx of men, hardware, and fury.
Six startled rebels looked up from what they were doing, mouths open, eyes wide. Hands reached for weapons. Team One went full auto. The Colombians never stood a chance. They went down, all six eliminated in less than three seconds.
Dillon glanced around. Something wasn’t right. According to their intel, there should have been, at the very least, a total of twelve men. So far they’d only seen eight.
He signaled for his men to break off into groups of two and check the other rooms. They were all back in the central room in less than one minute. All of them except Chase and Wolf.
Wolf’s voice came over Dillon’s headset a little freaked. “We’ve got trouble, boss.”
His muscles tensed. “Location?”
“Third room southeast of the entrance.”
“Roger.” Damn. This op was supposed to be cut and dried. Take out the lab goons. Capture and secure whoever was in charge. Get intel on Sanchez. Then blow the place.
Before Dillon could signal his team, shots sounded down a hallway. Chase and Wolf came hauling ass backward, spraying bullets.
Dillon shouted over the gunfire. “Sit-Rep!”
Chase fired another burst. “Trap door. About thirty guys down there, maybe more. I recognized Sanchez. Heard Vega’s name mentioned. They’re having a friggin’ Lord of the Cartels meeting down there. Room’s packed. They’ve got an alternate exit east side.”
Wolf yelled, “Op’s over. Let’s go!”
Sanchez is here . Right now, just yards away, El Tigre is in his den.
Dillon ran a dozen scenarios through his mind in seconds. Nothing played out. Thirty-plus men, all armed to the teeth, against his eight--
His team wouldn’t stand a chance. If they’d been able to take the targets by surprise, maybe. If they’d had better intel, been more prepared, had different weapons--
Too late, and too close quartered, to toss in a grenade.
Footsteps pounded. Up, and no doubt out, that friggin’ east exit.
Shit. They needed to move. He pumped his arm and yelled, “Everybody back! Take the boats!”
He waited until his last man was out the door before starting out himself. He would’ve made it too, except that he tripped, like an Olympic champion, over a dead body.
Voices raised, teeth bared, five tangos rounded the corner firing their weapons at anything that moved.
Off balance, Dillon fired a double burst into the fray. Before he could get off another round, a bullet ripped into his thigh, and his first thought was, damn, the movies got it right. First, there was that wide-eyed shock, then the ow-holy-fuck-I’ve-just-been-shot split second before the white hot pain hit and he went down. What the movies didn’t show was the person who’d just been shot screaming like a schoolgirl when they landed with a hard thud on the injured leg. Good thing Dillon wasn’t much of a screamer. Whoever said it took a while to feel the searing offense of a bullet had probably never been shot.
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