AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The woman with the French accent said, “Overhead ISR will resume as soon as able. Recommend you hold position until coverage returns.”
Lancer made his decision quickly. “Negative. Moving to location now and will act at first opportunity. I’m on scene and the weather is breaking. Find a way to get me overhead eyes.”
He again tapped the earpiece, this time ending the call, and then he and the three locals headed out through the storm.
Five minutes later they stood in sight of the apartment building. Lancer put his hand on Bernadino’s shoulder and turned him into a little cobblestone driveway that led to a small hotel, and the other two shuffled quickly behind.
Here they were out of view of the target location, hidden by a stone wall and thick foliage, even though they were only thirty yards away from the front of the two-story apartment building.
A corrugated tin roof hung over part of the drive, apparently to provide shelter for a security guard at the gate, but the gate was open and there was no guard. Lancer led the others under it. The wind had picked up just in the few minutes they’d been out of the vehicle, and light rain pelted their faces, even here under the roof. Lancer said, “Chico will get the SUV and bring it one block to the south. Tell him to park on the street in front of the post office, facing away from the target location.”
Bernadino translated and Chico acknowledged.
Lancer continued. “Alfredo will go around back, cut off any escape route. Find some good cover and be ready.” This was also acknowledged after the translation. To Bernadino he said, “You will go into the lobby and take the stairs. Get in the hallway outside their door and cover. I’ll make entry through the balcony.” He reached into his raincoat and pulled his pistol, holding it up in front of his face.
“I’m suppressed and the ammunition is subsonic, but it’s still going to sound like someone slamming a car door.”
From the gawking expressions, it was clear none of the Guatemalans had ever seen anything like the weapon in the American’s hand. It appeared to be a very large Colt 1911 but was in fact a Republic Forge Longslide in the relatively unique 10-millimeter caliber. It wore a large, boxy, Aimpoint optic on a mount on the top of the slide, and its six-inch barrel was affixed with a stubby suppressor, elongating the weapon even further. The pistol’s magazine extended several inches out of the mag well, and the grip’s texture was deeply knurled.
The handgun was one hundred percent custom-made to Lancer’s specifications. Big, bulky, and hard to conceal, but a powerful battle weapon in the hands of an expert.
Lancer, the expert, reholstered under his rain poncho, then drew a knife from a sheath at the small of his back. “If you don’t hear anything, this is why.”
He popped open the stiletto, its blade coated in black.
The men separated at six thirty p.m., but Lancer didn’t go far. He crossed the street in the diminishing rain, then stood in an alcove in front of a language school, giving Chico a few minutes to get to the SUV and Alfredo time to find a hiding place around back.
•••
Eight blocks from the target location, twenty-five-year-old Carlos Contreras sat in the rear of a white Ford Econoline van, his hands laced behind his head and his feet resting on the swivel chair next to him. This chair, like the one he now sat in, was bungee-corded to a hook in the wall behind him so it wouldn’t slide away while the van was moving.
In front of him was a table that folded down from the wall, and on the table a pair of closed laptop computers sat, placed in slight recesses so they would remain in place even if the vehicle was on the move. Also in the van with him was a bungeed-together stack of hardshell cases, closer to the driver’s and front passenger seats.
Each case contained a small quadcopter, and all the cases were filled, because the weather presently made operating a drone over Panajachel a risky endeavor for the devices.
Light showers and strong winds continued to buffet the vehicle, and although it seemed the rain was definitely letting up, the wind was definitely not.
Contreras was code-named Wrangler Zero One for this operation, and drones were his life. A hobbyist since he was a boy in Monterrey, Mexico, he’d taken a job at fifteen flying for a photographic mapping company in Houston, and then he was headhunted by a drug cartel in Jalisco. Still officially in the employ of the cartel, he was known as their best operator and even one of the best pilots in the industry, but a brutal cartel war had made his job with Jalisco less enticing than it once had been, so when he received a message in his inbox inquiring about his services for an operation in the capital hunting a Russian engineer, he took the job immediately.
After a couple of days in Mexico City he was told he was being replaced by another wrangler there, and he needed to get down to a small lakeside village in Guatemala and locate a Russian businessman on an urgent mission.
Hispanic and only five foot six, Contreras could pass as a local, so he blended in well here in Guatemala, as long as he didn’t have to talk, because he was Mexican and his accent would be instantly identifiable to a local as such.
After he rubbed his tired eyes, then glanced at his watch, a voice entered his right ear. It was the German woman at the TOC he’d been speaking with since he’d arrived here late last night. “Wrangler Zero One, this is Control. I’m showing the weather at the target location has passed. How long till ISR is back online?”
Contreras looked out the window of the van. A palm tree in the courtyard of a tiny vacation rental whipped around wildly. “Too much wind.”
“Wait one,” came the reply.
Contreras opened a can of mango juice that he’d pulled from a little cooler, then looked down at his watch. He didn’t think he’d get any of his copters back in the air tonight, rain or no rain.
The German woman spoke again; her voice sounded a little meek and unsure. “We need eyes, Wrangler. The operation is about to begin. Can you get one platform on station over the target location in the next five minutes?”
Contreras sighed. He’d already told them he couldn’t do it. “Not without risking losing equipment.”
Suddenly, a new voice spoke in his ear, this time in a European accent, a man who sounded at once authoritative and angry. “Risk it, then! Get a drone overhead to watch for anyone trying to squirt. This target must be prosecuted tonight!”
The man was well educated, in charge, and pissed off; all of this Contreras could instantly discern.
