Page 84 of Dirty

“Raven One to Raven Three, we’ve got six tangos at the east side of the residence. Appears to be a kitchen. Copy.”

“This is Raven Three. Roger six tangos. Be advised, west bedroom, north side. We’ve got four tangos, copy.”

“Roger four tangos, Raven Three. On my four count.”

“Roger your four count, Raven One.”

“One.”

“Two.”

My heart was in my fucking throat and my stomach was twisted into a knot. My only hope was that we got to Cholo before they killed him.

If not, there was going to be hell to pay.

“Three.”

“Four.”

The back door was blown from its hinges, and we burst through it one after the other. I was the last man through the door, and I heard the sound of a silenced rifle fire six times before I planted one of my feet inside the house.

“Kitchen clear.”

Crouched down with my weapon pointed ahead, just as they had taught me, I entered the kitchen immediately behind the man in front of me.

Six men were dead on the floor.

I stepped over them, and with my rifle at the ready, I followed the man they called Tree Top down the hallway.

“First bedroom clear.”

“Bathroom clear.”

“Garage clear.”

“Four Echo Papa Whiskeys in bedroom two. We have no asset. Be advised, hold your fire. Repeat. Hold your fire.”

I was a part of the mission, and I was glad that I volunteered. But, we hadn’t even been in the home for two minutes, and the threat of death was long gone. It was obvious why Navy SEALs were touted as being bad-asses.

It was because they were.

Certain Cholo was being held captive in the back bedroom, I eagerly elbowed my way into the small room.

Much to my surprise, six Hispanic men stood with their wide eyes fixed on Crip, but there was no sign of Cholo.

With a rifle trained on each of their chests, the men stood in fear for their lives, or so I thought. Crip stood in front of the group of men with his rifle slung over his shoulder, and his pistol gripped tightly in his hand.

He raised the pistol and pointed it at one of the Hispanic men’s head. “Donde esta el jefe?”

I didn’t speak Spanish, but no differently than most people in southern California, I understood it enough to know Crip was asking where the boss man was.

Stone-faced, the man glared back at him, and then closed his eyes. “No se.”

Crip pulled the trigger.

The man fell to the floor with a thud.

Blood poured out of the man’s forehead and onto the carpet. Standing only a few feet away, Crip pointed the pistol at the next man’s head. “Donde esta el jefe?”