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“You sure that’s enough, Belov?” I ask sarcastically while a cloud of dust and smoke rises above the fifty thousand square feet of Mendoza’s compound.
“It’ll have to do,” Sergei says. “Couldn’t get more C4 on short notice.”
It takes almost twenty minutes for the dust to settle enough for us to actually be able to see anything. The explosions knocked out the electricity and the entire football field-size compound falls into darkness, with the only light coming from a dozen or so fires that have sprung up in the area. The scene really does look like hell now.
“Now,” I say and pull my bandanna over my mouth and nose, then head toward the gate.
Screams and cries echo all around as we walk among the demolished structures. An occasional gunshot adds to the cacophony as we off the survivors on our path. Everything, except for the huge hangar in the middle of the compound, lies in ruins. Several men are positioned at the entrance, their guns raised as they frantically search for incoming threats. I take out five as I approach on the right, while Sergei disposes of four more coming up from the other side.
“Back,” he says and heads around the hangar as I continue walking toward the front entrance.
Three more guards jump out when I reach the hangar door, but I quickly take care of them and step inside.
It’s obviously a storage facility, likely drugs since that’s Mendoza’s business, with crates piled on top of each other on all sides, almost reaching the ceiling. I turn right between two rows of containers, searching for hostiles. Several gunshots sound on the other side of the building as Sergei sweeps his flank. I reach the end of the row and turn into the next one.
I’m nearing the middle of the hangar when I hear Sergei’s voice in my earpiece.
“Holy Mother Mary, Jesus, and Joseph,” he chokes out. “East corner. Get your ass over here. Now, Az.”
I turn left and hurry toward Sergei. He’s crouching, holding a fluorescent light stick over something on the ground. I shift my NVDs up and approach, getting a closer look. The sight that greets me leaves me at a loss for words.
A man, barely skin and bones, is lying curled on the ground. His pants are torn and dirty, and what’s left of his T-shirt is hanging like a rag over his chest. Every inch of the visible skin is covered with a layer of dried blood. His face is turned toward us, but if it wasn’t for a shock of long matted hair, I never would have recognized him. The last time I saw Kai, he was about the same weight as me, but now he looks like a fucking skeleton.
“Is he alive?” I ask.
“Kind of. See if you can find anything to break that.” Sergei nods toward the thick metal chain shackled around Kai’s right leg and bolted to the wall.
I run toward the hangar entrance to get a bolt cutter and other tools I saw on a table close to the door, and hurry back. The skin around Kai’s manacled ankle is raw. It’s as if the crazy motherfucker tried to chafe his foot off to free himself.
“Hold him down,” I say. “I don’t want him going berserk thinking I’m an enemy.”
“He’s barely breathing, Az. I don’t think he’s capable of anything else.”
I take a step forward and place the head of the bolt cutter around the chain, getting ready to make the cut, when a heel of a bare foot connects with my chin.
“Jesus fuck!” I snap. “I told you to hold him down, damn it!”
Sergei gets down on Kai, straddling him over the chest and grabbing his wrists. Kai lets out an animalistic roar and headbutts Belov so hard, Sergei’s head snaps back.
“Shit.” I reach into my jacket and take out a small plastic box with a syringe inside.
Felix got us the tranquilizer in case we’d have trouble overpowering Kai, but once I saw the state he was in, I didn’t think it was necessary. The crazy bastard lives to prove people wrong. I uncap the needle and plunge the thing into Kai’s thigh. He keeps thrashing around for several more seconds, trying to get a hit on Sergei’s head before his body finally sags. Kai’s eyes are vacant, silently staring off into the distance, but I notice his lips moving. I crouch next to him and bend low, trying to hear what he’s saying, but the words don’t make any sense.
“Are there tigers in Mexico?” I look at Sergei.
“Nope. Why?”
“I think he’s delirious,” I say. “He’s calling for ‘his tiger cub.’”
