Age of Blood

19

Triple Six met in a warehouse along with J.J. and Ramon. No one was badly wounded, although Laws and Yank had their share of bumps and bruises. They briefed each other on what they’d seen. That all three mafia members had been killed was an issue, but there was no one to firmly blame. Although J.J. was the last one left with the tied-off ropes, Ramon was the last one in the courtyard. It didn’t take a genius to speculate the rest. Looked like Mike Sanchez had gotten it right after all.

How they’d been discovered was also of no interest to them. It’d been bound to happen. They could have papered the streets of Cabo with dollar bills and still had someone check them out. The money, combined with the sudden and very public abductions of several prominent cartel members, was enough to get every wannabe-lone-ranger-gunman running to their aid. After all, if they were rescued, how much would their rescuer be rewarded?

But they did have two problems. They’d been forced to leave most of their stuff behind and J.J. had found out that his boat had gone missing, which meant that they had no obvious way to cross the Sea of Cortez.

As far as resupply, they could have weapons, ammunition, and equipment delivered by an NSW support team within eight hours, but they didn’t want to stay in place to wait for it. Time was ticking and every hour, every minute, every second might make the difference between the girl’s life or death. As it was, they felt like they’d finally made a break and didn’t want to lose their lead.

Ramon came up with one possible solution. He knew several smugglers with ships. They could stow away beneath the waterline and make the mainland in twelve hours. Add an additional three-plus hours to travel by road to Alamos, and it was an almost fifteen-hour trip.

Too long.

Too much could happen in fifteen hours.

They had to figure out a way to shorten the distance. Twenty minutes and a few shouted negotiations later, Holmes had the solution. They made it to a quay beyond the resort area and rendezvoused with the Mexican navy. A CB 90 combat boat capable of forty knots waited for them. Once they boarded, it tore away from shore, heading roughly due east, at a steady thirty-seven knots.

The SEALs found spots both on and below deck to sleep. Ramon, on the other hand, found himself incapable and tossed around like a wet cat.

Two hours after the sun rose, the CB 90 slowed. An MH-53 Pave Low helicopter bearing Mexican military idents appeared, flying low over the water. It flared above the rocking vessel and ropes uncurled, with Palmer rigs at each end. Each SEAL slid into a rig, as did Ramon, and the helicopter took off, turning and heading into the sun, the men dangling like hooked fish above the choppy water.

One by one they were hauled in. Once all were inside, Holmes greeted the senior man aboard, Major Carlos Navarre. They’d worked cross-border operations near Arizona less than a year ago and had a grudging respect for each other’s work. Navarre had owed Holmes a favor, though, for letting several federales go free who were knee-deep in a Zetas cartel plan to use chupacabras to transit drugs across the border. The release of the federal cops hadn’t sat well with Holmes, but then the politics of Mexico were different from the politics of America.

The Pave Low was a retired U.S. Special Forces helicopter, capable of carrying thirty-seven soldiers with a top speed of two hundred miles an hour, around the world if air-refueled by C-130s. In this case, they had enough fuel to make their destination. They also probably wouldn’t need the firepower, which was too bad. It was always sad to waste the potential violence of three M134 miniguns, each one capable of raining six thousand 7.62mm rounds on a target.

Ramon was the only one not at all happy. His white Cubavera slacks and shirt were covered in blood, soot, and dirt. Not that there was a men’s clothing store around. He’d have to stay in them until they reached civilization.

Laws, Yank, J.J., and Walker sat on the floor, alternating one side of the helicopter or the other. Their legs almost reached the other side. Ramon joined them, letting himself down easy on the perforated metal floor.

Walker’s comment, “Welcome to the SEALs,” was met with a sour grimace and anger-filled eyes.

Each SEAL still had his SIG Sauer P229 and HK416. Navarre provided reloads for these, along with reloads for Walker’s SR-25. Vitamin packs and energy drinks were passed around, while Laws checked the unit’s MBITR communications equipment.

Holmes, who’d previously called SPG and NSW to coordinate a reissue of equipment at Alamos to replace what they’d had to leave behind, contacted Billings and brought her up to speed. She was on her way to a meeting at Langley to provide them more support and would let him know the results.

In the rear of the Pave Low, far away from the others, Yank got Walker’s attention. “Can I have a second?” he asked, speaking low and eyeing the others.

“Don’t even have to ask, Yank. What’s up?” Walker had his Stoner apart on his lap and was wiping sand from the parts.

“The mission—is it always like this?”

“Like what? Filled with crazy supernatural shit?”

“Yeah. Like that.”

Walker reattached the barrel, then the sound suppressor. “If it was a regular mission, then they’d use regular SEALs.”

“But we are regular SEALs.”

Walker glanced at Yank and smiled. He’d thought the same thing many times and had only recently come to terms with it. “I see it like this, Yank. Do you remember screening and selection?”

Yank nodded, thinking of the three-day battery of questions and exercises each man performed prior to selection to become a U.S. Navy SEAL.

“There were so many questions no one remembers what they asked. But the psychs had a method to their madness. I’m not sure what it was. Maybe they try and figure out which ones of us have the capacity to accept the supernatural. Maybe they’re looking for folks who won’t freeze, because even a SEAL might freeze if he comes face-to-face with a vampire.”

“Have you seen a real vampire?” Yank asked with awe.

“No. I’m just using that as an example. The point is, they decided based on our answers to their questions that we were the best candidates for this special unit.” He finished snapping the Stoner back together. “There’s another side to that argument.”

“What is it?”

“What if we’re the ones who answered the questions wrong? What if all the really good SEALs go to the teams and Triple Six gets us. The rejects. Sort of like Kelly’s Heroes.”

Yank’s gaze touched briefly on the other men before turning back to Walker.

“That was something Laws said to me,” Walker said. “It makes a certain amount of sense.”

Yank nodded but didn’t say anything.

“I guess my point is that we’ll never know. We just have to Charlie Mike until Holmes says quit.”

“Everyone hold on,” Holmes yelled. “We have incoming rounds.”

Yank and Walker stared at each other for a moment, then scrambled for a handhold.