Breaking Point Part X

[Robbie C.]

“Tell me again why we didn’t stay in the damned van.”

Randy grinned, the motion little more than a flash of teeth in the growing gloom. “Elevation is an advantage. Didn’t you tell me that once?”

“Maybe when we was both drunk.” Dave shook his head and continued pulling the Remington out of its soft carry case. “And I sure as hell wasn’t talkin’ about some roach-infested rooftop in the middle of lost hope, Florida.”

In truth he wasn’t all that opposed to the position. At least from here they could see the street on three sides of the meet location. Once upon a time it had been a Midas shop, judging from the shape of the gutted sign mounted above the boarded-up doors of the old car bays. Now it waited for the wrecking ball and some new initiative to plant ‘traditional’ row houses or some such crap along the street and make some sleazeball developer millions on the backs of idiots who didn’t know any better.

But for now the place just loomed like an empty shell. The old business lights were long-broken, and only one of the four streetlights worked. But there was enough light to shoot by, and more than enough for the spotting scope to work its magic. And if it came down to it they also had NVGs, although Dave hated shooting using Starlite gear.

Lester’s voice crackled in his ear. “They just left the barn. You two in position?”

“Yes, mom.” Randy’s voice was a light whisper swept away by the faint evening breeze.

“Sure. Got the doors covered.” Dave shifted the rifle a hair. “Got a van coming into the target area. Get eyes on.”

He sensed rather than saw Randy nod. “Copy that. Got the van. Looks like driver and passenger. Maybe a guy in the back. I can’t tell. It’s a rape wagon with tinted windows.” He paused. “And we have a winner. It’s stopping in front of the target.”

 

“The target has stopped. Handing off to you.”

Philipe nodded, knowing the man on the other end of the radio couldn’t see the motion. “Confirm,” he whispered, the handset millimeters from his mouth. “Silent now.”

It was dark on the rooftop, surrounded as they were by chillers and sheet metal conduit pumping air into the building. Or it would be if the system still worked. He was thankful for the cover, but also glad for the quiet.

They’d gotten into position only moments ago, guided in by the same team that followed their target to the location. They all had read the profile, and the information on the four spots the puta regularly used for his business, and the tailing team had been able to narrow the destination down quickly. A little more time to set up would have been nice, but he’d learned both in his training and the hard school of the mountains and jungle that you rarely got to pick your spot or the time of your shot.

At least he’d worked with Cruces before. The man was a decent spotter, and knew when to speak and when to keep his mouth shut. It was in Philipe’s experience a rare gift. Looking over he saw the man scanning both the target building and surrounding rooftops. Habits learned the hard way in combat against guerrillas and shooters from other cartels. Setting up his rifle, a Winchester Model 70, he still found it hard to believe how the colonel had made the switch for them. And how much money they made feeding the Gringos’ bad habits.

Pulling two small sandbags out of his rucksack, Philipe used them to brace the rifle just in front of the trigger guard and magazine base plate. Always careful to keep anything away from the barrel. He tested the range of motion, shifting one bag just a hair before he was satisfied. “Anything?”

“Si. A van just pulled up in front of the target building.” There was a pause. “Looks like four targets. The puta who makes the deals, the one the captain says we must kill, and two others. Pistoleros most likely.”

“I have them.” Philipe watched through the narrow world of the scope as their target unlocked one of the old bay doors and rolled it up. Nice trick with the boards. Making it look closed. Another lesson for us, maybe. Philipe was always looking for new tricks, new tactics. Ways to stay fresh when others went stale and used the same positions, the same methods.

“Another vehicle just arrived. One of those big German sedans. Big and dark like the politicos like so much.”

“That must be the buyer.” Philipe shifted the rifle a hair to bring them into view. The driver was a striking black woman, and the two buyers were white and black. He left his scope linger on the woman for a moment longer and then turned his mind back to business. “I’ve got them all sight. Confirm range at two hundred ten.”

“Confirmed.” He felt Cruces shift beside him, turning his attention to their surroundings while Philipe owned the kill zone.

The darkness shifted and then slipped away as the clouds parted and let the three-quarter moon bathe the area in its gold light. So often it was the little things that made the difference in shooting, and in the case the extra light let him see his targets better. The men were talking now, the striking woman hanging back a bit. There was little of the back-slapping and hand-waving he’d come to expect from traffickers. It looked more like a business meeting. The black man and the target did most of the talking, with the Anglo staying closer to the shadows. Something about him, maybe his black clothes, drew Philipe’s attention. He made a note to mention him in his report, see if they had anything on such a man.

“We have company.”

“What?”

“The building two down and a story lower. If the moon had kept hiding her face I wouldn’t have seen them.”

“How many?”

“Two. They’re back in the shadows near the roof access door. They look to be snipers, corporal. One has a rifle.”

“Really.” Philipe’s mind started working. Leaving his rifle in place for the message shot, he turned and reached out. “Glasses. Show me where they are.”

Cruces handed him the binoculars and guided them with his hand. “Just over there, see? Don’t raise the glasses too much. The moon will betray you. That’s how I spotted them.”

By the blessed Virgin. He’s right. Philipe could see two distinct shadows in a position not unlike their own, and a slender stick that could only be a rifle pointed toward the meeting. But they weren’t set to engage. “They’re watching. But for who?”

“Do we deal with them?”

“I’ll decide once I make the shot.” He handed back the glasses, knowing that he’d engage the other snipers no matter what. They’d need to if they wanted to get off the roof in one piece. But that was later. Now he needed to focus on the action below. The shot had to come at just the right moment.

 

Sonny was already tired of the meeting. He never cared for Garcia, and his dealer contact, a greaseball who called himself Victor, wasn’t any better. If anything he was worse, strutting around and posturing like he was sitting on the Hope diamond instead of a few keys of suspect coke. And it didn’t help that he couldn’t shake the damned feeling.

The drive over had been quiet, Trudy handling the big Mercedes like a pro and Rico mostly looking out the window at passing cars. The suitcase of buy money was still in the back seat, waiting for the preliminaries to stop and the business to begin.

And then there was Victor’s two goons, punks right out of central casting who couldn’t decide if they wanted to be Scarface or made men. Anyplace else he’d be chuckling at them, but right now he was more worried about them accidentally shooting him or Rico or even Trudy. Maybe he’d get lucky and they’d shoot each other.

He glared up when the moon broke through the clouds. It was bad enough being pinned down on the edge of Overton on a strip of abandoned businesses and crack houses, but extra light was the last damned thing he needed. Making a show of looked down at his watch, he turned back to Rico and snarled, “Can we get this show on the road? I got places I need to be.”

“Easy, Burnett.” Rico’s voice was harder than he’d expected. “I got a couple of things to explain to Victor here if he wants to do regular business. The first being forty keys is just an introduction where I come from. And my associates would take it as an insult if that was the most you could offer.”

Victor affected the same damned cowboy boots as Pancho and his boys, and he made a show of hitching up a pair of five hundred dollar designer jeans. “As you say, this is just an introduction. The supply troubles have been dealt with and everything is as it should be.”

“What the hell’s going on down in banana land, anyhow?” Sonny pressed the opening. “I ain’t never seen it so screwed up as it has been the last few months.”

Victor shrugged. “Some gang war. Who can say? They blame each other and then want to raise the price for inferior goods. Me? I find my own supply and tell the gangs to piss off. And now, as you say, the pieces they fall into place.”

“Solid.” Rico smiled, shooting a warning glance at Sonny. “Now you show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

Sonny started to comment when the left side of Victor’s head vanished in a spray of blood, boned, and mashed brains. “Shooter!” He clawed the 4506-1 from his holster and dove behind the armored fender of the Mercedes, his brain calculating the rough position of the sniper based on the blood spray even before the boom of the shot reached his ears. “Down! Get down!” He was waving Trudy and Rico to cover when a second shot boomed out. But no one in the parking pad fell. Victor’s two men were statues, one of them puking his guts out at the sight of his dead boss, and Garcia had taken cover like the survivor he seemed to be. Then who…. His blood ran cold when he heard the scream.

 

Philipe racked the Winchester’s bolt, trusting Cruces to recover the casing. He knew his shot had hit home, and that he had at most two seconds to follow up before they had to evade. Turning on his side, he braced the rifle with his off-hand and let the shadows on the other roof swim into focus through the scope. They were moving, and he could tell they’d pinpointed his rough location already. He let his breath hiss out between his teeth, emptying his lungs halfway, and then squeezed the trigger.

 

At the sound of the shot Randy knew what had happened. “Sniper! Rooftop to our right!” He turned, ignoring the spotting scope and scrubbing for binoculars. He needed the wider field of vision to pick up a target. Any target.

Dave turned, coming to one knee and searching with the rifle’s scope. “Target! Two twenty one floor up. Engage…”

Time seemed to draw itself out into silver threads as Randy watched Dave pitch back, a dark stream of blood spurting from high on the right side of his chest as the bullet hit home and over-penetrated. His friend looked down, seeing the hole, and gasped. The rifle fell from his hands, clattering on tar paper and boards as it hit the roof. Then he fell, knocked back by the momentum of the bullet and his own shock.

Randy didn’t even look for the rifle. Didn’t draw his own sidearm. Instead he pulled out the medic bag and started cutting Dave’s shirt away. The gaping wound bubbled, and he could hear sucking sounds from the punctured lung. He tore through the bag, fingers searching for a pressure bandage and something to cover the exit wound. He needed to keep the lung sealed and Dave out of shock. “I got you, man,” he muttered. “Just a scratch is all. Damned spent bullet and all that.”

Dave’s eyes opened. “Don’t shit me, man. I seen you do this too much. It’s bad.”

“Not that bad. Punctured lung and cracked ribs.” Randy grinned, hoping Dave couldn’t tell how much blood he was losing. “Now you just let me do my job.”

“I shoulda seen that bastard.”

“No, man. I’m the spotter. I shoulda seen that bastard.” Remembering the tactical radio, Randy keyed it and called for an ambulance. “10-13. Officer down. One critical. I repeat, critical.” He dropped the radio, hearing Lester echo the call and send it blasting over the airways.

“Shit. It hurts, man.”

“That’s good. Means you’re not in shock. And no, you ain’t gettin’ no morphine. So don’t ask.” Randy forced a low laugh as he pulled out another heavy bandage. Dave had already bled through the first one, and he couldn’t see enough to tell what was going on with the wound.

 

The chase car picked them up a block away from the building. Philipe nodded to Captain Salazar. “The message was delivered, sir. We also engaged a sniper team observing the meeting.”

“Really?” Salazar looked out the window at passing buildings as they took a roundabout path to the safe house. “Some of Victor’s men?”

“No, sir. They were too professional for that. Cruces spotted them first and had them under observation while I delivered the message, but I think they were military-trained and not police.”

“Explain.”

“They were a sniper and spotter team. Gringo police here either shoot solo or have two shooters.” He paused for a moment. “And their reactions were fast. Almost too fast. They hadn’t spotted us and yet the sniper almost got off a shot.”

“Thank you, corporal. Job well done.” Salazar nodded as the corporal smiled. But the captain’s mind had moved far beyond the message. If Philipe was correct, they might have finally found a trace of the mysterious unit the colonel was seeking. Reaching down, he picked up the tactical radio and keyed it. “Have a team locate the hospital the Gringo sniper was taken to. They’re to keep it under loose surveillance.”

Felix’s calm voice echoed back. “Are they to act in any way?”

“Find the hospital and check its security. Possibly determine his condition and identity. More orders will follow when we have more information.” He smiled as he set the radio down. It would be good to have something to give that ambitious whelp Orozco when he flew in.

 

The red lights from the ambulance bathed the surrounding buildings in blood. Sonny paced back and forth like a caged animal, the big .45 still in his hand. Trudy was over with Randy, trying to keep the man from kicking the ass of one of the responding paramedics, and he wasn’t sure where Rico was. But he knew where Garcia was.

Walking over to the crouching man, Sonny kicked him once in the ribs, then again. “What the hell do you mean this was a message? Don’t fuck with me.”

“Man, you can’t do this. Ain’t you the police?”

“Sonny Burnett, asshole. And if you don’t give me straight answers like yesterday you’ll be joining your good friend Victor over there. I hear they brought an extra body bag.”

He heard Rico’s voice behind him. “Be cool, Sonny.”

“Fuck cool.” His voice, Burnett’s voice, was flat and hard. “This punk knows something, and he’s going to tell me right now if he wants to live to see the sun rise.”

“Look…Victor told me some guys came to see him. About the tax for moving product. He told them this was Miami not Columbia and he’d do whatever he wanted. Said he didn’t scare like those wetbacks they were used to pushing around.” Garcia sighed. “He never should have said no.”

Sonny flicked the safety off the big Smith & Wesson. “My friend is over there bleeding to death, Garcia. Maybe I’m ready to send my own message.”

“I swear I don’t know who they are.” His voice was almost a scream. “I just broker deals, Burnett. Hell, I ain’t never been to Columbia. But I did hear some of the other guys talking about them. At least I think they were talking about them. They shut up as soon as I came over. But they were scared. I mean piss your pants scared. One of ‘em said something about Ocho. You know, Eight.”

Sonny turned and looked at Rico. “Like eight heads?”

“Yeah! It was right after that. Man, the guys who came up before Moncado damned near lost their minds when that boat floated in.”

Nodding, Sonny flicked the safety back on and holstered the big pistol. “Congratulations, Garcia. You’ll see the sun come up.” Turning, he headed toward the car.

Rico caught up with him in two steps. “Listen, partner, you can’t…”

Sonny turned, anger balling up inside him until it felt like it was going to burst through his chest. “No, I can, Rico. Dave’s in critical condition. Someone floated eight heads into our city. You really think rolling around like pretty boys and playing by the goddamned rules is going to stop these assholes? If we don’t hit them, they’re going to figure out who we are and hit us.”

“I doubt it.”

“I don’t. These are ruthless bastards, whoever they are. And they’re gonna look for the biggest threat and take it out. Look around, man! They don’t care who they hit. And I doubt if they can even spell restraint. You get up on that roof and you know what you’ll find? Nothing. Because these guys are that good.” He shook his head, feeling the quick rush of anger bleed away again. “Look, man. I don’t know what the answer is. But I do know we can’t just sit on our Goddamned hands. And if that means I have to kick a punk like Garcia a few times, you can bet I’ll be kicking.”

“You think it ties back to Moncado?”

“Not directly, maybe. Hell, I don’t know. But taking him out sure kicked off something.”

Rico laid a hand on his shoulder. “Get some rest, Sonny. I’ll pick Trudy up at the hospital. She rode in the ambulance with Dave and Randy. You need me to drop you at the marina?”

“Yeah.” Turning, he waved for one of the Metro-Dade sergeants. “I’m gonna get them to sit on Garcia hard. We don’t need him selling anything he thinks he knows.” Then he thought of something and turned. “Let Randy know he can call anytime. He’s gonna need to talk, and I have a feeling he’ll only talk to another Marine.”

Rico snorted. “It ain’t like I haven’t had family shot, too.”

“I know, man. But…it’s hard to explain. He ain’t gonna want to talk about it, but he needs to. We’ve got that shared Corps experience, and Nam on top of that. Randy’s not gonna want to show pain to someone he thinks is an outsider.”

“Yeah…like me not wantin’ to tell someone who isn’t a cop about Raphael?”

“Pretty much.” Sonny looked at the dark splotch of blood on the concrete pad and shook his head. “I think the old days are gone forever, Rico. It’s a new game, and we need to have a hand in writing the rules.”

 

Jenny was waiting on deck for him when we walked back to Tranquility from the end of the dock. “What’s wrong? Oh, baby. Who was it?”

“Dave.” He climbed the gangplank without a word and stood looking out past her toward the stars. “He took a bullet through the lung. I don’t know much more. Randy’s with him.” He took a deep breath. “Tubbs sent me home.”

“I’m glad.” She came over and put her arms around him, pulling his head down to her shoulder. “He wants to come out, doesn’t he?”

Sonny nodded, knowing what she meant without saying a word.

“I can feel him. Burnett.” Taking his hand, she led him below into the main cabin. The lights were low, bathing the teak in a soft yellow glow. “And you’ll need him close. If these people could hurt Dave, they’re bad. Very bad.”

“Yeah.” His voice was soft. “I know. I kicked the crap out of a guy tonight trying to find out who they are. It goes against what I’m supposed to do. But…”

“Burnett told you it was the best way?” She nodded. “I can feel you both. And…I can’t say Burnett is wrong. I spent years smuggling, Sonny. The right way doesn’t always work. I wish it did. But sometimes it just doesn’t. But I love Burnett. You know why? He’ll save your life. That part of you.”

He nodded, only partly following what she said. But the tears in her eyes told him how much she believed what she said, and that was enough for him. “Yeah. Rico’s not too crazy about it, though.”

“Rico doesn’t know. He hasn’t been to those places. I…I didn’t hesitate with Monaele or that man who came after Trudy. And Burnett won’t hesitate, either.”

“No.” Sonny held her close, feeling her body against his. Letting her love wash over him. “He sure as hell won’t.”

“Good. Because I need you to come home to me when this is done.” Shifting, she kissed him, her lips the touch of a ghost. “And now we need to lie down. I want to hold you.”

 

Randy Mather knew he was pacing the waiting room like a caged mountain lion, but he didn’t care. He’d already almost punched out a security guard until they decided to just leave him alone. Trudy had stuck around for a time, but soon enough she and Rico had taken their leave. He knew he wasn’t good company.

A nurse stuck her head through the double doors. “He’s still in surgery, deputy, but the doctor wanted me to tell you it’s looking good.”

“Thanks, ma’am.”

She smiled. “You might want to sit a bit and rest. He’ll be a bit yet, and then they’ll move him to recovery. You won’t be able to see him until then.”

He smiled in spite of himself. “I expect you’re right. Hard to think of rest when your partner’s under the knife.”

“I need to get back. But check with the ER nurse station. They have good coffee and the couch is comfortable.”

Nodding his thanks, Randy turned and started down the hall. He knew just where the station was, and the thought of coffee was damned appealing. Not for the caffeine, but for the taste and the memories a cup of hot joe always conjured up for him. And maybe it would help settle the thoughts racing through his head.

He knew the dangers of the ‘what if’ game. Hell, he relived them all the time thinking about the damned farmer with the hoe. But this was different. What if he’d swept that roof one last time? Filling a paper cup with dark brew, he settled into the couch and let his mind go. She was right. This is is damned comfortable.

Still, he kept hearing the wet smack of the bullet as it tore into Dave’s chest. But that shot gave his brain a problem to wrestle with…something to push the smack away for a time. It had to have been a hurried shot, something snapped off on the fly once the other sniper spotted them. But it was also a damned good shot, which told him something about who they were stalking. The shot on Victor had been clear and sure, followed maybe two seconds later by a second shot that was almost as good.

This guy’s a pro. Maybe military. I need to get up where they shot and look it over. See what they left. Randy knew they wouldn’t leave shell casings or prints. Not a shooter this good. But there would be signs for someone who knew what to look for. That would be his first stop once he knew Dave was out of the woods.

He’d done what he could on the ambulance in, almost decking another EMT as he monitored the vitals and kept the wound sealed. The same former Army doctor who’d worked on Trudy when she’d been shot met them in the ER. “Sending me more work?” he’d snarled at Randy, but with a twinkle in his eye that let him know Dave was in good hands.

It still bothered him. They’d come through Vietnam more or less without a scratch, survived time with the Butte PD and then years with the marshals. Only to get shot on some fucking rooftop just outside the ghetto.

But he also knew something else. Finishing the coffee, he tossed the cup in a stainless steel trash can. He’d hung up the rifle years ago, but this meant it was time. No one would avenge Dave but him. He hadn’t seen the shooter the first time, but he’d sure as hell see him when it mattered. The last time.

 

Captain Salazar looked over the rim of his cup at Javier Cruces. “So you think the Anglo was a transportation man?”

“Si, captain. I do. It was clearly his car, and he stayed back while they were talking about the deal.” Cruces sat on the edge of his chair at almost perfect attention. He had good eyes and better instincts, and Salazar valued his interpretation of events. Philipe was a shooter. Good for punching holes and not so good at deciding what to punch holes in.

“And the black one?”

“A buyer. He had the money. And the woman was with the Anglo. She drove the car and kept back in the shadows like he did.”

“Can we verify the information?”

“Si, at least I think so. It may take a day or so, but there are few here who specialize in transportation, and the Anglo is…how do you say?”

“Distinctive. Find out, Cruces, and report back to me.”

Once the gangly private left the room, Salazar sank back in his chair and sighed. Last night’s operation had gone according to plan. The middleman had been taken into custody, although the buyer and the Anglo seemed to have escaped the net. But the presence of another sniper team nagged. Whose were they?

Both Cruces and Philippe were convinced they’d been professionals, and likely military at one time. And the team checking the hospitals had yet to report back. If they were part of the colonel’s phantom unit, what had they been doing at the buy in the first place? That was the question that really nagged at Salazar. If they’d been trying to set up that puta Victor, who was the inside man? Garcia? The buyer? Or the Anglo Cruces thought was a transportation specialist?

But he did know someone had been in the area last night. His men picked up some transmissions in the area during the operation. Weak, but there. From what they could determine the meeting had been monitored by someone, and the officer down call from the roof was a clear indication the snipers were somehow connected to the police. He hadn’t told his men about the call because they didn’t need to know all the capabilities of El Unidad, but it provided another piece for the puzzle. Finding the wounded man would go far toward settling the question, at least in his mind.

But he had to move fast. Orozco was due in soon, and he knew the man would rather charge in than survey the terrain first. Any subtle work would need to be started or, if possible, completed before he came tramping through with his big boots making a mess of things. Salazar had lost track of the number of times he’d bailed the young hothead out back in the jungles and mountains during the bad times. But Orozco was loyal to a fault, and the colonel rewarded loyaty.

[mjcmmv]

Good action. And Salazar is piecing it together. The Task Force is in serious danger!