Lethal Agent (Mitch Rapp #18)(59)
How hard could it be for Esparza to find him? Maybe Claudia had overestimated the capabilities of his outfit. At this point, she’d dropped enough hints to lead a nine-year-old to his door.
Rapp looked past the offending tree at the stars and then glanced over at the vague outline of the house. It contained a comfortable bed, a well-stocked fridge, and satellite TV. Just twenty-five yards of dead-flat terrain away.
When he was in similar holes in the Middle East, he never thought about creature comforts. He was almost always in the middle of nowhere, often surrounded by people who had never even seen a microwave or automatic coffeemaker. But lying there within earshot of the air-conditioning unit somehow made every cactus spine, scorpion, and tarantula that much more irritating.
Not that there was anything he could do about it. Esparza’s men were coming and there was no way to be certain from what direction or in what kind of numbers. The design of the house made it more of a trap than a viable defensive position, and if the team the cartel sent was smart enough to surround it, he’d have a hell of a time fighting his way out. Particularly if they brought anything heavier than the expected handguns and assault rifles.
He moved the M4 carbine to one side and tried to find a slightly more comfortable position. Six more hours to dawn. With a little luck, he could get some sleep.
? ? ?
The quiet crunch of tires or approaching footfalls that Rapp expected didn’t materialize. Instead, two massive SUVs roared up the road and skidded to a dramatic stop in front of the house before firing up their light bars. He pushed himself to his elbows, peering over the top of the hole as an improbable number of men poured from the vehicles. Despite all the weapons and the glare of the lights, it had kind of a clown car quality to it.
They started firing at the house on full automatic as one of the vehicles’ powerful sound systems started blasting something that to Rapp’s ear sounded a little like polka music. He reached for his rifle and slid into a position that allowed him to keep an eye on his six, concerned that the fireworks at the house had been designed to cover the approach of foot soldiers from behind.
He decided he might be overestimating the enemy when one of them abandoned his position behind the SUVs and sprinted toward the front door. His comrades didn’t have time to divert their fire and the man was cut down before he could even make it to the porch. His body skidded to a stop by the porch steps as the others focused their fire on the windows.
In a somewhat better-organized move, two men pulled a tactical battering ram from the back of one of the vehicles and managed to lug it onto the porch without getting shot. They struggled to coordinate their efforts, but on the second swing the door flew open. When they disappeared inside, their comrades reluctantly stopped shooting.
Everything went silent, but it lasted only about five seconds. A muffled explosion flashed in the empty window frames and Rapp figured it was from the grenade he’d wired across the hallway. Though it could also have been the mine he’d put under the carpet behind the sofa. It was pretty obvious in good light, but with all the dust and half the bulbs shot out, you never knew. These assholes didn’t seem to be the sharpest knives in the drawer.
That assessment was confirmed when the men reacted to the explosion by running to the windows and door in order to randomly spray the interior. The fact that one or both of their men might have survived the blast didn’t seem to concern them.
Some were running out of ammo and struggling to get new mags in weapons that they clearly weren’t familiar with. Rapp considered picking off a few with his silenced Glock, but it seemed unnecessary at this point. Better to just settle in and watch the show.
Two more men ran inside, but the ones shooting through the windows didn’t seem aware of it. Rapp assumed they’d get gunned down in a few seconds but he was proven wrong. The garage door suddenly billowed outward, sending a cloud of dust drifting lazily through the spotlights. One of them had gotten far enough to find the charge he’d hidden beneath the owner’s stash of lawn furniture.
Rapp took the foil off a home-baked cookie and shoved it in his mouth as a man with an impressive collection of tattoos finally managed to get everyone to stop shooting. A moment later, all that could be heard was the polka music and the dull hum of a model plane circling above.
The tattooed man started shouting at someone standing near one of the windows and pointing at the doorway. Rapp didn’t speak Spanish, but it wasn’t hard to figure out what was being said. Tattooed Guy wanted Guy By The Window to go inside. And Guy By The Window, not being quite as stupid or high as some of his companions, wanted to stay where he was.
The conversation ended abruptly when Tattooed Guy shot the man in the chest. That lit a fire under the others, and a few moments later, three men were crossing the threshold. Their cautious movements suggested that the group’s initial enthusiasm was fading.
Rapp finished his cookie and reached for a box of Pop-Tarts. Popcorn probably would have been more appropriate, but how could Claudia have known?
Four relatively uneventful minutes passed before an explosion blew off part of the back of the house. He’d gotten pretty artistic with that charge. It had been hidden in an AC vent with the tripwire woven through the top of a shower curtain.
It took another three minutes or so before the surviving two men reappeared in the doorway and began giving their report. Again, Spanish fluency wasn’t necessary to understand what they were saying. They’d found neither the man nor the coke they’d come for.