CHAPTER 9
“GET THAT BITCH!” screamed Emilio Azarola, waving his Glock 18 in her direction.
Ali Montero spun around on her combat boots, grinning like the jaguar she was. Gripping the M4 in her gloved hand, she sped off into the woods of Mexico’s Sierra Madre Mountains. That bastard Azarola, drug kingpin of the state of Sonora, had met his match today! She’d ambushed a four-vehicle convoy and taken out three of them with her RPG launcher. Millions of dollars of drugs just went up in those explosions.
Azarola knew her well, and this morning she wanted the sick bastard to know it was El Jaguar who ruled, not him. He’d given her this nickname two years ago, and she’d been a ghost in his life, making hit-and-run ops against his illegal business, costing him millions of dollars in lost and destroyed drugs. The CIA had hired her to do just that: work with the government of Mexico to take the notorious Azarola down and capture him.
Now, she was close. So close. Wind tore past her as she dug the toes of her boots into the damp, October mountain soil. Above her, snow was already visible at the very top of this huge range. The soft soil beneath her boots and the pine needles sinking deep into the rich loam slowed her down as she raced through the woods to escape. Weaving in and out between the thickly forested trees, her hearing keyed to the sounds behind her, she heard more screams, curses, and shouts.
She’d created two huge explosions on the dirt road where she’d nailed the trucks filled with illegal drugs. The fire had reached the gas tanks, and the memory of that image made Ali smile. She was still breathing easily at eight-thousand feet because she was acclimated and familiar with the mountainous region. She’d lived here for two years, playing hide-and-seek with Azarola and his murderous soldiers. It gave her great pride to know she was making the drug lord hemorrhage money when he lost his cocaine packets, heroine, and huge bales of marijuana carried by those trucks. He had sent them off toward the US-Mexico border where they would have met other, smaller shipments, waiting on the other side.
The drivers would have divided up the drugs on the US side and then taken off in six different directions in the desert, each heading for big cities in the Southwest and California. There, the drugs would be sold to local dealers.
Not today, she grinned savagely, satisfaction thrumming through her as she raced across the landscape.
As she ran, her legs pumping, the forest-colored military camos she wore helped her blend into the autumn landscape. It was cool at the higher reaches of the mountains, but her heart was elsewhere.
Cara, her twenty-six-year-old sister, had been kidnapped by Azarola’s roving sex traffickers off the streets of Tucson, Arizona, a week ago. Ali had disobeyed direct CIA orders from her handler at Langley, and gone straight to Azarola’s fortress high in the Sierra Madres. As a sniper, she had what was referred to as a ‘hide.’ It was where they created a camouflage in order to hide from the enemy but could continue their recon activities. From her tree hide, she’d spotted her imprisoned sister with three other female German tourists, all crowded into a small, outdoor cell. There were large tarps placed on top and draped down three sides of the cell where they’d been put. From a satellite, they couldn’t be seen. But Ali had seen them with her binoculars as she sat hiding in a huge pine tree about twenty feet from Azarola’s fortress. No one knew she was there because she was a sniper by training.
Sitting up in the tree, she’d spotted a soldier bring out a tray of food to the tarp enclosed prison. It was then she’d spotted Cara and the others. Ali had silently cried, her back against the huge pine tree, wanting so badly to go rescue her.
But she couldn’t because her odds were terrible—one trained military woman against forty drug soldiers. She’d be killed if she tried to rescue them without a plan and a back-up team. Luckily, she worked with a company of Mexican Marines from an outpost in a nearby village. These men were the best of the best in that country’s military. They’d teamed up with her often in the two years she’d been in the region. There were times they’d worked together to set traps for Azarola’s men and trucks, nabbing the drivers and drugs. But they’d never won the grand prize: Azarola himself.
Maybe today.
Ali whipped in and around the trees, the wind now tearing past her. She could hear the drug soldiers huffing up the slope, far behind her. None of them was acclimated to this altitude like she was. Being able to outrun them was her ace in the hole, and now she was leading them into a trap where she hoped Azarola would finally be apprehended. Then, she could concentrate on getting her sister and her fellow captives released.
She knew that at some point, they would be driven to a container ship anchored at Puerto Nuevo on the Pacific coast of the Baja Peninsula. From there, the ship would be bound for Asia, where the women would be sold as sex slaves.
Oh, Lady of Guadalupe, help me, help me get this bastard. Let me reach Cara before they take her overseas. Please, Lady . . . please, help me!
Her mouth was open now, ragged breaths exploding from her as she pushed on up a hill and then slid downward toward a box canyon a thousand feet below. It was a cloudy morning, looking as if it was going to rain. The temperature was probably around forty degrees Fahrenheit.
Inside the canyon she was racing toward, were twenty Mexican Marines, hidden and waiting to spring their trap. Ali would run past them, luring her enemies on her heels, into the area. And once they were in the canyon, the Marines would arrest all of them. There would be a firefight, no question, because they all wanted Azarola alive and unharmed. It had to happen! Ali had worked for nearly a year on this plan with Captain Gomez. And now, it was going to be sprung.
She knew that Azarola, even at forty-five, was a vigorous, athletic man who worked out daily. She knew why he was coming with his men: to get her. As the burr under the drug lord’s saddle, Ali hoped his hatred of her would be enough for him to follow his men into the trap.
Ali knew, as she dodged and ducked under some low-hanging branches, that she was slowing down on purpose. She had to make sure Azarola and his men saw her ahead. That would make them focus on her and not on their immediate surroundings. Drug soldiers were not black ops—like she had been in the Marine Corps. A former sniper, Ali knew how to lure the enemy into a trap.
She tried to keep her mind off Cara, forcing herself to focus on the canyon coming up in quarter of a mile as the land leveled out flat, bushy, but still negotiable.
Keep running! Keep up your stride and cadence!
Every time her boot heel sank into the brown, pine-needled surface, it made a soft, squishy sound, the soil beneath giving way to her hard race for the mouth of the upcoming canyon. She had her earpiece on and she knew Captain Gomez probably had his binoculars up and was watching her approach, giving his men quiet intel on her arrival time.
If only they could nab Azarola! No one wanted him more than Ali. He’d just kidnapped her sister, but Ali was sure he didn’t know Cara was her blood relative. Azarola only knew Ali as the enemy ghost, intent on destroying his drug trade, and that’s when he’d started referring to her as El Jaguar. They did not know her real name. Thank God he didn’t know Cara was her sister! Otherwise, Ali knew he’d threaten to harm her in order to get Ali to walk into his fortress and surrender to him. Then, he’d probably rape Cara, torture her, and he’d throw her to his sex-hungry soldiers, to be raped and sodomized until she died. Then, her body would be thrown over the fortress wall to be eaten by the predators in this area: jaguars and cougars.
And after that it would be her turn to suffer the same fate—if not worse. Azarola was known to enjoy torturing his enemies endlessly, keeping them alive to enjoy the agony his victims would experience.
Wiping that horrible scenario out of her mind, Ali concentrated on locating the narrow path that led into the box canyon.
Suddenly, bullets screamed by her head. Automatically, Ali ducked, her hand tightening around her rifle. Tree bark exploded in front and to the left of where she ran. The soldiers were trying to fire at her on the run—which was stupid—because no one could hit a target like that. But she could hear Azarola’s voice, loud and angry, goading his drug soldiers to shoot at her, anyway—so they did—and it didn’t mean that they couldn’t get lucky.
Ali made a sharp, ninety-degree turn to the left to avoid a tree coming up fast. A red-hot sensation struck her upper left arm. The power of the bullet going through the flesh of her bicep numbed her arm immediately. One moment Ali was on her feet, and the next, she was flung forward and into the air. She never lost her rifle as she cartwheeled, slamming hard, into the earth.
An “oomph!” exploded from her mouth. She rolled twice, slowed, and then lunged back onto her feet. I’m hit! Run! Faster! Faster!
She threw the sling of the M4 across her shoulder and chest, the weapon now on her back, banging against her Kevlar vest. Arms pumping hard to get more speed, Ali could already feel the warm blood trickling down inside the sleeve of her cammo shirt.
But it wasn’t hemorrhaging, which would have meant the bullet had torn open her brachial artery. There was no pain, just numbness. Ali had been shot before. She knew the score. At first the flesh went numb. But over the next hour, the pain would start, and so would the teeth-gritting throbbing.
She didn’t care. She knew the wound wasn’t going to kill her. Yes, she was leaking blood, but she could go for hours and it wouldn’t compromise her. She had to rescue Cara! She had to lead Azarola into this trap, damn him!
Her footfalls were steady and hard against the flat land, the trees replaced now by bushes here and there, making her more of a target. At no time did she turn around to try and fire back at the drug soldiers. It would have been folly and would only let them get closer to her—close enough to kill her if they got lucky off another shot. Her arm wound was enough to contend with, but she’d deal with that later.
Ali was sure Captain Gomez had seen her get hit, and recognized that she hadn’t blown their plan. They’d remained in place. Good! The Mexican captain was an old war dog, a man in his sixties, and he’d seen it all after fighting the drug czars in Sonora and other states in his country. If Ali hadn’t gotten back on her feet, he would have blown the ambush in order to save her. He was a good, combat-experienced Marine. Gomez knew a person could be wounded and still get the job done. They’d worked together over the years, building a mutual respect for one another’s abilities and qualities. Even more important, they had one another’s back.
More bullets whizzed by her head. Ali increased her stride to maximum, even though her muscles were starting to tighten. She couldn’t run forever. The last two-hundred yards to the mouth of the canyon seemed like forever to her failing strength. Her arms pumped like pistons, air bursting out of her burning lungs as she dashed past the opening, heading deep into the canyon itself. Could she lure them all in? Would Azarola back out at the last moment?
Azarola’s name meant “foxlike,” and he had the narrow, high cheek-boned face of the predator he was named for. Too many times Ali had seen him intuitively sense things and not move ahead, avoiding a trap she’d had set for him. He was more animal than human in that respect.
And while his drug-smuggling was bad enough, Ali loathed his latest financial enterprise: sex trafficking. Now, with Cara in his clutches, her hatred had gone to something so deep and visceral that she couldn’t even give it a name—but it was there—and she needed to protect Cara against this monster.
She couldn’t look back. She whipped along the path, the brush on both sides thickening, slapping heavily at her legs as she raced by them. She knew that if she looked behind her, even once, Azarola would know it was a set-up and he wouldn’t come into the canyon.
Ali tore past the last of the hidden Marine contingent. How many drug soldiers would follow her into the canyon? She prayed again that Azarola would be with them!
She suddenly heard a spate of gunfire behind her. It was unexpected, and cursing, Ali skidded to a halt. Something had gone wrong! She whirled around, hunched, pulling the M4 off her back. Her fingers on her left hand were numb, but she could still hold the rifle up, the scope clearly showing the firefight erupting behind her.
To her chagrin, she saw Emilio Azarola skid to a halt, jerk around and race back up the hill, disappearing into the thick stands of the pine trees. He hadn’t been lured into the canyon! Quickly shifting her rifle, she peered through the scope, seeing that two drug soldiers were already wounded. The other three had dropped their rifles, their hands high in the air as the Marines bracketed them, their M4s up and ready to fire if they hadn’t surrendered.
Ali cursed beneath her breath, choppy and ragged. Dammit! Dammit to hell! They’d missed their chance to capture Azarola! He’d somehow smelled the trap and stopped short of the canyon, turning tail, and heading back over the mountain slope to the only truck still sitting on that dirt road. He’d reach there long before she could possibly muster the speed and strength to follow him. And then he’d hop into the cab and drive the truck to his fortress, less than a mile from where she’d attacked the convoy.
The warm blood dripped off her left fingers. She was beginning to feel that throbbing sensation in her upper arm. Glancing down at it, she saw her camouflage fabric was soaked with blood. Cursing again, she slowly trudged toward the group of Marines who had already flex-cuffed the five, scowling drug soldiers. They had them sitting on the ground, arms behind them, wrists tied.
Captain Gomez lifted his head, his gaze settling worriedly on her. Ali saw him order one of his two medics to get to her side and take care of her. She didn’t want to be near the drug soldiers, not wanting to be identified. Sitting down on a nearby log lying parallel to the path, she laid her rifle aside and unbuttoned her shirt so that the medic could reach and examine her wound.
As the young Marine approached her, she recognized him as Alberto Avana. Pulling off her Kevlar vest, and then the shirt, she dropped it on the ground, looking at her bloodied left arm. She wore a dark olive-green muscle shirt beneath it. The material was sticking to her damp body. The wound was a through-and-through, a bullet that had gone through the meat of her bicep and not broken the bone or slashed the artery that ran up and down her arm. All good news.
Wearily, she wiped her wet brow with the back of her right arm.
“Señorita,” Avana said, dropping his medic bag on the ground nearby, “just rest. Let me do my job.”
“Yes,” she answered. “I’m going nowhere.”
Avana smiled a little, his black eyes gleaming. He pulled a pint of bottled water from his pack, opening it, and thrusting it into her right hand. “Drink, while I check you out.”
She made a grunting sound, more than grateful for his thoughtfulness to give her water. Her mouth was dry and she was parched. Tipping up her head, she drank all of it, water leaking from the corners of her mouth, dribbling down to her sweat-soaked, muscle shirt.
As Ali finished off the bottle of water, she saw Captain Gomez walking her way, his black brows furrowed, his brown eyes locked on her. Secretly, Ali knew he was just as disappointed as she was for not entrapping Azarola. He had a daughter, Maria, who was twenty-five, near Cara’s age. She knew he was deeply concerned about getting Cara out of that cage in Azarola’s fortress before they moved her and the other hapless captives.
“Hard day,” Gomez said in greeting, stopping before her, dividing his attention between the state of Ali’s arm, and studying her face.
“Yes, a bad day,” she agreed.
“Not all bad, but Azarola is the fox they named him for,” he said, lifting the black baseball cap from his head, wiping the sweat off his brow. “I’m sorry we didn’t get him. It would have made getting to Cara and the other women easier.”
Nodding, Ali took a deep breath as Avana probed the bullet wound, cleaning it out. Pain made her stop talking for a moment. Hanging her head between her opened legs, she fought off faintness, not wanting to collapse and do a face plant into the dirt.
“Sorry,” Avana murmured, “all done. Your wound is clean. That is good.”
Nodding, Ali slowly raised her head. Gomez had squatted in front of her, his arms dangling from his knees, watching her. She could feel his caring, his concern, emanating from him and embracing her. They had developed more of a father-daughter relationship than a military-CIA one. But neither ever broached the subject. He’d never said a thing, and that hard military face of his didn’t change at all, but he did care—deeply. “Maybe,” she forced out between her lips, “once I get this wound bandaged up, I can get back to my sniper hide in that pine tree above Azarola’s fortress. Someone has to be there to see if and when they try moving Cara and those three German women to the coast of Baja.”
Holding up his hand, he said, “Already done. I’ve sent two of my Marines to go to your surveillance hide above his fortress. They will keep a twenty-four-hour watch on it, Ali. We won’t let Cara or those other women slip through our fingers.”
Relief shot through her. “Oh . . . good . . . thank you, José.”
“I want you to fly back to base with us, Ali. You need further medical attention. With this wound, you must rest up.”
“No way!” She nearly got to her feet, but Avana, knowing her habit of jumping up, gripped her shoulder, holding her in place where she sat on the log as he dressed her wound.
Glaring at Gomez, she said, “There’s no way in hell I’m leaving this mountain or Cara! I’m staying here, José,” she insisted, jabbing her finger down at the ground. “I won’t abandon her!”
Holding up his hands, he said, “Do not get upset. I have a plan. First, you need to come back to base with us so we can plan to get to these women quickly. It may be easier if they are on the road, in a convoy headed for Baja. It will be less messy to stop a convoy than try to break into that fort of his. But we must plan, my friend.”
Just as she was going to answer, the satellite phone in her pack vibrated. That had to be her CIA handler, Josh, who had a nice, cushy job back at Langley, CIA HQ. What the hell! She had told him she was taking her two weeks of vacation. She just hadn’t told him where. Had he gotten wind of it? Her ass was grass if he had. She’d told no one, but they had ways of finding out.
Avana stood up, nodding to her. “You’re good as new, Señorita Montero.”
“Thanks,” Ali muttered, standing and shedding her pack. She ripped open the Velcro top and yanked out her sat phone. This was the last thing she needed right now—to talk to her handler. Could things get any worse?