“What do we know so far?” I ask Ramos, our team leader, as I set my bag on the locker room bench. He stands, his hands busy strapping on his Kevlar vest. DEA is boldly stamped across the chest in white.
“Not much, but it’s enough. I’ve mapped out our positions. The vessel carrying the cargo containers is scheduled to arrive at midnight. We move on my signal.” His slight Spanish accent remains calm as usual.
“Do we know who the seller is?” I ask, mentally preparing. The big question here is the buyer. We know he’s American, sly as fuck and ruthless. Beyond that, we have jack shit.
“Someone new. Word is, this new guy declared war on Alvarez. It’s just speculation at this point, but we are preparing for his retribution to trickle into the states. Rival cartels that blood thirsty ain’t gonna be able to keep it contained to Cuba.”
Fuck. He’s right.
“But they aren’t the target tonight,” he continues to the group. “Tonight, the objective is to identify the faceless fuck who has managed to smuggle millions of dollars in cocaine across our border.”
The team is ready, all in standard issue tactical apparel. Next stop, the gun cage.
“Looks like the package has been delivered. Standby.” I hear Briggs’ voice crackle through my earpiece.
From my perch, I have a clear shot where the target is expected. The view through my night force scope allows precision focus. From here I can see a few men pacing with what appears to be AR-15s. Shifting my line of sight, I see a small group of men in suits approach the cargo container in question. Greg and the money man from the other night are among them. The man who appears to be in charge is much younger than I expected him to be. The thought sends up a red flag.
Another crackle and Ramos’ voice penetrates my thoughts.
“Possible target in question has been located. Wait for confirmation.”
I know where he is because of the position layout during the briefing but I am unable to see him, even through my scope. Turning my attention back to the container, I watch at the ready as the doors swing open.
Bingo.
Stacks of white packages line the interior. I watch carefully as the target steps forward to inspect the merchandise. My location is too far away to hear the discussion but that’s not what catches my attention.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
Refusing to believe my eyes, I press my finger against the bud in my ear. The sudden rush of adrenaline causes me to break out in a cold sweat.
“Anyone else fucking see what I’m seeing?” I whisper into the radio. Briggs’ deep voice booms through the earpiece.
“I fucking see it. This shit is bigger than we thought.” He replies, his voice a low growl.
“Goddamn it!” Ramos cuts in, his accent thickened by his anger.
I watch carefully as five women are marched out of the ship. Barely clothed and clearly malnourished, the sight has me fighting the urge to vomit. We’ve just crossed the line from drug smuggling into full blown human trafficking.
I continue to watch the exchange for several more minutes until the conversation turns heated. The suspected target is furious about something and, without preamble, pulls out a gun and shoots one of the men, point blank. At that exact moment, chaos ensues. Gun fire rains and the hostage women scream as I hear the order.
“Now, now, now!” Ramos screams. I take that as my cue, not once hesitating as I aim and fire a round into the shoulder of some unsuspecting asshole. I see Ramos approach the scene and watch through my scope as he whips out his Glock and carefully steps around the side of the container.
Shit.
Both of Ramos’ hands raise as a gun is pressed firmly into the back of his skull. Without thought, I pull the trigger, popping off two rounds into the assailant’s forehead.
“Thanks.” Ramos smiles in my direction. Cocky bastard.
I place the rifle shoulder strap across my chest, in favor of the pistol at my hip. The black balaclava covering my face is stifling but necessary to conceal my identity. The last thing this operation needs is for my cover to be blown. My body moves at a rapid pace, jumping from my posted position on top of an empty container in the ship yard. The smell of gunpowder permeates the air. As I make my way around, I can see Briggs and a few other team members closing in.
I feel the cold steel press to my temple not even seconds before I am assaulted by stale, hot breath. Where the fuck did he come from?
“Put the fucking gun on the ground.”
A loud noise to the right effectively draws his attention, providing me the opportunity I needed. I reach over my shoulder and grab the gun with both hands. Bending forward, I heave his body over mine, causing his grip on the gun to loosen. Without a second thought, I leap on top, smacking him in the head with the butt of his gun. His head rolls loosely to the side, clearly out cold.
Quickly looking around, I assess the situation. The team appears to have taken control and have started the process of securing the area. Still straddling my assailant, I feel for a pulse. Fucker is unconscious but still alive. Rolling him on his side, I slap a pair of cuffs around his wrists. Just then Briggs struts over, a hand pressed firmly to the side of his torso. Even in the dark, I can see the crimson staining his fingers.
“What the fuck man, are you hit?” I ask. It’s not the first time one of us has been hit, but man, that shit stings.
“Yeah but I got lucky. It’s just a graze. A fucking deep one but I think I’ll live.” He chuckles, but immediately regrets it when the tender muscles of his abdomen flex. “That sleazy mother fucker Greg is the one who got me.”
Looking around, I realize both Greg and the presumptive man in charge haven’t been injured, nor are they in cuffs. Briggs must understand the look in my eyes.
“They both ran off like little bitches. They are long gone now but it’s definitely not the last time we’ll be seeing ‘em.”
Moments later, a fleet of ambulances and squad cars flood the scene.
“This shit is so much bigger than drug smuggling,” Briggs observes on a heavy exhale. Both of us look toward the women being loaded into the ambulances. “What the fuck, man?” He rubs his hand roughly over his short brown hair. It was a question in which he didn’t expect an answer.
We stand there a few more minutes, taking the moment to catch our breath and process the last few hours. In unison, we head back toward Ramos and the rest of the team, watching morbidly as they pull the lifeless bodies of three more women from the shipping container.
“That sick fuck is going to get what’s coming to him,” I whisper the promise to myself, but I am confident Briggs heard it.
My phone begins to vibrate as Ramos starts directing the team. I pull it from my pocket, my blood running cold when I recognize the notification.
Someone tripped the alarm.
I no longer hear Ramos as panic’s deafening roar fills my ears. Briggs immediately knows something’s up.
“What’s going on?” he asks, all business.
“He came for her,” I choke. Not giving him a chance to respond, I take off at a dead run.
I’m coming, Sunshine.