Chapter 12
Trace knew the lack of specialized equipment was a severe handicap. But their experience and training was far superior to anything else on the planet, and in that he had complete confidence. They hadn’t had the time to rehearse over and over again, sometimes re-creating their mission over a hundred times before they set out. But they had intuition. It wouldn’t be the first time they were in an unfamiliar town, going after people they’d never seen or met before. But without firepower, specialty explosive charges Fredo was legendary for creating, it was like doing an op blindfolded.
But their odds were still better than most.
Then there was the raw truth that all four of the SEALs were pumped up and ready to go, without having a moment’s hesitation to risk their lives to save Clover. And maybe it was a good thing all they had were their sidearms. They were not supposed to interfere with local law enforcement. They were officially supposed to defer to them. They weren’t even allowed to use their guns except in cases of self-defense, and then only on rare occasions.
But there was no doubt about it. This was a snatch and grab mission, without their gear. He hoped the bad guys were not very well trained or armed. Then the odds would be hugely in the SEALs’ favor.
The evening had come full upon them, and he noted the stars looks lackluster compared to the bright twinkling orbs in Hawaii. He vowed to take Gretchen and her daughters back there, if he were given the chance. He hoped he had that chance.
He also hoped he was given the chance to meet Gretchen’s ex, and give him a lecture to let him know what a douchbag he thought the man was. But all that could be accomplished after they had success. And if they didn’t, then all bets were off.
Coop directed him where to drive. Gretchen had insisted on coming with them and talked over his shoulder, pointing out places she knew.
Coop angled his face and cleared his throat. “I’m going to ask you to call your daughter’s cell phone. They might not have turned it off, since we got a good triangulation out of the signal. But, they could destroy the phone if they get wind of what we’re trying to do.”
“Wouldn’t my location finder help?” She’d brought her laptop. “Can’t I just look it up on here?”
“You can ask the phone company to ping it,” said Armando.
“We don’t have the equipment to pick it up. But sure, go ahead and try.”
Gretchen directed Trace to stop in front of one of the missions, thinking they might have internet.
“Nope. No signal. Any one of you have a hot spot?”
None of the SEALs did.
She directed him to drive in front of a coffee house down the street where she was able to log into their WIFI, which was strong enough to use while she was seated in the car. The red dot located an intersection, but then moved around and targeted another intersection. Then another. Trace tried to head in the general direction of the signal, but at last stopped.
“They put this on a dog or something?” Fredo asked.
“I think that’s exactly what they did. Or in someone’s backpack. Damn. This isn’t going to help,” Cooper muttered.
They watched as the red locator moved briefly outside the box that had been created with the triangulation. And then it strangely moved back inside.
“I think we should follow it. Check it out,” said Trace.
Coop shrugged. “Everyone keep an eye out for Casa de Flora. They may not know we have that name.”
The streets were in shadow. Half the lights had been broken. Pieces of broken glass littered the sidewalks and shone in the moonlight like diamonds. Flocks of ashen-colored people in baggy clothes were huddled over trash barrels set ablaze to keep them warm. They passed several rescue missions, most of them with lines going down the street.
Gretchen offered an explanation as Trace turned the corner, the headlights scanning the shabby crowd. “They take only a certain number each night. Most of them sleep in the meeting rooms, or the sanctuary, on cots or the church pews. And these are the lucky ones.”
“It’s a shame. Reminds me of our project in San Diego, right, Fredo? But this looks worse. No families,” said Armando.
“Oh they’re here, but they wouldn’t dare go outside now,” answered Gretchen. “This is a very dangerous area, constantly involved in turf wars. Clover might have even been here a time or two with her youth group. But not at night. Never at night.”
“She’s a good kid, Gretchen. You did well.” Armando smiled. Trace watched in the rear view mirror as Gretchen couldn’t help but blush at his good looks, even in the evening shadows.
He aimed toward the red dot again, which had temporarily stopped in one place. Coming into view were the bright lights of a liquor store, so they waited outside with the car running. Some teens were smoking cigarettes just outside the door, when a young lanky youth exited the store, and joined them.
“That’s Clover’s backpack!” exclaimed Gretchen.
Trace focused on the newcomer. As the group ambled down the street, under the light of a streetlamp he could see that the backpack was black and red, with the distinctive hurricane logo of the Portland Trail Blazers. Dangling from one of the zipper pockets was a small pink teddy bear.
“You stay here, Gretchen, and keep the doors locked,” Trace said as he shut the motor down and they moved away from the SUV in pairs.
Fredo and Armando came at the group from the right, to their rear and Trace and Cooper walked straight toward the boys. About ten feet before confrontation, Cooper spoke up.
“You guys know where I can score a little weed, man?”
As one of the taller boys delved into his own black backpack, Trace saw Armando and Fredo rip Clover’s backpack from the kid, sending him on his knees. The crowd turned and were greeted with a couple of SigSauers.
“We want no trouble. Just want the backpack and your friend, here,” Armando said. He walked up to the youth, yanked on his shirt collar and stood him up on his feet. The group was about to run when they were stopped by Cooper and Trace, also showing firearms. The kids disappeared into the streets, scattering all over the place.
They dragged their prey back to the SUV, and slammed him up against it. Armando checked his pockets carefully and spilled his contents of pills, bags of powder and some loose weed all over the street. The kid swore but was given a swift kick to his butt.
Trace examined the contents of the backpack and in addition to more drugs found a book, a binder and some loose papers, a zipper bag of pencils, some deodorant and chap stick as well as a change of girl’s underwear. He also found a half-eaten energy bar. Crusty with sticky flakes from the opened bar, Trace found Clover’s cell phone at the very bottom, and turned it back on.
“So where did you get this?” Fredo asked the kid, holding up the backpack.
“In a dumpster.”
“Show me.” Fredo pushed him toward the street.
The youth started to run, but Cooper easily caught up and tackled him, sending his face to the pavement.
“You wanna play hide and seek? I like playing that game, except you’re gonna get all messed up. And oh wow. Look at that. You’ve got a bloody nose.”
The boy cursed.
“So you gonna show us this time?” Fredo repeated.
Armando stood him up again by hoisting his collar, and the boy scanned the faces of the four SEALs. At last, he nodded.
They asked Gretchen to move to the third seat, while Armando and Fredo babysat the boy in the second seat. He turned around briefly, taking note of Gretchen. Then he pointed and Trace followed directions.
“So you meet the people who left this behind, son?” Coop asked him.
He shook his head.
“Did you see the people who dumped this backpack?”
Again he shook his head.
They stopped at a large green dumpster outside a brick two store warehouse building. Armando held the boy while Fredo jumped into the dumpster and then began to sneeze. “Dammit. Flowers in here. I’m fuckin’ going to be sneezing all night with my allergies,” grumbled Fredo. He sneezed several more times and swore in between.
Coop chuckled. “I think he can go,” he said to Armando.
The kid ran into the night.
Trace scrambled to the front of the building and saw the letters on a glass door, “Casa de Flora.” Inside, it looked like a clean little flower shop with refrigerators containing bunches of bouquets and flowers in white metal cones. He went back and reported to the others.
Armando returned from the other side, breathing heavily. “There’s a roll up door to the warehouse on the other side, and another side door about ten feet in front. No door on the rear. The rollup isn’t padlocked but the side door is locked.”
“Fredo, can you pick the front door lock first?” asked Coop.
“No tools, Coop. But wait a minute!” He hopped back into the dumpster and the sneezing began. He climbed out clutching a bundle of discarded florist’s wire. “I can use this, I think. Be right back.”
“Trace, you go let Gretchen know what’s happening. Tell her to stay inside the SUV again, but keep her head down.”
As Coop discussed several of their options, Trace tapped on the window and Gretchen leaned over the rear seat, opening the driver side rear door. “We’re about to breach the building. You stay put, and keep it locked. The keys are still in the ignition, okay?”
“Do we know it’s them?”
“I think so, sweetheart. The name of the flower shop matches the cell phone record Coop got from the NSA. So, we’re treating this as a go. We’ll split up. Anything goes wrong, you call 9-1-1 immediately, okay?”
“What about the detective?”
“Call him second. 9-1-1 gets the paramedics and a shitpile of others.”
She took in a deep breath. “Trace, thank you so much. I—”
His name was being whispered, so he had to cut her off with a swift kiss, pointed to the lock and joined Armando at the rollup. Coop headed up front to join Fredo, who had already entered the flower shop. Their watches had been set, and on the mark, Trace pulled back the latch as Armando threw his full weight into raising the metal accordion material. Trace immediately grabbed the other side and together they got the door fully raised in less than thirty seconds.
Prepared for firepower, they each rolled into the shadows, Armando on the right and Trace on the left. They heard the rattle of a semi-automatic of low caliber, sounding more like a child’s toy. Trace fell into some water and realized he’d encountered a shallow tray holding dozens of pot plants, each covered with large sacks of burlap. The distinctive skunky smell of growing marijuana made his nose itch.
Fredo and Coop joined him, but before could warn his buddy, Fredo erupted into a spasm of uncontrollable sneezes that nearly sent him to the ground. They could still hear voices on the other side of a partition built that spanned the two brick outer walls.
“Anyone have a match?” Armando whispered?
Between his convulsions, Fredo managed to find a set of waterproof matches in a pocket and handed them over.
“This fertilizer is highly flammable.” He’d removed the fist-sized rubber lid. “We gotta roll this closer.”
Trace helped him tip the barrel on its side, centering it on the door. Liquid fertilizer was leaking all over the room.
“Try not to get that on your clothes or you’ll catch fire, Trace. If you have to, dive into the trays.”
“Wait, what about Clover?” he asked, pointing to the doorway.
“She’d be against a wall, not a doorway. This gives us a way in.”
“Gotcha.”
“Take cover on the count of three. The explosion might take down part of the roof too, so watch your head.” Armando didn’t wait for Trace’s acknowledgement, struck the match and tossed it into the open mouth of the now leaking barrel and they both ran to opposite sides of the building as fast as they could.
The explosion did indeed take out the doorway. In fact, there was nothing left of it. The blast had extended to the ceiling and had ignited the cross bracing on the domed roof. They could hear screaming inside the space, as well as broken glass shattering all around them.
All four of the SEALs ran through the flames. Trace was glad his clothes had gotten soaked. They spread out. Several times Trace stepped over bodies, examining them carefully, hoping not to find Clover among them. He heard sounds of a struggle here and there as other members of his team immobilized several of the surprised and severely injured kidnappers. But the more seconds ticked by, the more worried he got. His eyes were stinging, and he recognized the signs he’d inhaled too much of the toxic smoke.
Finally he heard something that made his day.
“I said get your hands off me, you cretin!”
Clover had evidently delivered a blow to someone who had tried to handle her, and she’d managed to send him crashing to the ground with a groan.
“Mom? Mom are you there?”
Trace slammed into her. He wrapped his arms around her, though she struggled. She kneed his groin and tried to pick out his eyes with her fingers. He was so busy trying to drag her to safety, his throat so raw, that when he tried to tell her to stop, all that came out was a rasping squeak.
“Clover,” he finally managed to eek out.
But she continued to struggle. By the time he got her outside the roll up door and into fresh air, he was ready to pass out. Yet he held on as he fell to the ground, and wouldn’t let go.
Blackness crept into his vision. The sounds of the crackling fire subsided. Everything started looking like it was in slow motion. Echoes of his past, sounds of the waves on the beach, muffled screams of friends he’d lost in battle filled his ears.
So this is how it goes, then. You do see your past.
Someone’s hand was slapping the side of his face, but he still wouldn’t let go. The numbness was welcome. He was out of pain. The screaming continued but it sounded comical and he started to chuckle.
“I’m not letting you go, Clover. I promised. I promised.”
And then everything went to black.