The van pulls up next to a black SUV already parked outside. A third vehicle, an older sedan, sits off to the side.
I stop a quarter mile out. Kill the engine. Silence rushes in, broken only by the tick of cooling metal and the distant sound of men's voices carrying across the desert.
Time to gear up.
TWO
FROST
I popmy truck bed storage, the locks disengaging with a soft click. Inside: tactical vest, suppressed Glock, AR-15, extra mags, night vision, med kit. Everything I need. I'm always prepared, even on leave. Especially on leave, because Delta Force training doesn't shut off just because you're trying to forget.
The vest settles across my shoulders, weight distributed, nothing rattling. I check the Glock—magazine full, one in the chamber, suppressor threaded tight. AR-15 slung across my back, extra mags in the vest pouches. Tac knife secured to my thigh. Night vision mounted on my helmet.
I leave my phone in the truck. Can't risk it buzzing during breach.
Then I move.
Quarter mile on foot across open desert, staying low, using scrub brush and shadow for cover. The sand is soft under my boots, muffling my steps. The warehouse grows larger with each careful advance, and I can make out details now—corrugated metal walls, windows lit from inside, three vehicles parked near the entrance.
I pull down my night vision, scan the perimeter. Two tangos outside smoking, their heat signatures bright green against the cooldesert. The two men from the bar. They're facing the vehicles, backs to the open desert, talking and laughing. Sloppy.
I switch to thermal, scan through the windows. Three more signatures inside. One isolated in what looks like a back room.
Five tangos total. One potential hostage.
I've fought worse odds in worse places.
I circle wide, approaching from the building's blind side where the exterior lights don't reach. The two cartel members are still outside, now arguing about a penalty call in last week's game, completely oblivious to the fact that someone's closing in.
Both carry Glocks, safeties off, rounds chambered. Sloppy and stupid, but it tells me they're not expecting trouble out here.
Twenty feet. The smell of their cigarette smoke reaches me.
Ten feet. I can hear every word they're saying now.
Five feet. Close enough to see the Glocks poorly concealed at the small of their backs.
I move.
First tango doesn’t see me until the suppressor touches his temple—too late, already dead—I’m catching his weight before his legs remember to give out.
Second tango turns, mouth opening for a shout that never comes. Double-tap. Center mass. He folds like paper.
I drag both bodies into the shadows. Thirty seconds elapsed.
The side door is unlocked. Overconfident. I test the handle slowly, feel it give, ease it open just enough to slip through.
Inside, the air is cooler, heavy with the smell of concrete dust and motor oil. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting harsh shadows. I move down the hallway, weapon up, each step deliberate and silent.
First tango at the front door, guard position, but he's watching the vehicles outside instead of covering his six.
Fatal mistake.
I clear the corner, line up the shot. Suppressed round to the back of the head. He drops without a sound, and I'm already moving past him.
Second room—office setup, metal desk, paperworkscattered. Tango sitting with his back to the door, counting money in neat stacks. He never hears me. Double-tap to the back of the skull. Bills flutter as he slumps forward.
The third tango is in what passes for a break room, making coffee at a single-burner hotplate. The smell of burnt coffee fills the small space. I'm on him before he can turn, single shot, and he goes down beside the hotplate.
