Cut to the Bone(106)

Davis managed to look duly chastened, though it was hard through his choking laughter. “I stand corrected, O Kind and Worshipful Bee-ness,” he said, salaaming as best he could in the cramped Jeep. “And I’m happy to give alms to your innkeeper. But are you allowed to drink on duty?”

Charvat looked at his Tag-Heuer, which his own wife, Deloris, had given him for his promotion to chief of Nogales Sector. “One of the perks of being the cheese is I decide when I’m on duty. As of this moment . . .”

“It’s good to be king,” Davis said.

“They are . . . turning our . . . way,” Ortega said, his words coming in gasps as adrenaline flooded his body. “Accelerating . . . quickly.”

Garcia glanced at the sky. No helicopters. He looked at the landscape. No other dust clouds. He reacquired the speeding Jeep on his night scope. The headlights were pointed his way, the dust wake billowing straight back. “It appears I was mistaken,” he said. “Fortunately, they seem to be alone. Grenade, Manuel.”

The narco shoved a rifle-propelled grenade into the AK’s launcher.

“Don’t shoot until my order,” Garcia said as the rest of his men flipped fire selectors from SAFE to AUTO. “And for the love of God, don’t miss. We must destroy them immediately so they cannot radio for their drones.”

“We will not fail you, Jefe!” they shouted as one. Garcia grinned. They were good men who enjoyed the down-and-dirty. This was going to be fun . . .

“Fire!” he shouted.

The stubby grenade blasted from the launcher, propellant blooming like a fireworks display. The warhead accelerated to the speed of an Indy car. The narcos hugged the backs of their boulders. The grenade corkscrewed into the Jeep’s front bumper.

And exploded as ten AKs opened up.





Charvat and Davis clawed thin air as the Jeep flipped over, engine compartment roaring with flames and smoke. It slammed off a boulder, skidded into a gully, and crashed through a cactus-choked embankment, windows shattering, tires blowing. Bullets grazed the windshield. “Get outta here before she blows!” Charvat yelled.

Davis yanked at his belt, hardly able to hear over the thwock-thwock-thwock of bullet strikes. The buckle wouldn’t unlock. He dug a Strider combat knife from his pocket, flicked it open. “You free, Chief?” he said, hacking through the restraint.

“I’m good,” Charvat said, pumping out rounds with his Heckler & Koch, the forty-caliber pistol rounds deafening in the closed quarters. The front doors were jammed, so he turned around to scuttle over the broken driver’s seat. “There’s a cluster of tall boulders fifty yards back of us,” he said, unlocking his rifle from the carrier. “We’ll make our stand there. Hand me your rifle and I’ll - ahhhh.” Meat exploded from the backs of his legs as AK-47 rounds hit home. “Jesus, that hurts,” Charvat wheezed as he flumped unceremoniously into the backseat.

Davis snatched up the radio mike. The cord dangled in pieces. The radio face spalled from the engine fire boiling behind it.

We’re on our own.

He scooped up his own AR-15 and shoveled it to Charvat, who chucked both out the window then squirmed through, ignoring the cactus punching needles into his face and the flames searing his arms medium rare. “C’mon, son, we got a war to fight,” Charvat said, loosing rifle rounds as Davis squirmed free. They crabbed backwards toward the boulders, firing at what seemed like a billion muzzle flashes.

“Don’t let them escape,” Garcia said. Manuel nodded and stuffed in another round. The explosion shook the landscape like an earthquake.

“Goddammit,” Davis groaned as rock shards peppered their flesh. “That’s a grenade launcher.”

“Narcos protecting a big shipment,” Charvat wheezed, having abandoned the crawl for a full-out sprint. “Gotta be, carrying that kind of firepower.”

“We need to even the odds, Chief,” Davis said, vibrating like a guitar string as SWAT brain kicked in. “Once we’re secure, you put out covering fire. Pistol and rifle both, make it sound like we’re both there.” He pointed at the saw-tooth hills overlooking the dirt path. “I’m gonna sneak up that ridge, pick them off from high ground. Sound like a plan?”

No answer.

“Brian? Bee?” Davis said, skidding and turning to see that Charvat had collapsed, blood spitting from the leg holes. He ran back, bullets pinging like hailstones around him. He slung Charvat’s rifle around his neck, hefted the fallen Border Patrol supervisor like a sack of potatoes, and headed for the rocks, firing behind him as he ran, every step a Taser jolt of pain.