Exit Strategy

Few things were ever truly worthwhile on these witness protection jobs, but Domingo Perez did find this family to be actually worth a damn. Sadly, Justice never really had much for “innocents” who were in the line of fire; their deals went to scumbags who had their hands painted red with blood up to their elbows. This case was different and Perez had known there was something of worth in this security detail when he’d gotten word that the operation involved blacksuits. Seeing Harold Brognola at the briefing for the mission had been the icing on the cake. The big Fed was known as someone who was well connected to even the highest-level covert ops.

The Castillos were a fine family. There was the father, formerly a crusading journalist in Mexico. Joaquin Castillo had stirred the hornet’s nest of government and law enforcement corruption plenty of times over the years, and Perez was fully aware that anyone the reporter had targeted was well and truly bent. His wife, Amanda, was herself in the journalism business; practically the other half of the investigative team that peeled back layers of grimy corruption by carving through the tumorous hide of the diseased beast that was south-of-the-border law enforcement.

Perez had worked with more than enough of them to realize that while the rank and file were good and honest, the higher in rank you rose, the more stink you had to roll around in, rutting in it like a pig in mud. Up high, you either had to be a saint with the reflexes of a cockroach or practically dance in the laps of the cartels.

Donald Burnett, the marshal in charge, had given Perez the three Castillo children to place in protection. The oldest was a fourteen-year-old boy, also named Domingo. Then there were his younger sisters, Pequita and Annette, born at two-year intervals after Domingo.

At fourteen, Domingo Castillo had already lived in two different countries and was as fluent in English as he was in Spanish to the point where he’d only have an accent if he wished to. His hair was a light brown, a “gift” from his grandfather by his mother, Amanda, strong currents of Spaniard blood coursing through that side of the family. His eyes were hazel and mercurial, flashing at times bright green or smoldering into a dark brown, which often reflected the young man’s moods.

Pequita, at twelve, was already growing into a young beauty. She had her father’s black hair and her mother’s cool blue eyes. Whenever Perez was in the room, Pequita seemed to never look away from him. He remembered when he was twelve and how girls his age had never showed the slightest interest in him, not when there were older boys or men around.

Perez was flattered at the attention, but at the same time he thought of all the poor twelve-year-old boys of the world who were just starting to form an interest in girls. Twenty years ago, Perez would definitely have been agog over Pequita, and at the same time be halted by crippling shyness that such a cute girl would have had on him.

Grin and bear it, Dom, he told himself.

Annette was just as tall as her older sister, but more round-faced and bespectacled. That pure Spaniard blood showed in how her cheeks freckled instead of tanning evenly, the glimmering yellow highlights in her hair and the flash of blue in her eyes.

The safe house in Arizona was one that was large and comfortable enough for the Castillo clan and the eight agents assigned to protection. The security wall around the estate was twelve feet in height and equipped with some of the best and latest sensors available. This, Perez thought, also likely thanks to the top people at Justice.

It was a good setup, at least in terms of technology. The members of the witness protection team themselves were equipped for a war if necessary. Except for Burnett, every member of the team was armed with a Glock 21 .45 ACP autoloading pistol. With fourteen rounds on tap and thirteen in subsequent reloads, Perez couldn’t have asked for more firepower that he could hide under an untucked shirt.

Perez, watching over the kids as they enjoyed a swim day in the roasting Arizona heat at a pond on the property, had a Mossberg 930 SPX not far away in the Jeep. Using the lessons learned from the earlier Mossberg Jungle Gun made for the United States Marine Corps in the nineties, Perez knew his semiautomatic 12-gauge shotgun was designed for combat. Nine rounds of 12-gauge were in that piece with more shells in a sidesaddle on the stock of the big blaster. He liked the interchanging of buckshot and slugs because there was no telling at what range he’d encounter an attacker.

There were M4 SOPMOD rifles and actual M16s back at the villa, as well, but Perez was a Chicago boy and in his heart and mind being a cop meant using a shotgun.

Domingo Castillo swung on a branch out over the glassy surface of the pond and let go. The boy’s slender limbs flailed for a moment as he hung in the air before splashing down. Pequita and Annette laughed at his “air dance” and Domingo burst up through the surface with an ear-to-ear grin.

“Did you see that?” Annette called out. The bespectacled youngest sister had been shy around all the strange new adults, even the female marshals, Lewis and Moore, but as Perez was their primary “sitter” the girl was comfortable with him.

Perez nodded and smiled. As he did so, he saw her cheeks redden and he realized that Pequita wasn’t the only one who had an interest in older men.

¡Dios! Perez prayed for strength. Ignore it and move on, Dom. And pray to hell this doesn’t cause any trouble for you in the future.

As if at the very thought of trouble, the rumble of distant helicopters wafted to Perez’s ears. Nothing appeared to be flying in this direction, but he lunged into the cab of the pickup to grab the set of binoculars he’d left on the dash.

There were three helicopters hovering over the compound. Dull black metal, not even reflecting sunlight off their skins, dark-tinted windows and strange tail booms told him that these were not normal aircraft. Their rotor-slap was only suddenly heard not because of their approach but because they no longer were operating under minimal noise profile. Perez loved helicopters and noticed that one had the little dolphin nose of a Bell Ranger but the same round, squat body of the AH-6 “Little Birds” of US Special Operations fame.

It took a moment for him to recognize one of the helicopters as the Bell MD-900 Explorer. The normal Explorer was a bird that could carry six passengers alongside its pilot and copilot and had a range of nearly three hundred miles on internal tanks. Through the zoom of his binoculars he saw drop tanks, as well, which could easily double its flight time, and he knew it could cruise at 154 miles an hour with its turbo Pratt & Whitney engines.

One stayed in the air, side door open, an odd strobe flickering off the side. Perez swept the binoculars down to the other Explorers that had landed and disgorged men. A dozen of them, dressed in black, with helmets, heavily laden vests and assault rifles rushed toward the compound

As soon as gunfire crackled in the distance, Perez let the binoculars drop into the seat well. He looked back at the children by the pond.

“Get in the truck,” Perez ordered. “Now!”

Domingo Castillo’s pupils were tight, his normally tanned cheeks flushed and damp with sweat as he guided his younger sisters toward the marshal’s service vehicle.

Perez heard the violent faraway roar of something big. Guns sounded a lot louder, much more dangerous than they did on television, but this wasn’t new information for him. Had he the time to contemplate, he’d show some regret at living so close to violence that he knew the true sounds of gunfire. His parents had tried to keep him and his sisters safe from the ravages and the corruption of everyday life in Mexico.

The girls, to their credit and to the shame that they had learned this so young in life, knew what was wrong, what was happening. Perez had the passenger-side door open for the kids, Glock .45 in his fist ready to go.

Violence seethed up at the villa and though his every instinct was to rush up there and assist his fellow marshals, he knew that bringing three preteens into the middle of a gunfight was the worst possible thing that he could do. In the choice between helping his friends and saving the lives of the Castillo children, his orders were to run like a scared little girl.

Cursing, he moved around to the driver’s side, got in and fired up the engine. If someone pursued, and so far he saw nothing in the rearview mirror, his job was to evade hostiles and to defend the kids if cornered. The fight he could put up with his shotgun and pistol would be long and loud. And, hopefully, be more than enough to keep this precious cargo secure.

Pedal to the metal, he put distance between the children and the conflict at the main house.

“Stay down, girls!” Perez shouted. “Stay down!”

Keep going faster and faster. Pull away before they hear—

The rear windshield cracked as something hit it. It wasn’t a pebble. Not with the force of the impact. But it was also not a bullet that retained enough energy to punch through safety glass.

Perez stomped on the gas harder, building up speed.

* * *

AMANDA CASTILLO’S LIFE was never considered to be one of caution and comfort. She was born into privilege in Mexico, with enough European Spanish blood in her to allow her natural blond highlights and the glimmer of blue eyes. Though the differences between her and other Mexicans weren’t that apparent, especially given the richness of her sunburned skin, her father’s wealth was something that had kept her in undeniable comfort. His kind of money meant that he didn’t have to worry about the legalities of protecting her from the “lower classes.”

What had started as rebellion as a teenager had turned into something much different. She’d hung with Joaquin, an idealistic, young wannabe revolutionary in the slums of Mexico City, and her youthful aimlessness had evolved into a crusade for justice. Joaquin Castillo had turned from Marxist idealist into someone who saw the truths of corruption, both right-and left-wing. Amanda Moran conveyed her good looks and connections into a place where she could strip bare the hypocrisy and corruption in an anchor’s chair.

They’d married, but Amanda Moran Castillo was part of a one-two punch. Joaquin dug deep into the secrets behind the camera and Amanda laid them raw and unfiltered on nationwide TV. It was dangerous, risky, and Amanda was reminded of that every day when she looked in the mirror at the scars on her hips and stomach. The end of her two-piece-bikini days was a small price to pay, however, for the cause of truth and justice.

Now, however, as she watched a US Marshal apply emergency first aid to Joaquin, she realized that some prices were just too high to pay.

“¡Mi corazon!” she breathed as Marshal Burnett put his arm across her chest, holding her back from the scene.

Amanda wanted to tear loose from the old lawman with his Southern drawl, but she became all too aware of the need for his restraint. The wooden floor between her and her wounded husband was shredded, splinters and sawdust erupting as a wave of heavy automatic fire rained down.

“Gettin’ yourself killed ain’t gonna help your man!” Burnett growled. He tugged her farther back from the damaged wall, keeping himself and his big silver handgun between Amanda and any incoming harm. Burnett, no stranger to Southern law enforcement given his twang, walked the line with a big old 10 mm STI Executive.

Amanda, who’d spent enough time around firearms thanks to her rich family, was impressed at the beast of a gun. Everything from its gleaming, mirror-polished slide and black polymer frame screamed “fear me.” The Executive was essentially what happened when a Texan decided that the Colt 45 just didn’t have enough punch or enough rounds in the magazine. The basic design of the 1911 had been preserved, but the polymer frame had a hole in the grip to handle a double-stack magazine. Burnett said he had twenty rounds in each of the fat magazines on his belt. The 10 mm round carried as much punch at 100 yards as the .45 ACP had at the muzzle, and Burnett wasn’t using the down-loaded FBI rounds that had eventually given birth to the .40 Short and Weak, as he called it.

The house had gone from silent to a maelstrom of thunder and disintegrating objects in the space of heartbeats. With Joaquin down, but seemingly miles away on the other side of a deadly firefight, Amanda’s thoughts quickly turned toward her children. They were out of the house...

Out in the open!

Burnett kept her still, edging them farther along the interior of the house, avoiding clear fields of view from the windows.

“The kids!” Amanda shouted.

“Out on the edge of the estate,” Burnett growled. There was a motion caught out of the corner of Amanda’s eye, and Burnett reacted, firing that big silver gun through the naked windowpane. The Executive roared loudly enough to make the crackle of gunfire outside disappear for a moment. Apparently, Burnett’s first shot didn’t have an effect. He shifted his aim and fired through the wall. Massive chunks blew out and in less than a moment the figure of a toppling man appeared for a brief instant in the window.

“We have ground attackers! Side three!” Burnett shouted over his hands-free mike. Whether any of the other lawmen around the compound could hear a thing was highly in doubt. But even as Burnett barked his observation, bigger guns cut loose from inside, blasting more chunks through walls, tearing into those laying siege to the house.

Amanda knew that, unfortunately, that vulgar display of firepower made them targets. Something turned the ceiling of the house to shredded remnants of terra cotta, tar paper and ceiling struts raining down in the wake of a blaze of automatic gunfire. The silhouettes of gunmen disappeared in the rain of burning lead.

The next thing she knew, her voice was raw from screaming over the loss of two of her defenders. Hell clattered all around her and Burnett forcibly pushed and pulled her to her feet. She stumbled, but Burnett’s hand never allowed her to trip. He was a steady guide, a protector.