Hired to Kill

  Inside, they were escorted into a large conference room. The center table held the cardboard scale model Rebecca had mentioned.

  After a few minutes, they were joined by their fellow BSI operatives who’d be making the raid with them—athletic-looking people with high and tight haircuts like Nathan’s. They all appeared to be in their late twenties to mid-thirties. Nathan recognized their 5.11 Tactical clothing right away. Harv and he currently wore pretty much the same thing, only different colors.

  Introductions were made all around.

  BSI’s ranking system didn’t have all the intermediate titles of its US military counterparts. There were corporals, sergeants, lieutenants, and colonels, in that order of ranking. There were no officers or enlisted in the sense of the military definition. The way Vince described the hierarchy, it closely mirrored that of a police force.

  Even before reading the background info, he knew many of these BSI contractors were seasoned Iraq and Afghanistan combat vets, Vince included. Every private military contractor present had the same training as every other.

  For tonight’s op, the men and women seated around this table were divided into three four-person fire teams with code names of hotel, sierra, and tango.

  Hotel team would consist of himself, Harv, Vince, and BSI’s communications specialist. Nathan would be designated as Hotel one; Harv, Hotel two; Vince, Hotel three; and their radio specialist, Hotel four. Once the operation began, everyone would be using their code names only. Even though their radios were encrypted, they weren’t taking any chances.

  The only difference between a tango fire team member and a sierra fire team member was specialization. Each tango member had additional training in explosives and demolition. When Nathan read what sierra fire team’s specialty was, he was surprised to hear it was cyber skills. Those guys weren’t only warriors; they were IT experts.

  Deadly hackers.

  It was no secret that BSI’s personnel were paid three times what their US service member counterparts made—often a source of contention.

  But Nathan knew blood was blood. It didn’t drain any slower from a higher paid warrior.

  And tonight, that truth might just be proven.

  The two women at the table were part of tango fire team, both munitions specialists. During the introductions, the two women had watched Harv and Nathan closely. In this male-dominated world, they’d probably expected to receive ambivalent greetings from the two “outsiders.” Not so. Nathan and Harv had worked with female operatives and federal agents for decades. There wasn’t a misogynistic cell in either of their bodies.

  “All right, everyone, have a seat,” Vince said. “I know this is a little awkward, so in order to ease some of the apprehension you may be feeling, I’ve prepared a small outline for you to review.” Vince handed sheets of paper to the man closest to him, who took one and passed the rest along. “What you’re looking at is considered top secret and may not be shared outside this room.”

  Both his and Harv’s résumés topped the form, followed by the individual résumés of the BSI personnel seated around the table.

  These guys are some heavy hitters, Nathan thought. The PMCs’ prior missions were worthy of SEALs and FORECONs—everything from hostage rescue to surveillance to infiltration. Their work also ranged well beyond military-type service. As he and Harv had already known, BSI now trained undercover personnel for local, state, and federal law enforcement agencies, the first program of its kind ever.

  By the time everyone finished reading, there were raised eyebrows all around the table.

  Vince continued. “The purpose of what you just read is self-evident. There are ops that Nathan and Harvey successfully conducted that can’t be revealed here. Same with my people. Everyone in this room was handpicked for this specific assignment. It’s important to mention that this is a BSI mission, under BSI command. Now if anyone here can show due cause why we shouldn’t all be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  Vince’s colorful reference perfectly stated what needed to be said. Now was the time to voice concerns, not once the shooting started.

  No one said a word except Harv. “Just don’t declare us husbands and wives.”

  That got a few low-key laughs.

  “Leave it to Harvey to find some levity. All right, we’ve got a lot of material to review, so let’s get started.”

  Ten hours later, they were rolling south through a pitch-black desert in a column of four BSI Humvees. Their “trucks,” as the military liked to call them, and all their equipment had been driven down to El Paso’s international airport earlier in the day. Nathan and Harv, along with the other fire teams, were flown down to the airport in Black Hawks, courtesy of the US Air National Guard. The two CIA operations officers who’d accompanied them from Washington, DC, flew back to Santa Fe in the BSI helicopter they’d used on the way to the academy. As Rebecca had requested, the two CIA officers retained possession of the top-secret files.

  The lead truck held a BSI driver—who wasn’t going on the raid—and a Border Patrol agent they’d picked up on the east side of El Paso.

  His hotel fire team occupied the second Humvee. The other two fire teams rode in the third and fourth Humvees.

  After leaving Interstate 10, they followed a paved road for a few miles, then turned south on a dirt track. Talk about the middle of nowhere . . . Nathan was no stranger to remote areas, especially deserts, but this region of southern Texas redefined remote. For the last thirty minutes or so, he hadn’t seen any signs of civilization. Not even a single light bulb hanging outside a shack.

  Their uniforms were desert MARPAT with ballistic vests, kneepads, elbowpads—the works. Just before crossing the border, they’d put all their gear on. For the time being, their M4s and duffels—containing all the ammo and equipment they’d need—were strapped to the corrugated shelf between their seats. Nathan’s seat was a tight fit; he didn’t have a lot of legroom.

  During the drive, Harv hadn’t been especially talkative. What could be said at this point? Like himself, Harv dealt with pre-mission stress by internalizing it. The last thing any of their team members wanted to see was a fellow member acting nervous and jittery.

  In the near-black interior of the Humvee, Nathan turned off his radio, leaned across the duffels, and nudged Harv. He gave his friend a hand signal to turn his radio off—a twisting of his thumb and forefinger to simulate changing the volume, then a semiclosed fist indicating zero. He watched Harv reach down to his waist, then signal okay.

  Still leaning, he spoke just loud enough for Harv to hear him over the rumbling of the engine. Vince and the driver had no chance to hear them because of the headsets they wore.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah, you?”

  “I’m good.” He nodded toward Vince.

  “Hard to say.”

  “Best guess?”

  “He’s focused and alert. I’d say he’s good to go.”

  “That’s my assessment as well. He’s also in command.”

  Harv said, “I’m okay with it.”

  “Me too.”

  Vince’s head turned slightly, but it didn’t come all the way around. If Vince knew or suspected they’d just spoken off the comm, it didn’t seem to bother him.

  They turned their radios back on, returning them to manual mode. In this mode, they’d need to press the transmit button for their teammates to hear them. Once the op started, they’d switch into autovoice mode so all they had to do was talk to transmit, no button needed. They’d have to override the autovoice mode when they whispered because their lapel mics didn’t always pick up hushed conversations.

  They rode in silence for several miles until Vince’s voice came through their earpieces: “Three minutes. Turn on NV and observe blackout protocol. Sierra one, Tango one, verify all team members copied.”

  Vince turned his head to make sure Harv and he copied. They both issued thumbs-ups.

  In
the glow of a quarter moon, their Humvees crested a low ridge, and an expanse of flat desert interspersed with small hills and low ridges stretched for miles out in front of them. There was no sign of the Rio Grande or the fence. He kept expecting to see something, a dark line or stand of trees.

  Everyone saw the quick flash from their one o’clock vector.

  “Don’t worry; that’s an infrared signal,” Vince said. “Our Border Patrol contact is right where he’s supposed to be, and we’re right on time—something they appreciate.”

  “I don’t see the border fence,” Harv said, using the radio.

  “It’s on the other side of that low bluff,” Vince answered. “About half a mile farther. We didn’t want to risk being seen from the Mexican side. By the way, Nathan, there’s someone up ahead who’s looking forward to meeting you. Well, several people, actually.”

  “Who are they?” he asked.

  “No way,” Vince said. “I’m not going to spoil it. Let’s just say you’ll recognize one of the names when you hear it.”

  “Harv?”

  “No comment.”

  “Come on, you guys, out with it.”

  “Sorry,” Vince said. “You’ll have to wait until we get there.”

  “You guys suck.”

  “Some things are worth the price of admission,” Harv said.

  It was just like Harv to pull a stunt like this. He’d find a way to get some payback on his friend later.

  They dropped down through a dry wash and came up the opposite side with plenty of speed. The lead Humvee launched over the far rim, getting five feet of air before landing.

  Their driver whooped like a kid and yelled, “Get some! Hang on back there.”

  As in the Star Wars ride at Disneyland, they were pressed back in their seats as the vehicle climbed the far slope. Everything went smooth as they became weightless. Two seconds later, their vehicle found earth again and bounced along the track.

  They went through a shallower wash and leveled out on a straight section of road. A few seconds later, they received a sixty-second warning from the driver.

  Six Border Patrol vehicles materialized as they got closer and something bigger—a thirty-foot motor home with no markings at all. Indicating the motor home’s purpose, several satellite dishes and large antennae sprouted from its roof.

  “This is it. Everyone look sharp,” Vince said.

  Nathan felt his stomach tighten with anticipation. Somebody in this group knew who he was, and that unsettled him. He wasn’t overly concerned because Harv would never reveal his identity to anyone who shouldn’t have it.

  Their convoy fanned out and parked facing the Border Patrol vehicles. After the dust drifted past, they climbed out and formed up with Vince and their radio specialist.

  “Hang on a sec.” Vince pressed his transmit button. “Sierra and tango, stretch your legs and make a head call. Do a complete equipment and weapons check. We’re moving out in ten minutes.”

  Nathan’s NV monocular allowed him to see six agents standing in front of their parked vehicles. One of them supported his weight on crutches and appeared to be in his fifties. Three of them were a generation younger than Nathan and decked out in tactical garb with grenade-launcher-equipped M4s slung over their shoulders. One of the tactically outfitted agents was a woman. The last two were dressed in khaki pants and dark sweaters and looked to be in their sixties with high and tight haircuts. The two older men didn’t appear to be carrying weapons.

  They’re probably in charge, Nathan thought. He lowered his voice. “Those three are carrying some serious firepower. They’re not what I expected.”

  “BORTACs,” Vince said. “Border Patrol Tactical Unit.”

  Nathan wanted to ask why they were needed this far from the river but didn’t. He supposed they’d find out soon enough. Keeping his voice low, Nathan said, “Vince, I’ve been meaning to ask you something. How did you assign the fire team members?”

  “That was easy,” Vince said, lowering his voice. “My people didn’t want any unknowns with them. No offense . . .”

  “None taken,” Nathan said.

  Vince touched his chest. “Don’t worry; they feel the same way about the old man.”

  The female BORTAC agent walked over and asked them to follow her. Nathan was familiar with their “all business” body language, but these BORTACs embodied a new plane of seriousness. It didn’t bother him. All Border Patrol agents, including the BORTACs, were the uniformed law enforcement arm of the CBP—Customs and Border Protection—and they took their jobs seriously. Back when he’d been a Force Recon, if a bunch of unknowns had walked into his camp, he would’ve acted the same way.

  He wondered how many of them knew what tonight’s mission was. Probably none, except for the two men in sweaters.

  Nathan and Harvey fell back a step, letting Vincent take the lead.

  The BSI commander walked up to the shorter of the two men wearing sweaters and shook his hand. “Chief Switzer, good to see you again.”

  “Likewise, Mr. Beaumont.”

  Nathan and Harv exchanged a surprised glance.

  The chief of the US Border Patrol? In person? It wasn’t every day you got to meet the top man of the third largest federal law enforcement agency in the country.

  Vince shook hands with the other sweater. “Deputy Chief Lopez, thank you for coming.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” Lopez said.

  Nathan knew Vince’s formality was protocol. It wouldn’t be appropriate to use first names in front of Switzer’s agents.

  Vince stepped aside and said, “Chief, Deputy Chief, this is Nathan McBride and Harvey Fontana.” Vince also introduced their radio specialist.

  Firm handshakes were exchanged. Then Chief Switzer said, “I knew your father well. A true patriot in every sense of the word. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, Chief.”

  “I’d sing your praises to my men, but we’re keeping this op under the radar.” Switzer must’ve sensed his question. “Deputy Chief Lopez and I would’ve come even if the DNI hadn’t asked us to. It seems you two have quite a reputation in DC.”

  “I hope that’s a compliment,” Nathan said.

  “It is. I want to introduce you to someone who’s been quite eager to meet you.”

  This is it, Nathan thought. The other mystery person.

  The man on crutches came forward and offered his hand.

  “This is Special Operations Supervisor Hank Grangeland,” Switzer said. “He’s on medical leave after pulling a Forrest Gump on us.”

  Nathan found himself grinning. This had to be Mary Grangeland’s brother. The family resemblance was hard to miss, even in the dim moonlight. He’d first met Mary—who’d insisted on being called “Grangeland”—on a mission several years ago. Their introduction had been less than cordial, but they’d become close friends over the last few years. More than friends. Both he and Harv thought of Grangeland as a sister. The three of them had, after all, shared life and combat together on more than one occasion.

  Switzer continued. “I’ve tried to keep SOS Grangeland out of harm’s way, but he insists on being out in the field. He’s currently breaking in a rookie and claims it’s the most important job in the BP. Can’t honestly say I disagree.”

  Hank said, “My sister considers you family, so you can count me in that category as well.”

  “A pleasure,” Nathan said, pumping hands. He introduced Harv.

  “How’s she doing?” Harv asked. “We haven’t spoken in over a year. I guess I owe her a call.”

  “She’s with the ATF now.”

  “You’re kidding,” Harv said. “I thought she had her dream job with the bureau.”

  “Let’s just say her work is a little more challenging than it used to be.”

  “She’s got the mettle for anything the ATF can throw at her,” Harv said.

  Hank looked at Nathan. “Mary told me about your legendary first encounter in that Sacramento h
otel room. She used to do the same thing to me on a regular basis when we fought.”

  Nathan shook his head.

  “What’s wrong?” Hank asked.

  “It’s hard to think of her as Mary. She’s always been Grangeland to us.”

  Hank leaned toward Chief Switzer and lowered his voice. “Nathan employed an interesting technique to break the half nelson my sister had him in.”

  Looking up and down at Nathan, Chief Switzer said, “Your sister had this man in a half nelson?”

  Nathan cleared his throat. “Aren’t we a little pressed for time?”

  Chief Switzer nodded at Agent Grangeland, then back at Nathan. “You, Vince, and Harv, you’re with me. You too, Agent Grangeland. Let’s take a walk.”

  Deputy Chief Lopez tagged along as well. The six of them strolled over to the drone launcher and formed a huddle.

  Keeping his voice low, Switzer said, “There’s something we discovered in our mission planning that you need to know. Well, there’s . . . ah . . . no easy way to say this, so here goes. The ranch where the Rio Grande cell is operating belongs to Carlos Alisio.”

  “Alisio . . . ,” Nathan said slowly.

  “Yes, the oldest son of Alfonso Alisio.”

  He looked at Harv. Clearly Chief Switzer knew about the McBride-Alisio showdown a few years back north of Yuma. Vince’s father had also been involved, along with Mary Grangeland. To put it mildly, things hadn’t turned out so well for Alfonso.

  Vince’s voice betrayed his shock. “So the attacks against my family and Nathan’s father were about revenge?”

  “Yes,” Switzer said. “Two things happened that Carlos Alisio couldn’t have predicted. Nathan, your sister’s presence in Mabel’s Diner, and, Vince, Charlene’s training and quick reaction when she returned fire on the shooters. Charlene bought a few extra seconds, which allowed a retired Navy corpsman to kill the gunmen. The same goes for your sister, Nathan. She saved many lives by fighting back. There’s no doubt things would’ve been much worse otherwise.”