Cartel Read Online Free
Book: Cartel Read Online Free
Author: Chuck Hustmyre
against Ortiz's temple. "You'll die first, asshole."
Scott turned to tell Garza to put his gun away, but be-fore he could open his mouth Hitch swung onto the shoulder to pass a eighteen-wheel truck. "Try not to kill us before we get to the bridge, Hitch."
"Working on it, boss," Hitch said as he pulled back into the northbound lane, then swung into the oncoming lane to pass an overloaded pickup truck that was only doing about fifty. They barely made it back in time to avoid going head on into an old Ford station wagon.
"Good job, Hitch," Garza said.
Hitch didn't take his eyes off the road. He just nodded.
Checking the sideview mirror again, Scott saw that de-spite Hitch's best stunt driving, the black Suburban had man-aged to pull even closer. Scott keyed his mic. "Jackson, Kat, give me a sit-rep."
Jackson answered first. "Twelve minutes out, still got our shadow."
Nothing from Kat.
"Kat, do you read me?" Scott said.
It was Lundy who answered. "Boss, we got trouble."
"What kind of trouble?"
When Lundy keyed the microphone again, Scott heard all three agents in the vehicle shouting at once. The words were too jumbled for him to make out. Then the shouting stopped and he heard Lundy say, "Oh, shit."
Chapter 7
On a desolate stretch of Mexican Federal Highway 2, a mile and a half from the border crossing at El Capullo, Kat, Mil-ler, and Lundy ran into a roadblock. Two squad cars from the Policia Federal-the Mexican Federal Police-were stretched nose to nose across the highway. Four uniformed officers stood behind the cars aiming weapons at the ap-proaching DEA Tahoe. Kat could see that two of the feder-ales were armed with M-16s, most likely supplied by the U.S. government. The other two had pistols.
Miller coasted to a stop twenty yards from the police cars. He smacked the steering wheel with his open hands. "Shit."
Fifty yards behind the Tahoe, the Black Hawk helicop-ter-another gift from the United States-dropped into a hover fifty feet above the ground, its powerful rotor wash kicking up a cloud of sand and debris that pelted the DEA agents' vehicle.
"What the fuck are we supposed to do now?" Miller asked.
Lundy, who was sitting in the front passenger seat with his wounded and bloody leg propped up on the dashboard, said, "We're cops. They're cops. We're on the same side."
Miller shook his head. "We're not even close to being on the same side."
"We kidnapped one of their colleagues," Kat said as she slung the strap of her M-6 carbine over her head, getting it into combat position in case she needed it.
"But we don't have him," Lundy said.
His voice was high and tight, Kat noticed. He was really scared. So was she.
One of the federales held a microphone to his lips and spoke into it, his voice booming out of the police car's public address speaker, but the helicopter behind the agents was so loud that Kat couldn't understand what the man was saying.
"I'll get out and see if I can talk to them," Miller said. "Maybe we can straighten this out before it becomes some big international incident." He smiled at Kat and Lundy as he reached for the door handle. "How much cash you guys got on you?"
As soon as Miller opened the door, Kat saw a bright yel-low flash in front of one of the cops aiming an M-16. Then the Tahoe's windshield exploded.
Chapter 8
Northbound traffic was jammed up on the Mexican side of the Juarez-Lincoln International Bridge. Three of the four lanes that went through the exit booth were open. The far right lane was closed and blocked off with bright orange rubber traffic cones. Hatch had to stop twenty cars back from the booth in the outside left lane.
Scott checked the sideview mirror. The black Suburban was four cars behind them. The passenger stepped out. He was a tall white man in his mid- to late-forties. Definitely American, with a buzz cut, dark aviator sunglasses, and a tight-fitting olive-drab T-shirt tucked into khaki 5.11 cargo pants. All of which tagged him as having spent a
Scott turned to tell Garza to put his gun away, but be-fore he could open his mouth Hitch swung onto the shoulder to pass a eighteen-wheel truck. "Try not to kill us before we get to the bridge, Hitch."
"Working on it, boss," Hitch said as he pulled back into the northbound lane, then swung into the oncoming lane to pass an overloaded pickup truck that was only doing about fifty. They barely made it back in time to avoid going head on into an old Ford station wagon.
"Good job, Hitch," Garza said.
Hitch didn't take his eyes off the road. He just nodded.
Checking the sideview mirror again, Scott saw that de-spite Hitch's best stunt driving, the black Suburban had man-aged to pull even closer. Scott keyed his mic. "Jackson, Kat, give me a sit-rep."
Jackson answered first. "Twelve minutes out, still got our shadow."
Nothing from Kat.
"Kat, do you read me?" Scott said.
It was Lundy who answered. "Boss, we got trouble."
"What kind of trouble?"
When Lundy keyed the microphone again, Scott heard all three agents in the vehicle shouting at once. The words were too jumbled for him to make out. Then the shouting stopped and he heard Lundy say, "Oh, shit."
Chapter 7
On a desolate stretch of Mexican Federal Highway 2, a mile and a half from the border crossing at El Capullo, Kat, Mil-ler, and Lundy ran into a roadblock. Two squad cars from the Policia Federal-the Mexican Federal Police-were stretched nose to nose across the highway. Four uniformed officers stood behind the cars aiming weapons at the ap-proaching DEA Tahoe. Kat could see that two of the feder-ales were armed with M-16s, most likely supplied by the U.S. government. The other two had pistols.
Miller coasted to a stop twenty yards from the police cars. He smacked the steering wheel with his open hands. "Shit."
Fifty yards behind the Tahoe, the Black Hawk helicop-ter-another gift from the United States-dropped into a hover fifty feet above the ground, its powerful rotor wash kicking up a cloud of sand and debris that pelted the DEA agents' vehicle.
"What the fuck are we supposed to do now?" Miller asked.
Lundy, who was sitting in the front passenger seat with his wounded and bloody leg propped up on the dashboard, said, "We're cops. They're cops. We're on the same side."
Miller shook his head. "We're not even close to being on the same side."
"We kidnapped one of their colleagues," Kat said as she slung the strap of her M-6 carbine over her head, getting it into combat position in case she needed it.
"But we don't have him," Lundy said.
His voice was high and tight, Kat noticed. He was really scared. So was she.
One of the federales held a microphone to his lips and spoke into it, his voice booming out of the police car's public address speaker, but the helicopter behind the agents was so loud that Kat couldn't understand what the man was saying.
"I'll get out and see if I can talk to them," Miller said. "Maybe we can straighten this out before it becomes some big international incident." He smiled at Kat and Lundy as he reached for the door handle. "How much cash you guys got on you?"
As soon as Miller opened the door, Kat saw a bright yel-low flash in front of one of the cops aiming an M-16. Then the Tahoe's windshield exploded.
Chapter 8
Northbound traffic was jammed up on the Mexican side of the Juarez-Lincoln International Bridge. Three of the four lanes that went through the exit booth were open. The far right lane was closed and blocked off with bright orange rubber traffic cones. Hatch had to stop twenty cars back from the booth in the outside left lane.
Scott checked the sideview mirror. The black Suburban was four cars behind them. The passenger stepped out. He was a tall white man in his mid- to late-forties. Definitely American, with a buzz cut, dark aviator sunglasses, and a tight-fitting olive-drab T-shirt tucked into khaki 5.11 cargo pants. All of which tagged him as having spent a
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