“I’ll brief my people and get them ready to roll,” Vaught replied. His mother was from the state of Jalisco, so he had family in Mexico and grew up speaking the languages of both countries interchangeably. This had enabled him to form an immediate rapport with the ambassador. “I wonder what she plans on asking for today — our own airbase right here in DF?”
Louis chuckled as he turned away. “Avenida Reforma is the most direct route. I’ll make sure the proper arrangements are made over at the senate building. Let me know if you need anything else.”
Vaught assembled the other nine agents of his security team in the motor pool behind the embassy. They were all handpicked, each one a former operator with Special Forces. All of them had seen extended tours of combat. “Here’s the deal, guys. Downly managed to piss off the Mexican delegation yesterday, so today they want to meet at the Xicoténcatl a couple miles from here.” The name was pronounced “she-ko-ten-katl.” “That’s the building where the Mexican senate meets, for those of you who don’t habla.” The others laughed. “They’re sending the usual escort, so the run shouldn’t take us more than eight minutes, but I want you guys max-attentive the entire way. Are we clear?”
There were a number of “Rogers!” and “Aye-ayes!” in response, depending on the agent’s former branch of service, and they broke up to prep the transports: three black Chevy SUVs with bulletproof glass and doors.
Vaught took aside his number two man, an African American named Uriah Heen, also a former Green Beret. “I’m putting Sellers in the lead vehicle with the trio. Jackson and I’ll be in the middle with Downly, her two aides, and Ambassador Louis. You’ll bring up the rear with the other three, but make sure Bogart’s behind the wheel. I want somebody who can drive covering our tail. Clear?”
Uriah gave him a nod. “Clear. How’d Downly screw up?”
Vaught spit tobacco juice onto the concrete, tired of swallowing it. “She suggested setting American A-Teams loose down here to fight the cartels. I guess it went over like a fart at a baptism.”
Uriah chuckled, rubbing the back of his shaved head. “Who’d she do to get this appointment?” Alice Downly was a highly educated, forty-year-old brunette with a photogenic face and an infectious smile, but she wasn’t exactly known for her political acumen around the DC social scene. Her appointment to the office had surprised more than a few people in the know.
Vaught’s face tightened. “Secure that shit while we’re in-country.”
“Roger that.” Uriah got serious. “I’ll get everybody dialed in.”
An hour later, the American delegation loaded into the vehicles, and they were off. A Mexican Federal Police four-door pickup truck with four officers led the column, another truck brought up the rear, and two pairs of motorcycles leapfrogged from stoplight to stoplight, preventing civilian traffic from cutting through the caravan. The DSS men were dressed in khaki cargo pants, black North Face jackets, ball caps, tactical boots, and Oakley sunglasses. Each carried a concealed Phase-5 Tactical CQC pistol on a single-point bungee sling and a Glock 21 for backup. The CQC (close-quarters-combat) pistol was essentially a snubbed-down M4 carbine with a 7.5-inch barrel in .223 caliber. The buttstock had been removed, leaving only the buffer tube, which looked something like a padded broom handle that could be braced against the shoulder for greater control. Each weapon held a thirty-round magazine, and each DSS agent concealed an additional four magazines on his person by Velcroing them to his body armor — armor bolstered by 12-inch ceramic rifle plates front and back.
The column turned right, leaving the embassy grounds. They traveled southwest, briefly entering a large rotunda before turning right again to roll west. After making another right at the end of the block, they drove on a northerly heading for a quarter mile before making yet another right and driving two more blocks. Finally, they bore left around another large rotunda northward and onto the main avenue through Mexico City. The motorcycle cops were skilled at their jobs, herding the traffic away from the caravan much the way that horses could be used to herd cattle, and there was never a pause in the column’s progress.
Vaught rode shotgun in the center vehicle, with Jackson, a former Navy SEAL, in the driver’s seat and the four diplomats in the back. “Shit,” he muttered, watching the motorcycles bear to the right down a single narrow lane, “they’re taking us down the lateral.” The lateral lane ran parallel to the main avenue, separated by a raised median divider lined with trees, park benches, bus stops, and various concrete stanchions. The purpose of the lateral lane was to allow for traffic not traveling the entire distance of the avenue to turn off without hindering the flow of traffic along the main drag. Vaught didn’t like to use the lateral on diplomatic runs because it left the column tightly hemmed in between the median divider on the left and the buildings on the right, with virtually no route of escape.
He activated his throat mike, talking over the radio net. “Look sharp, people. It’s gonna be a little tight for the next half mile.” He glanced left at a city bus passing the column on the opposite side of the median divider, and the terrified eyes of the passengers alerted him that something was wrong. The hair raised on the back of his neck as he caught a glimpse of a figure in a black ski mask. Vaught swung his arm over the back of the seat. “Everybody down!” he shouted. “We’re gonna be hit!”
Ambassador Louis grabbed Director Downly, pulling her toward the floor. Downly’s aides, a man and a woman seated behind them, ducked down, with the woman muttering, “Oh my God!”
Vaught was in the midst of barking a warning over the radio when the big green-and-yellow bus swerved over the median divider, bashing aside a bench full of people, and slammed into the Federal Police truck at the head of the column, driving it through the front of an Oxxo convenient store. A rocket powered grenade streaked out of nowhere to strike the lead DSS vehicle in the driver’s door, detonating with a horrible explosion that killed all four DSS agents instantly.
“Everybody dismount!”
Vaught jumped out even before Jackson had stopped the vehicle. He jerked open the back door and yanked Louis out by the collar, reaching back inside to grab Downly by the arm and hauling her out so abruptly that she didn’t even have time to get her feet beneath her. She fell out onto the pavement as another RPG slammed into the driver’s door and exploded. Vaught was thrown off his feet by the blast and landed on his back. The SUV burst into flames. Downly’s male aide managed to scrabble out with his clothes burning and face covered in blood, but the woman remained inside, already consumed by fire. There was virtually nothing left of Jackson but a set of mangled legs on the floorboard.
Vaught was on his feet in a second, his mind processing the scene with computerlike speed, seeing almost in slow motion the four DSS agents to the rear rapidly dismounting the passenger side of the third vehicle. Another RPG struck the unarmored Federal Police truck at the tail of the column, exploding the fuel tank and tearing apart the truck as the men inside were bailing out, killing them all.
Vaught instinctively traced the contrail of the rocket back along its trajectory. He swung up the CQC pistol and took a knee beside the burning Chevy, firing on three men taking cover near a white van parked on the far side of the avenue across seven lanes of traffic. The rocketeer went down, stitched from the groin up, and his two compatriots opened up with AK-47s.
Vaught rolled behind the burning vehicle as Uriah and the other three agents arrived to provide covering fire. Another fusillade erupted farther up the lane where the bus had slammed into the lead truck. Five masked gunmen were piling out of the back of the bus, and people were screaming everywhere, running for cover in all directions as the gunners fired wildly from the hip. Vaught was struck on his body armor and the upper left arm. He knew he had to get his diplomatic charges off the street, but there wasn’t any time, and there wasn’t anywhere to run if there had been. This was a point-blank shoot-out to the death.