SNAFU: Wolves at the Door

“Pleasure palace,” Garcia repeated. “I like the sound of that. Like I said, I’m in the wrong business.” He patted the giant stone head as they walked past. “I’m going to tell Ramirez about this, he might want to add it to his collection.”

* * *

They hit the boathouse at the stroke of 2:00am. There were two guards on patrol, both were chatting and smoking on a small jetty that jutted out where the river widened in front of the house. Both caught three rounds each from the suppressed MP5s carried by Lowe and Garcia. They collapsed in unison, hearts shredded, blood pressure crashing and pitching them into a deadly faint while the rest of their body caught up to the fact that they were dead.

Naylor ghosted forward to secure the bodies, afraid one of them would pitch over into the lake, raising an attention-getting splash. But they both crumpled into their own footprints, empty eyes staring up at the sky.

Naylor crouched over the bodies, scanning the boathouse through night vision goggles. There was no sign of movement, and no sign either of the simultaneous attack Naylor knew would be happening right at that instant on the main house.

That was good. Silence meant things were going to plan.

“Mac, get that SAW up here. Garcia, start prepping the boat.”

The two men moved with smooth, practised efficiency. Mac heaved a crate onto the jetty and set the big machine gun up on its bipod while Garcia started to check over the motor launch Naylor had picked.

“Lowe, give me an overview,” Naylor said.

“On it.”

Lowe took out a small drone, a quad-rotor hardly bigger than his outstretched palm, and pitched it into the air like a softball. At about twenty feet its four tiny propellers spun to life with no more noise than a family of mosquitos and Lowe flew it towards the house, controlling the tiny drone with what looked like a wireless game controller with a built-in screen.

Naylor know what to expect, but he asked anyway.

“How’s it looking?”

He could see Lowe’s smile as his teeth flashed green in the night vision.

“Sergeant, when this is over we can sell the video to the Stockade to train new Operators.”

“That good?”

“Textbook.”

“Hey Garcia,” Mac hissed, “you still want to join the cartel?”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Garcia replied. “I hear the retirement plan’s kinda rough.”

Gunfire, coming from the main house. Naylor recognised the distinctive agricultural clatter of AK47s and in reply, the faster buzz of a Delta machine gun. Sounded like the cartel had finally woken up. Well, that was to be expected eventually.

“Stay tight,” Naylor said. “Garcia, how are we going with that boat?”

“Two minutes, Sergeant.”

“Damn,” Mac said. “I could throw a rock in downtown Jersey and hit three guys who could jack a boat faster than you.”

“Can it,” Naylor ordered.

He crept over to where Lowe was still piloting the drone. Its night vision camera clearly showed the main house. There was no sign of the other Delta squads, but staccato flashes of light strobed in the windows in time to the clatter of gunfire on the night air.

More gunfire now, mixed with screams. Animal sounds ripped from human throats. The night was alive now with movement and noise. The old dance – predators and prey.

Something wasn’t right.

A voice came on the secure Delta short-range network, breaking radio silence with a garbled scream.

“Holy shit! Get back, get back, get b—”

The fast, pneumatic flutter of suppressed gunfire swamped the panicked voice: not a controlled burst, but a full-auto spray that emptied the clip in seconds. Then the screams cut short with a wet, ripping sound that reminded Naylor of his mother de-boning a chicken.

A growl. Naylor tried to imagine what could be done to a human throat to make such a noise, but failed.

The screaming carried on the still jungle night. Naylor stared at the drone’s screen, willing it to show him what was going on. But whatever it was, it was happening inside the main house.

He listened closely. He had heard his share of gunfire and screaming, but this was different. The screams had a panicked edge, not cries of pain, but animal yells of terror. The gunfire was wild and sporadic. He expected that from the cartel guards, but he could hear the familiar crack of Delta-issued Berettas. The two squads that had stormed the house had ditched their rifles and were using their sidearms. That was bad.

The comms was alive with voices now: radio silence forgotten. Naylor heard desperate pleas for help and snatched fragments from open microphones.

“What the fuck was that?”

“Oh, God... Oh, God...”

“Where d’it go? Where d’it go?”

“What the fu—”

“Fall back! Fall back!”

The roar that echoed across the compound was as loud as thunder.

“Boat’s ready, Sarge,” Garcia said.

“Okay.” Naylor broke radio silence to send the coded signal that their way out was ready. He didn’t know what was going on at the main house, but now they could complete the mission and exfiltrate down the river as planned.