Leeds looked him in the eyes. "I'm not leaving you here. I just need to check on something."

After leaving Olmos on the pool patio, he jogged down the sidewalk in front of the office toward the breezeway staircase. The corridor walls revealed dozens of bullet holes. Spent bullet casings littered the ground. A group of CLM operatives had held this ground for a while. At the top of the stairs, he peeked around the corner, seeing a ripped curtain and broken gla.s.s lying in front of a nearby room. He was willing to guess that the room sat directly behind room 204. This was starting to look more and more like a planned ambush the farther he explored.

Leeds turned and approached the inner parking lot. He needed to be careful here. If any of the Russians had survived the ambush, they might lie in wait, ready to kill anyone that approached. Things had gone badly enough for them to suspect a double cross. He didn't want to give them an excuse to kill him, something Leeds suspected they would be glad to do regardless.

A quick glance down the walkway toward room 204 told him that none of the Russians had made it into the target room. They had all been killed or mortally wounded, leaving no reason to get any closer. He'd let the Arizona sun finish them off.

"Leeds," someone croaked.

He risked another look, careful not to expose more of his head than absolutely necessary. Chukov sat up against the door immediately adjacent to room 204, pushing a bullet-riddled body off him with his rifle as he rose. Leeds couldn't tell if the blood covering the Russian's torso was his or the corpse's. It didn't matter.

"Get me the f.u.c.k out of here," hissed Chukov.

Leeds leaned around the corner with the MP-20, sighted in on the Russian's head, and fired a single bullet through his right temple. Scanning the rest of the bodies sprawled on the deck, he identified a few more that looked like they could be revived with proper medical care. Three headshots later, Leeds was certain there wasn't a hospital in North America that could save any of them. He didn't want any of the mercenaries surfacing to demand payment. Flagg could put Petrov's money to much better use in the cartel's hands.

Automatic gunfire rattled in the distance, reminding him that their welcome in cartel territory had probably expired.

CHAPTER 46.

"Roadblock ahead!" said Bravo, striking the shattered-in-place windshield in front of him with the stock of his rifle.

The safety gla.s.s on the windshield's pa.s.senger side crumbled from the sharp blows, covering the dashboard with hundreds of milky-blue particles. He repeatedly hit the gla.s.s in front of the driver with the rifle until he'd cleared most of Jackson's view.

From the backseat, Nathan stared through the open windshield at the wall of vehicles blocking the intersection that led to the Interstate 19 northbound on-ramp. Behind them, the yellow pickup truck and a sizable swarm of cars and trucks had closed more distance. Bullets started to ping off the SUV's metal frame, causing Nathan to flinch. They were absolutely screwed.

"Point all guns forward, through the windshield," said Bravo, leveling the barrel of his rifle at the rapidly approaching roadblock.

"We can't shoot a hole through them," said Nathan, leaning forward and pressing his rifle against Bravo's headrest.

"We don't have to. On my mark, concentrate your fire on the two rightmost vehicles," said Bravo. "Keira, I need your gun, too!"

His wife scooted toward the middle of the backseat, above Owen, and rested the MP-20 against the right side of the driver's seat. Keira looked deadly focused on the task at hand, never glancing away from her gun sight. Jackson, the driver, managed to wrangle his rifle into position to the left of the steering wheel, moments before David's SUV raced from behind them into place along their left side.

"Fire!" said Bravo.

Spent bullet casings ricocheted everywhere inside the SUV as the four suppressed weapons sent a maelstrom of armor-piercing bullets toward the right side of the roadblock. The effects of the barrage on the two vehicles were immediate. Windows shattered, tires flattened, bullet holes punctured the doors, and the gunmen standing behind the cars disappeared. The fusillade ended after several seconds of frenzied shooting, the barrels of their weapons smoking.

"Hold on!" yelled Bravo.

With the cartel's rightmost vehicles disabled, the SUV suddenly veered off Mariposa Boulevard into a sandy field, where it drove at full speed around the blockade. David's vehicle mimicked the turn, staying between the Fishers' SUV and the convoy the entire time. Instead of turning back onto the road, the drivers continued through the low gra.s.s and scattered brush, heading directly for the middle of the I-19 on-ramp.

"Reload and cover your sectors!" said Bravo.

Nathan replaced the spent magazine, then turned to help Keira.

"I got it," she said, releasing the bolt catch and charging the submachine gun.

"You watch left and forward. I have the back and right," he said.

"I know my sectors," she said, nestling into position against the door.

Nathan glanced down at Owen, who lay on his back crammed between their backpacks in the foot well. "You all right down there?"

His son gave him a thumbs-up.

"We're almost on the highway, buddy. Smooth sailing from there."

"Big b.u.mp coming up!" said Bravo.

Seconds later, the SUV hit the on-ramp's raised shoulder and they were briefly airborne before slamming down onto the ramp. Then they were accelerating smoothly toward the northbound lanes of Interstate 19, the wind pouring through the missing windshield.

Nathan looked behind them and saw David's SUV locked into a blocking position three car lengths behind. Back on Mariposa Boulevard, the cartel roadblock started to move, leaving behind three of the six vehicles that had been spanning the road. The yellow pickup swerved into the field, barely missing one of the sedans from the roadblock. By the time the SUVs merged onto the empty interstate, he'd counted more than a dozen vehicles in pursuit.

"How far away is our backup?" said Nathan.

"Thirty minutes," said Bravo.

"This is going to be a long thirty minutes."

Bravo twisted in his seat, staring past him at the dust cloud racing toward the on-ramp. He nodded grimly. "Reach in back and pull the tan duffel bag into the backseat. It should be right behind the seat. We still have a few surprises left."

Nathan struggled to drag the heavy bag out of the cargo compartment and heave it onto the seat between him and Keira. Owen sat up in the foot well to examine the bag behind him.

"You might want to be a little more careful with that," said Bravo.

Nathan unzipped the bag, spreading the sides wide.

"Holy s.h.i.t," he muttered.

For the first time since they'd left the motel room, Nathan was starting to believe they might make it. Bravo reached into the bag with his left hand and removed a stubby, matte-black grenade launcher.

"Whoa!" said Owen.

"Whoa is right, kid," said Bravo. "There's only one catch."

Keira spoke. "Our son isn't shooting that thing, if that's where you're going."

Bravo laughed, handing the grenade launcher to Nathan. "No. Your husband gets the honor. You know how to work this, right?"

"I've fired the M320 on base with my dad's battalion. This looks the same."

"That's because it is, except it fires a smaller grenade. Everything works the same, except you aim a little differently. The 30-millimeter grenade has a flatter trajectory. More of a point-and-shoot situation than a lob-and-pray job."

"Sounds easy enough. You said there was a catch, though."

"The only effective way to use it in our situation is out the back," said Bravo.

"You mean fire it through the rear window from here?" He didn't like the sound of that at all.

"No. No. These grenades don't have a safe distance arming mechanism like the 40-millimeter version. One b.u.mp in the road and you'd blow the back of the vehicle out."

Screw this. Nathan tried to hand it back to Bravo, who shook his head.

"It'll be fine!" said Bravo. "I just need you to climb on top of the gear in back and shoot from the back window."

Nathan looked into the packed rear compartment, trying to envision what that might look like. Every conceivable scenario left him exposed to gunfire on all three sides.

"There's no bulletproof stuff back there!" said Nathan.

"You'll be lying flat with your helmet facing the rear. Small target," said Bravo. "And you can nestle into the gear."

He examined the contents of the compartment again. Was he kidding? "Half of this is filled with gas cans! Not to mention any high explosives you dragged along."

"None of that will explode," said Bravo unconvincingly. "Hey, nothing is better than liquids for slowing down bullets."

Nathan shook his head in disbelief. He couldn't be serious.

"You better get in position," said Bravo, gesturing at the cl.u.s.ter of vehicles in the distance. "I don't think we can outrun them."

He was serious.

CHAPTER 47.

Leeds tore out of the Motel 6 parking lot, turning the tricked-out sedan right onto Mariposa Boulevard. With the roads empty and the traffic signals dead, he faced, at most, a ten-minute trip to the Nogales airport. Ten minutes too long. He cut through the service station on the corner, shaving a few seconds off the drive-anything to get him onto the Gulfstream jet and into the air quicker. He had no idea when the car, or its suddenly deceased owner, would be missed.

The car bounced on its hydraulic shocks and settled onto North Main Avenue, rapidly accelerating south. Leeds eased off the pedal when the speedometer read seventy miles per hour. He could barely see past the three spiderwebbed bullet holes in the windshield above the steering wheel without leaning over the center console.

"This is one sweet-a.s.s ride," said Olmos, reclined in the front seat. "Too bad you f.u.c.ked it up."

Olmos was no doubt referring to the brains and blood splattered across the backseat and rear window. He'd given the cartel guy a choice. Not much of a choice, but he could have walked away with his head intact and retrieved the car from the airport later in the day. Instead, he'd gunned the engine and tried to drive through.

"Keep an eye on the road for me. I can't see s.h.i.t," said Leeds. "And I need to call Flagg."

"You haven't called him yet?" said Olmos. "I thought you'd gone to breakfast after you left."

"Sorry to keep you waiting," said Leeds, pulling out his satphone. "It's an eight-mile walk from here to the airport, in case you're curious."

"Just messing with you," mumbled Olmos, sounding less coherent than when Leeds first found him.

"Keep an eye on the road," said Leeds, dialing Flagg's number.

Olmos sat up, squinting drunkenly at the road ahead. "You're clear as far as I can tell. How far to the turn?"

Leeds switched the phone to speaker and put it in a cup holder so he could focus on what little he could see of the road.

"Less than a mile," replied Leeds. "We're looking for Route 82."

Flagg's voice interrupted them.

"The fact that your phone is moving seventy-three miles per hour down a city street toward the airport, and the two of you are bickering, leads me to believe that we had a problem at the Motel 6."

"A big problem," said Leeds. "Chukov's entire team is dead, along with a dozen or more Sinaloa."

A few seconds of silence pa.s.sed, drawing an uncomfortable look from Olmos. Not an easy feat, given his opioid-fogged state.

"How did the two of you survive?" said Flagg.

"Sorry to disappoint you," said Leeds, wondering if he might be better off taking the jet to Mexico City and disappearing.

"No. I'm genuinely curious-well past the point of sarcasm here. Wasn't Olmos with the Russians?"

"He was a few steps away from absorbing several dozen steel b.a.l.l.s. They planted a claymore, or something very similar, in the motel office."

"'They'?" said Flagg. "The Fishers? David Quinn?"

"Olmos lost an arm. I'm getting him to the jet. He'll need immediate medical attention when we get to San Diego, if that's not too inconvenient. We're on speakerphone, in case you're curious."

"I don't care if we're on speakerphone, Nick. Ray's a big boy. s.h.i.t like this happens in our line of work," said Flagg. "He'll get the best treatment available when you land in San Diego. Until then, I'd like to get a better handle on exactly what the f.u.c.k happened in Nogales. Are we done venting?"

Leeds squeezed the steering wheel, his hands turning pale. Olmos elbowed his shoulder, drawing his attention. "I'm good," he mouthed silently. Leeds nodded, taking a deep breath before continuing.

"I'm better now."

"All right," said Flagg. "Let's start over. Who is this nebulous 'they' you mentioned?"

"That's the problem. I have no f.u.c.king idea at this point. Two identical silver SUVs left the motel parking lot, blasting away at anything that moved. Maybe a total of eight occupants."

"Matching the SUV spotted crossing the border?"

"Yes. That's what doesn't make any sense. El Pedro was insistent on the report description," said Leeds. "And you should see the motel. I don't think Chukov's team lasted more than a few seconds. They were torn apart by a well-coordinated cross fire. Whoever did this had people hidden around the motel."

"And they b.o.o.by-trapped the office," interrupted Olmos.

"So it was an ambush," said Flagg.

"Had to be," said Leeds. "I wouldn't be surprised if Talamanco tipped them off."