Ten of Ten

 227.

Merle gets the call from Foreman Joey Krebs saying he is leaving the ranch for their scheduled coffee date downtown. It was his idea in order to remove his innocent fried from the potentially lethal arena. He relays the info to Drysdale and the game is on. On cue Kreb's shiny new Chevy pickup passes the makeshift security shack as the Penske truck approaches from the opposite direction. Drysdale has given the driver the option of full compliance or a 9mil in the right knee. They pass through the gate with nothing more than a hand wave from the sentry, Drysdale laying low, out of sight. A trio of bangs on the cab bulkhead alerts us to 'get ready' mode for the mayhem about to ensue. Mustang unslings the deadly automatic Kalishnokov AK-12 and securely places it in my lap. I hear the safety release of her favorite Sig-Sauer P228 from just behind my right ear.

"Stay behind me, until instructed otherwise" I order as a last moment reminder.

Drysdale directs the driver to park in front of the barn, standard procedure, and then to slowly walk to the rear of the truck, slide out the loading ramp and then open the cargo door. From there, he continues, we are going to walk into the main house, you first. He finishes his commands with a terse, "Anything goes South, you are the first to follow, clear?" Adding, "How many people inside?"

The driver answers about ten.

The cargo door rolls up like a stage curtain revealing us with weapons drawn, business ends directed at his forehead. I signal 'hush' with a single finger over my lips as Drysdale flashes the five finger sign, twice. Ten to three, fair odds, I calculate. I initiate the strike with a "Let's go" and we hit the ramp with a rattle and shake.

The driver is vanguard, Mustang and I behind and Drysdale at the tail. We move deliberately towards the aging Spanish style house as I consider my closing comments from last night's final review of the plan and its contingencies, "with any luck at all we might be able to take the cell and capture the target without firing a single shot."

We make it unobstructed to the veranda which runs the full sixty feet front of the house. Drysdale taps me on the shoulder and goes right, we wait until he has reached the corner and I push the AK into the drivers back telling him to open the door and enter. We watch him take a deep breath and then comply. Four men sit at a card table in the kitchen. Mustang moves quickly behind the driver as I level the AK at the card players and shout "FBI, everybody on the floor, hands behind heads. NOW."

One of them makes a halfhearted move to grab his rifle from behind his chair and is met by Drysdale breaking the kitchen window and putting a red dot on his forehead. They all sense defeat and lay on the oak floor, hands behind heads. Five down, five to go.

I motor to them and conduct a three word interrogation, "Where's the girl?" No one speaks. "Tell us where she is and you will all live through this, stay silent and you all die." I nudge the AK into the back of the head of one of the prone card playing terrorists and repeat the question, "Where's the girl? Five seconds till the lights go out."

"Out back in the garage," unexpectedly suddenly shouts the driver, still being covered by Mustang.

Before we can move a muscle Drysdale is running in the direction of the garage, I yell to Mustang to keep them all covered and shoot if any of them twitches as much as a tendon. I make my way out the kitchen door and towards Drysdale's trajectory of approach. About fifty open and exposed meters separate the house and the garage. Drysdale, sensing danger, pulls up behind a huge fir tree. He sees me and points to another tree to my left. Once established he gives me the 'I'm going in and cover me' hand sign and is off.

He is immediately met with cross-fire coming from inside the garage window and from the right, where the barn tosses an early shadow across the yard. He covers the space in astonishing time, live rounds snapping up demolition dust devils right and left behind him. I have time to send streams of cover fire in both directions assisting his sprint. He gets to the garage door, turns to face me pulling a smoke grenade from his vest pocket, signaling 5-4-3. Flash bang and then scattered bursts accompany me as I put the wheelchair's assist motor into high gear and race towards the rear of the building, AK loudly leading the way. We get to the same place at the same time behind the garage. In the fenced area one terrorist soldier has a gun to the head of The Queen, who he secures from behind in a crude version of a choke hold. He is coughing and trying to wipe his eyes as we point our weapons at him.

"Let the girl go and you won't be hurt." I yell.

"Shoot the fucker," The Queen yells back.

"Drop your weapons or I cap the bitch," counters the terrorist.

I glance at Drysdale as he begins to slowly lower his weapon. I do likewise and place the AK on the ground beside my chair. We both have our hands in the air when The Queen makes a quick and furious spin move creating a small space between herself and her captor. A single shot rings out breaking the silence of the standoff.

Merle ejects the spent shell casing from his deer rifle and nods an 'all clear' signal towards us.

Ten of ten.