Search and Destroy by JT Sawyer (top non fiction books of all time .TXT) 📗

“That’s kind of a stereotype, don’t you think—that Colombians deal in cocaine? From what I’ve heard, you’re a more resourceful individual who has his hands in everything.” He inched closer to the younger man from the catering van. “I was hoping we could make a trade.”

“For what, gringo?” said the boss.

He looked down at the man with the prosthetic. “His life for all of yours. You let me take him and the rest of you can live.”

The young man beside him pivoted in his seat, staring up at Shepard.

Shepard’s jaw clenched, the rage in him flowing through every fiber in his being. “You don’t remember me, but I sure as hell remember you from that party. Remember, the one you catered…where you killed my wife and my friends.”

The men’s faces grew taut, the air crackling with tension. As the man beside him bolted up, Shepard grabbed his thin arm at the wrist, twisting it, then slammed his head onto the top of a beer bottle. The figure collapsed to the ground as the other men slid from their seats.

Shepard grabbed the fork off the table, driving it into the eye of the man to his left, who recoiled in agony, then Shepard flipped the table into the faces of the two men across from him, whipping out his pistol and firing two rounds into the older man’s chest as he reached for his 1911.

Shepard darted to the right, squeezing off a flurry of rounds into the men climbing out from under the table, striking them in their faces, then he swung to the left, shooting the big man rushing for the door. He caught him in the floating ribs, causing him to drop to his knees.

Shepard rushed up, putting a single round into his skull then turning and shooting the man impaled with the fork. He slowly leaned out into the hallway, seeing two men rushing towards him. His HK pistol coughed out its remaining rounds into their chests. He dropped out the mag, inserting a fresh one from under his jacket just as the drywall around his face exploded from machinegun fire erupting out of the last bedroom. Cal pulled back, waiting for the comforting sound of the rifle clicking, then leaned out, pumping two rounds into the gangbanger’s neck and chest.

He backpedaled, retrieving the 1911 and a Glock from the dead henchmen, tucking them into his belt, then he darted across the hallway into the bedroom opposite the communal room. He heard shouting from below, followed by footsteps as the rest of the cartel members bolted up the steps.

Shepard listened for their approach, seeing the first man pivot towards the community room with an AK. Shepard fired a single round into the back of his skull then swung his HK and the Glock to the right, shooting the next figure in the abdomen. He zippered the second figure with bullets up his chest while driving him back into the others trying to squeeze up the steps.

He unleashed both pistols upon the remaining men, hearing their weapons briefly barking back in his direction as they haphazardly tried to kill the maniacal creature rushing at them.

Shepard saw the slide of the Glock slide back as the last two men collapsed. He flung down the pistol, pulling out the 1911 just as the skinny man from the porch was jumping down the steps to the ground floor. A single .45 round caught him in the left leg, and his wiry figure collapsed into a small table against the wall.

Shepard stepped over the bullet-riddled bodies, making his way down the staircase towards the gangly man, who was sobbing and trying to crawl away.

“Please, Mr.… Mercy…please have mercy.”

“I’m fresh out,” he said, pulling the trigger.

Shepard surveyed the front and rear entrances, peering out the windows then trotting back upstairs. Entering the communal room, he grabbed the young man with the prosthetic by his arm and hoisted him up onto a chair, then he secured his hands behind his legs and arms with a roll of duct tape he found under the sink.

Shepard splashed a glass of cold water into the man’s face. He flung his head up, staring at the carnage around the room.

“Who hired you to plant that bomb at Burke’s place?”

The man’s expression changed from outrage to anger. He narrowed his eyes, spitting at Shepard.

Cal wiped his face then walked to the oven, turning on the front burner. He dragged the man’s chair up to the stove then leaned his face in towards the flame.

The man screamed, shaking his head. Shepard tilted him back away from the oven. “Who hired you? Was it that guy in the leather jacket I saw leaving here earlier…Montoya? I followed him to a small airport. Where was he going?”

The man licked his lips then spit on Shepard again, cursing in Spanish.

Shepard turned on the remaining burners then grabbed a bottle of bourbon from the counter and poured it over the man’s head. He slowly slid the chair forward, and the man’s eyes filled his face as he neared the flames.

“Stop, alright… Montoya, Carlos Montoya. He used to head up the Carmesi Cartel in Colombia. He hired us to do the job at that mansion.”

“For whom? Who was paying you?”

“I don’t know his name, but the guy who paid us just told Montoya to send some of our men to his house, someplace down by Bethesda, to watch over him.”

“Did you guys steal all the hardware from Burke’s company too?”

“Steal? What are you talkin’ about? We only did the hit on that house then torched the van by an abandoned factory.”

“And where was Montoya flying to? I saw him at a small airport on the other side of town. The flight manifest indicated he was heading somewhere in Texas.”

“Shit, I don’t know…he doesn’t talk to most of us here. Just showed up a few weeks ago, telling my boss that he had work lined up with a big payoff.”

Shepard tapped