1.5 MILES OUTSIDE OF KRUPKA, CZECH REPUBLIC
Gustavo Berganza was shivering with rage. He had never been so scared, so terrified, and in so much pain his entire life. He’d always been frightened by what he didn’t understand, and, at this moment, he couldn’t comprehend what had gone wrong.
Hiding behind the Škoda SUV, his back resting on the rear passenger-side tire, Berganza was desperately applying pressure to his stomach wound, but the blood kept seeping through his fingers. To his left, Salvador looked unscathed. The former Gulf Cartel member had escaped the blast.
Fucking Salvador. It was all his fault.
It was Salvador who had somehow missed the two FBI agents at the café. It should have been so easy. How could he have missed such easy shots? Of course, Salvador had an excuse ready. He’d explained his failure by saying that the female agent had recognized the white Nissan and seen their approach. Salvador even had the audacity to add that the female agent had started shooting before he had the chance to align his first shot.
Lies!
How was that even possible? How could they have known about the Nissan? The GPS tracker Guillermo had dropped into one of the tall, bearded American agent’s pockets had done its job. The tracker had allowed Berganza and his crew to follow the Škoda Kodiaq out of Prague very loosely, giving the FBI agents plenty of rope. It was only when the Americans had headed into Teplice that Berganza had allowed the vehicles to close in, not wanting to miss an opportunity. When the Kodiaq had found a parking spot next to a café, Berganza had given the order to attack.
Even Thiago—Francisco Abalos’s younger brother—had agreed with the plan. Berganza had been furious when Abalos had imposed Thiago’s presence and authority over him. He’d never worked with the damned kid!
“My brother, like me and our father before us, was a soldier. A real one. He has seen combat. You haven’t, Gustavo. You were an intelligence officer.”
Berganza’s temper had flared up at the way Abalos had portrayed his work for Mexico’s intelligence service, but he’d been in no position to argue. After the fiasco in Prague, he had no choice but to walk on eggshells around Abalos. But even more crucial, and something Abalos had made abundantly clear, Berganza couldn’t fail. So, if Abalos wanted to send his kid brother so that he could report on him, fine. As long as Thiago stayed out of Berganza’s way.
Minutes after the missed drive-by execution in Teplice, Abalos had called him.
“Gustavo, Thiago is telling me you haven’t been listening to him and that you’ve lost another man in Teplice. Is that true?”
“An unfortunate—”
“Enough of your pathetic and never-ending excuses! I’ve had about enough of you,” Abalos had growled.
“Yes, patrón,” Berganza had said, humiliated.
“This is your last warning, Gustavo. Talk with Thiago and listen to what he has to say. If you follow his lead, you might live another day.”
Berganza had listened to Thiago just fine. Berganza had sent two of his men to flank the old, decrepit barn and to conduct a quick reconnaissance.
And for what? They were dead. Ambushed.
Then, as they made their approach, one of his men had cleared the Škoda SUV and advised Berganza of two distinct sets of footprints heading toward the barn. Berganza hadn’t even had the chance to respond. Gunfire erupted.
Thiago had been the first to get shot. He was now bleeding to death in the middle of the dirt path leading to the barn. Berganza could see him ten yards away, sluggishly dragging himself with one arm in Berganza’s direction.
Upon hearing the muffled shots that had downed Thiago, Berganza had immediately returned fire with Salvador and another man. He’d been certain they’d killed whoever had opened fire on them. That was until the grenade had exploded and showered him with rocks, dirt, and shrapnel. Berganza hadn’t seen the grenade tossed in their direction, though he suspected Salvador might have heard or seen it because the man had suddenly thrown himself to the ground moments before the grenade detonated.
And here I am, hiding behind an ass-cheap Škoda.
Berganza tried to get into a firing position, but the shrapnel that had torn into his side sent hot flashes of pain strong enough to paralyze him.
“We can’t stay here,” Salvador said, scanning over the vehicle with his rifle. “We need to move, patrón. They could be flanking us right now.”
Berganza tried to say something but found himself incapable of doing so. He wasn’t breathing very well. A volley of fire hit the SUV, raking its side, puncturing steel, and ripping through the interior. Salvador ducked back behind cover, clearly pissed off.
Then, without saying a word or even looking at Berganza, Salvador rose to his feet, emptied his magazine toward the shooter, and took off at a sprint to the barn.