Free The Geronimo Breach by Russell Blake Page A

doorman.
    “Dude, I told you this was the place,” the leader blurted to his companion in English, before switching to broken Spanish and addressing the face in the door. “Uh, a friend at our hotel said this was a good place to have some adult fun?” he slurred. The sour stink of hard liquor fumed on his breath.
    “What hotel?” the doorman asked, switching to English.
    “Hey, he speaks English!” the leader said. “The Intercontinental Hotel, amigo .”
    Ever suspicious, the doorman scrutinized them, then the little hatch closed and the scarred wooden slab swung open.
    The leader stepped into the doorway and rabbit punched the doorman in the throat. He hit the ground like a wet sack of cement, emitting a low groan from his crushed larynx. Brandishing their guns, the group moved stealthily through the empty foyer and around the corner into the bar. Don Tomas’ two security men, who were dutifully on guard in the lounge, registered the motion at the entryway, and seeing the Gringos’ weapons, immediately pulled their Glocks and rapid-fired at the gunmen. The hail of rounds caught the intruders off-guard. One of the Gringos died instantly as a slug obliterated his jaw. A second collapsed screaming as several bullets shattered his legs. The Colombians tipped over their marble tables for cover and continued shooting into the foyer.
    The pandemonium of women’s panicked shrieks mingled with the concussive detonations of close-quarter gunfire as the remaining occupants scrambled for safety while hell was breaking loose. Machine-gun rounds peppered the wall behind the Colombians as they continued to blast away at the figures in the entryway.
    On the second floor, Don Tomas pulled his pants on and drew his Glock from his jacket, ignoring the cringing girl on the bed clutching the covers to her chest. He pressed his ear to the door, and after confirming the hall was empty, padded silently on bare feet to the stairway. He peered downstairs. Don Tomas had survived many ambushes primarily due to his belief that when bullets started flying, the safe tactic was to shoot anything that moved and figure out who was who later. He had no idea why his Panamanian partners would want to eliminate him, but ruthless cunning had kept him alive when most of his peers were history, and this was just the latest betrayal in his brutal life.
    Given the number of times rivals had tried to kill him, he always anticipated the worst – rule number one was to never allow yourself to be surprised. Whoever was coming for him had just made the worst mistake of their lives. Don Tomas didn’t back away from fights. On the contrary, if you decided to take him on, you were buying a one way ticket to hell.
    He chambered a round and cautiously descended the stairs, a bead of sweat trickling down his bare chest, gun held with both hands in a military grip.
     
    ~
     
    Carmen froze as she heard the unmistakable sound of gunshots from the ground floor. There had never been any trouble in her place but now it sounded like World War Three had kicked off downstairs. She ran to her monitor and flicked the mouse. A menu popped up with thumbnails numbered 1 through 25. She clicked on 2 and watched in numb horror as the close circuit cameras captured her lovingly restored cocktail lounge transformed into a battle zone.
    “They’re shooting the place apart!” she gasped. “It’s those fucking dope dealers…”
    Al stared at the screen in disbelief. Carnage reigned. Bodies littered what he could see of the area.
    “Jesus, Carmen...” was all he could manage.
    She clicked on number 25. The alley behind the building appeared on the screen. Devoid of activity.
    “Al, quick, take Ernesto and go down the back way. End of the hall, then down the fire escape,” she ordered. Without waiting for a response, Carmen ran into the attached room and rooted around in a closet. She emerged clutching a 12-gauge pump shotgun with a pistol grip. “Get going. Now, Al! The