El Soldado: The Soldier, page 1
Other Books by William C. Dietz
WINDS OF WAR
Red Ice
Red Flood
Red Dragon
Red Thunder
Red Tide
Red Sands
Red River
Red Dog
ANDROMEDA
(Legion of the Damned Prequel Series)
Andromeda’s Fall
Andromeda’s Choice
Andromeda’s War
LEGION OF THE DAMNED
Legion of the Damned
The Final Battle
By Blood Alone
By Force of Arms
For More Than Glory
For Those Who Fell
When All Seems Lost
When Duty Calls
A Fighting Chance
From the Ashes
THE MUTANT FILES TRILOGY
Deadeye
Redzone
Graveyard
THE AMERICA RISING TRILOGY
Into the Guns
Seek and Destroy
Battle Hymn
THE RUNNER DUOLOGY
Runner
Logos Run
THE SAURON DUOLOGY
Deathday
Earthrise
THE EMPIRE DUOLOGY
At Empire’s Edge
Bones of Empire
THE CORVAN DUOLOGY
Matrix Man
Mars Prime
THE McCADE SERIES
Galactic Bounty
Imperial Bounty
Alien Bounty
McCade for Hire*
McCade on the Run*
THE DRIFTER TRILOGY
Drifter
Drifter’s Run
Drifter’s War
STANDALONE WORKS
El Soldado
Freehold
Prison Planet
Where the Ships Die
Bodyguard
The Seeds of Man
Rogan’s World
Steelheart
Snake Eye
Ejecta
GAMING NOVELS & NOVELLAS
The Dark Forces Trilogy
(Star Wars)
Soldier for the Empire
Rebel Agent
Jedi Knight
The Resistance Duology
(Star Wars)
The Gathering Storm
Resistance: A Hole in the Sky
Other Games
Halo: The Flood
Hitman: The Enemy Within
Heaven’s Devils
Mass Effect: Deception
*Omnibus edition
El Soldado
Copyright © 2024 by William C. Dietz
Published by JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc., in coordination with Wind’s End Publishing
Cover art by Andrzej Kuziola @ Kuziola.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-625677-41-9 (ebook)
ISBN 978-1-625677-42-6 (print)
Map courtesy of Freeworldmaps.net
Published by JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
49 W. 45th Street, Suite #5N
New York, NY 10036
awfulagent.com/ebooks
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Other Books by William C. Dietz
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Map
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
About the Author
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Lisa Rodgers, who could have accepted El Soldado as it was, but chose to dive in and make it better.
I will forever be thankful for her help.
To Wyatt,
Shoot straight, protect the weak, and police your brass.
Love, Papa
Prologue
U.S. State Department Travel Warning for Tampico, Mexico
“Tamaulipas (includes Matamoros, Nuevo Laredo, Reynosa, and Tampico): U.S. citizens should defer all non-essential travel to the state of Tamaulipas due to violent crime, including homicide, armed robbery, carjacking, kidnapping, extortion, and sexual assault.
The number of reported kidnappings in Tamaulipas is among the highest in Mexico. State and municipal law enforcement capacity is limited to nonexistent in many parts of Tamaulipas. Violent criminal activity occurs more frequently along the northern border and organized criminal groups may target public and private passenger buses traveling through Tamaulipas. These groups sometimes take all passengers hostage and demand ransom payments.
U.S. government personnel are subject to movement restrictions and a curfew between midnight and 6 a.m. Matamoros, Reynosa, Nuevo Laredo, and Ciudad Victoria have experienced numerous gun battles and attacks with explosive devices in the past year.”
Chapter One
Uvalde, Texas
It was Nick Serrano’s birthday. But, as he stared at the image in the mirror, there wasn’t much to celebrate. The man who met his gaze had two days’ worth of stubble, a .357 bullet dangling from a chain, and the words Semper fi tattooed on his chest. There were scars, too. The latest of which was still red and tender.
A few clothes, his guns, and a truck. That’s what Serrano had to show for his 36 trips around the sun. There had been money in the bank once, but his woman took that, and spent it on another man. So, what to do?
Never give up. That’s one of the many things Serrano had learned during eight in the Crotch. Seize opportunities was another.
Serrano checked his forty dollar Timex. It was 18:32 and time to go to work. And, assuming that Serrano had the stones, it was time to change his life for the better.
Serrano brushed his teeth, sprayed deodorant under both arms, and got dressed. His outfit consisted of a western style black shirt, jeans, and boots.
His rig included two holsters, one on his strong side for a S&W 7-shot revolver, and a cross draw for the pistol he thought of as Shorty, because of its three-inch barrel.
The belt and holsters were supported by leather suspenders, both equipped with cartridge loops, 7 on each side. All in .357 magnum. All street legal in Texas.
“The same ammo for every gun.” That was Serrano’s motto. And no semiautomatics. Not after Serrano’s nine jammed in Syria, and damn near got him killed.
A Levi jacket went on over Serrano’s arsenal and a cowboy hat settled onto his head. The rest of his stuff went into an AWOL bag. The room had been paid for in advance, which allowed Serrano to depart without visiting the office.
His Toyota Tundra pickup was lifted for offroad use. That made it easier to take a knee, grab the flashlight clipped to the frame, and check the vehicle’s frame for bombs and trackers. Not because Serrano was expecting trouble, but because it was a good habit, like brushing his teeth. Then it was time for him to test the hood lock and inspect both doors for any signs of tampering. There weren’t any.
Serrano was in Uvalde, west of San Antonio, so it made sense to get on 35. That took him to the outskirts of San Antonio, where Serrano paused to grab a Whopper, prior to reporting to his job as a guard. Not a security guard in a shopping mall. But a “guard,” whose job it was to check on and, if necessary, to protect one of Mr. Yankovic’s “collectors.”
Serrano had been recommended for the job by an old Marine Corps buddy named Cory Dalton. He had explained that the job was part of a money laundering scheme.
“Basically, Mr. Yankovic and his posse steal crypto, process it via the blockchain, and dump it into a digital wallet. Then they move the crypto to a Bitcoin ATM, sell it, and take the cash. All before anyone has time to detect the scam and stop it.
“The collectors travel from ATM to ATM. The max is 10K from each. That’s why there are multiple collectors. A guard follows each collector to make sure they aren’t robbed, and are present to witness the handoff to an aggregator. Meaning one of Yankovic’s lieutenants. Each guard gets 500 smackers a day. Sweet, huh?”
It was sweet. Except for the fact that people were being robbed. An ethical dilemma that made Serrano feel uncomfortable. But hadn’t stopped him from accepting the job.
After leaving the drive-thru Serrano drove to the parking lot where his collector was waiting. He flashed his high beams, received a response, and pulled into a slot.
Then it was time to scan the lot for potential hijackers while the collector entered the hotel. Serrano didn’t see anything suspicious, so he managed to eat half his dinner before the collector reappeared with a slim briefcase in hand. For the money, Serrano decided, as he wiped his mouth.
Serrano followed the collector for three hours, as he traveled from place to place, and eventually wound up in a parking lot behind a church. A neon cross glowed above them.
A black Hummer was waiting. Lights flashed. Serrano’s collector left his car—briefcase in hand.
This is it, Serrano told himself. Put up or shut up. He got out, long gun pressed against his right thigh, and ambled over to the Hummer.
The aggregator was an amateur weight lifter judging from his skin tight tee and thick arms. “You know the rules,” the aggregator said. “Return to your truck. I’ll pay you there.”
Serrano brought the pistol up. “Drop to the ground and spread your arms. If you reach for a weapon, I’ll shoot you.”
The collector dropped. The aggregator didn’t. “You’re making a serious mistake,” the weight lifter said. “If you steal from Mr. Yankovic, he’ll track you down.”
Serrano was in no mood to consider the future. “He’ll try,” Serrano said. “Now drop.”
The aggregator obeyed.
The Taser X2 was ready in Serrano’s left hand. He shot both men. They began to convulse as Serrano took the slim briefcase and made his way over to the Hummer, where a gym bag filled with cash was sitting on the passenger seat.
So far, so good, Serrano thought, as he carried the money to his truck. It’s time to haul ass. Tires screeched as he left the lot.
Like many bandits before him, Serrano was headed for Mexico by way of the McAllen crossing. There were numerous reasons for that, the first and foremost of which was Serrano’s dual American/Mexican citizenship, a gift from his divorced parents.
As a child, Serrano spent the winter months in the U.S., going to school, and doing what boys do. During summers Serrano supposedly lived with his dad in the town of Lugar de Paz. But, since his father was rarely there, it fell to his grandfather to help raise him.
And that was the second reason for fleeing to Mexico. Serrano wanted to visit Papá, even though his stay would be necessarily brief. The last thing Serrano wanted to do was bring Yankovic’s thugs to Lugar de Paz. Such a thing wasn’t certain of course. But Serrano couldn’t take the chance.
Last and certainly not least was Serrano’s hope that he could, with the help of Yankovic’s cash, create a new identity for himself. The details of which hadn’t been established.
It was a straight shot down Highway 281. Traffic was light that time of night, the air was cool enough to open a window, and the two-hour drive to the town of Alice was uneventful.
Serrano considered buying fuel there. But, with half a tank of gas, he decided to push the pit stop off to Falfurrias, where he would refuel, take a pee, and buy coffee.
Serrano took the exit for Falfurrias forty minutes later, pulled into a brightly-lit gas station, and took notice of a flatbed truck with a crew cab.
There was nothing remarkable about such a rig in south Texas. But the fact that it was parked off to one side, where three teenage boys were smoking what Serrano assumed to be marijuana, caught his attention.
Situational awareness. That’s what noncoms emphasized in the Corps, and Serrano knew, because he’d been a staff sergeant. So, he marked the boys on his mental map, and went about his business. The teens were still goofing around when he left.
Serrano was about ten minutes into the one-hour drive to McAllen, when headlights became visible in his rearview mirror, and grew steadily brighter until a truck passed on the left. Serrano recognized it as the same flatbed he’d seen at the gas station.
Without warning, the truck cut in front of Serrano and braked. The distance between the vehicles was so short that Serrano couldn’t avoid hitting the flatbed with his brush guard.
The maneuver was intentional, no doubt about that, so Serrano shifted into reverse. Suddenly headlights appeared from the rear, topped by red and yellow flashers. The police?
No, in spite of the glare, Serrano could see the outline of a tow truck.
It was a trap. Stop a driver, rob him, and steal his vehicle. Rather than be trapped in his truck, Serrano released his seat belt and opened the door.
A boy, probably late teens, was standing there, pistol in hand, aiming it at Serrano. The ex-marine shot him in the chest, and turned to shoot a second teen in the head, even as the tow truck’s driver fired.
The bullet snapped past. Serrano ducked, fired, and saw the man fall.
The next bullet was in keeping with what Gunnery Sergeant Logan liked to say. “If the bastard is worth one, he’s worth two.”
That left the third teen. He was in the flatbed and planning to haul ass. And it would have worked if the flatbed’s trailer hitch hadn’t been tangled up in the Tundra’s brush guard.
The kid was at the wheel, pedal to the metal, and going nowhere—when Serrano shot him through the side window. The impact threw him sideways and out of sight.
As for the other bodies, Serrano managed to drag them around to the shoulder of the road, before a semi roared past. Then, by jumping up and down on the Tundra’s brush guard, Serrano managed to free it.
As for feelings of guilt, there were some, in spite of the fact that Serrano had been acting in self-defense. Perhaps Tupac Shakur put it best when he said, “…Live by the gun and die by the gun.” The hijackers had made a choice and it was the wrong one.
Serrano pulled over about five miles short of the border, pressed a button under the dash, and watched the overhead tray whine down. Serrano had purchased the used Tundra from a company that specialized in armored vehicles, because he wanted something with T6 level protection, given all the crime in Mexico.
There was no way to know what the previous owner kept up there, but drugs were one possibility, as were weapons. And that’s what Serrano had in mind.
His rifle and shotgun were already in the tray. So, all Serrano had to do was add the rig, plus Yankovic’s cash, which fit in around the weapons. Once that chore was taken care of, Serrano raised the tray.
Could the customs officers find the stash? They not only could, but they would, if they chose to look. But Serrano felt sure that his red passport, the kind issued to officials and military personnel, would get him through.
Thanks to the early morning hour, the line was relatively short. Big rigs mostly, hundreds of which crossed the border every day.
But despite the short line, it still took halfan-hour starts and stops to advance to the island where a long-suffering customs agent was waiting. “Passport please.”
Serrano felt a rising sense of apprehension as he handed the maroon-colored passport across. Was it still good? Or had one of the cube dwellers at the DOD cancelled it?
That would be legit after all, since Serrano was back from Venezuela, and off the black ops payroll. The agent looked from the passport photo to Serrano. “Welcome back Mr. Costas… How was the trip south?”
“About what you’d expect,” Serrano replied.
“And you have business in Mexico?”
“Affirmative.”
The agent handed the passport back. “Watch your six, Mr. Costas. And thank you for your service.”
Serrano nodded. “And thank you for yours.”
The Mexican checkpoint was on the other side of the McAllen-Hildago International Bridge in Reynosa. Thanks to the early hour, and nine southbound lanes, there was hardly any delay for Mexican nationals.
Serrano waited for an exhaust-spewing semi to clear the way, pulled forward, and proffered his Mexican passport. A real one this time, with two Grants tucked inside. “Buenos días.”
The way Serrano looked, his coastal accent, and the “fee” were sufficient to establish his bonafides. The agent stamped a page and returned it.
“Bienvenido, señor.”
As Serrano accepted the passport, he could tell that the fifties were missing. He smiled. It was good to be back.
Serrano’s plan was to follow 85 south to Monterrey, check into a decent hotel, and get some serious Zs. It was a four-hour drive. And, by the time Serrano arrived, he was exhausted.
After purchasing some fast food, which he ate in the truck, Serrano checked into a chain hotel. His room was nice, but not exceptional. He threw a pillow into the crevasse between the queen-size bed and the wall, jerked the quilt free, and made a nest on the floor.
Then Serrano used extra pillows and a blanket to create what looked like a sleeping person on the bed. The purpose of which was to absorb bullets while Serrano returned fire, a trick that had worked in Belize City.
