The harvest moon illuminated all, taking favor with neither side.  An observant narco would soon detect the soldiers if they did not move quickly.

“Ahora,” Barrett ordered.

A guardsman opened the top hatch of the front Humvee and braced his elbows on the roof. He peered through the darkness by the aid of his night vision. The truck beds were filled with the silhouettes of riders and their easily recognizable Kalashnikov rifles.  He dropped back into the Humvee and said, “Scouts were right.  They ain’t cowboys.”

Barrett keyed his radio and tapped his finger against the microphone twice slowly and twice quickly – the confirmation for hostiles. The four Humvees lurched forward, accelerating as one.  Their engines roared like chupacabras.

By the time the cartels realized they were being pursued, the three-ton monsters were on top of them.   The men in the back of the pickups never considered returning fire.  They were too preoccupied with either bracing for impact or yelling, “Go, go!” in thick Spanish.

The Humvees were four wide and nearing 70 MPH as they reached the two rear pickups.  The trucks’ drivers were trying to accelerate, but were hopelessly blocked by the slower reactions of the amigos in front of them.

The driver of one of the rear pickups aimed for a dusty farm road.  He suddenly jerked the wheel hard to the left.  The high-speed transition from asphalt to gravel spun the light rear-end of the truck around.  One of the narcos in the bed was flung from his perch and was engulfed by the shadows.  His long wail was suddenly and forebodingly cut short.

The remaining rear truck was no match for the two Humvees that slammed into it.  An explosion of screams and wrinkling of sheet metal pierced the night as the pickup lurched forward. Again the pair connected with the truck and pushed it along the highway like some strange, landside barge and tugboat.  Two soldiers emerged from the top hatches of the Humvees and engaged the rear pickup with the top-mounted Miniguns.  They each let a long burst of 7.62 NATO loose and utterly annihilated the target.

The two front pickups were now well aware of the fate that awaited them.  Their engines roared with desperation as they struggled to pull away.  Meanwhile, the two outside Humvees surged forward.

As Humvees neared their top speed, the trucks began to pull away.  The narcos in the back had all watched as the Miniguns eviscerated their friends.  They had no desire to elicit a similar response.  They suddenly disappeared below the walls of the trucks’ beds.  Barrett keyed up his radio and spoke to his squad in coded Spanish.

“It’s okay, let ‘em pull off some.  Let’s see if they lead us somewhere. It’s not like they can get away.”

The pickups swerved in opposite directions at an intersecting dirt road.  The Humvees split up and began to gain back the lost ground.  The drivers realized the flaw in their maneuver, and within a mile were back on the straight asphalt drag of 186.  As they approached the city, they blew past a sign that read:

Raymondville City Limit

Pop. 9733

Welcome to God’s Country

A mile into town, the Barrett’s radio squawked to life, “We’ve got company at our twelve up on the overpass.  Looks like friendlies.  What’re they doing here?”

“Yeah, I see ‘em.  They’re a long way from home. I haven’t seen outside forces south of Corpus in months.  Lead pair; get some men on your Mk 19s.  As soon as the narcos are under the pass, hit ‘em.  If a couple grenades under the feet of our boys up top don’t scare ‘em back to Corpus, then maybe they’re worth having around.”

The lighter and faster pickups had a ten second lead on the Humvees as they approached the overpass.  They would occasionally slalom in the highway, as if the drivers anticipated another hailstorm from the Miniguns at any moment.  Their unease helped the Humvees maintain a closer tail than they otherwise could have.  Barrett gripped the radio fiercely in anticipation.  He preferred to use the old-style microphone while on patrol. It reminded him of a different time when wars were fought in distant lands, rather than Texas farm towns.

Twenty seconds until the fireworks.

Barrett leaned forward.   As he peered through the front windshield with his night vision goggles, a smirk crept across his face.  He keyed the mic, “Everybody ready up top?”

Two affirmatives echoed back at him.

“Hold for my order.”  He craned his head and studied the unexpected spectators atop the overpass.

Fifteen seconds.

The driver of the lead pickup was sweating and swearing profusely.  At this point, he had no promise of a next breath.  Their only hope, in his mind, was to make it to the overpass, swerve across two lanes and hop the highway’s edge curb.  From there, if he could manage to retain some semblance of control, he would guide the truck around the sharp onramp that would lead them south to Highway 77 – and survival.  All at about 80 MPH.  He knew the Humvees could never follow him.  If he was lucky, they would turn their attention to the other truck, while he made his way to Avondale and beyond.

Ten seconds.

  Barrett studied what he could now clearly identify as MRAP M-ATVs with their armaments pointed ominously downward.

Eight seconds.

Barrett’s mind had been trying to process why they would allow friendlies to sweep under their barrels – unless, no – impossible.  He could plainly see the markings on the vehicles from this distance.

Seven seconds.

They were obviously U.S. military.  Weren’t they?  And yet, something was wrong.

Six s econds.

The driver of the lead pickup had maneuvered himself to the far right lane of the highway.  The onramp for 77 south was fast approaching.  His palms were sweaty on the wheel. He steadied his resolve and focused on the desperate plan. He never even bothered to look up at the overpass.

Five seconds.

Barrett’s stomach was floating in his chest by the time he keyed the mic again.  He couldn’t risk the chance, and the time was now.  “Up top, back in the Humvee, now!  Now!”

The two men slid back into the cabins and slammed the top hatches shut.  They were confused, and more than a little irritated.  They were looking forward to rocking the world of the boys up top.  As they finished the thought, they saw the first of the tracers hit the pickups in front of them.  The trucks seemed to buckle from the hail of bullets.  Before they could react, a lead firestorm erupted all around them.  It seemed as if every square inch of their armored roof was clanging in unison.  At any moment, the Humvees would surely be torn apart.

The lead pickup careened off the road, into the ditch and then sailed through the air.  Limp bodies were flung haphazardly from the bed of the flaming projectile.  The other truck had spun several times and looked as if it would stop in the middle of the highway, until the front two Humvees slammed it forcefully to the other shoulder.  The drivers of the rear Humvees had predicted the maneuver and braked abruptly to avoid a collision, while their team in the front blazed a path.  With the road ahead clear, they accelerated ferociously.

Barrett quickly transitioned from shock to rage.  He keyed the mic up in English for the first time.

“Shee-yit!  We’re on the same team!”

No response.

“This is the unit commander for Alpha Squad, Texas State Guards, First Regiment, Padre Island.  Identify yourselves immediately or we will return fire.”

Finally, a man responded, “Oh my God.  Sir, do you have any casualties?”  The voice of the squad leader was strained and audibly distraught.  All protocol had been forgotten.