Ghost Warrior II - Irish Sister

 Tucker stepped out onto the back porch, the wooden planks cool under his boots in the early gray light. The weight of the morning pressed around him like old armor—not unfamiliar, but heavier now with Rebecca’s face hanging behind every breath.

He scrolled his contacts, thumb moving quick and certain. Found the name. Pressed CALL.

Two rings. Then: “Delgado.”

Luis’s voice was clipped, alert, no-nonsense. The tone of a man who hadn’t slept much and wouldn’t anytime soon.

“Luis,” Tucker said. “It’s me.”

There was a pause, then the voice on the other end softened by degrees. “Hey, Tucker. How can I help?”

Tucker leaned one hand against the porch post, looking out across the dark silhouette of the barn. “Just took care of the El Flaco situation. The farmhouse won’t be a problem anymore.”

Luis grunted. “Yeah. I heard something early this morning about some kind of internal cartel dispute. Farmhouse outside Refugio got lit up. DEA heard chatter—unconfirmed. Locals are saying it was like a damn war zone.”

Tucker didn’t respond to the commentary. “We’re heading to Mexico.”

A longer pause this time.

“It’s totally off-book,” Tucker continued. “Black. My team and I are on liberty. No mission. No backup. I shouldn’t be telling you this—but I trust you. And I need intel.”

Luis sighed, and Tucker could hear the creak of his chair as he leaned back.

“What do you need?”

“What have you got on the Reynosa cartel compound? The hacienda where El Jefe lives. I need terrain details, location, entry points, anything.”

Luis whistled low. “You’re not aiming small.”

“No choice.”

“Well…” Luis exhaled through his nose. “We’ve had drones over it before. Nothing close recently. It's a big house—two stories, traditional hacienda design. Massive porch up front, colonial columns, red tile roof. Whitewashed walls. Looks like a postcard.”

“Interior?”

“Unknown,” Luis said. “But we had a confidential informant about two years back. Told us they built a panic room inside—ground floor. Reinforced concrete, steel, rebar. Door’s probably armored. If El Jefe gets spooked, that’s where he’ll run.”

Tucker didn’t speak, just absorbed.

“It’s rural,” Luis went on. “About twenty miles outside of Reynosa. Scrub hill country. Pretty open terrain the last half klick—house sits on a shallow rise. Final 300 yards are cleared all around, no cover. Just brush and sun-baked clay.”

Tucker nodded. “Any approach options?”

“There’s talk of an old irrigation gully running west to east. Might cut through that cleared perimeter. No guarantees, but it could give you a concealed crawl to within 150 yards.”

Tucker watched the horizon lighten.

Luis kept going. “We know they’ve got automatic weapons. At least a few RPGs—Russian or Venezuelan models, nothing new. Maybe 20 to 25 men guarding the house at any time. These guys aren’t street punks. They’re hardened. Former soldiers, some of them.”

“And no air support?”

“Not on the approach,” Luis said. “There’s too much heat. They’d light up a chopper with RPGs the second they heard rotors.”

Tucker’s grip on the porch railing tightened.

“But,” Luis added, “I can have a helo waiting in a low-visibility LZ a few klicks out for exfil. That’s unofficial, Tucker. If it goes sideways, they don’t exist.”

“That’s all I need.”

Luis’s voice dropped. “You’re walking into the lion’s den, brother. If you’re caught, no one’s coming.”

“I understand.”

There was a pause, the weight of old respect stretching across silence.

“Send me whatever topographical maps you’ve got,” Tucker said. “Anything. Satellite, old land surveys, whatever you can scrape up.”

“I’ll get it to you within the hour.”

“Thanks, Luis. I’ll stay in touch.”

“Godspeed,” Luis said. “And Tucker—bring her home.”

Tucker ended the call.

He stood there for a moment longer, phone in hand, jaw tight. Then he turned and walked back into the kitchen, where the rest of the team sat in silence, nursing coffee and waiting.

“We’ve got a layout,” Tucker said. “Big hacienda. Two floors. No good approach except maybe a gully off the west side. Compound’s clear-cut for 300 yards. Panic room’s on the ground floor—steel reinforced.”

He paused and looked around the room. “We’re not taking the front door.”

Boomer leaned forward. “How many tangos?”

“Twenty to twenty-five. Fully armed. Ex-military.”

Chris’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Tucker continued. “No air support. Too hot. But we’ll have a helo waiting on the back end—couple klicks out, low-profile.”

Rip nodded once. Breaker leaned down and scratched behind Ceasar’s ears. The dog didn’t move, eyes fixed on Tucker like he understood every word.

“Luis is sending us maps,” Tucker finished. “As soon as we get them, we plan our breach.”  He didn’t need to ask if they were in.  They were already there.

The silence that followed Tucker’s final words was grim but electric. Around the table, every man nodded—eyes sharp, minds already working through the next phase.

Tucker turned to Keys, who was already pulling his laptop closer. “Once Luis gets us those maps, I want you on satellite. See if you can request some time from any birds we can access. Task it to get eyes on the hacienda.”

Keys tapped a few keys and nodded. “Yeah. I’ve still got a few access points left I can exploit. I’ll prioritize infrared imaging, movement patterns, maybe pick up some heat signatures if we’re lucky. But I’ll need the grid coordinates from Luis.”

“Good. Do it quiet,” Tucker said. “Nothing that pings back. If the cartel’s got any sniffers on open spectrum, we don’t want to announce ourselves.”

“Already running in ghost mode,” Keys muttered, eyes already flicking across screens.

Tucker turned to the rest. “Until then, check your gear. Tactical loadouts, confirm weapons and backups. I want everyone tight and slick. No heavy packs—low profile. We roll lean and fast.”

Chris stood and stretched, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll double-check ammo and blowout kits. I’ve got flashbangs, a few frags, and two suppressed HK416s. I’ll load out both.”

Breaker tapped the side of his boot, where his combat knife rode inside a sheath. “Ceasar’s got his armor vest and GPS tag. I’ll add a second radio to his collar. He’s ready.”

“Boomer?” Tucker asked.

“Thermals, breaching charges, EOD kit’s prepped. Brought a new remote disruptor for any surprises. Packed light, packed mean.”

“Rip?”

“Diving gear’s stowed. Not likely we’ll need it this trip, but I brought microcord, soft-shoe rigging, and my recon optics. I’ll sweep perimeters and be your eyes at the outer line.”

Tucker gave a short nod, then checked his watch. “Alright. It’s 0700 now. I’m going to get a couple vehicles squared away—something local, clean, no rental trail. Maybe buy outright, or see if Luis has a lead on some unregistered transport.”

Chris raised a brow. “We driving the whole way?”

“Yeah,” Tucker said. “I want to hit the border at Nuevo Laredo. Less watched than the big commercial ports. We’ll split into two vehicles, tourist look, drive through quiet, no long rifles in plain view.”

Boomer chuckled. “Nothing says ‘just passing through’ like a Doberman and six combat vets in cargo shorts.”

Breaker smirked. “I’ll dress Ceasar in a bandana. Make him look like a pet. No worries.”

Tucker drained the last of his coffee and stood. “Let’s reconvene here at 1900. Bring your gear packed, final loadouts ready. We’ll go over maps, confirm the transit route, and establish tactical entry, comms, contingency fallback, and extract options.”

“Working dinner?” Rip asked.

“Yeah,” Tucker said. “Something hot. But fast. I don’t want anyone distracted.”

Keys, eyes still glued to the screen, raised a finger. “Once I get the imagery from Luis, I’ll print a couple hi-res overlays. I’ll mark any visible personnel shifts and open terrain. You’ll have good eyes on the hacienda layout.”

“Perfect. Keep it close,” Tucker said. “Until then—prep, rest, and hydrate. Sundown, we roll.”

Everyone stood at once, chairs scraping lightly. The calm before the storm. Each man moved with quiet precision, dispersing into the house, their minds already on the mission ahead.

Keys’ voice cut through the quiet farmhouse like a flare.

“Got it!” he shouted from upstairs. “Luis just dropped the intel package—maps, drone overlays, the whole works. Tasking the satellite now, dialing it in.”

Tucker leaned out from the hallway, halfway through lacing his boots. “Good work, Keys. Get me coordinates and thermal frames as soon as you’ve got 'em.”

He turned toward the kitchen, where Chris was checking his sidearm at the table. “You and I need wheels,” Tucker said.

Chris nodded, stood, and zipped his weapons case. “I figured.”

Tucker looked back toward the stairs. “Hey! Any of you bring your backstopped creds?”

From the second floor, Keys yelled, “Got mine!”

“Yeah,” Boomer echoed from the den, reassembling a breaching kit. “All clean, Tier-2 IDs. Under a guy named Tomás Ruiz. Retired construction consultant.”

“Breaker?”

“In my go-bag,” Barron replied, calmly feeding Ceasar a bite of beef jerky. “Will Johnston, IT sales, out of San Diego.”

Tucker grunted in approval. “Alright. I’m gonna rent two vehicles using one of my ghost IDs. Good credit, perfect cover, and full insurance—because we’re not bringing them back.”

Ripley chuckled from the doorway. “Gotta love plausible deniability.”

Chris followed Tucker toward the door. “You want civvy cars?”

“Tourist types,” Tucker said, checking his wallet. “A dark SUV and something tan or silver. Basic. Forgettable. Nothing tactical-looking. No decals, no flash. Make them look like rentals off a mid-range lot.”

Chris nodded, double-checking his burner phone and keys. “We going through Rockport or straight to Corpus?”

“Corpus,” Tucker answered, pushing open the back door. “More selection. Easier to lose a tail if someone’s watching.”

As they stepped out into the sunlight, Keys’ voice floated down again from upstairs, tight with focus.

“Pulling a full thermal sweep now, boss. Should have movement traces in fifteen. I’ll start mapping guard rotations based on patterns in the heat signatures.”

“Print me a hardcopy of the terrain,” Tucker called back. “Elevation and tree line markings too.”

“You got it.”

Tucker paused at the truck, hand on the driver’s door, and glanced back at the house. The others had already scattered to their prep work—Ripley oiling a sidearm, Breaker test-fitting Ceasar’s tactical vest, Boomer reloading two spare mag pouches.

The team was locked in.

He and Chris climbed into the truck and started it up, gravel crunching as they rolled toward the main road.

Inside the house, Keys stared at his screen, overlaying the topographical maps Luis had sent with live thermal imagery from the new satellite ping. A faint grin crossed his face as he dragged his stylus across the screen, circling a thin strip of gully snaking toward the southern flank of the hacienda.

“Now that,” he murmured, “might just work.”