by Peter Nealen
***
They could already hear raised voices as they got closer to the suite that was serving as the Blackhearts’ temporary meeting place. Brannigan was already pissed from the bits and pieces he’d heard clearly by the time he pushed the door open.
“We’re not in the mil anymore!” Jenkins was protesting. “I don’t have to put up with this shit!”
“Okay, you’re not in the mil anymore,” Santelli growled, his meaty fists on his hips. “That does not absolve you from getting stupid and talking out of fucking school!”
“Look, maybe the tats were a bad idea,” Wade said. “But we weren’t talking out of school. Sure, we were telling war stories, but it wasn’t like we were openly talking about where we were at the time, or even when it happened.”
“It’s still bullshit,” Jenkins exclaimed. “Who the hell are you to get in my ass, Santelli? You’re not a Sergeant Major anymore.”
“But he’s my right hand, and I run this outfit,” Brannigan snarled, looming behind Santelli. “You want to work? You want to get paid to be a shooter again? Then you do what Carlo Santelli tells you to where it pertains to the job and security about the job, and you keep your damned mouth shut, or one of us is going to shut it for you. Permanently. Get my drift, Jenkins?”
***
George Jenkins suddenly realized that he was getting none-to-friendly stares from most of the other Blackhearts in the room, most especially from the original Khadarkh crew.
His initial reaction was to get even more pissed. Who the hell did these guys think they were? He had been a SEAL. Sure, some of them had been Recon Marines, but they hadn’t been in JSOC. The fact that he hadn’t been either was something he didn’t particularly think about much. Sure, he hadn’t been up to DEVGRU selection. He’d had an off week. That was all. He was sure that he’d have made it if he’d gotten another chance.
But he’d still been a SEAL, and still had that Trident tattooed on his chest. The SEAL teams were the best and greatest warriors on the planet. Everyone knew it. So who did these Marines think they were, talking down to him?
But the somewhat more common-sense part of his mind was registering that some of those not-so-friendly looks weren’t just pissed. And the implications of Brannigan’s threat to shut his mouth “permanently” were starting to work their way through his mind.
“You wouldn’t,” he started to say, then faltered as Brannigan’s eyes flashed dangerously.
“Wouldn’t what, Jenkins?” Brannigan said softly. “We’ve already invaded two sovereign countries for pay. What do you think we wouldn’t do to maintain our security, and make sure nobody knows about the Blackhearts who shouldn’t?”
For a moment, Jenkins looked into the big Colonel’s eyes, and suddenly felt his blood run cold. Brannigan wasn’t impressed by his Trident, or his resume, and Jenkins suddenly got an idea of just how dangerous the big man really could be. He’d seen Brannigan in combat, of course, but he’d never imagined him to be anything but an officer, until now.
He swallowed, and at the same time, got even more pissed. He didn’t like being afraid. He didn’t like being forced to acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the best, most dangerous man in the room.
“Fine,” he said, his voice coming out more high-pitched and hoarse than he’d intended. He cleared his throat. “Fine,” he repeated. “I’ll shut up. But this isn’t over.”
“Yes, it is,” Wade suddenly growled. Jenkins looked over at the big Ranger’s pale, pitiless eyes. “I’m with Brannigan on this,” Wade continued. “Sure, I got carried away. I screwed up; we shouldn’t have gotten the tats. But we’re a team, and a team needs to be on the same page. We’re not in high-school. We work for Colonel Brannigan, and he says Santelli’s word goes. So it does. And if you turn on the team for the sake of your fucking ego, I’ll cut your throat in a heartbeat.”
Jenkins saw the truth of his words in Wade’s eyes. The big man’s stare always looked a little too intense, a little crazy. Jenkins suddenly knew that Wade would follow through on his threat without batting an eye.
Fighting back tears of rage and humiliation, he subsided. “Fine,” was all he said. He turned away from the rest and headed for the back corner of the room.
As he did, he caught a glimpse of Aziz watching him. The message in the other man’s eyes was just as clear.
Hey, it ain’t me this time.
***
It took a few minutes for the tension from the confrontation to die down. Tanaka had been keeping as far back toward the wall as possible; the look on his face was that of a kid watching his parents fight. The original team had mostly been standing behind Santelli, and Bianco and Wade had been flanking Jenkins, only facing him instead of backing him up.
Hart had still been sleeping it off in the other room.
Hancock had gone to retrieve Hart, who was disheveled but somewhat more coherent. He was deeply, almost embarrassingly apologetic for being too drunk to make his own way to the meeting, and promised repeatedly that it wouldn’t happen again. Santelli and Brannigan had simply stared at him and made it clear that it had better not.
Then they got down to the business of planning.
Chapter 4
The Grupo Huerta rep was a thin, weaselly-looking man, with a pencil mustache and long, wavy hair. He was wearing a light-gray suit, and lounging in the booth where Brannigan and Hancock had been instructed to meet him, looking at his phone.
He looked up as the two Blackhearts approached the booth. The small diner in Corpus Christi seemed like a strange place for a business meeting, but given the nature of the business they had with Grupo Huerta, the low-key surroundings were probably better than any corporate conference room.
The little man looked up at them, with the kind of languid insolence in his eyes that Brannigan had come to expect from gang-bangers, not corporate drones. Of course, he had to wonder just how much separation there really was, given Grupo Huerta’s “discreet” elements.
He slid into the booth across from the little man. “You must be Señor Cavaldes,” he said.
Cavaldes might have nodded. It was more of a toss of his head, as if to say, Whatever, gringo.
“We have some business to discuss,” Brannigan said. Hancock had grabbed a nearby metal-backed chair, flipped it around, and straddled it, folding his arms across the top of the back.
“I don’t think so,” Cavaldes replied. There was a notable, if faint, sneer in his voice, that almost extended to his expression.
Brannigan usually prided himself in controlling his emotions and his expression, but his eyes flashed at the little man’s tone. Cavaldes noticed it, too. He didn’t flinch; not quite. But he sobered a little.
“You’re going to have to repeat that,” he said, leaning partway across the table, his voice dropping to a threatening rumble. “Because if I came out here just for you to waste my time, I’m going to be a little…upset.”
Cavaldes glanced over at Hancock, who was watching him with that hawkish, unblinking stare that Hancock got when he was watching a target, or a wayward subordinate who needed a severe thrashing. He blinked, and looked back at Brannigan, who was watching him with the same sort of intensity. The thin man licked his lips, apparently suddenly realizing that the gringos he was meeting with were every bit as dangerous as the sicarios running around his country.
“I’m here to tell you that the meeting is off,” Cavaldes said, sounding a bit more subdued. “Only the fact that Contralmirante Huerta set it up kept me here. You should go home and forget all about this.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, sport,” Brannigan said, “we are home. You’re on American soil.” It was a minor point, but this guy was pissing him off, and he felt the need to correct him. “Why is Grupo Huerta reneging on the deal?”
“It is a security matter,” Cavaldes answered. “The Grupo cannot risk doing business with you.”
“Is that so?” Brannigan countered. “Given some of the under-the-t
able deals that the Grupo Huerta has been involved in, I find that rather hard to believe.” He didn’t exactly have a complete dossier on the company, but Van Zandt had managed to get him just enough background to know who he was dealing with. “You’ve made deals with cartel front companies, transnational criminal organizations operating under NGO status, and even countries that do not have your nation’s best interests at heart. You’ve laundered drug money, looked the other way while your ships and aircraft have been used for gunrunning, and facilitated the siphoning of your country’s natural resources to China.” He watched Cavaldes’ face go pale as his litany continued. He was hitting the mark, and had to wonder how much more was under the surface that he didn’t know about.
“So don’t try to tell me that you’re suddenly worried about either dealing with dangerous people, or breaking the law, Señor Cavaldes,” he continued. “Neither one has stopped you before.”
Cavaldes’ jaw worked for a moment, and then he suddenly tried to bolt. He didn’t get far. A diner booth is not the best spot to try to make a quick getaway, and he got jammed between the seat and the table, just long enough for Hancock to get in his way, suddenly looming over him, that same piercing stare pinning him to the bench, a hand hovering in just the right spot to make it clear he had a pistol under his shirt.
“What’s the deal, Cavaldes?” Brannigan asked. He hadn’t moved, letting Hancock head off their suddenly reticent contact. “Did you get paid off? Or has one of the top people been threatened?”
“Maybe both?” Hancock suggested, keeping Cavaldes pinned with his basilisk stare.
As he watched Cavaldes, Brannigan couldn’t help but feel an intense déjà vu. Their first contacts in Dubai, on the way into Khadarkh, had been the Suleiman Syndicate, a rare Arabic criminal organization, and they had turned on them. This wasn’t as hairy; they hadn’t been counting on Huerta for the weapons or ammo, but more for transport and other, more minor logistical items on a short timeline. But now that looked like it was out the window, and he couldn’t help but wonder why. Corruption? Or something worse?
Cavaldes seemed to have realized that he’d misread the situation badly. He had quickly gone from casually contemptuous to near-panicked. “Look, I don’t know why, man!” he protested. “I’m just the messenger!”
“You’ve got to know something,” Brannigan said quietly, keeping his voice low and dangerous. “Maybe we should take you for a ride and wring you out a little.”
Cavaldes was shaking his head. “They didn’t tell me anything,” he insisted. “I was supposed to meet with you, and then an hour ago I got a call that I had to tell you that the deal was off.”
Hancock glanced at Brannigan, who was still watching Cavaldes with narrowed eyes. “An hour ago?” he asked.
Cavaldes nodded spasmodically. “Yeah, just about.”
It didn’t tell him much, but it told him that something had definitely changed. Maybe someone had gotten to the Grupo Huerta leadership? Or some new bit of information had surfaced? Maybe the attackers were connected, higher than Huerta had imagined.
That was a thought. Might it explain why Huerta’s hands were apparently tied?
“Look man, I don’t know what else to tell you,” Cavaldes said, his eyes flicking back and forth between Hancock and Brannigan. “All I know is, the Grupo won’t work with you. I can’t change that.”
Brannigan watched him for a long moment, then jerked his head toward the door. “Get out of here,” he said curtly.
Hancock didn’t say a word, but stepped away, granting Cavaldes an escape route. The skinny man took immediate advantage, scrambling out of the booth and moving quickly toward the door. He didn’t run, not quite, but he made tracks.
Brannigan sat back in the booth and looked at Hancock. “What do you think, Roger?” he asked.
Hancock watched Cavaldes’ retreat, a faint crease between his eyebrows as he thought. “Is that a ‘what do you think we should do’ question, or a ‘why do you think they backed out’ question?” he asked.
“Both,” Brannigan answered.
Hancock sat down in the booth across from his boss, where Cavaldes had been sitting. “As for the second, I wonder if Huerta wasn’t under surveillance by somebody connected with the opposition, whoever they are,” he said. “It’s the only way I can think that somebody might have gotten wind of our involvement in the first place. I know you don’t entirely trust Van Zandt; neither do I. But the leak coming from him doesn’t seem right.”
Brannigan nodded. “I think you’re right. Van Zandt has plenty of reasons not to like me; I’ve got even more reasons not to like him. But this doesn’t smell right to be him. There’s definitely something going on; this is way too big and too bloody to be a setup.”
“So, the bad guys have bird-dogs out, keeping an eye on their opposition,” Hancock concluded. “Which means that this is even bigger than we thought.”
But Brannigan shook his head fractionally at that. “No, it was already plenty big. Nobody coordinates an attack on that scale without being in it for all the marbles. September 11th was big, and that was half the number of targets this was. It was relatively simple, too; capture four airplanes and kamikaze them into buildings. This was coordinated hits, across state and international lines. Somebody big’s involved; somebody with a lot of resources.”
“Which brings us back to the original question,” Hancock said. “What do we do now?”
“What do you think?” Brannigan asked.
Hancock mused for a second. His glance suggested that he knew what Brannigan was getting at; the Colonel had made it clear before Burma that Hancock was his second-in-command, and needed to be on top of things in case Brannigan went down. Brannigan was pushing him to think and strategize.
“Chavez got us the initial contacts with the Suleiman Syndicate in Dubai,” Hancock said after a moment. “I know, it didn’t work out, but that was an on-the-ground decision by that Al Fulani asshole. The point is, Chavez knows ways of making contact with the ‘gray area’ of commerce. I think we need to have him do some digging.”
Brannigan nodded in satisfaction. Roger hadn’t been ready when Brannigan had told him he was the go-to to take over the Blackhearts if and when the time came. He’d still been doing what he’d always done, pursuing adrenaline. Often at risk of life and limb.
Since that day, when Brannigan had watched his subordinate and old friend nearly wipe out on a racetrack, he’d noticed a change in the former NCO. Roger didn’t take as many risks. He was always thinking, always observing, always pushing to assemble as much information about their situation that he could get. He’d taken Brannigan’s words to heart, and it was a good thing to see.
“I agree,” Brannigan said, sliding out of the booth, making sure his shirt was still covering the butt of his 1911. “Let’s give Hector a call.”
***
“I don’t know how we’re going to get all of this without attracting attention,” Santelli worried, looking down at the loadout list that he and Brannigan had put together. “We’re gonna be on a watch list by noon, if not wrapped up by the cops.”
Tanaka laughed. Santelli looked up at him, frowning.
“You need to spend more time away from Taxachussets, Carlo,” Tanaka said, still chuckling. Gomez was smiling, a strange expression on the taciturn man’s otherwise immobile face. “This is Texas. We’ll probably get a discount.”
Gomez was driving the big cargo van, with Santelli in the right seat and Tanaka strapped into the single seat in the back. The sides of the van were windowless, making it unlikely that anyone was going to look into their cargo, even though, as Tanaka had pointed out, they were in Texas, and unlikely to be interfered with, or even draw a second glance.
“We’re close enough to Mexico that somebody’s going to think we’re gun-running,” Santelli protested.
“Except that most of the gun stores around here won’t even show their 4473s to the Feds without a warrant,” Tanaka explained. “Mo
st Texans take the Second Amendment very seriously. We’ll spread things out, make sure we’re not spending too much in one place, but we’ll be long gone before anybody thinks to start looking into the purchases we’re making. Don’t worry about it.”
Santelli looked out the window, a dubious expression on his face. He’d have to admit that he wasn’t familiar with Texas’ gun laws. For that matter, he’d spent most of his Marine Corps career either on Okinawa or in California, and the rest of his life in Boston. None of those places had the reverence for the Second Amendment or the gun culture of Texas.
“Why are we heading out of town?” he asked. They were nearing the outskirts of Corpus Christi, with no sign of stopping.
“Because if we’re going to spread things around,” Tanaka said seriously, “it’s better to start with the small-town gun stores. Most of them have better selection, anyway.”
An hour later, they pulled up next to “Ray’s Guns and Ammo,” a solid adobe structure with bars on the door and windows. The parking lot was pretty full for a Thursday afternoon, but neither Tanaka nor Gomez appeared at all surprised as Gomez parked the van and Tanaka pulled the side door open.
“Come on,” Tanaka said. “Let’s see what they’ve got.”
Tanaka led the way inside. Santelli’s eyes widened a bit as he entered the place.
Past the bars on the doors, “Ray’s Guns and Ammo” was a clean, brightly-lit emporium, with racks along the walls positively packed with everything from expensive shotguns to the newest “black” rifles. Shelves on the floor were loaded with ammunition, slings, holsters, reloading supplies, targets…anything that a shooter might need.
Tanaka moved to the counter in front of the newer firearms. Santelli recognized a few of them; the AK and AR patterns were unmistakable. He saw a few SCARs, PTR-91s—not unlike the G3s that they had jumped into Burma with—and several newer designs that he wasn’t familiar with. Most of them were illegal in his home state.
