by Peter Nealen
The jungle stayed quiet—as quiet as the jungle ever could be, anyway—but Flanagan was already starting to get antsy. They needed to move. Two guns would not be enough if the Green Shirts showed up in force to investigate the gunfire.
“Well, he won’t join us without assurances that we’ve got more people with us.” Gomez turned back to Flanagan without quite turning his back on Otero. “He’s got a wife and kids, and he’s way out here in the hinterlands. He’s already worried as hell about retribution for this fight.”
Flanagan eyed Otero and the machete in his hand. “He’s not thinking about proving himself harmless to the Green Shirts, is he?”
Gomez shook his head. “I’m pretty sure he hates them as much as he’s scared of them. But he’s afraid that they’re going to come looking for the assholes we just killed. And that they’ll find Cruz’s body, too.”
“Well, we’ll do what we can to protect him, then.” Flanagan glanced at Otero, who was staring at the bodies with a blank, haunted look on his face. He didn’t doubt that the little man was seeing visions of reprisals, in all their gory horror. “We’ll need some help, but I think we can get the bodies hidden in the jungle in a few minutes.” He looked down at Cruz’s corpse with a frown. “And as much as I hate to say it, we’re going to have to hide Cruz, too. We can’t carry him back with us.” They had too far to go to carry a body and hold security at the same time.
“Going to be interesting to see what Pacheco has to say about this.” Gomez was already stripping Cruz’s weapons and equipment.
“Yeah.” They hadn’t learned much about Pacheco, except that he was old-school Search Bloc. And what he’d had to do to survive that meant that he had to have a certain degree of moral flexibility.
With his rifle set aside and his gear off, any identifying papers collected and shoved into a cargo pocket, Gomez hefted the body under the arms and started to drag Cruz across the fields toward the woodline, careful to keep from leaving too many incriminating prints in the tilled earth.
Flanagan stayed where he was, scanning their surroundings, his rifle at the ready. They couldn’t afford to drop security altogether while they hid the corpses. They’d have to switch off.
He glanced up. The vultures were already starting to circle overhead. They didn’t have a lot of time.
***
It took nearly an hour to get Cruz and the dead Green Shirts hidden, well back into the jungle and covered in leaves against a massive fallen tree. There wasn’t time to bury them, and it was conceivably possible that an animal might drag them out into the open to be found, but there was a lot of jungle, and there wasn’t a lot of traffic in that area. Otero had assured them of that. He’d even helped them move the bodies, once Gomez had convinced him that they were trying to protect him and his family, and that they meant him and his no harm.
Finally, they faded into the jungle, heading back toward Pacheco’s farm. The plan had to change. Provided that Cruz’s death hadn’t just destroyed it completely.
***
“Joe and Mario are coming back.” Burgess frowned. He was on watch at the window, keeping an eye on the long dirt road that led to Pacheco’s house. “Colonel? I think they’ve got bad news.”
Brannigan joined him. “What makes you say that?”
He didn’t need to hear what Burgess said next. He could see for himself. “Cruz isn’t with them, and Joe’s got a spare rifle slung on his back.”
Brannigan turned and left the window, grabbing his own Galil from where it leaned against Pacheco’s couch before he strode out the door, moving to meet Flanagan and Gomez. “What happened?”
“We took contact at Otero’s farm.” Flanagan’s voice was even and matter of fact. The black-bearded man had always been known for his calm in stressful situations. “Six Green Shirts came out of the weeds just as we were about halfway to the house.” He shrugged. “Cruz took a round to the leg and bled out before the fight was over. I couldn’t have gotten to him in time, even if I’d known.” He tilted his head toward Gomez. “Mario was on overwatch. He was even farther away.”
“Where is the body?” Brannigan hadn’t even noticed that Pacheco had come with him. The older man was quiet.
“We hid it in the jungle, with Otero’s help.” Flanagan sounded apologetic. “There wasn’t time to bury him. I’m sorry.”
“It’s war.” Pacheco didn’t seem all that bothered. He took a deep breath. “He won’t be the first or the last Colombian soldier to go unrecovered in these mountains. I know who to talk to so that his family is taken care of.” His eyes narrowed as he shifted mental gears back to the fight. “We’ll have to move quickly. Even if they never find the bodies, Clemente will know that he lost a patrol, sooner or later.”
“Do you think he has a target list already worked up?” Brannigan wasn’t happy about the prospect of rushing a guerrilla resistance. It was largely going to depend on just how much Clemente and his Green Shirts knew, and how quickly they reacted. Not to mention what form that reaction took.
“I don’t doubt it. People like Clemente always do.” Pacheco started back toward the house. “What about Otero?”
Brannigan, Gomez, and Flanagan followed him. Flanagan and Gomez looked exhausted—and no wonder; they’d covered a lot of miles through the jungle since that morning.
“He won’t be the first one to join up. He needs to know that he’s not going to be the nail that gets hammered down,” Flanagan said grimly. “Can’t say as I blame him.”
“He might be that nail anyway, if Clemente and Galvez realize that their patrol disappeared near his farm. They don’t necessarily need to find the bodies.” Pacheco stepped through the door and into the living room, where most of the rest of the team was gathered, their weapons in their hands. “From what they’ve done already, they’ll make an example out of Otero and his family if we don’t give them something else to focus on.”
“You’ve got an idea.” Brannigan wasn’t asking.
Pacheco nodded as he pulled a map out and spread it on the table. “We could hit one of the coca farms.” He pointed. “One of these, maybe, on the far side of the city.”
“That might buy us time, or it might get a whole lot of civilians killed in reprisals.” Brannigan frowned down at the map. He wasn’t seeing a lot of options. He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “We’ve got eight more days before the ambush was supposed to go down.” He glanced up at Bianco. “I don’t think the ‘wait and see’ plan is going to work anymore. We’re going to have to push the ‘liberation’ plan.”
“And if there is a backup force?” Bianco still sounded a little uncertain.
“We’ll deal with that problem when we come to it.” He grimaced. “No, I don’t like it, either. But we’re kind of stuck at this point. That fight and Cruz’s death committed us.” He looked down at the table and sighed. “Look, it’s entirely possible that Bianco’s worries are justified. We’re used to ‘give us the job and let us handle it.’ We don’t do well with the kind of limited, ‘don’t ask questions’ info we got for this mission. In fact, if not for the implied blackmail, I would have turned this down flat.” He looked up at Pacheco. “No offense.” The other man just spread his hands and shrugged. Brannigan looked around at the rest. “It’s possible that our paranoia led us into a mistake. I don’t think that’s the case, mind you. But we need to be ready to roll with the punches if we just threw a wrench into a carefully coordinated plan.”
Wade just snorted to express his opinion of that possibility.
Brannigan looked up at Pacheco again. “I’m going to call back home and see if I can dig up any more information. But lacking that, I think that Fuentes needs to be our next step. And if we’re going to try to liberate his farm and bring him in, I’m pretty sure we’re going to need to move fast.” He turned toward the packs at the back of the room. “Everybody get ready to move. I’ve got a call to make.”
***
Santelli hung up the phone. It was a little
odd, playing a support role back in the States, and even odder to be almost on the same time schedule. Decades of focus on the Eastern Hemisphere—and the Blackhearts had done more missions on the east side of the Atlantic than the west—had accustomed him to a significant time difference. He’d halfway been mentally expecting a lot of calls in the middle of the night.
Looking down at the phone, he took a deep breath. His teammates were in a bit of a crack, possibly of their own making, though he didn’t think so. They needed more information. The situation, however, required some care.
He finally dialed and put the phone to his ear. Van Zandt would ordinarily be their first contact, but Van Zandt was probably as much in the dark as the rest of them. Santelli was sure that the retired general would be doing some digging of his own, but while Santelli didn’t share the adversarial history that Brannigan had with Van Zandt, he didn’t have a terrifically high opinion of the other man’s ability to dig into the deeper, darker seams of the irregular world that the Blackhearts worked in.
The man he was calling? He might not know everything, but he came awfully close. Building connections for forty years tended to expand a man’s understanding of the shape of the world. Both in the light, and in the shadows.
The phone rang for several minutes, then went to voicemail. Santelli hung up without saying anything. He trusted the other man, but this wasn’t something he wanted committed to a recording.
He was considering the next call when the phone rang. Looking down, he recognized the number and answered it. “Master Guns Drake.”
“Long time, Carlo.” Santelli had never served with Ben Drake in the Marine Corps, like Brannigan had, but he’d certainly known of him. Drake had been a fixture, a modern “Grand Old Man of the Marine Corps,” until his retirement after thirty years in uniform. But he’d had a bit of a hand in the Blackhearts—his recommendation had led to Javakhishvili’s recruitment—and the partnership with Drake’s “Old Fogies” network had been a close one ever since the Humanity Front’s hired killers had gone after Childress. “What do you need?”
“Information, Master Guns.” Santelli leaned back in his chair as he spoke. He was in his garage, so he wasn’t too worried about Melissa coming in and overhearing anything. She didn’t want to know details about the Blackhearts’ work, anyway. “Information of a rather sensitive nature. I need to know if there are any ops happening down in Colombia, particularly near the Venezuelan border. Even deep, dark, non-official ops.”
“Hmm. I take it you’re circuitously talking about that little coup and declaration of an independent city-state in San Tabal?” Naturally, Drake had already figured most of it out. “I haven’t heard about anything beyond the rumor that a small, deniable PMC might have been hired to intervene.” It was unlikely, given their connections, that anyone was listening in, but both men tended to be cautious when it came to this sort of thing. “I can do some more digging, but if it’s classified highly enough, I might not be able to find out.”
“If you can’t find anything, there’s a mutual acquaintance that I don’t have contact information for that you might ask. An older gent, name of Abernathy.”
“I know him.” Drake didn’t sound surprised. “I’ll see what I can find out. I take it this is somewhat time-sensitive?”
“It is.” The phone vibrated in Santelli’s hand and he took it from his ear to look at the screen with a frown. “Master Guns, I’ve got to go. Van Zandt’s calling.”
“I’ll get back with you as soon as I’ve got anything, Carlo. Have a good one.”
Santelli hit the button to answer Van Zandt’s call. “Talk to me.”
“This just got a lot more interesting.” From the tone in Van Zandt’s voice, it wasn’t a good kind of interesting, either. “John hasn’t contacted anyone but you, correct?”
“Not so far as I know. At least, no one but their contact on the ground.” That was getting more complicated by the minute, too, but Santelli didn’t consider that relevant to the conversation at hand. Not at the moment.
“I didn’t think so. And yet, I got a phone call from the client not long ago, demanding to know why the team had already left and made a Green Shirt patrol disappear in the jungle.”
Santelli’s eyebrows climbed toward his receding hairline. “Your client’s talking to someone else on the ground.”
“Yep. And as far as I can tell, it’s not our people. I can’t find any comms with any special mission units or paramilitary spooks down there. Hell, I can’t find any indication that we’ve got any special mission units or paramilitary operators in the vicinity, aside from the handful on liaison with the National Army in Bogota.” Van Zandt wasn’t known among the Blackhearts for his suspicious nature, but this was getting too blatant for even him to ignore.
“So, our client’s talking to the bad guys.” It wasn’t a question.
“That’s not entirely certain, but it sure sounds suspicious, doesn’t it?” Van Zandt sighed, his breath rasping over the mic. “I’m going to keep digging, but let John know that I’m pretty much ninety percent sure that the canned plan we got is a setup.”
“I think he was already assuming that, sir.” Santelli knew that he sure had been. Van Zandt signed off unceremoniously, and Santelli put the phone down on his workbench, thinking.
He ground a meaty fist into his palm. For all his worries about his family, for all the remembered heebie-jeebies he’d endured in Azerbaijan, he hated sitting back here while the rest of the team was in harm’s way. Sure, Brannigan needed someone to coordinate, but couldn’t Chavez do that? There was only so much he could do. He didn’t have Drake’s connections, never mind Abernathy’s insider information. All he could do was contact those who did have such connections and information, and then wait.
All the same, as he glanced at the garage door, he knew that he wasn’t getting any younger, and that while he worried about the other Blackhearts, he didn’t have to worry about leaving Melissa and Carlo Jr. alone and wondering, anymore. That was a relief.
He just wished that he didn’t hate himself for feeling that relief.
The phone rang again. He didn’t recognize the number, but after a moment, he snatched it up and answered it. “Santelli.”
“Santelli, this is Abernathy. I understand you’ve got an op going on down south?”
“Something like that.” Santelli, like most of the Blackhearts, was still unsure just who Clayton Abernathy was, or what his interest was. That he had connections—and was most likely either in command of, or otherwise involved in, some kind of covert unit of his own—was undisputed. And he’d helped them several times already. “We need to know if there are any others working the same vicinity—and possibly the same mission set.”
“No.” Abernathy was usually a man of few words, and this was no exception. “You can take that to the bank. Your boys are the only ones working down there at the moment. That answer your questions?”
“It does.” It didn’t solve the problems, not really. But it answered many of the questions, as long as they weren’t looking for specifics. “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me until your team is out of harm’s way.” Santelli had gathered that Abernathy was a hard old man, and his words this time didn’t change that assessment. “I’ll have some of my intel people do some digging. If they come up with anything that might help, I’ll pass it along. But that’s all I can do. My people are mostly committed at the moment.”
“We’ll take whatever you can give us, sir.” Santelli meant that. He might not know what Abernathy’s real angle was, but he’d demonstrated that he was a formidable ally.
“I’ll be in touch.” The enigmatic old man hung up. Santelli reached for the satellite phone. Brannigan needed to hear this, and quickly.
Chapter 13
Galvez scowled at the valley below as he thought, standing next to the ancient Jeep that had taken him up to the top of the ridge overlooking San Tabal. They still hadn’t found the missing patrol,
and he seriously doubted that they would. It had been almost a day before anyone had noticed they hadn’t returned. Clemente had flown into a fury, and it had been all that he and Ballesteros could do to avoid being shot.
It was clear that Clemente suspected something. His paranoia was getting worse by the day. Galvez was seriously considering scrapping the plan and simply killing the man himself. But that would signal weakness, not only to the Colombians, but to the Venezuelans, who might not support them anymore. The Cartel de los Soles had other sources of drugs, and despite their connections with the Chavistas and the Venezuelan socialists in general, they were hardly ideologically pure. They wouldn’t care about the potential for revolution if they couldn’t make a profit off the flood of cocaine that Clemente had promised.
And if their American ally didn’t get some minor victory to point to, then they could count on that support evaporating, as well. Never mind the drug money in the background.
He was going to have to decide. And while Ballesteros was a part of the conspiracy, Galvez was not interested in the fat rancher’s input. He would decide this himself.
Finding the patrol was next to impossible, so finding who had killed them was also next to impossible. They’d been somewhere to the west of the city—that was about the extent of their information. They hadn’t reported in for almost twelve hours before anyone had noticed anything amiss. It had been assumed that they were having fun at the local farmers’ expense—and that had not been an unreasonable assumption.
Galvez had encouraged that, himself. It was necessary, so that the farmers understood who was now in charge. He wasn’t so much regretting it, now, as he was furious at the patrol that had gone astray and disappeared.
It was possible that they’d defected. He doubted it, though. So far, most of the farmers they’d “interviewed” on the west side had been remarkably stupid when asked if they’d seen the missing Green Shirts.
