by Peter Nealen
Pacheco had a ruthless streak. Given his history, that shouldn’t have come as a surprise.
“We don’t have the time to go after the small fry first.” Brannigan was firm. “We can mop them up after we’ve torn down the Green Shirts and gotten the National Army to move in and keep the Venezuelans from crossing the border.” Of course, the Blackhearts would need to be long gone by then. Regardless of the nobility of the mission, the National Army would not react well to American mercenaries on the ground in their country.
He looked at Fuentes. “Part of why we came to clear them out here first was because Pacheco said you’re a bit of a pillar of the community among the farmers here. Which means you know who else we should go after first.”
“That is easy. Clemente, Ballesteros, and that wolf, Galvez. Kill them, and the rest will crumble.” There was a note of both trepidation and bloodthirst in Fuentes’s voice. Brannigan studied him closely for a moment.
The farmer wasn’t looking at him, but was still staring at the map. He was still pale, and his hands were shaking a little, but increasingly not because of fear. He was dealing with the reaction of a sane man turned into a prisoner in his own home, his own country. He wanted to lash out and see the people who killed his neighbors and turned him into a slave humbled, hurt, killed.
But at the same time, even if he had seen combat back in the day, time tended to make those memories and reactions fade. He might have been hardened once, but it had been a long time since he’d had to face the sort of real, intense violence that had been unleashed on San Tabal since Clemente’s coming. A small voice in the back of his head had to be reminding him of that. And it was making him a little shaky.
Brannigan leaned in a little, lowering his voice. “I’m afraid a target list isn’t going to be enough. We don’t have the numbers to secure the whole city and its environs, and we can’t just leave the aftermath to chance. If we’re reading the situation right, the Venezuelans might just roll right in if things turn to crap around here, and then you’re just as bad off, if not worse.” He shook his head. “We need to organize, and we need to do it fast. They have a small army. Since I don’t imagine we’ll have time for a lot of in-depth training, we’re going to need a bigger one. That means mobilizing a good chunk of the local population, and that means starting with people they’ll follow.” He gestured to himself and the rest of the Blackhearts, including Pacheco. “They don’t know us from Adam. But they know you. And I think you know who else might be able to help.”
Fuentes’s brow furrowed. “I had not thought of that.” His frown deepened. “You really think the Venezuelans will move against us?”
“We had reporting before we came down here that they had army units on the border, just waiting. In fact, we have some information suggesting that they’re the reason Bogota hasn’t intervened here.”
“That, and the fear of making it look like the peace deal with the FARC is a sham.” Pacheco had his arms folded, a scowl on his face.
Fuentes looked even more spooked at that, and Brannigan briefly wondered if telling him had been the best idea. If he decided that the devil they knew was better than the devil they didn’t…
But he swallowed, and bent his head, thinking. “I think I might know a few names. I don’t know for sure how any of them will react, but you are right. We need to try.”
***
“I’m not sure about this one.” Jenkins had generally kept his head down and his mouth shut lately. Brannigan hadn’t gotten the full story about what had happened before the Azerbaijan mission, but something Santelli had said to him had definitely deflated some of his ego. This was probably the first time he’d ventured an opinion on anything since they’d left the States.
“Why is that?” Brannigan was in the front seat of the truck with Pacheco, while Jenkins was crammed into the back.
“Fuentes didn’t seem to have too high an opinion of this guy. I mean, he survived the coup because he played along, and it doesn’t sound like he was all that great a guy before Clemente took over.”
“He kept his head down, that’s correct.” Pacheco kept his eyes on the road as he spoke over his shoulder. “But I’ve heard a few things that back Fuentes up. I think he’ll join us.”
“If you say so.” Then there wasn’t time for further discussion.
Pacheco pulled over onto the side of the road and then drove a little bit farther off into the trees. They couldn’t see the enemy yet, but if Fuentes had been right, there should be a Green Shirt checkpoint on the way into San Tabal just around the bend. It was a minor miracle that they hadn’t already run into a patrol, but Brannigan was hoping that they’d already disrupted things a bit, between wiping out the group that had showed up at Pacheco’s farm, and then hitting the Fuentes place less than two hours later.
Pacheco shut the truck down, and they got out, in their tiger stripe fatigues, load bearing gear, and wearing camouflage face paint under their ProTec helmets and NVGs. All three pulled their Galils out with them, but they hoped to avoid using them, at least for the next couple of hours.
“Pacheco’s on point. Jenkins, watch our six.” They crossed the road and faded into the jungle that lined the ridge that pointed toward San Tabal, where it nestled in a hanging valley less than a mile away.
The slope was steep and rough, and the vegetation made it even worse. They’d barely gotten five hundred yards and Brannigan was starting to wonder about the wisdom of taking this approach. He couldn’t check his watch on the move, if only because he didn’t want to risk the light in the dark under the trees, just in case the Green Shirts had patrols out. But they were already behind schedule, he was sure of that.
They needed to pick up the pace. He hadn’t seen anything to suggest that the Green Shirts were professional enough that they’d brave the jungle and the terrain. Most of those they’d encountered so far had been little more than enforcers, far from trained infantrymen, never mind the kind of hard-core light infantry who would see a nasty piece of ground like this ridgeline and say, “Let’s go up there.” So, noise was probably less of an issue than they were assuming.
The next time Pacheco looked back at him, Brannigan pumped his fist up and down. Speed up. Pacheco acknowledged, and they were soon moving at a better clip, making slightly more noise but covering ground more quickly. Still, getting into the city this way was going to take hours. The veg was just too thick.
Nothing for it. Forcing the checkpoint would be far too loud, alerting every Green Shirt in the valley. They had to take the long, difficult, exhausting way.
Time stretched as they hacked their way through the undergrowth, Pacheco leading with a machete. Every few minutes, they had to stop, crouching down and listening for any movement that wasn’t one of the myriad nocturnal animals moving through the jungle. The night noises were almost deafening, and Brannigan could only hope that they’d hear any Green Shirts before they were right on top of them.
He really hoped they weren’t in some jaguar’s night hunting ground. He was consistently looking up as well as side to side and behind them, but he wasn’t sure he could spot one of the big cats before it dropped onto his head.
Finally, somewhere around three in the morning, they got to the edge of the city. Pacheco held up a hand to call a halt, sinking to a knee behind a tree, just behind a low, white-plastered brick house with barred windows and a Spanish-style fluted tile roof. A single light out front cast a dim glow around the corner, giving them just enough illum to see the street clearly through their PVS-14s.
Brannigan moved out onto Pacheco’s flank, his Galil held ready as he found his own vantage point, and Jenkins took up a position behind them, leaning against a tree, panting and sweating, watching their six. Brannigan had half expected to have to tell the former SEAL to watch the hill behind them, but he hadn’t.
Santelli must have really put the fear into him.
He scanned what he could see of the street below through the narrow gap between the single-s
tory whitewashed house and the darker, two story place next door. It appeared to be empty, and he strained his ears but couldn’t hear engines or any other movement over the chirping, shrieking, and buzzing of the jungle night life behind him.
Pacheco apparently thought it was clear. He rose slowly, but instead of moving down into the neighborhood just below them, he moved over and joined Brannigan.
“You know where we are?” Brannigan kept his voice pitched as low as he could while still being able to hear himself.
“We’re about half a kilometer from Quintana’s house—unless he’s moved. Fuentes might be reasonably confident that he’ll join us, but he’s been a prisoner in his own house for the last couple of weeks, at least. He hasn’t been in town to see what Quintana’s been up to. That said, I don’t think Quintana would have moved. It doesn’t fit the role he’s picked out for himself in the new order.”
“Well, let’s go, before a patrol decides to come down the street.” Brannigan rose and started toward the gap between the houses.
Pacheco put out a hand to stop him. “Try not to look sneaky. If we swagger a little and act like we belong here, like we own the city, any Green Shirt patrols might mistake us for some of their own, especially at a distance and in the dark.”
“Good thinking.” It was too easy, especially under these circumstances, to get so wrapped up in not being seen that sometimes the simplest and most straightforward solutions got lost. There’s no way to be completely invisible in an urban setting, so you settle for the next best thing—blending in with the population. If the population’s locked down, try to blend in with the forces holding the area.
Their tiger stripe camouflage, face paint, and NVGs wouldn’t fool anyone up close, but they hoped that they could keep their distance and avoid the Green Shirts altogether.
Pacheco took lead again, letting his rifle hang on its sling, walking casually out into the street. He didn’t silhouette himself under the streetlight, but he strolled up the street as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Brannigan didn’t know if that was really the way the Green Shirts acted in the city, but it was probably a close enough approximation, especially if the patrols that were actually on the streets had taken a bit of the edge off to make up for being on night patrol.
Of course, the other possibility was that they might be a bit extra aggressive in the hopes of getting some action to make up for being on the streets at that hour. There were a couple different ways that thugs might react to extra duty, neither of them particularly professional. The latter was certainly the most dangerous.
The night was quiet and still as they moved up the street. It was late enough that none of the locals would be out and about, especially not since the Green Shirts’ presence had all but obliterated the city’s night life—what there ever had been of it. They didn’t really have to worry about cameras, either. San Tabal was too far out in the boonies, too small and too poor, to merit the effort of putting a CCTV system in.
Brannigan had more than half expected to at least see some kind of open force on the streets, though. They didn’t have a good estimate of the Green Shirts’ numbers, but if they were holding a city by fear, he would have assumed that they’d see more of a presence. But the streets were deserted, at least the parts they could see as they worked their way toward Quintana’s house.
It didn’t take long. Without sneaking and moving from shadow to shadow, they reached the place in a matter of a few minutes. Pacheco slowed as they got closer. They didn’t want to blunder into anything.
The house itself was a small, two-story block of poorly fitted brick with a shallowly slanted roof, wedged between two more similar houses. Once they’d gotten deeper into the city, even the tiny yards of the outer houses had disappeared. Most of the people of San Tabal lived practically on top of each other, tenements and houses crammed wall-to-wall along narrow streets terraced into the hillside. It meant that if they did get spotted, their escape routes were necessarily limited, but there was nothing they could do about it. They needed to secure or turn Quintana, and they needed to do it tonight.
Scanning the street, they saw no one. A mangy dog trotted across from alley to alley about a hundred yards away, but it paid them no mind. Pacheco and Brannigan moved to the door, while Jenkins held security.
Now they had to break character slightly. Small, barred windows flanked the similarly barred front door. While everything was quiet and dark on the street, they couldn’t be entirely sure that no one was watching the windows. So, Pacheco and Brannigan ducked beneath the window as they moved to the door.
It was locked. Pacheco, however, had come prepared, and dropped to a knee, pulling a set of lockpicks out of his own vest and going to work.
Brannigan semi-shielded Pacheco from the street, trying to stay casual, letting his Galil hang from its sling while he tried to simultaneously watch the street, the door, and the windows. Pacheco was muttering under his breath as he worked the lock. The time ticked past, and Brannigan found himself getting anxious. This was taking too long. The street was still empty, but sunrise was coming fast.
Finally, the lock gave up, opening with a rasping scrape, and the door swung open with a faint creak. Pacheco stood, bringing his rifle up, and then the three of them moved inside. It wasn’t nearly as smooth as some of the Blackhearts’ entries had been in the past, but it was about as good as they could expect beside an old-school narco hunter they hadn’t trained with.
The tiny living room was spare and backed up against an equally tiny kitchen. Stairs in the back led up to the second floor. A small couch and a pair of chairs faced an old TV in the corner. The TV was off, and two Green Shirts were sprawled on the couch and one of the chairs.
Brannigan moved to one of them, while Pacheco took the other. Brannigan put his muzzle against the snoring man’s forehead, and gave him a light tap.
The Green Shirt’s eyes flew open, and the first thing he saw was a looming shadow pointing a rifle at his face. He froze, and, judging by the acrid odor that met Brannigan’s nose, he’d lost control of his bladder.
The other made a grab for Pacheco’s weapon, opening his mouth to yell. Pacheco yanked his Galil back, flipped it around, and savagely buttstroked the man in the head. The impact snapped the Green Shirt’s head back with a crack, and he slumped, then started to twitch.
“Holy shit.” Jenkins was looking over his shoulder at the spasming Green Shirt, just before the man shuddered one more time and went still, blood trickling from his ear.
“Keep your eye on the door, George.” Brannigan understood Jenkins’ reaction, to some extent. No one necessarily expects to watch a man die from a simple blow to the head. But blunt force trauma can do that.
He quickly tied and gagged the surviving Green Shirt. He wasn’t going to murder the man, though they were going to have to take him with them when they left, in case he talked. Then he turned toward the staircase, his rifle back in his hands. “Going upstairs.”
Pacheco just fell in behind him without a word. The former Search Bloc operator’s face was impassive, as if he’d just done nothing more intense than swatting a fly. Brannigan briefly wondered a bit at some of the stories about the Search Bloc. When fighting those with no morals or restraints, a man gets hardened to some things.
The house was still quiet as they climbed the stairs. The death had been almost completely silent. Pacheco had hit the man before he could make a sound.
The upper floor was divided into two rooms. Brannigan took the right, Pacheco the left.
The right-hand room was the children’s room. Three of them slept on two beds, still sound asleep, unaware that there was anyone in their house. He quietly closed the door and moved to join Pacheco, who had already moved into Quintana’s room.
Pacheco was already looming over Quintana. It was easy enough to identify the man—his wife was about half his size. Pacheco kept his rifle out of reach and put a hand over Quintana’s mouth.
The former deputy polic
e chief of San Tabal’s eyes flew open. Pacheco put a finger to his lips. “Get out of bed, very quietly, and no one gets hurt. We need you to come downstairs where we can have a talk without waking your wife.”
Quintana’s eyes flicked from Pacheco to Brannigan, looming in the doorway and then nodded carefully. Pacheco stepped back, lifting his Galil just in case, and let him up.
There was no yelling, no protest. Quintana, a man of medium height with a slowly expanding waistline and a thick mustache, padded meekly toward the door. Brannigan moved aside and let him lead the way downstairs. Jenkins was down there. If Quintana tried to bolt, he didn’t doubt that Jenkins could stop him.
“Sit down.” Pacheco turned on the kitchen light and pointed to the kitchen table. Quintana’s eyes flicked toward the couch, where the dead Green Shirt was assuming room temperature. “Don’t worry about them. They won’t interfere.”
One of them wouldn’t interfere with anything ever again.
“What do you want?” Quintana sat down, the old metal chair creaking under his weight, and folded his hands nervously on the table.
Pacheco sat across from him, while Brannigan stood nearby. “You don’t know us, but we’ve talked with one of your neighbors, and he told us some interesting things about you.”
Quintana’s eyes would not stay still. The man was scared out of his mind. Brannigan was wondering about the wisdom of this little meeting. “What neighbor is that?”
“Diego Fuentes.” Pacheco leaned his elbows on the table. “He told us that you were the deputy police chief until Chief Inspector Manzano was put up against the police station wall and shot. He also told us that you had the spine of a jellyfish and the moral compass of a windsock.”
If Quintana felt insulted, he didn’t dare show it.
“Under the circumstances, we might have expected you to willingly do everything that Clemente and his Green Shirts told you to, even accept a promotion to take Manzano’s place.” He raised an eyebrow. “But you didn’t. You even took a demotion. It would seem like you did that to save your skin, except for one little detail. He says that you’ve been so incompetent as a police officer since the ‘revolution’ that several of the Green Shirts’ targets have mysteriously gotten away before they could be arrested.”
