War to the Knife (Brannigan's Blackhearts Book 9)

by Peter Nealen

  “I make about a heavy squad, and that’s just outside.” There were a couple of angles they couldn’t see from up on the ridgetop, but most of those were alongside a nearly sheer drop on the other side of the house.

  “If what Fuentes told us was right, he’s not likely to have a lot of security on the inside. This guy’s a bigwig, and apparently a high roller. He liked to flaunt his money and what it could get him before the revolution. He’s not the kind to let the hoi polloi into his house.” Javakhishvili snorted. “The gunmen might get his carpets dirty.”

  “That may be, but that’s not something we can absolutely bank on if he’s running scared. He might have decided that the extra security is worth it.” Flanagan wasn’t a believer in assuming that the enemy was going to be stupid. That was an assumption that usually resulted in an op going sideways before it had even begun. He got down below the ridge and looked at his little assault team.

  Curtis and Bianco had humped their Negevs up the ridge, and Bianco was now covering back the way they’d come, while Curtis had joined Flanagan and Javakhishvili on the crest of the ridge. Gomez was slightly below, watching their flank.

  “Okay. Machinegunners will stay up here on overwatch. Make sure you get some separation, so you can cover more ground, and one of you needs to have a good field of fire on that road leading up to the place. The rest of us are going to move down to that big clump of trees that they let grow right up to the fence.” Flanagan couldn’t quite keep the contempt out of his voice. Ballesteros might be paranoid enough that he’d called in a good-sized fraction of the Green Shirts to protect his personal hide, but he hadn’t paid enough attention to fields of fire—or he’d just assumed that the jungle on the ridgeline would keep anyone from approaching the mansion from that direction. Not only did the trees and brush grow right up to the fence itself, but there were no spotlights directed at that area.

  “We’ll cut the fence and move through.” He glanced over the crest of the ridge and reassessed for a moment. When he dropped back down, he grimaced. “There’s too much light once we’re past the fence to try to do this the sneaky way. We’ll have to go loud immediately.” There wasn’t a lot of cover on the lawn. “Hit ‘em hard, hit ‘em fast, and move on the house. Don’t slow down for anything. Speed, surprise, and violence of action are going to be the only things that get us through this.” It was less than what he’d consider an ideal plan, but it was what they had.

  No one had any objections or suggestions. Even Curtis was quiet, and he usually had something to say just for the sake of saying something. Flanagan nodded. “Let’s move.”

  Bianco moved quickly up to the crest of the hill, looking for a good firing position. Curtis faded into the bush, following the crest of the ridgeline toward the north, looking for a better spot where he could fire on the trucks in the driveway—along with any reinforcements that might show up once the shooting started.

  Flanagan, Gomez, and Javakhishvili slipped over the crest of the ridge and flowed through the vegetation toward the fence.

  It was somewhat slow going, given the need for stealth. That close, they had to take extra care not to give themselves away before they could get through or over the fence. That meant placing each step carefully, pausing and listening often. Unfortunately, even at the late hour, music was still pounding and blaring from Ballesteros’s house, potentially drowning out any of the auditory warnings they might have had that the enemy was closing in on them.

  Hopefully, it would also disguise the sound of the fence being cut.

  They slowed even more as they got closer to the fence. Flanagan peered through the undergrowth toward the nearest security position, a roughly sandbagged pit with a mounted M60 machinegun. He could see the rust on the weapon from yards away, thanks to the ill-aimed floodlight up on Ballesteros’s roof.

  The Green Shirts weren’t happy about being on guard duty, and that had been obvious from up on the ridgeline. One of the two was smoking, and the other one was sitting with his back against the sandbags, facing the house, bitching in Spanish. Flanagan could hear him from the other side of the fence.

  Unfortunately, the fact that he could hear the Green Shirt meant that, presuming the Green Shirts weren’t high, they would be able to hear the wire cutters snapping through the fence. The music wasn’t quite that loud.

  This might get interesting faster than they’d hoped.

  He pointed at the fence, in the deepest shadow available, where some of the undergrowth had already started to grow through the barrier. Gomez moved toward it, slinging his Galil onto his back and pulling the wire cutters. Flanagan and Javakhishvili got down and aimed in at the Green Shirts, just in case.

  Gomez went to work, holding each wire carefully before he cut it. He took his time, working through each wire carefully, rather than snapping them, and since he was holding the wires, the breaks didn’t reverberate down the length of the fence. Flanagan started to think that maybe they might get through the fence and onto the objective before they had to go loud.

  Then the one who wasn’t smoking got up, slung his AK, and started sauntering straight toward their hiding place, unbuttoning his fly as he came.

  Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

  Flanagan pivoted, his muzzle tracking the advancing Green Shirt. Don’t come all the way to the fence. Gomez needs five more minutes. Don’t come all the way to the fence.

  But the Green Shirt must have really needed to piss. He threw a sarcastic bit of Spanish over his shoulder as he stepped within a yard of Gomez, who had frozen where he was.

  Flanagan sized up the situation and made the decision. There was nothing for it. All that kid would have to do would be to look slightly to his left, and at the very least he’d see the growing hole in the fence.

  The thunder of the shot echoed off the hillside, the Galil’s muzzle flash lighting up the Green Shirt for a split second as the bullet tore through his side.

  The Green Shirt stumbled, his knees giving way, and fell on his face. Unfortunately, he fell against the fence, and the undergrowth and the wire held him up, despite the fact that his weight started to push open the gap that Gomez had been cutting in the wire.

  For a split second, everyone on that lawn stared in shock, as the echoes of the gunshot rolled across the city below.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  The M60 gunner grabbed for his weapon, and Javakhishvili shot him twice, the hammer pair tearing through his upper chest and ripping out his throat. He collapsed on top of the gun, choking and aspirating blood.

  Gomez dropped to his belly and wormed his way through the hole he’d cut in the fence, leading with his rifle, while Flanagan hammered rounds at the farther security position. Bianco probably couldn’t see a lot of what had happened, but he opened fire from up on top of the ridge, the Negev spitting tracers down to smash the other two Green Shirts to bloody doll rags in their fighting pit.

  Gomez dashed to the first pit, though he didn’t get into it, but grabbed the 60 and turned it toward the house as he dove behind the crumbling sandbag parapet. He got behind the machinegun while Javakhishvili cursed and tried to follow him, as muzzle flashes flickered from the roof, bullets shredding leaves and chopping into the trees overhead. The Green Shirts on Ballesteros’s roof must not have seen Gomez move.

  With a curse, Gomez racked the M60’s charging handle. The Green Shirts had left the rounds on the tray, but they hadn’t pulled back the bolt.

  He leaned into the gun, opening up with a stuttering thudthudthudthud as he raked the rooftop with a long, roaring burst. The incoming fire fell silent, as Javakhishvili dashed to join him, and Flanagan crawled under the cut fencing.

  Curtis had also opened fire, raking the vehicles at the front of the mansion. He was laying it on heavy, giving each vehicle long, stuttering bursts of fire. Flanagan couldn’t see the vehicles as he wormed his way under the fence, the wire catching at his gear and his NVGs, but he could imagine the devastation that Curtis was sowing wi
th that Negev. The man’s personal life might be a train wreck, but he was an artist with a belt-fed.

  Of course, he was also alone, and if they had a react force coming, his position would be easy enough to spot by the tracers and the Negev’s muzzle blast. They had to move fast. This was already going sideways.

  Flanagan got clear of the fence, though one wire tried to snatch at his trousers, and rolled over, pushed himself up, and ran—not for the sandbags where Javakhishvili and Gomez crouched, but for the covered patio and the door leading inside.

  Not a moment too soon, either, as a machinegun opened up from inside the mansion, shattering the glass wall that opened up onto the southern patio, raking the defensive position where Gomez had turned the Green Shirts’ own machinegun against them. Gomez and Javakhishvili hit the dirt as bullets chewed into the poorly secured sandbags that were all that stood between the two of them and imminent death.

  Flanagan found himself alone, facing the door with a rifle and two frags.

  Nothing for it. If I wait, we’re all dead.

  Generally speaking, trying to storm an enemy house solo is not recommended. Flanagan wouldn’t have dreamed of it, if not for the fact that there was no other choice. Gomez and Javakhishvili were pinned, and Bianco and Curtis were too far away to help.

  Quickly swiveling his rifle to check the front of the house and the bullet-riddled trucks in the driveway, he saw two corpses sprawled on the pavement, and one Green Shirt huddled behind an engine block. The Green Shirt saw him at the same moment, but Flanagan was faster. The pair of 5.56 rounds punched through the Green Shirt’s clavicle and tore through his vitals before he could bring his own Galil to bear. He still had enough life left in him to trigger a burst into the pavement, kicking up bits of smashed asphalt before he fell on his face.

  Flanagan had shot the man on the move as he glided toward the side door. A single kick slammed it open—it hadn’t been locked. He found himself in a small entryway, and a half-step to his right put the two Green Shirts manning a MAG-58 in the living room right into his sights.

  He might have trained to kill each with a controlled pair, but this wasn’t training, and two of his teammates were under fire. He dumped about half the mag into the two of them, raking his fire across their bodies. Bloody holes blossomed in their shirts as they jerked under the impacts, and the gun fell silent.

  He didn’t dare stay put. To stay still was to die.

  Taking a breath, he quickly rounded the corner, sweeping the living room to his right, where it faced the open patio and the lawn, where Gomez and Javakhishvili were already closing in, now that the machinegun fire had ceased. That side of the room was clear.

  He snapped his muzzle back toward the back of the house, sweeping the rest of the room with his eyes just above his sights, feeling his back prickling at the thought of another Green Shirt back in that corner he’d just put his back to.

  But the two on the machinegun had been the only ones in the room. The kitchen was empty, and the stairs leading up to the second floor lay just beyond.

  He held his position, even as more full-auto 5.56 fire roared outside. One or both of their machinegunners were laying down some serious hate. But Flanagan had enough problems to solve inside the house, even as Javakhishvili and Gomez came through the shattered glass doors and joined him.

  Without a word, Flanagan moved toward the stairs, even though he gave the door he’d made entry through a quick check as he passed. Even with three men, they still had to cover every angle.

  The interior was strikingly modern. Everything was laid out in stark, straight lines and displaying a simple, minimalist design. The light wood floor and a few accents were the only parts of the interior that didn’t seem to be white—except for the spreading pool of blood under the dead machinegunners.

  Pointing his rifle up the stairs, Flanagan led the way up.

  A short hallway opened on three doors. One was open, the room beyond it dark. The other two had been closed, but Flanagan could hear someone yelling behind the single door that led toward what had to be the master bedroom. It was in Spanish, but he was pretty sure he heard the name Clemente somewhere in the ranting tirade.

  The open door presented the most immediate threat, even though he knew that there were people in the master bedroom. He pointed, even as he kept his eyes and muzzle on the master bedroom door, and Javakhishvili swept past him, moving to clear that room. Flanagan posted himself in the hallway, where he could see the other two doors, while Gomez and Javakhishvili cleared the darkened room. They were back out a moment later, without a shot being fired. Empty room.

  The three of them moved on the master bedroom. They hadn’t made a sound since mounting the stairs, and the stairs and the hallway floor were covered in a thick, cream-colored carpet that rendered their footfalls soundless—especially since whoever was on the other side of that door was making far too much noise to listen to what was happening in the hallway.

  A single kick splintered the doorjamb and sent the door juddering inward. Flanagan rode it to the wall, quickly clearing the corner and pivoting toward the center of the room.

  Ballesteros was on the bed, pointing what looked like a very expensive semiautomatic at the door, screaming in Spanish as he cranked rounds at the intruding figures, though he only succeeded in putting one bullet through the doorway, the rest climbing into the plaster overhead. “¡No me matarás, Diego Galvez!”

  Gomez and Flanagan shot him at the same time. Their bullets crossed through his chest cavity, spattering blood on the white sheets behind him. The immensely fat man flopped backward, the chromed pistol falling from a suddenly nerveless hand to land on the carpet with a muted thump.

  He had been the only one in the room. Javakhishvili moved quickly to the master bath, his weapon up and ready. Clearing that took a matter of moments.

  From there, they rolled to the second bedroom. It was as empty as the first, but from the clothing and backpacks—and the obviously used bed—it appeared that some of Ballesteros’s security had been sleeping there.

  “Looks like he retreated alone here with his security. Wonder where he squirreled his family away.” Javakhishvili rubbed his chin as he let his Galil hang.

  Flanagan shrugged. “Not our targets, not our problem.” He cocked his head and listened. The machinegun fire from outside had ceased. He keyed his radio. “Gambler, Woodsrunner. Status?”

  “React force is Swiss cheese. I’m getting low on ammo, though. And I think I just heard something from Angry Ragnar. They might be under attack.”

  “Roger.” Flanagan looked around. “Let’s grab as much of the weapons and ammo as we can, load it into a truck that’s not shot to crap, and get moving toward Wade’s position.

  “The night ain’t over yet.”

  Chapter 18

  Brannigan looked over at Quintana as the radio fell silent. “We don’t have until morning. My guys have made contact with another potential ally, but they’re under attack right now, and they don’t have a lot of numbers.”

  “Who did they meet with?” Quintana asked.

  Brannigan hesitated, just for a moment. He’d seen this go pear-shaped before. Old grudges often got in the way in an irregular warfare environment—in fact, they often just poured more fuel on the fire. More than once, American forces had been unknowingly turned into the instruments of local vendettas, as one man turned in his long-time rival as an insurgent, when the other man didn’t necessarily have anything to do with the bad guys the Americans had been there to fight.

  But they had little time, and sometimes risks had to be taken. Especially in unconventional warfare. That was a reality that many of his peers had had a hard time wrapping their heads around. “Rodrigo Lara.”

  Quintana nodded. “He is the man I would have suggested. He is near the top of the list of ‘undesirables’ that I am supposed to be hunting down. I do not know him well, myself.” Brannigan’s eyes narrowed slightly. Something about the way Quintana had said that s
uggested he wasn’t telling the whole truth. “He is highly thought of, though, and Jurado already considered him a rival. Jurado did not have the cleanest hands, himself.”

  Ain’t that always the story? There isn’t a politician alive with clean hands. Brannigan rubbed the stubble on his chin. I wonder what skeletons Lara has in his closet? Or Quintana, for that matter?

  The slightly pudgy former deputy police chief ran a hand over his face, thinking hard. “I think I can get about twelve of us together quickly. Mostly policemen.” He sighed. “We might have to be…firm with some of them.” His expression remained flat and emotionless as he met Pacheco’s hard, icy stare. Then he shrugged. “They have stayed on in a police force that now answers to the Green Shirts. Most of them did so out of fear of repercussions against them and their families. Others…” He spread his hands. “Every man has his own reasons for doing things.”

  Brannigan could appreciate the diplomacy while still seeing the weasel words for what they were.

  “Well, we need to move fast. Those boys can hold their own for a while, but unless Lara’s got a hell of a security detachment, they’re four men with four rifles against a dedicated hit team. They’ve only got so many bullets.”

  ***

  “Kid, take that window there.” Wade pointed to the second window that flanked the main door while he peered over Burgess’s shoulder. Sure enough, two trucks with what looked like about a dozen Green Shirts had pulled over on the side of the road at the base of the hill, and the Green Shirts were clambering out and spreading out across the fields below the house. “Hold your fire until I say.”

  If the younger Brannigan, who had been a Marine captain and a company commander, resented being ordered around by a retired E-8, he kept his mouth shut. Hank apparently understood that he was still the low man on the totem pole among the Blackhearts, not to mention that most of the rest of the mercenaries had a lot more combat experience than he did.

  Wade turned his attention back to the enemy with a scowl. These Green Shirts had learned some caution. They weren’t swaggering up to the house the way he’d halfway hoped they would. That would have been easy. Clumped up, overconfident thugs could have been mowed down relatively quickly. But these guys were spread out, crouched down, and advancing in some semblance of bounding overwatch. Furthermore, they’d left two of their buddies back on the guns mounted in the backs of the trucks to cover them.