by Peter Nealen
He shifted his position, leaning out into the partially open door and sighting toward the enemy. Only to find that he couldn’t see any of them.
The lay of the land was such that the top terrace was cutting off his line of sight—and field of fire—toward the machineguns and the gun trucks. The good news was that as long as they all stayed low, the machineguns couldn’t hit them. The bad news was, as long as they stayed low, they couldn’t shoot back, either, and the Green Shirts would be able to maneuver on them with impunity.
Wade still wasn’t inclined to just lie there and wait to die.
Burgess had pulled the door farther open, and looked across at Wade. “On three?” He was clearly thinking along the same lines.
Wade nodded. “On three. One, two, three!”
The two of them had been shifting their positions, getting their feet under them even as Wade counted. Finally, they heaved themselves up to a low kneeling position, bracing their rifles against the doorjamb. Both men opened fire within a split second of each other, even though they didn’t quite have targets yet.
Fire superiority has a value all its own.
But two rifles against two machineguns don’t make for good odds. Wade was just high enough off the ground now that he could make out some of the muzzle flash down below, and apparently, the gunners could see his, too. A moment later, both he and Burgess were forced back down to the prone as streams of tracers reached out for them, some skipping off the edge of the terrace in front of them, tearing through cornstalks and hammering against the house. More concrete and plaster was pulverized, and more glass shattered and rained down onto the floor.
Wade lay on his side, his rifle still pointed out into the night but without targets to engage, cursing a continuous blue streak through clenched teeth.
Hurry up, guys.
***
Brannigan was getting more than a little anxious. They’d gathered about half a dozen of Quintana’s loyal cops, and he had about half a dozen more on the list, but time was running out, and for all he knew, it may already have run out for Wade, Burgess, and Hank.
Finally, as the sixth man, Dominguez, hustled up the hill out of town toward the rendezvous with Pacheco, he couldn’t wait anymore. “We need to go. I’ve got men under fire.”
Quintana looked for a moment like he was going to argue. But he looked up at the towering, six-foot-four mercenary, and saw something in his face that made him shut his mouth with a snap and nod, jerkily. Together, he, Brannigan, and Jenkins headed for the hills.
They had to thread through several alleys and cross streets that were barely bigger than the alleys. They still moved carefully, muzzles pivoting to cover danger areas as they passed. They didn’t move slowly, but they moved carefully.
At that point, Brannigan was perfectly willing to slaughter his way out of San Tabal if it meant getting to his boy before the Green Shirts murdered him.
He knew that his emotions were getting the better of him. He didn’t care anymore. Hank was his flesh and blood, and he was already cursing himself for letting his son come on this mission. Never mind that Hank was already a combat veteran, and that Brannigan had encouraged him—even while warning him against certain mistakes—down that path. This was different. In the Marine Corps, Hank had had support waiting if he got into a situation like this. Out here, with the Blackhearts, there was nothing.
And Brannigan was out of position and behind the eight ball when it came to rescuing his own son.
They got out of the city proper and started struggling up the slope toward the road that ran along the ridgeline. There was another road leading up from the city itself, but Brannigan wasn’t so far down the emotional slippery slope that he was willing to compromise good tactics that far. He wouldn’t do Hank any good if he got himself and Jenkins killed because they took shortcuts.
But if Hank was dead by the time he got there, he’d never forgive himself.
Brannigan quickly outstripped Jenkins and the Colombians as he forged up the hill toward the ridge road. He could already hear Pacheco’s truck idling up ahead.
He had to force himself to halt while he was still in the brush. Won’t do Hank any good if I get myself shot by friendly fire because I was too anxious to conduct a proper linkup. He keyed his radio. “Pacheco, Kodiak. I’m directly to your right.”
“Come ahead, Kodiak.” Pacheco didn’t waste time or breath on asking questions over the radio, especially since Brannigan loomed out of the jungle right outside the passenger side window. “What’s going on? I thought we had at least six more coming.”
“We’ll have to gather them up later. Wade’s element’s in contact, and it sounds like they’re pinned down.” He really didn’t have any more information than he’d had before, but his imagination was going strong, especially extrapolating from what Wade had said over the radio. Brannigan’s Blackhearts were extremely efficient killers, but outnumbered was still outnumbered.
“Get in.” Brannigan felt a wave of gratitude that Pacheco didn’t feel like asking questions. He clambered into the bed even as Jenkins and Quintana came out of the jungle both of them sucking wind.
“Mount up! We’ve got a fight to get to!”
***
Flanagan could hear the gunfire up ahead, around the bend in the road. They were probably too close according to some tactical manual somewhere, but he’d spent enough time in warzones over the years that he’d developed a pretty finely tuned sense for when to throw the book out and when to stick with it. This was a time to throw it out. They still had concealment, and it didn’t look like the Green Shirts had flankers out.
“Somebody get up on that gun! Somebody other than Kevin or Vinnie!” He hadn’t quite stopped, but he’d slowed considerably, and now he crept forward, riding the clutch and the brake, determined not to over penetrate.
“See! He does care about what’s important!” Curtis crowed.
“No, you and Vinnie already have machineguns,” Flanagan retorted. “I want as much fire superiority as we can get right now.”
Javakhishvili laughed. The sound was out of place, given the timing and the fact that he was preparing to lean out the side window with a Galil, while Gomez had climbed up without a word, slinging his own rifle onto his back and taking hold of the PKM, ignoring the splintered stock. But adrenaline does weird things when it runs high, and something about Flanagan and Curtis sniping at each other had struck Javakhishvili’s funny bone.
Their Georgian doc had a weird sense of humor, anyway.
They eased out into the curve in the road, slowly clearing the wall of trees and undergrowth. Flanagan craned his neck to see around the curve as far as he could.
Finally, with a muttered curse, he gunned the acclerator, clearing the trees and stomping on the brake as the two Green Shirt gun trucks came into clear view, their gunners crouched back behind their mounted PKM and M60, lit by the muzzle flashes as they poured fire up the terraced slope toward Galán’s house.
The truck was still rocking on its shocks as he and Javakhishvili bailed, keeping their heads down to make sure that the other Blackhearts’ fields of fire were clear. Gomez, up on the PKM, had already opened up, the stuttering roar shockingly loud up close, flame strobing from the muzzle brake as he leaned into the gun and raked the two gun trucks with a dashed stream of green tracers.
The first gunner went down immediately, smashed off his feet by a stream of flying metal that tore through his side and pulped his innards before ripping them out the exit wounds. The second started to pivot toward the new threat, saw his buddy get shredded, and tried to dive out of the truck.
He was too late by a second. Curtis had jumped out of the back of the truck as he’d realized that he didn’t have a clear shot at the angle they’d stopped, dashed to the side of the road, dropped prone behind his Negev, and his first burst took the second gunner high in the chest. He toppled backward, his feet flying over his head as he hit the edge of the truck bed and went over, disappearing in
to the dark behind the vehicle.
Flanagan was already up and moving around the back of the truck. He keyed his radio as he went. “Angry Ragnar, Woodsrunner. You still alive up there?”
“About time you got here, Woodsrunner.” Wade sounded simultaneously angry and relieved. More gunfire rattled from uphill, near the house, as the suppressing fire ceased.
“Watch your fires to the west. We’re moving up that flank.” Flanagan plunged into the trees, mentally cursing the jungle and its constraints on his vision. They’d be right on top of any Green Shirts in the woods before they saw them.
“Roger.” The emotion was gone as Wade got a handle on the situation. “Watch yourselves. We haven’t had eyes on since the suppressive fire started. They might have moved out onto the flanks.”
“Copy.” Then he and Javakhishvili went silent and concentrated on moving and hunting the enemy.
Sporadic gunshots rattled through the night, but it was much quieter now that the machineguns had been silenced. The Blackhearts with machineguns had ceased fire as well, since they didn’t have targets. Wasting rounds on the jungle would be counterproductive—at worst they’d even simply reveal themselves to the enemy. Muzzle flashes show up easily in the dark, and tracers work both ways.
“On your right.” Gomez didn’t bother with the radio, but his voice was pitched low enough that it was doubtful that anyone much farther away than a couple of yards could hear him. Especially as a renewed burst of gunfire thundered up ahead and above, answered from the house almost immediately.
The three Blackhearts kept going, moving through the bush as quietly but quickly as they could, weapons up and NVGs scanning for any movement, ears straining for the rustle that might herald an enemy combatant moving through the jungle—or any of the more dangerous Colombian wildlife.
Flanagan slowed as he heard twigs breaking off to his left. He lifted his rifle, and the Green Shirt practically ran into his muzzle, suddenly bursting through the undergrowth, an AK-74 held high in his hands, trying to move up and off to the flank.
He wasn’t retreating, so Flanagan shot him. He died with two bullets in his heart before he’d even registered that he wasn’t alone.
Then Flanagan had to duck behind a tree as another Green Shirt behind the one he’d just killed opened fire, raking the jungle with a long, rattling burst of automatic fire. Bullets chopped through branches and leaves and thudded into tree trunks, raining splinters and bits of shredded vegetation down before a fast series of shots snapped down from the house and silenced the shooter.
Then a voice was raised out in the terraced cornfield, shouting in Spanish. A moment later, more fire raked the jungle, forcing the Blackhearts into cover. Flanagan moved farther behind the tree he’d sheltered behind, staying low as he eased his NVGs and rifle around the trunk, searching for muzzle flashes. He spotted one, sighted in with his dark-adjusted eye, and squeezed off three quick shots, keeping the rifle braced against the tree trunk. The muzzle flash ceased as the weapon went silent, but the others redoubled their fire, and he had to get even lower as more rounds smacked into the wood above his head.
The fire slackened slightly, but it didn’t cease altogether. A moment later, it redoubled again, before slackening.
He knew what was happening. The Green Shirts weren’t stupid. They’d learned from the last couple of nights that they had to be more careful. They were maneuvering, some firing while the others moved.
The question was, were they retreating, or assaulting?
He eased out again, only to snatch his head back as another burst of fire spat fragments of bark into his face. One of them must have seen his muzzle blast before, and now they were targeting his position. So, it was time to change positions.
Dropping to his belly, he wormed his way uphill, heading for another stand of trees set close together. The trunks were thinner than his current cover, and they wouldn’t provide near as much protection, but they were better than nothing, and staying put was a non-starter.
He passed Javakhishvili, who had dashed a little higher before getting down as they’d taken fire. The long-haired mercenary was down in the prone, and he fired under a fallen log as Flanagan crawled behind him. Flanagan wasn’t sure if he could actually see what he was shooting at, but maybe the added return fire would discourage the Green Shirts a little.
Flanagan reached the stand of trees and got up on a low knee, searching for targets. He was a little past the beaten zone of the Green Shirts’ suppressive fire. And he suddenly had a better view of the cornfields from that position.
The Green Shirts were falling back, angling toward the road and down the hill, but keeping to the far side of the farm, away from the gun trucks and the Blackhearts’ machinegunners. Their fire and movement left more than a little to be desired—they were mostly running and shooting behind them, pausing only long enough to pour longer bursts at the trees and the farmhouse above, where Wade, Burgess, and Hank were picking them off. Even as Flanagan brought his own rifle to bear, the man he’d picked out as a target jerked and fell on his face.
It looked an awful lot like they were winning. Until a glimmer of light caught Flanagan’s eye, and he looked up to see headlights moving across the ridge on the other side of the valley. If he remembered right, that road linked to the road immediately below, along the edge of the fields. Those trucks—and there were at least six of them—were on their way, right to Galán’s door.
This was far from over.
***
Galvez could see the muzzle flashes on the other side of the valley, and he knew that this wasn’t going well. The fact that he couldn’t see streams of tracers meant that the Green Shirts’ machineguns were out of action. Whoever the American had sent, they were far too efficient.
I have to end this tonight. If they don’t kill Clemente, then I’ll just have to find another way to deal with him. Damn that American pig and his promises! He betrayed me and the revolution as soon as he made the deal! That Galvez had had no intention of keeping his part of the deal didn’t bother him in the slightest.
“Hurry up!” He lifted his radio to his lips. “All Revolutionary Force units, move on the Galán farm! We have the counter-revolutionaries cornered! Now is the time to finish them off!”
Chapter 20
Brannigan rode in the back of Pacheco’s truck, his teeth gritted, holding on for dear life as the former Search Bloc operator sent them tearing along the narrow, rocky mountain road toward Galán’s farm and his beleaguered teammates. He could hear the gunfight ebb and flow as the echoes of gunfire rolled across the hills. He prayed like he hadn’t prayed in a long time that they weren’t too late.
Pacheco slowed as they moved over the ridge and started down the other side toward the farm. They were still on the other side of the ridge from the fight, so he couldn’t see the muzzle flashes or tracers. He leaned forward, about to yell at Pacheco not to slow down, but he stopped himself. Just like back in the city, they had to move tactically. They wouldn’t do the other Blackhearts any good blundering into the middle of everything and getting shot to pieces.
On that note, he keyed his radio. “Any Blackheart station, this is Kodiak. We are in Sierra Bravo’s truck, coming up toward the Galán farm from the west. Watch your fires on the road to the west.”
“Kodiak, this is Gambler. Good copy.” Curtis sounded calm and collected—once the bullets started flying the man’s clownishness flat-out disappeared. “You’re going to see our gun truck first. Gamer and I are set in on the road. Woodsrunner, Shady Slav, and Pancho Villa are in the woods up to the right, so watch your fires in that direction, too.”
“Roger. We’re coming in.” He looked across at Quintana. “Tell your boys that we’re coming up on my team. Nobody shoots unless I say so.”
The San Tabal cop didn’t look happy at being told what to do, but he nodded. There might still have been a touch of resentment in his expression and his body language. He was the closest that the resistance had to a l
ocal tactical commander, and this American mercenary was taking command.
Tough shit. Those are my boys out front, and that means I’m calling the shots. Brannigan had been in far too many situations over the years where it was his boys at the sharp end, but someone else was making all the decisions, someone who wasn’t taking all the same risks and stood to lose nothing if the decision was wrong. Quintana had plenty to lose, but it was still the Blackhearts in the middle of the fight, right then.
Pacheco came around the bend and halted, the headlights illuminating a shot-up gun truck with a PKM mounted in the back, currently unmanned and pointed at the sky. Movement in the weeds to the right resolved into Vincent Bianco as he stood up, thoroughly camouflaged in his tiger stripes and face paint. He had his Negev slung as he raised a gloved hand to the truck.
Brannigan clambered down and moved to meet him. At the same time, his radio crackled. “Kodiak, Angry Ragnar. Be advised, we just saw a lot of headlights coming from the northwest. We might have a bunch more company soon.”
“Copy. What’s your status?”
“Everybody’s still in one piece, though the civvies are a little shook up.” Wade paused. “This house isn’t going to provide much cover for very long. The front is shot to hell.”
Brannigan looked back as Pacheco shut off the headlights and got out of the truck. “Can we get them out of there? If we’re going to have more company soon…”
Pacheco looked back at his truck, then at the captured gun truck with the PKM in the back. “Maybe. I don’t know how big Lara’s and Galán’s families are. And what’s the plan after that?”
Brannigan looked up toward the north, where he could see the flickering glow of moving headlights in his NVGs. “If we can, we break contact and move back to town. Securing San Tabal is still the primary objective. If the city is too hard a nut to crack, then we fall back to Fuentes’s farm, and we start choking them off by securing the farms and encircling the city with the resistance.” He wasn’t sure how effective that would be—a rural resistance could be effective, over time, but he doubted they had that kind of time.
