by Peter Nealen
Sam Childress had taken a bullet to the spine in Transnistria, leaving him a paraplegic. He’d been well on the way to recovery a few months before; the former backwoods hick had found a new calling as a technical support guy, learning all sorts of cyber wizardry from their resident nerd, Vincent Bianco. He’d been doing the digging that had gotten the Blackhearts their target list when they’d locked horns with the Espino-Gallo cartel in New Mexico.
But the small team of elite mercenaries had other enemies. And those other enemies had tracked Childress down in the hospital and kidnapped him, killing two police officers in the process.
Childress had been tortured in a safe house, less than fifty miles from where Javakhishvili now stood. And he’d been in and out of surgery and consciousness ever since. It was still touch-and-go as to whether he was going to survive at all as anything but a vegetable.
Now he was the sole patient in this secret hospital. Which, it turned out, had been set up several years before for a similar sort of covert operation that had been highly illegal. How Van Zandt had found out about it and appropriated it for his classified office—even the Blackhearts didn’t know exactly what agency Van Zandt worked for—Javakhishvili didn’t know.
Nor did he particularly care. He cared about Sam Childress, though he’d only gone on one mission with the other man. But the man who went by Herc, since his Georgian name was a real mouthful to most English-speakers, was the Blackhearts’ primary medic, and so Childress was ultimately his responsibility.
Which was why he not only had a monitor in his pocket that would alert him if something went wrong in there, but also had a Sig Sauer P938 in an inside-the-waistband holster under his belt.
He started to reach for the 9mm subcompact as movement caught the corner of his eye. But it was only Walt, one of Ben Drake’s “Old Fogey” network. He let his hand fall as he took one last drag on the cigarette.
“Easy, son,” Walt said, fishing his own smokes out. “Nobody’s getting close to this place without George spotting them.” He jerked his head up toward the barn and the silo just off one side of the farmhouse. “Anybody turns onto the driveway, and they’re on his range card.”
“Provided George isn’t taking a nap,” Javakhishvili said, crushing the ember off the remains of the cigarette before tossing it. He almost immediately regretted the remark; while he’d drifted away from the Orthodox Church during his time in the Georgian Army, and later the US Navy, he’d returned in recent years, often alternating between PMSC work and Orthodox missions in Africa. And one of the things that he believed in, being Orthodox, was respect for his elders. Talking smack about George, who was old enough to be his father, wasn’t right.
But Walt just harrumphed, as he was prone to doing. Walt was hardly what Javakhishvili would have called “old.” He was in his mid-fifties at most. But he seemed to revel in the moniker “Old Fogey” more than any of the others.
“That’ll be the day,” Walt said. “Trust me, kid. We’ve got this. Especially after what happened in the hospital, we’ve got as much skin in this game as you do.”
Javakhishvili nodded absently, his eyes returning to the trees. He knew that. They all did. And even though the farmhouse backed up to the woods, he also knew that anyone trying to infiltrate that way was going to have to cross three roads, every one of which had eyes on them. The Old Fogeys had taken the hit at the hospital personally.
Much the same way the Blackhearts had. It had been a mixed crew of Old Fogeys and Blackhearts that had finally gone in, killed every one of the terrorists, and grabbed a terribly wounded Sam Childress.
“Herc?” He turned to see Tom Burgess, an old friend from one of his earlier PMSC jobs, sticking his head out the back door. “We’ve got a call.”
With a quick nod to Walt, Javakhishvili turned and headed inside. The list of people who had a number that could reach them here was very, very short. And a call probably meant business.
He stepped inside, coming in the back mudroom that opened on the hospital hallway. Burgess, lanky, dark-haired, and probably carrying a Bowie knife somewhere on him in addition to his concealed pistol, led the way toward the living room.
Javakhishvili glanced into Childress’ room as they passed, but nothing had changed. The younger man was still out, the monitors gently beeping, tubes in his nose. That had been a somewhat gawkier beak of a nose before it had been smashed during his torture.
Vincent Bianco was waiting in the living room, where another of the Old Fogeys, a portly, balding man named Frank, who had been on the assault that had rescued Childress, was sitting in a rocking chair, watching out the window. The old man looked quite placid and contented, except for the binoculars in his lap and the AR-15 leaning against the wall next to him, along with a bandolier of spare magazines.
Bianco was a big man, towering over Burgess and Javakhishvili both, and weighing in at well over two hundred fifty pounds. He was one of the youngest of the Blackhearts, with a baby face that belied some of the horrors that he’d seen.
He was sitting on the couch, on the phone. The rest of the cushions were covered in papers, rule books, and monster manuals. It seemed that Vinnie was working on his next gaming session in their spare time.
He glanced up as Burgess and Javakhishvili walked into the room, taking the phone away from his ear and punching the “speaker” button. “They’re here, Roger,” he said.
“Herc, Tom,” Hancock said. “New mission. We’re meeting up in the usual place on Saturday. Looks like a retrieval, involving our ‘new friends,’ as the Colonel put it.”
Javakhishvili glanced at Bianco. The younger man was usually the soul of affability; he was the one who would usually try to step in if two of the Blackhearts started bickering. He was a friendly, open man most of the time, his skill with a belt-fed machinegun notwithstanding.
But there was death in his eyes right at the moment. He knew as well as Javakhishvili did what “new friends” meant. And while Burgess didn’t have the same experience that they did with the Humanity Front, he’d had enough. There was a predatory glint in the old SEAL’s eye.
“Is Jenkins there with you?” Hancock asked.
“No,” Javakhishvili replied. He didn’t much like George Jenkins, and he wasn’t the only one. But the guy was competent, and hadn’t let the Blackhearts down yet. “He took off a couple days ago. We haven’t seen him since.”
“All right,” Hancock said. “I’ll keep trying to track him down. Be at the Colonel’s place by Saturday. Oh, and if anyone’s nervous about leaving Sam, there are some reinforcements coming.”
Frank looked over at that. “They ain’t really necessary,” he said. “We’ve got plenty of eyes and firepower here already.”
“I know,” Hancock replied. “But after what happened a few months ago, we’re not taking chances. They should be getting there soon.”
As if on cue, Frank’s radio crackled. “We’ve got a vehicle, just turned in onto the driveway,” George announced. “Looks like a couple of military age males inside.”
“They might have just showed up,” Bianco told Hancock. “Have they got bona fides?”
“They should,” Hancock replied. “If they don’t stop short and confirm, then they’re not our guys.”
Javakhishvili stepped to the window, just behind Frank, and peered out. Sure enough, a big, dirty-white Suburban was coming up the drive. It wasn’t a new one, either. It looked like it had been kicking around a farm for a couple of decades. Rust spots blended with the dirt on the lower fenders.
Frank had picked up the AR, and had it across his lap, his hand on the pistol grip and his finger hovering near the trigger. Javakhishvili considered heading back to the small arms closet just inside the hallway leading back to the hospital rooms, but stayed where he was, watching.
The Suburban slowed and stopped, just outside the gate to the pasture. The doors opened, and two men, one bearded and the other shaggy-haired and sporting a thick mustache, got out.
“I’ll be damned,” Frank said, squinting out the window as the bearded man pulled out a cell phone and made a call. A moment later, Frank’s phone started ringing.
“Zeb?” he asked when he answered it. “Is that you, you degenerate little bastard?”
He listened to the voice on the phone and then laughed. “Come on in.” He put the phone back in his pocket as the bearded man outside did the same and climbed back into the Suburban.
A couple minutes later, the Sub was parked outside the barn, and the two men were at the door.
They weren’t youngsters; the man named Zeb had two streaks of gray in his beard that would make him look somewhat like a badger if not for his wiry, muscled physique. Full sleeve tattoos crawled over both arms, disappearing into the sleeves of his t-shirt. That he considered himself among friends was obvious from the fact that he wasn’t even trying to conceal the Glock he was appendix carrying.
He and Frank shook hands, then bear-hugged. “Damn, son,” Frank said. “I didn’t think I’d see you again. Last I’d heard, you got selected for some super-secret, black-bag operation. Figured it was Special Activities, or something.”
Zeb smiled, though it was a faintly guarded expression. “Not quite,” he said. He glanced around at the Blackhearts, his eyes a pale gray standing out in a deeply tanned, weathered face. “People know about SAD.”
Javakhishvili frowned a little. The bona fides had been right, and Frank clearly knew Zeb, at least. “Herc,” he said, sticking out his hand. Zeb shook it, his grasp firm. “This is Vinnie and Tom.” He studied the two men, who had “special operations” written all over them. “Who did you piss off to get guard duty in the middle of nowhere?”
It wasn’t just banter. Something was bugging him about this setup.
But Zeb grinned behind his beard. “If you’re wondering why meat-eaters like us would agree to sit in a farmhouse with guns and watch a paraplegic in a coma while other guys go out and do dangerous stuff, it’s because Cash and I just got back from a pretty hairy little vacation in a tropical locale that you may or may not have heard of. We can use the break.”
Frank snorted. “Given what happened a few months ago, it might not be quite the break you guys are hoping for.”
“We’ll take the chance,” the mustached man, who must be Cash, replied. “Trust me, after the fun and games last month, we’ll be good.” He glanced at the Blackhearts, his eyes cool and measuring. “I think I’ll be willing to leave the action to you guys for a little bit.” He grinned suddenly. “Just don’t take all the bad guys out of the game by yourselves, now.”
Burgess laughed mirthlessly. “I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about on that front, buddy.”
***
Carlo Junior was finally quiet, and Carlo Santelli sat in the kitchen, nursing a drink between his thick, hairy fingers.
It had been a rough week. Carlo Junior had been colicky most of the week, then the refrigerator had broken, incurring an unplanned eleven-hundred-dollar expense. The pocketbook wasn’t looking that heavy anymore, and his retirement aside, his job search wasn’t going all that well.
Making matters worse was the fact that he really didn’t want to do any of the jobs he’d applied for. But he’d told Melissa that he’d try. Carlo Junior wouldn’t be out of diapers for another year and a half or so, and she needed him home.
But he hated facing it. Hated thinking of not going out with the Blackhearts again. Remembering that the last time he’d stayed home, hell had come to visit them. He’d gotten into a fight even while staying home from the Chad mission, trying to rescue Sam Childress.
He swallowed a heavy mouthful of the vodka. He wasn’t a whiskey drinker like Brannigan. And as he grimaced at the burn and the turpentine taste, he reminded himself that he wasn’t a straight vodka drinker, either. But it was what they had in the house, and he hadn’t felt like mixing a drink.
Melissa appeared in the darkened doorway, already in her bathrobe. She looked tired, but she was doing better than she had been a few months before. Better than he felt, anyway.
She held up his phone. “John called you,” she said. She crossed to the table, standing over him, and put the phone down next to him.
He looked at it, then up at her. She was watching him, her head slightly tilted to one side, concern in her eyes.
They’d been going through a rough patch, just before Brannigan had called him in on the Khadarkh mission, what felt like a lifetime ago. He hadn’t been sure that she’d still be waiting for him when he got back from the Gulf. But, somehow, their relationship had gotten stronger in the months after that. Now they were parents and homeowners.
“I thought you wanted me to stay here,” he said quietly, taking another sip of the vodka, which made him grimace and shudder despite himself.
She dimpled at his reaction, then sobered.
“I thought I did,” she said, pulling out a chair and sitting next to him. She put a hand on his. “But it can’t just be about me.” She sighed. “You’ve been miserable ever since we decided that you were going to stay home and not go out with Brannigan and the others anymore. I don’t know what you’re doing out there, but it’s important to you; I can tell that much.” She looked up at their new refrigerator. “Carlo Junior’s doing better, and we could use the money.” She squeezed his hand. “And I need you to be on an even keel again. Things got better for us after you went on that first job. I didn’t think that was it, but maybe it was. Maybe you need to be out there just as much as we need you here.” She stood up and leaned over to kiss him. “Call him back.”
“I love you, baby,” Santelli said as he picked up the phone.
“I love you too,” she said from the doorway, as he dialed Brannigan’s number.
Chapter 5
Joe Flanagan didn’t pause as he spotted the tall man leaning against the back of his truck, though Rachel did. “It’s just John,” he said.
“I know,” she replied, stepping a little closer and holding his hand a little tighter. The hand she was squeezing with had a slender ring on it, a new addition after this trip. “That’s what I’m worried about.”
They walked down the trail together, both a little dingy and disheveled, carrying their fishing rods and the creel full of lake trout they’d caught that morning. The campsite was a good distance from the lake, but it was worth it to make sure that they weren’t crowded. It had taken Flanagan a long time to find the good fishing spots up there, and he wasn’t about to share them with anyone. Anyone except Rachel, anyway.
Brannigan was leaning against the camper shell on the back of Flanagan’s relatively new Ram, his arms folded over his plaid shirt. He looked up as they came out of the trees, one eyebrow raised.
“John,” Flanagan said, walking past him to open the tailgate and put his fishing gear inside the bed, alongside the mattress he had laid out inside. The tent was for Rachel.
“Joe,” Brannigan replied. “Rachel.” His eyes flicked to the gleam of the ring on her left hand. “I see that congratulations are in order. When’s the day?”
Flanagan glanced at Rachel, but she was composed, as she almost always was. She’d told him shortly after they’d started getting serious that she’d known what she was getting into.
It didn’t mean she wasn’t going to have some rough nights soon. She worried about him.
“In about six months,” she said. “We’ve got marriage prep to do, along with some other planning.” She met Flanagan’s eyes. He saw the concern there, held back by her determination to be strong. “Depending on circumstances, of course.”
“Well, again, congratulations,” Brannigan said, straightening to his full height. He towered over both of them; Flanagan wasn’t a small man, but Brannigan stood a full six foot four. “Now, I hate to dampen the mood, but I need to borrow your fiancé for a few minutes.”
She nodded, glancing at Flanagan again. “I’ll go ahead and change,” she said, ducking into the tent, leaving her own fishing gear
just outside.
Flanagan met the Colonel’s gaze and jerked his head toward the front of the vehicle. The two men walked around the hood. Rachel would be able to listen if she tried, but she’d be unlikely to overhear anything accidentally, and she wasn’t the eavesdropping kind.
“How’d you find us?” Flanagan asked. He’d taken some care in picking the site, especially to avoid drawing more people to what he realized he was considering “his” lake.
Brannigan’s mouth quirked as he raised a graying eyebrow and folded his arms. “You told Mrs. Ortiz roughly where you were going, just in case,” he said. “Once I had a general area, I just looked for the most secluded spot I could find.” He smiled slightly. “You’re getting predictable, Joe.”
“Guess I’ll have to work on that,” Flanagan said. “What’s the job?”
“Kill or capture,” Brannigan said bluntly. He didn’t need to couch it in the euphemisms that he’d used over the phone. “One of the Front’s facilitators shot his way out of an FBI raid and ran to Argentina. We’re going after him.”
Flanagan’s face hardened, ever so slightly, his jaw tightening beneath his deep black beard. He glanced back at the tent. “I’m in,” he said. “Usual place?”
Brannigan nodded, then jerked his chin toward the tent. “How’s Rachel going to take it?”
“She’s a warrior in her own way,” Flanagan said. “We probably wouldn’t be together, otherwise. She understands.” Unlike Mary, he didn’t say. Mary had been beautiful and affectionate, but at the same time, she’d been possessive and hadn’t ever been able to deal with the ways that Flanagan couldn’t leave his time in the military, or Iraq and Afghanistan, behind him.
“Good,” Brannigan said. He ran a hand over his face. “There’s another issue, though.” When Flanagan raised an eyebrow, he sighed. “I haven’t been able to get through to Curtis.”
