by Peter Nealen
“I don’t like it,” Javakhishvili said quietly.
“Me, neither,” Gomez replied. The taxi they’d taken to get there was, fortunately, still waiting on the curb, but they needed to make a decision soon. “I think we need to try somewhere else.”
“Agreed,” Burgess replied. He was still standing next to the taxi; he’d be the one to make sure that their driver didn’t take off.
Gomez and Burgess were both dressed in casual clothes, polo shirts and jeans or khakis. Javakhishvili was wearing a suit; he was the “principal,” a Georgian businessman looking for a new market for his medical supply business. It seemed like a bit of a stretch to Gomez, but Javakhishvili could converse easily and accurately about the subject, being a medic, and a Georgian might attract less attention than an American. Gomez would never pass for an Argentinian, at least not without a lot of practice. His Spanish was distinctly American Southwest, and he wasn’t read up on Argentine culture enough to blend in.
It wasn’t Mexico, that was for sure. Argentina was much more of an ethnic and cultural melting pot, with almost as many Germans and French as Spaniards in the mix. Which made for a very different dynamic if you were trying not to get noticed and possibly identified as American mercenaries.
The three of them got back into the taxi, and Gomez quickly and quietly consulted with the driver about where to find another car dealership, passing over another small sheaf of bills as he did so. The man accepted them without comment, already deep into a rapid-fire explanation of where to try next.
Gomez had made it clear that he wanted to find someplace where they could examine and even test-drive the cars before they bought them. He was also trying to imply that they wanted someplace that wouldn’t look at their paperwork too closely, without actually saying it.
It turned out that that was a lot easier when you spoke more of the local dialect. He wasn’t sure how much his Southwestern/Northern Mexican Spanish was getting the idea across. But the man was eager and helpful enough, so they pulled away from the curb and raced off toward another prospect.
***
The dealer nodded, smiling, as Javakhishvili counted out the cash. The vehicles weren’t the best, but Herc wasn’t playing a well-to-do businessman. He was playing a hustler in a cheap suit who had high hopes and was willing to get cheap, beater vehicles to fill out his company’s “fleet.”
Ordinarily, they would have needed residency paperwork from the local police, a Certificado de Domicilio, to purchase a vehicle. When it had become obvious that Brannigan wasn’t interested in tying their operation to Dalca’s by borrowing her off-the-books vehicles—which were probably bugged, Hancock had pointed out sourly—she had offered falsified Certificados. To her surprise, Brannigan had produced a set; Van Zandt had done his homework, and had supplied the Blackhearts with the forged paperwork they were going to need, along with the cash.
The dealer kept smiling as he gathered up the money and handed over three sets of keys, to a Hilux and two Renaults, a Duster and a Kangoo 4x4. The vehicles weren’t new, and Burgess was pretty sure that they’d overpaid, but Javakhishvili wasn’t necessarily playing a smart Eastern European businessman.
That was deliberate, too. The more likely it was that the dealer had cheated them, the less likely it became that he was going to rat them out or get suspicious enough about their papers to contact the police. It wasn’t the first time in a corrupt Third World country for any of them.
The thing that struck Burgess as he stepped outside into the afternoon heat and started toward the dingy, rust-spotted red Kangoo was that Argentina wasn’t, technically, part of the Third World. It was downright wealthy compared to much of the rest of South America, and there was simply no comparison to the bulk of Africa or the Middle East. But as rich as the country was, the endemic corruption and rising crime problems meant that the poor parts were really poor. They weren’t far from a barrio that looked like villages he’d seen in Iraq.
Of course, Burgess had seen slums all over the world. None of this was unfamiliar to him; he’d seen corruption, poverty, and violence in Africa, Eastern Europe, and the Middle East. It was ultimately all the same wherever you went.
None of that knowledge was going to make him complacent, though. So, when the three of them pulled out of the lot and headed in different directions, he noticed the three men in a sedan, sitting just down the road, watching as he pulled away.
He didn’t so much see them as feel them. He’d learned a long time ago, having frequented many places where Westerners didn’t go alone, to sort of unfocus his eyes, letting his peripheral vision open up. He caught fewer details that way, but he could still spot people and movement off to his flanks that might otherwise go unnoticed, all without alerting them that he was watching.
It was an old stalker trick, but he’d come across it organically. Tom Burgess was not the kind of man who stuck to safe places.
He didn’t react as he got in the Kangoo and fired it up. The old 4x4 wasn’t in the best shape, but it started all right, and seemed to run smoothly enough as he pulled out of the lot. He scanned the street, but didn’t see anyone following the other two vehicles. Gomez was already out of sight with the Hilux, and Javakhishvili was already making his turn in the Duster. But as Burgess pulled out, he saw the sedan follow him.
It wasn’t a reason to panic, not yet. It might just be a coincidence. He’d seen it happen before. But he still dug into his pocket and pulled out the burner phone that they’d picked up before going on the car hunt, holding it in his lap.
Once again, they’d gotten their own instead of accepting Dalca’s offer of several her outfit already had prepared.
They’d taken the time to get the phones set up out in town with Bianco, complete with inputting the contacts they’d need, before the big man had caught another taxi and headed back to the villa. It had been a risk, splitting up like that, but Bianco could handle himself, and if worse came to worst, he was armed.
Burgess didn’t drive any differently as he got onto the main thoroughfare. He didn’t speed up or maneuver drastically. It wasn’t time yet. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. The sedan was still behind him, hanging back about a hundred fifty yards.
He kept one hand on the phone while he drove. It still wasn’t time to call the others and get them on the alert yet. It still might be nothing. No reason to get the team all spun up over nothing.
Part of that was simply common sense and a long history of working and traveling in places that were less than safe. He was used to being on his own, and he’d gotten out of some very tricky situations with local criminals by himself before.
Another part was due to his own awareness of his status with the Blackhearts. He was a new guy. He’d participated in the rescue of Sam Childress, but this was his first overseas job with the team. He was still proving himself, and being the guy who cried “wolf” was not the rep he wanted with these men.
On the other hand, he reminded himself as he turned off the thoroughfare and onto a side street, he needed to make sure that he wasn’t pushing things too far, and getting himself into trouble before he called for help.
The Kangoo bounced and creaked as he rolled down the street. The pavement was cracked and heaved in many places, and the buildings to either side matched the road. Red brick was seamed with sloppily applied gray mortar. The white plaster on other buildings was dingy and cracking, and often scrawled with graffiti. Barred gates and barred windows were everywhere.
He glanced in the rear-view again. Sure enough, there was the sedan, trundling along after him. It was about three cars back, but keeping to a position in traffic where at least one of the men inside could still see him.
Still could be a coincidence. Got to make sure.
He turned again, then took the next immediate left. Two cars followed him through both turns, including the sedan he’d already fingered as belonging to the bad guys. He didn’t know which bad guys, but nobody followed a stranger through a run-down city to do them a good tur
n.
As he took the next turn, still moving generally south, he knew he was going to have to keep away from the villa and call for help. Especially when a second vehicle suddenly surged out into the intersection ahead of him, angling toward his hood, a pair of swarthy faces glaring at him through the windshield.
His adrenaline surged, and he mashed the accelerator, twisting the wheel as the oncoming van skidded to a halt in front of him. He shot toward the gap behind it; the driver had overpenetrated in his eagerness to block the intersection. He bounced up onto the cracked, weed-overgrown curb with one set of wheels, the fender bouncing off the corner of the van with a bang, shattered red plastic showering onto the street from the broken taillight. Then he was past and moving, gunning the engine and no longer even trying to appear to stick to the traffic pattern. He needed to get clear.
He punched the speed dial for Gomez and lifted the phone to his ear as he wove between cars on the narrow street, barely avoiding sideswiping a sedan full of people as the Kangoo’s suspension squeaked and groaned, bouncing over the uneven street.
“I’m made,” he said. “Heading south toward Monseñor Tavella. They’ve already tried to cut me off once.”
Even as he spoke, he saw a pair of motorcycles turn in behind him and start cutting through the traffic toward him. He couldn’t be sure, but every sense was telling him that these were more bad guys.
“I could use some help,” he said, as he twisted the wheel and almost tipped the Kangoo up on two wheels, taking a hard left turn partway through the intersection.
The motorcycles followed. The sedan was still hanging in there behind, too, though it was having a bit more difficulty with the traffic.
Burgess didn’t know who these guys were, but they wanted him badly, and they had a lot of resources. And the rest of the team, except for Gomez and Javakhishvili, who didn’t have any more firepower than he did, was across town.
Chapter 9
Gomez acknowledged Burgess’ call for help, then quickly hung up, still clutching the phone as he looked in his rear-view mirror. Sure enough, there was another car behind him. He couldn’t tell if they were following him, specifically, but at that point, every other vehicle on the road was suspect.
He neared the next intersection, seeing the advancing grill of an older sedan about to pass through. He floored the accelerator, shooting through the intersection just ahead of the car, swerving to just barely avoid hitting the front bumper as the other driver braked with a squeal of tires and laid on his horn. The next vehicle behind collided with the suddenly-stopped sedan, pushing it farther into the intersection.
Gomez kept accelerating down the next block, seeing the vehicle he’d picked out trying to come after him, but the intersection was now thoroughly blocked by the wreck, with drivers getting out and yelling at each other. He quickly took the first right turn he came to, racing down that block and then taking a quick left.
With two turns between him and his pursuers, he slowed to a more sedate pace, scanning the surrounding buildings for cameras. He hadn’t noticed any so far, but that didn’t mean much; more and more police departments and internal security agencies throughout the world were turning to mass surveillance in the cities.
But it looked like he was in the clear. He speed-dialed Javakhishvili, continuing to drive with one hand on the wheel, scanning his surroundings but otherwise trying to appear like just another Indio driving a beat-up Hilux.
“Send it,” Javakhishvili answered after it rang twice.
“Tom’s in trouble,” Gomez told him. “We need to get back and get the rest of the team.”
“Where is he?” Javakhishvili asked. Gomez could already hear the wheels turning in the other man’s head.
“Don’t even think about it, Herc,” he said. Javakhishvili might have been playing the principal in the little charade they’d put on for the car dealer and the taxi driver, but Gomez, as quiet and unassuming as he usually was, was the senior Blackheart, and didn’t have the personal tie to Burgess that Javakhishvili did. The two of them had met on contract in Africa, and had done several trips together with various PMCs and Orthodox mission organizations. “We’re not going to do Tom any good going after him solo. We need the rest of the team, and if you go back in there, we’re only going to have one truck to carry everybody. We’ve still got to try to keep a low profile. Tom can take care of himself. Get back to the villa.”
“Roger,” Javakhishvili replied grudgingly. He might have been a bit of a wild man, at least outwardly, but Herc had a fair bit of common sense. As much as he wanted to go after Burgess himself, he’d do what needed to be done.
Gomez had to admit that he was tempted to go after Burgess, himself. He’d only met the man a few months before, when they’d gone after Sam Childress together, but that had been enough. And Gomez was a bit of a lone wolf much of the time; he wouldn’t have asked for the Blackhearts’ help getting Sonya back from the Espino-Gallo gang unless it had been necessary. Since he and Herc were closer, it seemed like common sense that they go get Burgess out themselves, rather than haring across the city to get the rest.
But the sirens were already starting to sound, and he didn’t know how many bad guys were between them and Burgess by then. Burgess had been through some hairy situations on his own; he could survive. If he couldn’t evade his pursuers the way that Gomez had, they were going to need numbers and firepower to get him out.
He quickly dialed Brannigan’s number.
***
Burgess heard the sirens, too. And given the fact that he was armed in a country where he really wasn’t supposed to be, he knew that a run-in with the Argentinian police was going to be every bit as bad as if the bad guys behind him caught up.
He was screaming down the Avenue Hipolito Yrigoyen, a dry, concrete-lined canal to his left, and close-packed cinderblock and brick buildings to his right. The two men on motorcycles were keeping pace; one of them clearly had an Uzi, held close to his chest. That alone told him plenty; Argentina wasn’t exactly a place where gun ownership was well-liked by the authorities, and openly carrying was as illegal as concealing a weapon.
Whoever these guys were, they were serious.
He couldn’t help but wonder, as he suddenly stomped on the brake, swerving right, then left as he slowed, forcing the motorcyclist to back off before he got slammed into the building across the street, if they were working for the Humanity Front. He knew enough about the massive NGO to expect that they had people everywhere; they were by far the richest non-governmental organization in the world, and had friends in governments, boardrooms, and agencies across every continent. Which, of course, was why the Blackhearts had to be careful going after them; they had friends everywhere, friends who could bring massive resources to bear to crush any initiative to take them down.
He raced across the narrow bridge over the canal, turning hard right with a squeal of rubber on asphalt, and then turned sharply into the neighborhood. He was definitely getting into the barrio; while the district he’d just turned out of hadn’t exactly been posh, here the streets were narrower, and the poverty was even more obvious. The plaster on the walls—where there was plaster—was flaked away in places, the layer of dust and grime over everything was heavier, and there wasn’t a window or door that didn’t have security bars on it.
Which also meant that he was heading into more dangerous territory, not less.
He didn’t have a really great brief on Argentina, but he knew that crime had been on the rise of late; Argentina’s drug market was getting almost as big as Brazil’s or the United States’. That brought the scum. He started to reevaluate who was chasing him.
He shook his head as he took another turn. He was getting looks, and he could hear the sirens as well as the snarl of the motorcycles behind him. It didn’t matter, right at that moment, who was after him. They were after him, and if they caught him, he was in deep trouble, no matter who they were working for.
He was about to take the ne
xt turn when a beater pickup appeared in front of him, swerving to block the street ahead. He spotted a shotgun being brought to bear and spun the wheel back the other way, mashing the accelerator and slewing the Kangoo back onto the main road. Even as he did so, the motorcycles appeared again in his rear view, roaring down the road after him, the man in the lead still cradling that Uzi against his chest.
The bikers were on him in seconds; the Kangoo had a decent amount of torque, but not a lot of acceleration or speed. One of them hung back while the Uzi gunner pulled up next to him, leveling the submachine gun at his window.
Burgess had been ready for it. He’d dropped the phone into the center console, and had his Sig 938 held in his lap as he drove with one hand. He snapped the pistol up while the motorcyclist was still trying to steady his Uzi and shot the man in the faceplate.
Burgess was experienced enough to know that a headshot wasn’t always a guaranteed kill. However, even if the 9mm bullet didn’t kill the man, the subsequent crash, as the motorcycle slammed down onto its side, skidding and bouncing along the narrow road, the man’s leg pinned under it, was at least going to put him out of commission for a long time.
He ducked down as the second biker opened fire with a pistol. The man wasn’t a great shot, though, particularly not from the back of a motorcycle. One bullet hit the back of the Kangoo with a loud bang, but the rest seemed to go wild.
Then he was about to take another turn, only to find yet another vehicle in his way, this time with two men in white t-shirts aiming AK-47s at him.
They opened fire almost immediately, making him wonder just what the point of this pursuit really was. If they wanted to take him alive, they were doing a shit job of it. And this was a hell of a lot of effort for a robbery.
Bullets smacked into the Kangoo’s frame as he swerved away. He was still being herded onto the main road and driven deeper into the barrio. He knew what was going on; he was going to get cut off soon, unless he pulled a good trick out of his hat.
