by Peter Nealen
Getting down on his belly, holding the OBR by the bipod with the barrel laid over his forearm, he started to crawl toward the crest of the hump. Still careful to avoid skylining himself, he kept to the outside, angling toward the railroad tracks that paralleled the highway only a few dozen meters away, and inched forward.
There was a van sitting in the desert, just on the other side of the low hill. It might have been black, blue, or red; it was impossible to tell in the dark. In one eye, it was simply a slightly darker, blocky shape. In the other, it was a pale green.
A single figure stood near the van’s back doors where he could see out into the desert, but he was looking back toward the hood.
Keeping flat to the ground, Brannigan didn’t want to move, not that close. That man by the back doors was maybe a hundred yards away, at most. He was danger close, and every inch he moved closer made his position more untenable. But he had to see what was going on.
His old instructors, many, many years ago, had called it the “skull drag.” In the manuals, it was simply called “low crawl.” His head turned to one side to keep himself as low and flat as possible, he dragged himself forward with his fingers and toes, until he could just see around a patch of sagebrush to get eyes on the front of the van.
Thomas was the most easily visible, standing almost half a head taller than any of the five men gathered around him. But he was clearly not in charge of the situation.
His hands were out, like he was pleading. He was speaking, but Brannigan couldn’t quite make out the words. Even in the quiet of the desert night, too many years of gunfire, explosions, and helicopters had damaged his hearing too much. He could hear the tone of the man’s voice, though, and he wasn’t blustering or giving orders. He was begging.
The scornful laughter with which his pleas were being met was equally distinct.
A light bloomed in the middle of the little gathering, looking brilliantly white in his NVGs, but only a dim bluish glow in his other eye, where its view wasn’t obscured by the tube in front of his face. It took him a second to identify what he was looking at as one of the shorter men held the glow out to Thomas.
Thomas took the tablet and looked down at it. Even from where he was, Brannigan imagined he could see the man shaking. He said something, something that didn’t sound like it was directed toward the five men standing in a half-circle around him, and then handed the tablet back with an air of resignation.
The man who had handed it to him spoke then, and while the words were little more than a mutter in the night to Brannigan’s ears, he could read the tone well enough, once again. The man was giving orders. And Sheriff Thomas was nodding, even as he stared at the ground at the smaller man’s feet.
The man giving the orders said something loudly and clapped Thomas on the shoulder. Thomas didn’t look at him, but barely rocked at the blow. Laughing and making what might have been disparaging comments, the six men climbed back in the van as Thomas trudged back toward his truck.
Staying stock-still, Brannigan just waited and watched. The pieces were starting to come together.
Sheriff Thomas was dirty, in a way. He was deliberately aiding and abetting whatever cartel was operating with impunity in Hidalgo County. It was entirely possible that the rest of the sheriff’s department was doing the same on his orders.
But he wasn’t doing it for the sake of personal gain, not the way that Brannigan and the Blackhearts had initially thought. Of that, Brannigan was now convinced, and that conviction was getting stronger the more he thought about what he’d just witnessed. Thomas wasn’t being greedy. He was being blackmailed. And from the way he was acting, along with Sonya’s disappearance, Brannigan suspected that the bad guys had somebody Thomas cared deeply about. This had been a proof-of-life meeting, with instructions given to ensure that that life kept on ticking.
Still moving slowly, even as the van trundled over the sagebrush and rocks toward the highway, he reached for his radio and turned it on, keeping the volume low. He’d switched it off as soon as he’d stopped and begun his stalk. The last thing he’d needed was the radio squawking while the enemy was within spitting distance.
“Goodfella, Kodiak,” he called, his voice little more than a murmur.
“Go for Goodfella,” Santelli replied. “I just saw two vehicles get back on the highway.”
“The van is the target,” Brannigan said. “I’m a few minutes away from my truck, so leave without me and I’ll catch up. I want to know where that van’s going.”
“On it,” Santelli replied.
Brannigan waited until he was sure the van was some distance away before he slowly and carefully rose to a knee, stuffing the radio back in his pocket. He carefully scanned the desert around him before rising to his feet and heading back toward his truck.
This put a new dimension on the whole matter. Having a loved one in danger could make even the most reasonable man do seemingly insane things out of sheer desperation. Given what he’d already seen, he suspected that Sheriff Thomas would go to just about any length to protect whoever had been on that tablet. That meant that even calling in the Feds might not work. Oh, he was sure that if a U.S. Marshal or FBI Agent looked into the situation, the Sheriff and his people would probably be up on charges. But it wouldn’t save Sonya, and it wouldn’t save whoever Thomas was trying to protect.
He knew that in some way, he was probably just trying to justify what he was going to do next. Trying to justify taking a personal hand in dealing with the people who had hurt one of his boys, killed one of his men’s family. But the more he thought about it, the more he was sure that this was first and foremost a rescue mission. Rescue the hostages, and the situation might straighten itself out.
Of course, he was all too aware of the many ways that entire plan could go south. Especially if they were facing a cartel.
This shit is why I never wanted to work in Mexico.
***
Less than an hour later, he had his answer. “Kodiak, Goodfella.” Santelli’s voice was weak and staticky; the hills were getting in the way. “We just passed Animas. I think it’s definite; they’re heading for the Gomez ranch and the border.”
“Good copy,” Brannigan replied. He sighed.
South of the border it is.
Chapter 9
Flanagan lay in the dark under a ghillie hood-over, his OBR on its bipod in front of him, and watched the Gomez ranch.
He’d kept the recon team together; Wade was lying on the ground to his left, almost invisible against the desert floor, clad in his desert ATACS camo. Gomez was on his right, ghillied up like Flanagan. Both men were also up on their rifles.
Erekle “Herc” Javakhishvili was over on Gomez’ right. Herc had been a Fleet Marine Force corpsman, among other things, so Flanagan wasn’t too worried about him in the field. Even the desert didn’t bother him much; he might have been born and raised in the Caucasus, but he’d worked all over, including the Middle East and Africa.
What did have Flanagan a little worried was the general volatility of the team Brannigan had given him. Gomez had a personal stake in all of this. Wade was Wade. And Herc was almost as wild as Wade, and just as likely to say, “fuck it,” and start killing people he figured needed to be dead. He was unpredictable, and had shown it a couple times in Transnistria, being even more quick to violence than the rest of his comrades.
What did I do to get put in the position of being the calm, measured, authoritative one?
They had been in position since just after 0300, up the hill from the ranch itself. They had come in with more preparation and from a different direction than Wade had the last time, giving them some high ground to observe from. It was far from the best recon and surveillance post that Flanagan had ever seen, but they had limited resources, limited time, and limited options. The four of them were dug into shallow scrapes, disguised by carefully arranged sagebrush and creosote bushes, some of it still growing, some cut off at ground level and “transplanted.” They di
dn’t have a lot in the way of optics; they got some good magnification out of their OBRs’ scopes, but that was still hardly enough for detailed observation at almost eight hundred meters. Flanagan had one pair of binos, and Gomez, being the most familiar with the target area, and therefore the best-qualified to spot any inconsistencies, had the other.
The place was currently dead. It wasn’t abandoned; the gangbangers who appeared to be trashing it had been up until almost four in the morning, playing loud music, drinking, and otherwise entertaining themselves. There were bottles scattered across the porch now, windows shot out, and bullet holes pockmarking several of the walls from the sicarios having fun. And from some of the noises they’d barely heard over the thumping and skirling of the narcocorridos, they wouldn’t like what they found inside, either.
The fact that the screaming and crying had stopped could be a mercy or a horror, depending on what they found.
None of them talked as the sky turned pale and the morning light began to grow. There wasn’t much to talk about, and all of them had their game faces on. They weren’t buddies, not then. They were hunters, and the prey was down below.
With the binoculars propped on top of his rifle’s scope, the lenses shaded by green tape to keep the glare down, Flanagan scanned the ranch below. There were presently three trucks and a Jeep parked outside, not counting the old F-100 that looked like it had been shot to pieces just because. He didn’t know for sure, but suspected that that had been Old Man Gomez’ truck. Why else would it have been used for target practice, and that close to the house?
Right at the moment, he couldn’t see any exterior security. There was one guy sitting in a chair on the porch, but he looked passed out. Somebody else was sprawled in the dust just beyond; given what they’d seen that night, he could be passed out or dead.
The screen door banged open, and a man in a white t-shirt stepped outside. He looked around, then kicked the man slumped in the chair on the porch. That one fell over, snatching for something as he went, but couldn’t catch himself.
What did he grab for? A weapon? Maybe he is supposed to be on security.
The one in the white t-shirt was haranguing the man, pointing out at the hills and holding up something else in his hand. “Mario,” Flanagan whispered, “can you make out what he’s got?”
“Looks like a phone, maybe?” Gomez replied. His voice was barely above a growl; it couldn’t be easy on the blood pressure to watch his home being desecrated by these animals.
“I could hit him from here,” Javakhishvili offered.
“We all could,” Flanagan replied. “Hold your fire. We’re here on recon and surveillance, not to hit the place. Not yet.”
They lapsed into silence, watching as the man in the white t-shirt continued to yell and gesture. The one he’d kicked over got up slowly, and this time Flanagan could see that it was definitely a weapon he picked up; shotgun or rifle, he couldn’t tell from that distance. Resentfully, the man shuffled a short distance away and stood against one of the porch posts, looking out toward the south.
The man in the white t-shirt continued his harangue, yelling and waving his arms, even as he turned back toward the house. Three more men came out, moving slowly and clearly reluctantly, weapons in their hands. The man waved the hand that Flanagan thought had a phone in it, and then pointed toward the northeast, where the road came down from Animas.
There was a faint rustle beside him. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wade shift, adjusting to direct his own rifle and optic toward the road. He’d picked up on the same thing, and was positioning himself to spot anything or anyone coming from that direction.
Then there was nothing to do but wait and watch.
The morning warmed a little, though not as much as it would in the summer. The rocky, sandy soil beneath them was cold, and there was a decided bite in the air. The sky continued to brighten, and a pale pink light began to spread across the hills around them.
Before the sun was all the way up, Wade hissed shortly. Flanagan turned his head to look.
There was a vehicle coming down the road. At first all he could see was a cloud of dust and a pair of headlights. But as he turned his binoculars on the advancing vehicle, he could see that it was a van, an older, commercial job. And it was heading straight for the ranch.
“Offhand, I’d say that old boy was excited about getting ready for this arrival,” he whispered to Gomez.
“I can’t see it,” Gomez replied.
“Van,” Flanagan said. “Black or dark blue. Coming straight to the ranch from the north.”
Then they lapsed into silence again, watching and waiting. There was a lot of that on a reconnaissance mission.
The van came around the shoulder of the hills where they lay and advanced on the ranch itself. Flanagan picked out two of the three who had come out of the house. One was crouched in the weeds atop a rise on one side of the road, while the other leaned heavily against the fence of the corral, slightly obliquely opposite of the first. So, the white t-shirt guy had been putting exterior security out.
The van rolled past the two of them. Flanagan had been focused on the one atop the rise, and quickly swung his binoculars to the other as the van passed.
Neither reacted much except to flip their chins in a sort of nod at the van. So, they were expecting it. These guys must be there in case anyone followed the van.
The vehicle trundled up to the house, where the man in the white t-shirt was waiting. It came to a stop with a small cloud of dust, which was slowly dispersed by the faint morning breeze. The man in the white t-shirt said something, as the doors opened, and two more men got out. Both of them wore dark clothing and jackets. They were also obviously armed.
One of them went to the man in the white t-shirt and they greeted each other. The other opened the side door, and two more piled out. Then he went around to the back and swung open the back doors.
A fifth man got out, but he wasn’t alone. He was dragging a black-haired girl with him. Even from that distance, Flanagan could see that she’d been stripped down to her underwear, and while she wasn’t struggling, she was still being badly manhandled. She looked limp and beaten, her head hanging, barely able to stand. Whether she’d been beaten or drugged, it was impossible to say from that distance.
Even from several feet away, Flanagan could feel Gomez tense. It wasn’t a sudden or spasmodic movement, but it was definitely there. “Is that Sonya?” he asked in a whisper.
“I don’t think so,” Gomez replied. His voice was tight and a little thick, but he was still under control. “I don’t know who it is.”
Despite the calmness of his voice, Gomez had put his binoculars down and put his eye to his scope, snugging the OBR’s buttstock into his shoulder.
“Hey, if it’s not her, it’s not our problem,” Wade hissed. “Recon mission, remember?”
“Doesn’t matter to me,” Gomez said. “That’s my house they’re using as a rape shack.”
Wade twisted his head around to look at Flanagan. His pale eyes were still cool and detached. He wasn’t getting too stirred up. Knowing Wade, he wouldn’t object to getting their violence on early; he just wanted to make sure the mission didn’t suffer for it. Wade was fine with killing people. But he was also as mission-focused as any of them. He had to be; Brannigan wouldn’t have kept him around otherwise.
“I’m down,” Herc whispered from the other side. None of the rest of them knew much in the way of detail about Javakhishvili’s past history, but he’d probably seen some pretty heinous things.
The truth was, Flanagan reflected, as he watched the girl get hauled, staggering, toward the house, that there probably wasn’t a one of them who wouldn’t be more than happy to waste these scumbags and rescue the girl. Wade and Javakhishvili might not actually care about the girl, or necessarily being heroes. It was a matter of general principles, being generally honorable meat-eaters watching their prey. But Flanagan hesitated, forcing himself to look at it ob
jectively. As Wade had said, if the girl wasn’t Sonya, they had no real stake in rescuing her, and moving now might compromise the rest of the mission.
For that matter, Flanagan wasn’t sure he wanted to be a hero, either. But he did have a pretty deeply-ingrained sense of justice, and that sense was screaming at him to end these bastards.
Mission or not, are you going to be able to live with yourself, look yourself in the mirror, if you don’t try to save that girl? It’s not like you’ve got a higher headquarters telling you to stand down and stand by.
Will you be able to look Rachel in the eyes if you don’t do it?
“All right,” he whispered. “John, you’re with me. We’ll engage from here. Mario, Herc, fall back to the other side of the ridge behind us and boogey around to…” he paused, searching the terrain around them. “There. Find a firing position about ninety degrees offset from us, if you can.” He checked his watch. “No comms. We’ll open fire in fifteen minutes, so make some good time.” He knew that they wouldn’t be able to save the girl from all the trauma she was facing; they were probably already working her over in there. But they could end it, and they might just save her life in the process.
And if there was information in that house that would help them figure this situation out, so much the better. He wasn’t really seeing anything that would illuminate their adversary’s identity or plan from sitting there on overwatch.
If they’d had a dedicated intel cell that went beyond Vinnie Bianco and whatever support that Curtis and Jenkins could provide him, that might be one thing. But they didn’t. So, if he had to justify this in an operational sense, that was what he was going to tell Brannigan. That they’d seen an opportunity to gain some additional intel on the opposition by retaking the Gomez place.
