High Desert Vengeance (Brannigan's Blackhearts Book 5)

by Peter Nealen

  Bianco looked up at the sky. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Not enough angles; I don’t think I can hit the satellite. We’ll have to get higher.”

  Wade glanced at his watch again, shading the illumination with his hand before covering it completely. “Well, this already took longer than we’d hoped. We’ve got about two hours now.”

  “That’s a mile an hour,” Bianco said, with a cheerfulness he wasn’t really feeling. “We can make it.”

  Wade didn’t say that he was doubtful, but Bianco knew that he was. There was some rough terrain and even rougher brush to break between their hiding place and any place where they could get eyes on their objective.

  “Well, let’s go,” Wade said. “We’ll stop once we get to higher ground, see if we can’t send a SITREP.”

  Together, the two men started to fight their way through the brush. It might have been his imagination, but Bianco thought he could already see a faint lightening in the sky on the other side of the mountains.

  ***

  “This was not smart,” Wade whispered.

  “No, it wasn’t, but we made it,” Bianco answered in the same hushed tone.

  They’d only made it about halfway to the valley in the mountains that was their objective before first light. The brush on the hillsides was only about waist-high, but it was thick and tough, and made for rough going. They’d apprised the rest of the team of their status and their objective, but neither man had relished the idea of staying in place for a day on the hillside, even sheltered by the brush. So, even as the sun brightened the sky above them, they kept moving, still in the shadow of the spine of the Ascensiòn Mountains.

  By the time they reached their vantage point, they’d been crawling for almost a quarter mile, the brush hanging on their rucks and often snagging, holding them in place until they could work themselves loose. They hadn’t seen any sign of patrols, though Wade had just about put his hand on a rattlesnake an hour before. Bianco could almost feel the scorpions scuttling around under the brush. Even more than sidewinders or rattlesnakes, scorpions gave him the willies.

  But their tenacity had paid off. Because they were now lying on their bellies near the crest of a hill, looking down on what had to be the Espino-Gallo hacienda.

  It was set on cleared ground, surrounded by several outbuildings. Those had been the sites of the lights they’d seen the night before.

  The whole thing was practically a fortress. A long rectangle, the building itself formed two walled courtyards, with a central hall between them that looked not unlike an old Spanish mission, with the elevated and arched façade. There were several trucks parked outside, including Acosta’s.

  With the spotting scopes that each man had packed in his rucksack, they were able to see a few guards sitting outside the front door, and another pacing around the parked vehicles with a dog on a leash. They were too far away to identify any of the weapons, but they were clearly armed.

  If that wasn’t a narco-fortress, Bianco didn’t know what was.

  “Well, we stuck our necks out to make it happen,” Wade whispered, “but we seem to have hit the jackpot. Let’s send the rest of the team a message, and see if they can’t get moving down here.”

  Chapter 19

  Francisco Acosta had never been so afraid in his life.

  It had been a perfect plan. He’d been insulated from scrutiny by the simple fact that he was probably the single most respectable citizen in the county. He was already the kingmaker, why would anyone think he might be a criminal? It was unthinkable. He was good friends with the sheriff, for crying out loud. No man like that would be making deals with cartels. It had been the perfect cover.

  Of course, Juan Gomez and he had never gotten along. Gomez had never shown him the respect that he was due, and so would probably have been the first to suspect him of something, especially after that shooting drove Dan Charvet out of the country. He’d made out well from that, scooping up Charvet’s detailing business for a steal. Sure, he’d had to pay Benito Espino-Gallo his cut, but he was still making more money than he was losing. And he was getting a cut from the money-laundering going through his businesses.

  The long-standing, if unspoken, antipathy between him and Gomez had made it that much easier to sic Angel Espino-Gallo, the self-styled El Destripador, and his thugs on the Gomez family. Gomez had been the only one in the county who really didn’t trust him, and with him out of the way, not only would he have full run of the dead man’s ranchland, but he got his sole real antagonist out of the way.

  But then the prodigal son had showed up. He hadn’t seen Mario Gomez since before the young man had gone off to join the Marine Corps, and hadn’t really thought about him. He knew that he stayed over every now and then, but he was just a kid who wasn’t really a part of the community anymore. And Thomas had been eager enough to clamp down on anyone “causing trouble,” and possibly putting his daughter at risk, to neutralize any trouble that the younger Gomez might have stirred up.

  At least, that had been the plan. Until Gomez had turned out to have powerful friends who were willing to make legal trouble about a self-defense case being treated as assault and battery. That had been a setback, and he’d gnashed his teeth in his truck after having to play his role in the parking lot.

  But that had been nothing, he’d discovered.

  First came the killings at the ranch house. That had been unexpected enough. The ranch was supposed to be solidly in his and Espino-Gallo’s hands. But someone had hit it, killing a bunch of Espino-Gallo’s boys, and driving off the counterattack. He’d had to do some fast talking over the phone to assure Benito that he had everything under control.

  He’d been able to hear Angel in the background, continually urging his father to send him to deal with Acosta.

  Despite El Destripador’s eagerness to tear his guts out, Acosta had managed to allay Benito’s fears. Ramos’ daughter was the price. It was a small price, really; he’d wanted Ramos’ restaurant for years, but had never been able to get the man to sell. He’d reassure the Espino-Gallos that everything was fine, get them another pretty young woman for their flesh trade, and get himself another business, all in one fell swoop.

  But the same unknowns who had killed the Espino-Gallo sicarios at the ranch had struck again. It had to be them, whoever they were. Friends of Gomez. It was the only possibility. He didn’t know how Gomez had gotten such powerful friends, who could reach out to get Mario out of jail in Lordsburg, and then send killers to start mopping up the narcos who were busily taking over the county, but somehow, he had.

  The realization was a little too late, but that didn’t stop him from swearing that he was going to get his revenge. He didn’t know how; he was currently kneeling on the floor in a small room in Benito’s hacienda, his hands tied behind his back and a sack over his head. He had heard noises that suggested that the latest shipment of girls was probably in the next room, but he was momentarily glad that he wasn’t in there with them. They wouldn’t know that he had been instrumental in their kidnapping—at least some of them—but he wasn’t sure at that point if he trusted his own reactions. He was beyond terrified, even as he desperately wracked his brains to think of a way to get Benito to spare him. To give him another chance.

  The door behind him creaked open. Boots scuffed on the bare stone floor, and a murmur that he couldn’t quite understand was met with a braying laugh. Then rough hands were thrust under his armpits and he was hauled to his feet. Dragged around to face the door, which was a dim, hazy rectangle of light through the threads of the sack, he stood there for a moment, quaking. They hadn’t taken the hood off, and he didn’t think that was a good sign.

  A hard shove sent him stumbling toward the door. “Vamonos!” He staggered through and out into the courtyard.

  He could see faint shapes, and hear talk that was just low enough he couldn’t make out words. Another shove kept him moving. He staggered and stumbled onward, until he was suddenly brought up short by anoth
er hand on his collar, yanking it hard and almost choking him. A boot struck him in the back of the knees, and he went down in the dust of the courtyard.

  His tormentor yanked him upright and pulled off the sack.

  He blinked and squinted as he looked around. Benito Espino-Gallo was standing a few yards in front of him, his arms folded over his bulging belly, wearing the gold-piped white shirt and gold bolo tie that he always wore. His white cowboy boots stuck out from under his black jeans, that somehow didn’t seem to gather any of the dust of the courtyard. His eyes were hidden by the sunglasses he always wore for work.

  Several of his sons and his voluptuous, vicious wife Armida were gathered on either side and behind him. Only one stood between Benito and Acosta.

  El Destripador.

  Angel was dressed the exact opposite of his father, as was his way. White jeans, black shirt, black boots. And that work of art of a Korth revolver was in his hand, the sun winking off the rubies set in the dragon’s eyes alongside the barrel.

  “What have you done, Francisco?” Benito asked. “Another six of my men dead. No girl. No recompense at all. I told you after the last bloodbath that you had one more chance.”

  “Please, Benito,” Acosta begged, snot running from his nose. He found he was crying, his eyes on Angel, who was staring at him with those vacant eyes of his, a faint smile on his face. He wanted to hold his hands out in supplication, but they were still tied behind his back.

  “It’s too late, Francisco,” Benito said coldly. He had his own favored weapon, a blunt, blocky Origin 12 shotgun, dangling from one hand. “I would kill you in the center of Lordsburg, but Angel has urged me against it. It would send the right message, but he is eager, and has convinced me that we can send the same message without you.” He nodded to Angel.

  El Destripador smiled and stepped forward.

  In that moment, Acosta knew he was going to die. He knew it with an urgency that went beyond the fear he’d felt while waiting in his cell, blinded by the sack. He wished he could go back there, before he saw El Diablo himself made flesh walking toward him, a gleaming, engraved revolver in his hand and a feverish glint in his eyes.

  El Destripador didn’t say anything. He just lifted the Korth, giving Acosta a moment to stare down the barrel. The .357 caliber muzzle looked like a bottomless pit. The bullets were clearly visible in the cylinder’s chambers.

  Acosta started to plead again. He didn’t even know what he was saying; it was mostly blubbering gibberish. He lost control of his bladder and his bowels. He threw himself on the ground and begged, writhing toward Benito Espino-Gallo on his belly.

  El Destripador’s first bullet wasn’t aimed at his head. He shot Acosta through the midsection. Acosta screamed as the bullet tore through his guts, terrible pain lancing through his belly. The second bullet went alongside the first, on the other side of his spine. The third finally smashed into his pelvis, and he couldn’t move anymore, but only huddle on the ground, barely able to gather the breath to scream.

  The dead-eyed killer crouched down on his heels in front of Acosta, tilting his head to study him, like a curious child watching an animal in the zoo.

  “Por favor,” Acosta whispered through shaking lips. “Por favor.”

  El Destripador just squatted there and watched him. Unblinking.

  “Finish it, Angel,” Benito demanded.

  El Destripador smiled again, and put the muzzle of the Korth against the back of Acosta’s neck. Not his skull. His neck. The pistol barked, and the bullet tore through Acosta’s throat.

  He lay there, choking and gurgling as the last of his lifeblood pumped out onto the dust of the courtyard. El Destripador straightened up, ignoring the spots of blood on his white jeans, and watched as if fascinated, until Acosta stopped moving. Then he turned away, flipping open the Korth’s cylinder and shucking the spent shells, replacing them with fresh rounds from his belt.

  Without looking back at the corpse on the ground, he waved at the sicarios gathered around the courtyard. They immediately started filing toward the exits and the trucks outside.

  ***

  “Well, that was brutal,” Bianco muttered, his eye still set against the spotting scope.

  “Yeah,” Wade replied. “Can’t say he didn’t have it coming, though.”

  “I dunno,” Bianco said. “That kid looks like a straight-up psychopath to me. Not sure I’d wish my worst enemy into his hands.”

  “You’re too charitable,” Wade told him.

  There was a faint hiss of brush on material, and the crunch of sandy soil under a boot behind them. Bianco rolled off the spotting scope, grabbing his OBR.

  “Friendlies,” Flanagan hissed. He and Gomez loomed out of the brush, both fully camouflaged, crawling on hands and knees to stay below the top of the vegetation.

  “The rest are behind us,” Gomez explained quietly, his eyes finding the hacienda and focusing in like a hawk’s. “Brannigan sent the two of us ahead.”

  Wade hadn’t moved, but had kept his eyes on the hacienda below them. “They should probably hold what they’ve got,” he said. “Looks like our boys are mounting up to go do some stuff.”

  Bianco turned back to his own spotting scope. Sure enough, the psycho with the revolver was getting into a lifted black pickup, and a lot of others with rifles, submachineguns, and shotguns were doing the same. “Sure looks like it,” he said. “Where do you think they’re going?”

  “Probably up to clean Lordsburg out, would be my guess,” Flanagan said. He had crawled in next to Wade and was watching the activity around the hacienda through his rifle scope. “Only thing I can think of. We just threw the gauntlet in their faces. Kevin and I killed six of ‘em.”

  “You got comms with Brannigan?” Wade asked.

  “Of course,” Gomez said, pulling a radio out of his chest rig.

  “Hold up,” Bianco said suddenly, his eye still set to his spotting scope. “Wade, look at the northern corner, right next to the door they pulled Acosta out of.”

  Wade said nothing for a moment, just looking through his glass. “That looks like somebody’s guarding that door,” he said slowly.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Bianco asked.

  “I don’t know,” Wade replied. “What are you thinking?”

  “If they’re guarding the door, in their own house, could that be where they’re keeping the hostages?” Bianco ventured.

  Wade squinted, but held his peace. Flanagan was peering through his own scope; it didn’t have the magnification of the spotting scopes, but they were only about seven hundred fifty meters away. Less than half a mile.

  “It could be money or drugs,” Flanagan said slowly. “But I’d think that in a mansion like that, prisoners would be a better bet. Especially since we haven’t seen anyplace else they might be keeping them.”

  “We haven’t exactly found every single bit of property these assholes own, either,” Wade pointed out. “They could have a barn or a warehouse somewhere where they’re keeping them. It’s a big desert out here.”

  “But if we’re talking about the hostages that they’re holding to keep the authorities in line, and make sure nobody calls any outsiders, then it would make sense to keep them in their most secure location,” Gomez said quietly. He was kneeling over Bianco, his rifle pointed down at the hacienda, his eye to the scope. “I think Joe’s right.”

  “So, what the hell are we supposed to do about it?” Wade asked. He turned away from his own scope for a moment. “Unless you’re thinking we should just let them go shoot up Lordsburg while we hit the hacienda.” He seemed to think about it a second, and cocked an eyebrow. “Actually, that doesn’t sound like a half-bad plan.”

  But Flanagan shook his head. “The Colonel wouldn’t go for it,” he said. “And I don’t think he needs to. It’ll be tricky, but I think we can kill two birds with one stone here.” He dug his own radio out. “There are six of them down there, and four of us up here. If they can get into posit
ion fast enough, then they might be able to ambush those vehicles while we move on the hacienda.”

  “Four of us to clear that?” Bianco asked. “That’s a tall order.”

  “Speed, surprise, and violence of action,” Gomez said quietly. “I’m in.”

  Bianco looked around at the other three. Wade’s face was blank; he wasn’t happy with the plan, but he wasn’t entirely opposed to it, either. Wade was weird that way. As long as he had a chance to get his violence on, he wasn’t necessarily that picky about odds.

  Gomez was just staring at the hacienda. Who knew what was going through his head? His family was dead, except for his sister, who quite possibly was locked in a room down there. Of course he’d be on the warpath.

  Flanagan, he realized, was the most senior Blackheart there on the ridge. The team had never put that much stock in seniority, but Flanagan had been one of them from the beginning and the Khadarkh job.

  Bianco remembered the stories of that mission. How crazy it had gotten there at the end, seven men and a few liberated hostages fighting Iranian Qods Force troops in close quarters. That hacienda down there had to look like a walk in the park after that.

  Hell, compared to Burma, and the oil platform, and playing hide-and-seek with Spetsnaz and whoever those terrorist contractor assholes were in Eastern Europe, it should be a walk in the park.

  But something about it bothered him. Maybe it was what he knew about a lot of the cartels in Mexico. Maybe it was something about what he’d seen as that fancy-dressed madman had brutally murdered Acosta, acting like he was a kid pulling the wings off a fly. All the enemies he’d faced as one of Brannigan’s Blackhearts so far had been professional, to some degree. These were mad dogs, psychopaths with guns. And there was something distinctly unnerving about that fact.

  But as he watched the vehicles start down the valley, some of them grandstanding and kicking up big rooster tails of dust or cutting donuts in the dirt before heading down, he knew that if that was the play, he was going to go along with it.

  “Kodiak,” Flanagan said into the radio, using Brannigan’s old callsign from when he’d been a MEU commander in the Marine Corps, “Woodsrunner. You’ve got a column of eight vehicles coming your way. We’re pretty sure they’re going north to do some damage. If you can get in position fast enough, you might be able to ambush ‘em.”