High Desert Vengeance (Brannigan's Blackhearts Book 5)

by Peter Nealen

  More rounds kicked up dust uncomfortably close. Crawling wasn’t going to get him out of the line of fire quickly enough. He looked to his left. “Wade, Bianco,” he called. “Covering fire; bounding forward!”

  “Roger!” Wade yelled back. A moment later, the big man had come up to a knee and was hammering rounds down the slope at the hacienda. Whether he had better targets or was just a better marksman, he was clearly getting close enough; the incoming fire slackened considerably.

  Flanagan surged to his feet. Gomez was already up and moving, charging down the hill and slightly away from him. He followed suit.

  It wasn’t a fun descent; the hill was fairly steep, the sandy ground didn’t present the best footing, and the brush and cactus precluded running in a straight line.

  Wade was clearly taking aimed shots. One of the narcos on the roof suddenly fell off as Flanagan barreled down the hill, fighting to keep his balance. Bianco was just mag-dumping at anything he saw moving down below. It was a tossup as to which one of them was doing a better job of suppressing their targets.

  Flanagan wouldn’t ever have admitted it to any of the rest, least of all Curtis, but the old ditty the Marine Corps had taught him was echoing in his mind as he bounded down the slope. I’m up, he sees me, I’m down. At “down,” he was dropping to a knee and then to his belly, even though the slope left his feet higher than his head, and he started to feel the blood rush to his temples as he rolled to his left and then dragged himself back up to see over the brush, his rifle already in his shoulder.

  That had been a bit longer rush than he’d planned on. The nearest vehicles were barely two hundred yards away, and there was a sicario trying to get around the tailgate even as Bianco’s bullets shattered the windows and blew off one of the rearview mirrors. Hardly even considering it, Flanagan swung his rifle to bear, let a breath out, and shot the man. The guy shuddered and disappeared back behind the truck.

  He didn’t reappear.

  Flanagan turned his attention to the wider picture. The hacienda was about three hundred yards away, now. He started sending pairs of shots at any movement he saw. As far as he was concerned, as soon as the shooting had started, anyone sticking their head up down there was automatically hostile.

  Wade tore through the brush beside him, dashing farther down the slope, as Bianco ran between him and Gomez.

  Down in the valley, the rattle of gunfire continued, in short bursts and long, rattling exchanges.

  The fight was definitely still in the balance.

  Chapter 21

  Roger Hancock crouched in the brush, his heart pounding and the breath rasping in his throat. I’m getting too old for this shit. It was hardly the first time he’d found himself having to break contact by fire and maneuver, but it didn’t get any more fun with time.

  Even as he thought it, his rifle pointed back down the arroyo, he knew it was bullshit. You’re never going to be able to leave this behind, jackass. He’d start going nuts when he did. It had already happened before.

  The brush ahead of him rustled, and he blasted three rounds into it. He’d stopped taking chances and waiting for targets; the thick vegetation down in that arroyo was almost as bad as fighting in the jungle. He got a yell, and then a wild burst of gunfire shredded more vegetation around him, and he dropped flat, squirming backward and out of the line of fire.

  As soon as the burst stopped, he was on his feet and forging up the wash, the sand threatening to slip out from under his boots, his legs and lungs both burning. Firefights were hard work, even if he wasn’t running that far.

  He heard a noise behind him and turned while throwing himself flat, knowing that he was too slow, too out of position, expecting the thunder of gunfire to cut into him any second.

  But five fast shots cracked over his head, and laid the charging sicario flat in the mud.

  Curtis, huffing more than a little, ran down to crouch next to Hancock, his rifle pointed over the corpse still twitching on the ground. “You good, Roger?” he panted.

  “I’m good,” Hancock groaned, rolling over and pushing himself up off the ground. “Thanks.”

  “No problemo,” Curtis replied, though the last syllable was almost drowned out as he fired again. “We should probably get moving.”

  “No shit,” Hancock replied, adding a quick series of shots of his own to further discourage their pursuers. “This is not going according to plan.”

  “No shit,” Curtis echoed. “Who knew they had so many shooters?”

  Together, the two of them turned and ran, even as more bullets nipped at their heels and chased them through the brush. Bits of vegetation rained down around them as the thick bushes were clipped and shredded by gunfire.

  They passed Jenkins, who was down on a knee against one side of the arroyo, and immediately started shooting as soon as they were out of his line of fire. “Keep going!” he yelled between shots. “Brannigan’s got a rally point up ahead! Just don’t forget to stop and cover me!”

  Hancock didn’t say anything to that. Of course he wasn’t going to forget. But Jenkins had a habit of being an asshole, even in a firefight.

  There was a bend in the wash up ahead that should give them some cover and a momentary breather. Putting his head down, Hancock pumped his legs, drawing a little ahead of Curtis, who was keeping up a steady stream of breathless bitching about doing all this running. Curtis would insist to everyone who would listen that he was a sprinter, not a distance runner.

  Coming around the bend, Hancock saw just what Jenkins had been talking about. There were four gigantic boulders rising above the sagebrush and cactus, that looked like they’d rolled down the rocky slope above and come to rest almost blocking the draw. And he could just make out the shapes of gunmen hunkered down around them.

  He didn’t forget Jenkins, though. Spinning around at the bend and dropping to a knee, he leveled his OBR down the wash, even as Curtis forged past him. Jenkins wasn’t far behind.

  Another burst of gunfire tore up the arroyo, and Jenkins suddenly sprawled on his face, his rifle flying out of his hands to clatter on the ground with a spray of wet grit.

  Hancock was sure that he’d been hit. He held his position, though, and fired at the movement he could just make out through the bushes. Without solid targets, he just fired controlled pairs at the likeliest bushes and any movement he could see. He’d run the magazine dry in a matter of seconds, but the incoming fire slackened.

  Jenkins was scrambling to all fours and scrabbling forward to grab his rifle. He lurched to his feet and half-ran, half-fell past Hancock as he changed magazines.

  “Are you hit?” Hancock threw over his shoulder as Jenkins passed him.

  “No,” the blond man gasped. “Just tripped.”

  Hancock shook his head and fired four more shots down the arroyo before turning and following Jenkins around the bend and toward the boulders.

  The stony redoubt was about seventy yards up the draw, and there was less open ground in front of it. The brush was thick and resilient, and all of it seemed to have thorns. They still pushed through, thrashing their way up to the rocks as hard as they could, even as branches and thorns caught at clothes, gear, and weapons.

  “Get up here and get out of sight!” Brannigan hissed, even as another long, ragged burst of gunfire echoed down the arroyo behind them. The narcos evidently couldn’t see far in front of them, but they were leading with covering fire, spraying down anything that looked suspicious. They’d already taken enough losses that they were being cautious.

  Hancock was the last one to the boulders, throwing himself into a crevice with a pained grunt as he knocked his shoulder against unyielding rock. Twisting around, he got his rifle pointed back down toward the arroyo, checking that he hadn’t knocked the sights or the scope, and that he had enough concealment in front of him to hide. His desert camouflage wasn’t going to blend too well with the bushes, but the rock was another matter.

  His chest was heaving, but he quickly starte
d to get his breathing under control. He didn’t even really think about it. Breath control was a part of him, drilled in by years and years of combat, skydiving, and other high-stress endeavors.

  Damn, I love this shit.

  The gunfire down below had petered out, but that only made it possible to hear the heavier stuff from up toward the hacienda. Flanagan and the others were getting stuck in.

  He breathed out, his eye to the scope, scanning the bottom of the draw. They had to finish this soon; those four up there were plenty deadly on their own, but he didn’t want to leave them to try to clear the whole hacienda by themselves. And knowing them, especially with Gomez along, once they were engaged, that would be the next step.

  Glancing from side to side, he could just see Curtis hunkered in the rocks, his OBR laid alongside one of them. He looked like he was muttering to himself, which was no surprise. Curtis usually had something to say about whatever situation he found himself in, and if he couldn’t talk one of his teammates’ ears off, he’d talk to himself. He was probably bitching about what he could do with a machinegun at the moment.

  Javakhishvili was off to his left. The long-haired, sharp-nosed man was perfectly still, his eye to his scope, waiting. In fact, he was so still that even though he was silhouetted against a dark green bush from where Hancock was crouched, it had still taken a second to spot him.

  Voices were drifting up the draw. They were too far away, and in Spanish, to tell what was being said, but it sure sounded like an argument.

  Maybe they’re not sure which way we went.

  He just waited. So did the rest. Even Curtis had stopped muttering.

  The first sicario appeared through the brush, moving in and out of sight as he entered the draw. He was still looking up the wash and up the draw, his SIG MPX moving with his head. He definitely wasn’t sure which way to go, until the next man, a wiry, hawk-nosed, dark-skinned man with an AK, pointed to the ground, then up the draw.

  The two of them looked up. They had to see the boulders. They had to know what could be lurking there. At least the man with the AK probably did.

  That one waved several of the others up to join them. They were a decidedly mismatched bunch. Several were wearing the usual gangbanger clothes; jackets, white or black t-shirts, flannels, jeans. Several others, including the hawk-nosed man with the AK, were wearing dark clothes and plate carriers.

  The hawk-nosed man was directing the narco shooters as they came up into the draw, setting some into covering positions and chivvying the others up the draw, warning them by words and hand signals to watch out.

  Hancock put his reticle on that one, aiming just over his plate carrier. It was an easy shot; the man was maybe seventy yards away. And he was clearly the most dangerous.

  A flash of white caught his eye, and he shifted his aim for a moment.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  The young man’s white jeans were clearly somewhat the worse for wear, as was his black shirt. It looked like some of the gold pinstriping had been torn away by the branches and thorns. He didn’t have a rifle, but what looked like some kind of very flashy revolver in his hand.

  The young guy didn’t look happy. He was putting on a tough front, but with his magnification turned up, Hancock could see his face as clearly as if he was standing next to him. He was scared. Deep down, shitting-his-pants scared.

  I wonder if that’s El Destripador.

  Hancock briefly considered wasting him, but shifted back to Hawk-Nose. That guy was more dangerous. He was tough and smart. The kid with the flashy wheel gun might be a psycho, but he wasn’t the one calling the shots down there, no matter what his sudden, high-pitched screaming said.

  None of the Blackhearts had opened fire yet. The closest narcos were almost within fifteen yards, thrashing through the brush like a herd of elephants. It was going to be go time any second. But they held their fire.

  It hadn’t needed an explanation. They were waiting for as many of the enemy to get into the kill zone in front of them as possible. Every one of them was enough of a professional to understand that and to wait.

  The really good killers are always patient.

  He could see the nearest man with his open eye now. The kid was wearing all black, except for his coyote tan chest rig. He had a KRISS Vector in his hands. He kept looking around, searching the hillsides around him and the rocks ahead, but he hadn’t spotted any of the Blackhearts yet.

  Suddenly, he spotted something. With a yell, he lifted the blocky little .45 caliber submachinegun.

  Time was up.

  Hancock had had both eyes open; one was keeping his scope on Hawk-Nose, the other half-watching the advancing kid in black with the Vector. All he had to do was refocus on the scope, let his breath out, and squeeze the trigger.

  The OBR cracked, and Hawk-Nose dropped, a bleeding hole puckered just below his eye. Somebody else had shot him at the same instant, blowing the top of his skull off and spraying the dandy with the fancy pistol with blood and brains.

  Hancock came off his scope fast, canting his rifle to use the irons and searching for the kid with the Vector. But Javakhishvili had already hit him, walking three shots up from his plate to his throat to his head. He was sprawled backward, held up for a moment by the bush he’d fallen against, before it gave way under him and he disappeared onto the ground.

  Five men had died in the first couple of seconds. The others were diving for cover, spraying 9mm, 5.56, and .45 caliber fire across the boulders. The Blackhearts returned fire coolly. Curtis’ OBR coughed loudly, and a black-clad sicario with what looked like a belt-fed AR conversion staggered on his way toward a fold in the ground. He tried to bring the AR up again, and Curtis’ rifle barked a second time, sending him falling on his face and rolling downhill in a mass of threshing limbs and ammunition belts.

  A bullet smacked into the rock just over Hancock’s head, showering him with grit and leaving a white scar in the granite. He shifted and shot the kid in the black leather jacket with another MPX through the chest. The kid dropped like a rock, screaming. The noise faded quickly.

  He shifted back toward the base of the draw, looking for the dandy. There was no sign of him.

  More gunfire barked and roared in the narrow draw, bullets smacking off the boulders with cracks and buzzing whines. Three of the sicarios were left, two black-clad riflemen and one kid in what looked like a polo shirt and bullfighter jacket with an Uzi. They had fallen back to the bend and were hunkered down, leaning out to send sporadic bursts up the draw toward the boulders.

  It was almost a competition by then. Hancock put his reticle roughly where the last one had appeared, let his breath out, and rested his finger lightly on the trigger.

  One of the riflemen, armed with a G36, popped out. He was trying to lessen his profile, staying in a low kneeling position, one leg cocked back toward his hiding place so that he could quickly transition back. He had the G36 in his shoulder, and got precisely one shot off.

  Four OBRs barked at once, the supersonic cracks of the rounds reverberating down the draw. One of the bullets might have hit the rifleman’s plate. The other three went through his guts, his throat, and his skull. He crumpled in a welter of his own blood.

  The gunfire in the draw suddenly fell silent, only making the thunder of the fight up by the hacienda that much more pronounced.

  Still, they waited for a moment. The urgency to aid their teammates couldn’t override basic tactics.

  His rifle held high, ready to address a target if it presented itself, Brannigan slid out of his redoubt and down the front of the boulder. He landed easily, bending his knees to disperse the shock, and started to advance down the draw, his rifle up and ready. Hancock heaved himself up and followed, in much the same attitude.

  He checked the kid with the Vector as he passed the corpse. He was clearly dead. Move on.

  They advanced into the wash again cautiously, just in case the narcos were laying for them the way they had in the draw. Bu
t there was no sign of them.

  “Keep your eyes out,” Brannigan said. “We’ve got to go help Flanagan and the rest.”

  “I’m on point,” Jenkins said. Brannigan just waved him forward. It wasn’t often that Jenkins volunteered for anything.

  Behind the former SEAL, the six Blackhearts headed up the hill, toward the hacienda.

  Chapter 22

  Flanagan slammed his shoulder into the whitewashed adobe wall, just beside the door leading into the main hall. Gomez hit the wall right behind him a moment later. Wade and Bianco were still crouched back by the four-wheelers, covering their advance.

  There wasn’t much to cover, now. The shooters on the rooftops had disappeared, and while they had taken some fire from the windows, accurate return fire had cut that off quickly.

  His chest was heaving, and despite the coolness of the air, he was sweating profusely and his mouth was as dry as the desert. He had to concentrate on not missing anything.

  He scanned the area. There were two windows nearby that might still be threats, and he wasn’t sure they’d accounted for all the sentries.

  Even as he thought it, movement caught his eye, up the slope to the north. Almost without thinking, he whipped his rifle up. He hesitated the bare split second to identify that the man wearing the black baseball cap wasn’t one of theirs, and that he was aiming the M-16 in his hands at Wade and Bianco, before his trigger broke, the suppressed 7.62 barking as it surged against his shoulder. Black Baseball Cap disappeared into the brush.

  Gomez tapped him on the shoulder as he moved past him and around the door. A quick glance told him why; the door opened inward, and the hinges were on his side. He turned his attention back to the door itself as Wade and Bianco pounded the rest of the way to the hacienda wall, taking advantage of the brief lull after Flanagan’s kill.

  The roar of a renewed storm of gunfire echoed down from the hills. Brannigan and the rest were busy. Flanagan just hoped that the bad guys had committed enough troops to the punitive expedition going north that they weren’t going to encounter too much resistance inside.