High Desert Vengeance (Brannigan's Blackhearts Book 5)

by Peter Nealen

  “How many girls are there, Sonya?” Gomez asked the girl under his arm. She was covered in blood and her eyes were still streaming tears, but she seemed otherwise more collected than the rest of the girls in the room.

  “Just us,” she said. “There were about six others, but they…” her voice caught. “Angel raped and killed April in front of us. They…they sold the other five.”

  Around the room, eyes hardened and hands tightened on weapons. But Brannigan focused on maintaining his cool. They were still way out in the cold, and there was no guarantee that they’d accounted for all the Espino-Gallo narcos.

  “We’ve got to get these girls out of here,” he said. He lifted his voice as he pointed to the growing pile of clothing on the floor. “Ladies, I’m going to need you to get dressed and come with us. We’re here to help; we’ll do the best we can to get you back to your families. But you’re going to have to move fast and do what we tell you, as soon as we tell you, for the next few hours. Understood?”

  A few of the girls had stopped screaming or crying, apparently coming to the realization that the big men in camouflage who had just shot their captors dead weren’t just another episode of the nightmare they’d been living for the last days or weeks. Some were still deep in shock. A red-headed girl who couldn’t have been much older than twelve was sobbing hysterically, and another Hispanic-looking young woman was staring unseeing into space, her breath coming in rapid pants.

  Gomez was handing his sister a pair of pants and a sweatshirt. She was putting them on, her hands shaking, even as she spoke to the other girls in Spanish. Brannigan grimaced a little behind his mustache; of course, not all of the girls were going to speak English. Who knew where all of them had been taken from? Especially with the Espino-Gallos’ ties in Juarez. There could be families missing their daughters across Sonora and Chihuahua, never mind New Mexico and Texas.

  They’d deal with that problem when they came to it. They’d committed to this mission, even without pay, and they’d have to see it through. That was the way Brannigan worked, and therefore, it was the way Brannigan’s Blackhearts worked.

  Some of the girls who had started to get ahold of themselves were getting dressed. One in particular, a hard-eyed blond girl with extensive bruises and cuts all over her body, was pulling a pair of jeans on with more alacrity than most. Brannigan pegged her as one of the tougher ones; the signs that she’d been beaten for defiance were all over her. “What’s your name?” he asked her.

  “Lisa,” she answered. There was a firmness in her voice that was in marked contrast to most of the other girls.

  “Lisa, I need you and Sonya, and anyone else who can keep it together, to help the other girls,” he said. “We have to move quick. There might still be some of Espino-Gallo’s people left.”

  Lisa just nodded, finished buttoning the jeans and pulled a too-large t-shirt over her head. “Did you get Angel?” she asked.

  “Who?” Hancock replied.

  “Angel,” Lisa answered bitterly, even as Sonya opened her mouth to speak. “El Destripador, he calls himself. Pretty boy, wears white and black, has a fancy revolver. Did you kill him?”

  “There was a guy in white and black in that convoy that left,” Hancock said, “but I didn’t see him go down. And I haven’t seen him since.”

  “If you see him, I want him dead,” Lisa said coldly, even as she reached down to drag a vacantly-staring girl to her feet, none too gently. “I don’t even care if I get to pull the trigger. I just want to see his dead body.”

  “If he shows his face again, we’ll deal with it then,” Brannigan said. “For right now, we need to get you and the rest of these girls out of here.”

  He keyed his radio. “Goodfella, Kodiak,” he called.

  “Go ahead,” Santelli answered.

  “I need you and Squatting Slav to find us some vehicles,” he said. “We’ve got…” he paused to count heads. “We’ve got about twelve girls we need to get out of here.” He didn’t say it needed to be all in one trip. Santelli would have figured that out on his own.

  “Roger,” Santelli replied. “On it.”

  “And keep your heads on a swivel,” Brannigan added. The sudden collapse of resistance inside the hacienda tended to make him think that they’d actually killed all of the remaining narco shooters, but they didn’t know exact numbers, and it didn’t pay to take chances.

  “Always, Kodiak,” Santelli replied. “Out.”

  Between Gomez, Hancock, Sonya, and Lisa, most of the girls were dressed. A couple were still needing help, but the others were taking care of it. Brannigan was glad of that. Given what these kids had been through already, he didn’t think that having big, violent men try to help them dress would go over well.

  They were all going to need some serious counselling in the next few months or years. Fortunately or unfortunately, that wasn’t his problem. Getting them out alive and back to their families was his problem.

  And what does it say about you that you don’t need counselling, after all this?

  That’s different. I’m a grown man and a trained soldier. I was prepared for this. They weren’t. They shouldn’t have had to be. Most of these girls are still kids. Their families should have protected them.

  There wasn’t a lot of chatter. Jenkins and Curtis were still covering the doors, and Flanagan, Bianco, and Wade had moved to the windows.

  Wade was scanning the hills around the hacienda. “Why don’t we just take the vehicles from the convoy?” he asked.

  “Some of them are pretty shot up,” Hancock replied. “A few probably wouldn’t make it to the border. And we’d have to move the girls on foot most of three-quarters of a mile. And none of them have shoes.”

  Brannigan glanced down at that. Sure enough, they’d gotten the girls dressed, but they were all still barefoot. And it was going to take too long to search the place for more shoes and sandals. Not to mention the trouble with trying to move twelve shell-shocked and brutalized young women half a mile in the open, with only ten guns.

  Lisa and Sonya might be able to take weapons; somehow he suspected that Gomez’ old man had probably taught his daughter to shoot. But he didn’t trust either of them with guns at the moment. Lisa especially. That young lady was looking for someone to murder. That could be trouble.

  “Kodiak, Goodfella,” Santelli’s voice crackled over the radio.

  “Send it, Goodfella,” Brannigan replied.

  “We’ve got two pickups and a friggin’ bus,” Santelli reported. “We’re gonna need somebody else down here to help drive.”

  “Curtis, Jenkins, you’re up,” Brannigan said without hesitation. He keyed his mic. “I’ve got Gambler and Ventura on the way.” Jenkins grimaced at hearing his callsign; he’d made the mistake of going on a rant about a former UDT turned professional wrestler within Curtis’ hearing once, and it had stuck.

  “Tell ‘em to come around the south side,” Santelli said. “We’ll be waiting.”

  “You heard?” Brannigan barked out the doors where the two men were already starting down the stairs.

  “We got it, boss!” Curtis replied. “Come on, Ventura.”

  Jenkins followed, muttering curses under his breath.

  The next few minutes were quiet and tense. Most of the girls had stopped crying loudly, though some were still sobbing with reaction. Brannigan hoped they didn’t completely collapse; this wasn’t over yet. Most of the Blackhearts were watching the perimeter; they wouldn’t relax until they were well out of enemy territory.

  The question remained as to just when that was going to be. They still didn’t know exactly how Sheriff Thomas was going to react when his daughter was returned.

  Presuming she wasn’t the one killed, or one of the ones sold.

  Again, they’d have to deal with that problem when they came to it. He almost asked which girl was Thomas’ daughter—or niece; they hadn’t exactly determined just who had been kidnapped—but decided to focus on exfiltration. The ne
xt step would come once they were out of the immediate danger zone.

  The faint rumble of engines sounded outside, and then the radio crackled. “Kodiak, Goodfella,” Santelli called. “We’re out front.”

  “Good copy, we’ll be coming out shortly,” Brannigan said. He looked around the room. “Wade, Flanagan, you’re on point with me. The girls go in the middle. Lisa, Sonya, you’re in charge. Keep together, move fast, and keep quiet. Hancock, Bianco, and Gomez, you’ve got rear.” He looked around the room. “I mean it. Stay tight, move fast.” He turned his gaze to Flanagan. “There doesn’t seem to be a back door out of this bedroom, so we’ll go back the way we came, then through the center hall. Girls, hold back until the three of us have cleared the next room. Clear?”

  There was a moment where they just kind of stared. “Yeah, we get it,” Lisa said finally. “Can we just go?”

  Brannigan just nodded to Flanagan, who moved to the door and headed back out into the hallway, his rifle up in his shoulder.

  It was a short trip down the stairs. Flanagan and Wade paused for a brief second, then swung out into the hallway, Flanagan going left, Wade going right. The hall to either side was clear. Brannigan moved up behind Flanagan.

  “With you,” he said. Flanagan took two steps forward and turned toward the main hall.

  That turn was a short one, terminating in another pair of double doors. With Wade moving across to cover the northern hallway, Flanagan kicked the doors open and he and Brannigan flowed through.

  They were in the kitchen. While the walls were the same whitewashed plaster as the rest of the hacienda, most of the equipment was industrial stainless steel. Scuttling movement behind the dishwasher drew both men’s attention, and rifle muzzles swiveled to follow. With Brannigan covering, Flanagan moved up, sidestepping around the dishwasher with his weapon leveled.

  “Cooks, looks like,” he said. Brannigan closed in, to see an elderly woman and a skinny young man huddled in the small space. The young man was hiding behind the woman, which made him grit his teeth.

  “Manos!” he demanded. Shaking, the two of them showed him empty hands. He motioned for them to come out. “Gomez!”

  Gomez stepped around the crowd of frightened girls and into the kitchen. “Yeah?”

  “Tell them that we aren’t going to hurt them, provided they get down on the floor, on their faces, lace their fingers behind their heads, and don’t move until long after we’re gone,” Brannigan said.

  Gomez translated rapidly into Spanish, spitting the words out as if he’d rather that they were bullets. The old woman nodded, her face still twisted with fear, and the two got down on the dingy floor, their hands behind their heads as instructed.

  “Move,” Brannigan said. Flanagan and Wade were already on the next door, waiting. Santelli and Bianco were herding the hostages into the kitchen behind them.

  The doors swung open easily, opening on the main hall, which was also, apparently, the dining room.

  The whitewashed walls met a dark wood ceiling, held up by heavy timber beams. Red curtains framed the windows, and a red tablecloth draped the otherwise empty table that stretched most of the length of the room. An embroidered rug covered the stone floor. The room was deserted, with a straight shot toward the front doors.

  Splitting up, the Blackhearts raced down the length of the dining room to get to the doors. They paused just long enough to make sure they were set, then Wade kicked the doors open and they went through.

  They were in the entryway where Flanagan, Wade, Bianco, and Gomez had breached the hacienda. The front doors were still ajar, just ahead.

  They still didn’t race straight for the front. Once again, Flanagan went left, and Wade went right, covering down the hallways to either side, while Brannigan got on the radio. “Goodfella, Kodiak. We’re coming out.”

  “We’re right outside, boss man,” Santelli replied. “Come on out. But watch yourselves, Squatting Slav thinks he saw movement in the brush just up the hill.”

  Brannigan clicked his mic twice, and then moved to the doors.

  Pushing outside, he was almost blinded by the sunlight. He hadn’t realized quite how dim it had been inside until then.

  Santelli hadn’t been exaggerating. There was a white-and-blue painted school bus parked right outside the doors, its own doors open and engine rumbling. Santelli was sitting behind the wheel, his rifle shoved between his leg and the vehicle’s body. “Come on!” he yelled.

  Brannigan moved to the front of the bus and took a knee, his rifle still held ready. “Lisa, Sonya, get the girls on the bus and tell them to keep their heads down!” he barked.

  The two young women were already doing just that, chivvying, shoving, and sometimes dragging their fellow hostages onto the bus. The rest of the Blackhearts were spreading out among the vehicles, taking up security positions while the hostages got situated.

  The other two vehicles were pickups, though one was a big GMC quad cab, while the other was a short-cab Ranger. Javakhishvili was in the bed of the GMC, his rifle leveled over the top of the cab.

  Bianco dropped to a knee next to him. “I’ve got it, sir,” he said. Brannigan tapped him on the shoulder with his knuckles and stood.

  The last of the girls were getting aboard the bus. “Everybody mount up!” he bellowed. He scanned the hills around the hacienda, but if the narcos were still trying to close in, they weren’t in position to hit them yet.

  Of course, they weren’t out of the valley yet, either.

  He went to the GMC and climbed into the passenger seat next to Curtis, rolling the window down and sticking his muzzle out. He peered through the rear-view mirror, then keyed his radio. “Let me know when everybody’s up.”

  “We’re up,” Hancock replied. “Go.”

  Brannigan pointed down the valley, where for the first time he noticed a thin column of smoke rising into the sky, probably from one of the disabled vehicles they’d shot up.

  “Get us out of here, Kevin,” he said.

  “Hold onto your butts,” Curtis said, as he took his foot off the brake and started down the road. Behind them, the bus lumbered into motion.

  They were on the way. Brannigan just hoped they could get to the border before something else went wrong.

  Chapter 25

  They rolled down out of the valley without incident. Brannigan’s eyes might have gotten a little sharper as they passed the wreckage of the convoy they’d ambushed, his rifle angling a little bit farther out of the window. But no ambush materialized, no gunfire greeted them out of the dusty vegetation. It seemed as if any sicarios who had survived had gone to ground.

  Given the slaughter on the road and then in that draw above the arroyo, it really was no wonder.

  After a few minutes, they were out onto the road below, heading north toward the salt flats and the border. But before they could get there, just as the highway appeared as a dark strip in the desert just ahead, Brannigan reached over to Curtis. “Hold up at the highway,” he said.

  Curtis glanced at him curiously, but did as he was told. A moment later, the three vehicles were stopped on the shoulder of Mexican Highway 2. Brannigan looked up and down the road, making sure that there weren’t any vehicles coming that would easily observe him, then got out.

  “Herc,” he said, “get down into the cab.” Javakhishvili just grunted and pulled his rifle down before moving to the back of the bed, swinging his leg over the tailgate, and dropping to the dust.

  Brannigan was moving back to the bus. Santelli was inside, along with Gomez. Brannigan had been hoping that Gomez had gotten on the bus with his sister; that was going to make this a little simpler.

  He rapped on the doors and Santelli pulled the lever to open them. Stepping up inside, he looked at Gomez.

  “Mario, I need you and Carlo to go on ahead,” he said. “Find a hollow to hole up in until nightfall, then get across the border and get the girls to your ranch and wait for the rest of us.”

  Gomez frowned. “Wh
at are the rest of you going to do?” he asked.

  “We’re going to go down the road and take down that house where we spotted your cousin,” Brannigan said. “It’s the only other center of Espino-Gallo activity we know of, and it’s the closest staging point if there are survivors who are going to go after your place. If they’ve fallen back there, we’re going to clear ‘em out.”

  Gomez’ face went blank for a moment. Here it comes. Brannigan hadn’t expected him to be happy about this, but he needed Gomez up north.

  “I should go,” Gomez said. Brannigan shook his head.

  “You need to stay with your sister,” he said. “She’s been through hell, and she needs her brother and her protector right now.” He held up a hand. “This isn’t open for debate, Mario,” he said. “Get your ass up north with your sister, hold the ranch, and wait for us. We’ll clear the house out and be up to join you shortly. Trust me, we’ve still got a lot of work to do before this is over.” He glanced at the girls in back. “Carlo, once you’re there, start figuring out who goes where, all right?”

  “Done,” Santelli said. “We’ve already been talking about it on the way here.”

  “All right,” Brannigan said. “We’ll see you up north.” He clapped Gomez on the shoulder. “Keep your eyes peeled, and stay frosty.”

  Then he was out and heading back to the truck.

  Javakhishvili was already in the back seat when he climbed into the passenger side. “Go right,” he told Curtis. “We’ve got one more target.”

  The bus trundled over the highway toward the border, while the two trucks, crammed with armed men, headed east, toward the pass over the Ascensiòn Mountains.

  ***

  Flanagan slipped between a juniper and some kind of leafless thorn tree, his rifle in his shoulder and his eyes scanning every bit of shadow and cover.

  It wasn’t dark yet; it was still mid-afternoon, though the sun would be setting in a couple of hours. The urgency of finishing this before any surviving Espino-Gallo soldados could regroup and come after the freed hostages was too high. So, they were going to do it in daylight.