Burgess was crouching down again, too. He’d seen—Javakhishvili didn’t need to fill him in.
“I say we mag-dump into the trucks,” Burgess whispered. “Disable them if we can. In any case, it might scare the hell out of them enough that they call the attack off.”
Javakhishvili wasn’t sure. He’d seen plenty of jihadis use resistance to their attacks as justification for even more violence. But they were in position, they were loaded for bear, and there was no time like the present.
As one, the two men rose up over the top of the wall, leveling their rifles, the selector levers already down to “Auto.”
They opened fire, the Kalashnikovs thundering and rattling, spitting fire as they raked the two trucks with fire. Glass shattered and flecks of paint and metal flew. The nearest jihadis scrambled back, yelling in terror, and the nearest actually dropped his rifle and turned to run, only to trip and sprawl on his face in the dirt.
Javakhishvili’s magazine ran dry with a click, and he dropped behind cover, ripping a fresh mag out of his go bag, using it to hit the mag release and strip out the empty, then rocked it in and racked the bolt.
When he rose up again, he saw that one of the Hiluxes was smoking, both were sitting slightly askew on flattened tires, and every one of the would-be jihadi warriors was running for the shacks.
Burgess had just reloaded, and Javakhishvili motioned that they should retreat. Hopefully, they’d sent the message. They’d get back to the church and prepare to defend it if the jihadis decided to come after them anyway.
The two of them faded away, staying low as they moved straight northeast toward the truck, keeping the sun off to their flank. They moved fast, not quite a jog, but faster than a mere walk.
A few minutes later, they reached the Land Rover without seeing any sign of pursuit. The murderous little jackals hadn’t expected to get hit on their own turf.
As they climbed in, after making sure David didn’t mistake them for bad guys, Javakhishvili felt his pack start to vibrate. He peered inside as Burgess pulled the vehicle away from the tree, turning back toward Kitengela.
It was his satellite phone. Pulling it out and extending the antenna, he hit the “receive” button.
“Herc?” Brannigan, like the rest of the Blackhearts, had never found Javakhishvili’s full first name all that pronounceable, so they’d adopted the nickname he’d gotten during his time in the Navy. “Where the hell are you?”
“Africa.” He had to plug one ear so that he could hear somewhat clearly over the creaks and bangs the Land Rover was making as they bounced over the terrain. “Tom and I came out to do some missionary work. We got a job?”
“Yeah, we’ve got a job. Can you be here in three days?”
“Easy. We’re not that far from Nairobi, and a one-way ticket isn’t that expensive.” Especially given what they’d been paid for the last few missions. As a single man with simple tastes, Javakhishvili wasn’t hurting for money.
“We’ll see you here, then. And Herc? Watch your back when you get here. This one’s… complicated.”
“Aren’t they all?”
***
Flanagan glowered as he got out of his truck. We don’t have time for this.
The dingy roach motel just outside of Vegas looked like something out of a true crime documentary. It was hardly The Strip. But under the circumstances, he’d expected that.
Scanning the parking lot, he couldn’t see any trouble right at the moment. But that could change quickly. And with Kevin Curtis involved, it probably would.
He found Room 107 and knocked. There was no reaction at first, but he might have seen the curtains move, and the peephole in the door darken for a moment, before the door cracked open.
“Joe! I knew you’d come find me!” Kevin Curtis stood a good head shorter than Flanagan, quite a few shades darker, and almost thirty pounds heavier. And all of it was muscle. For all his excesses and gambling, Curtis rarely missed a session in the gym.
Flanagan shouldered into the room. The inside was as run down and sketchy as the outside. The cheap carpet had some strange stains, the furniture looked extremely cheap, the single lamp on the end table was dim and yellow, and the place smelled slightly of cigarette smoke and piss. Curtis shut the door behind him, still peering through the peephole, and Flanagan confronted him and the girl in the tube top and short skirt who was sitting on the bed.
“For fuck’s sake, Kevin. I thought we were getting past this.” The girl—who was quite attractive, if in a slightly trashy sort of way, looked at him with wide and slightly frightened eyes. “I’ve been trying to reach you for the last day.”
“It’s not my fault!” Curtis turned away from the door. “We were minding our own business!”
“You’re always minding your own business right up until the point you’re hiding out in a sleazy hotel room from the local mob, Kevin.” Flanagan didn’t raise his voice, but kept it to a low, dangerous growl. There was a reason he had his .45 in his waistband and a couple of extra mags in his back pocket, aside from the two reloads he usually carried.
“I didn’t know she was Vitti’s daughter!” Curtis had moved to stand next to the girl, who immediately held his hand. “I sure as hell didn’t expect him to get this pissed off that she was with a black guy!”
“He’s a mobster with the name ‘Vitti.’” Flanagan was not amused, though he found that he was less angry this time. He was more tired than anything else. “What else did you expect?” He sighed. “Come on. We’ve got a job, anyway. As long as we can get out of the parking lot before the goombas show up,
