Curtis sputtered. “’Loudmouth?’ Is that what the socially inept one calls the guy who actually engages with people instead of sitting back and just watching and looking mysterious?”
“Are you two done?” Santelli was shaking his head, though there was a little bit of a smile on his face. It turned a little sad after a moment. There had been a time when Roger Hancock would have growled at the two friends to shut up so they could get back to the business at hand. With Roger gone, things just weren’t quite the same anymore.
“Seriously, though, as much as I hate to say it, Kevin’s right.” Wade rubbed his chin. “If we’ve got to get weapons in-country, the list of possibilities is pretty short, and we really can’t trust any of them. Hell, what are the odds that FARC or ELN doesn’t have something to do with Clemente’s little revolution?”
“Pretty slim.” Flanagan had sobered, too.
“I mean, we’ve kinda been here before—this wouldn’t be the first time we dealt with organized crime to get geared up for a mission. Hell, Dmitri just saved our asses in Azerbaijan, as much as I don’t trust that oily sonofabitch.” Wade grinned. “I kinda like him, but I sure as hell don’t trust him. And I’m pretty sure that Dalca chick isn’t exactly the most upstanding citizen, either.”
“She isn’t.” Brannigan probably knew more about Erika Dalca’s background and activities than the rest. She’d helped them insert onto the Tourmaline Delta, and she had offered the information that had led them to Eugen Codreanu in Transnistria, not to mention the Humanity Front’s secret base in the Altiplano. She’d been an active player in a surprisingly—or disturbingly—large number of the Blackhearts’ operations.
She had also made a pass at Brannigan himself a time or two. The rest didn’t know about that part, and they didn’t need to know.
“What about her?” Flanagan looked up. He hadn’t been looking at the fire, the way some of the others had. Despite the fact that they were probably in about the safest, most secure spot they could find, miles up in the woods in a wilderness area, Flanagan was too much the woodsman to sacrifice his night eyes by staring into a fire. “She’s got to have contacts in Colombia.”
“I’m sure she does.” Brannigan scowled. “But I’m not bringing her in if we can help it. She’s already positioned herself to have a lot more leverage over us than I like. If we’re being effectively blackmailed into this, the last thing I want to do is put us into a position where someone like Dalca can hold even more over our heads. She’s been helpful so far, but I don’t imagine for a second that she did it for any other reason than that it benefited her and her interests. The fact of the matter is, she’s still an organized crime kingpin. Hell, for all we know, Clemente’s one of her clients. Or vice versa, if he’s growing coca to support his little fiefdom.”
“She’s said that she doesn’t deal in drugs.” If Curtis was trying to sound hopeful, he managed to sound more like he really didn’t believe it, himself.
“And that may or may not be true. My concerns stand, and since I am, ultimately, calling the shots in this outfit, I say that she stays out of this until we don’t have any other choice.” Brannigan said it around the cigar.
“And while I would tend to agree, it still puts us back at square one.” Bianco didn’t usually venture an opinion during planning sessions, but this situation seemed to have disturbed him enough to break through his reticence. “How many of us have spent any great amount of time in South America?”
No one answered as the Blackhearts looked around at each other. The only American soldiers who’d really been down in Latin America over the last few years had been Special Forces and a few other SOF units. All eyes turned to Jenkins, who had been quieter than usual. In fact, the former SEAL had been downright subdued ever since Santelli and Gomez had found out he’d been using a self-defense class as a front for his own hookup operation, just before the Azerbaijan mission. He looked a little startled, but then shook his head. “I did some time in Mexico, but never Colombia.”
Flanagan’s eyes narrowed in thought. “I’d be willing to bet Kirk’s spent some time down there. He might know somebody.”
There were a few nods, some more enthusiastic than others. Ignatius Kirk had been a Blackheart for two missions, one of them Stateside. He’d taken a sucking chest wound in Argentina, his first overseas job, and had been in and out of surgery since then. He was still a Blackheart, though he had mostly kept to himself since he’d been wounded.
“Will he be willing to help?” Santelli voiced the concern that was on Brannigan’s mind. Kirk hadn’t exactly been keeping in close contact with the other Blackhearts lately.
“I think so.” Burgess knew Kirk better than any of them—the two of them had worked together on contract some time before. “He’s grumpy and solitary, but he’s only kept his distance because he feels useless while he’s still all stove up. If he were on his feet, he’d be here right now.”
“I’ll go talk to him, then.” Flanagan stood and stretched. “I’m not entirely sure what more we can really plan until then. Maybe we can rehearse the ambush tomorrow—if we’re going to even plan on executing according to the canned plan.”
“We’re not, but a quick run-through might not be a bad idea. We could probably all use the tactics refresher, just to bust the rust off.” Brannigan took one more drag on the cigar before tossing the stub into the
