***
Ignatius Kirk was at home, somewhat to Flanagan’s surprise. As he knocked on the door, he reflected that he probably shouldn’t have been surprised—he didn’t know the other man nearly as well as Burgess did, but he’d always struck Flanagan as the kind of man who wouldn’t want to stay in the hospital any longer than absolutely necessary.
Kirk’s cabin was well back in the woods, invisible from the main road. The track through the trees to get to it was narrow and hard to spot. The cabin itself was built from cargo containers, partially buried. Somehow, Flanagan expected that Kirk probably had trail cams and early warning devices all through the woods around it. He had no doubt that the older man knew he was coming.
He waited, slightly offset from the door. Some of that was habit. Some of it was because he had a healthy respect for Kirk’s paranoia. Any man who lived by himself way out here like this was probably not eager for visitors, and while Burgess was pretty sure that Kirk was still a Blackheart, Flanagan didn’t know him well enough to be able to say what his reaction might be when one of them showed up on his doorstep.
But when the door opened, Kirk grinned a little. “Hey, Joe. Come on in.”
Kirk had been a barrel-chested man with a massive, Grizzly Adams beard the last time Flanagan had seen him. He’d lost a lot of the weight, and it looked like he was still growing the beard back. He was still moving slowly and haltingly as he ushered Flanagan inside.
Flanagan had never been to Kirk’s cabin, and he looked around, impressed that it didn’t look like the survivalist den that it had appeared to be on the outside. The walls were wood-paneled, the windows let in plenty of light, and those same walls were lined with hunting trophies, photos, and mementos from a long career in Special Forces and the contracting world, after that.
Kirk pointed Flanagan to the couch in front of the fireplace. “Make yourself at home. Want a beer?”
“Sure.” Flanagan sank into the couch, adjusting the 1911 on his hip as he did so. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m surviving.” Kirk tried to hide a wince as he straightened from the refrigerator, but Flanagan caught it. He definitely wasn’t healed up entirely from the latest surgery. “Still not put back together enough to go back out, but I should be soon.” He handed Flanagan the beer then settled in his own recliner, obviously stifling a groan. “I hate feeling useless. This isn’t the first time I’ve been shot, but it seems like the recovery didn’t take as long, last time.”
“We were all younger men once, and was the last time a sucking chest wound?” Flanagan lifted the beer and took a swig. It was in an unlabeled bottle with a flip top, and after a moment, he decided it was some of the best beer he’d ever had. Kirk must brew it himself.
“No, but that doesn’t really make it any better.” Kirk took a swig of his own. “It sucks getting old, especially when I know you guys have already been out once without me.” At Flanagan’s raised eyebrow, he shrugged. “Tom told me.”
“Well, you might be able to help this time, even if you’re stove up.” Flanagan took another swig of the beer. The look in Kirk’s eyes, the almost pained hope, had been uncomfortable for a moment.
He leaned forward. “We’re heading to Colombia. The Colonel and I are going in first, then the rest will follow a couple days later. It’s complicated, but we need a contact down there, someone who we can trust, who might also have access to weapons and gear.”
“Finding somebody you can trust in Colombia’s no easy trick.” Kirk took another sip, but his eyes were focused now, and he clearly already had a plan in mind. “That place has been fucked six ways from Sunday since La Violencia, and the people still carry the scars. Where are you going? Or can you tell me?”
“Northeast. Near the Venezuelan border.”
Kirk swore with feeling. “Right into FARC and ELN territory. Those your targets?”
“Maybe. We’re running on short intel.” Flanagan filled Kirk in on the situation and the mission, watching the older man’s expression darken.
“That’s a hell of a fix, man.” He stared at the fireplace for a moment. “There’s no way you can just tell ‘em to fuck off?”
“Brannigan doesn’t think so. I’m inclined to agree. The fact that the people pushing this wanted us specifically doesn’t bode well.”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” Kirk frowned. “Well, I think I can help you. I spent a few years down that way. I’ve got quite a few friends who are either cops, military, or retired from either. One was even both, but he’s probably old enough that he won’t want to get involved.” He started to get up and winced again. “Let me do some digging. We’ll find somebody who should be on our side.
“Provided the bad guys haven’t gotten to them since I was down there last…”
Chapter 6
Brannigan had to admit to himself that he was glad that they’d gotten a taxi at the airport, rather than trying to drive themselves. It had been a while since he’d tried to negotiate Latin American traffic, and it was every bit as bad as Middle Eastern traffic. It was utter chaos. Bogota was generally considered the worst city in the world for traffic, and he could see why. They were motionless, stuck in a jam-packed mass of cars, vans, and trucks, for the fifth time since leaving the airport, despite the multiple attempts the taxi driver had already made to cut lanes and get around.
With the
