Frowning, he stared at the phone for a moment. He would have to proceed carefully. Clemente still had a certain hold over many of the Green Shirts, and he was already paranoid. Admitting that the Americans had, in fact, infiltrated their territory, after assuring the disgraced general that he was jumping at shadows, might easily backfire. At best, Clemente would accuse him—him—of incompetence. At worst, he would see a betrayal.
The fact that betrayal was, in fact, in motion only made his situation that much more dangerous.
He returned the phone to its hiding place and picked up his radio. “Avispa, this is Galvez. Come to my quarters.” He didn’t wait for an acknowledgement, but put the radio back on his desk and paced the room, tapping his fingers against the butt of the Jericho on his hip.
The small man known as Avispa, or “Wasp,” knocked on his door a few minutes later. “You wanted to see me, Compadre?” The gimlet-eyed little man had been by Galvez’s side through battles across Central and South America for the last decade. He’d killed more men—and women—than Galvez, though he held that lead by only a few.
“We might have some trouble coming.” Galvez stopped his pacing and moved to the map he’d pinned up on the wall. “We’ll have to step up our patrols in the hinterlands around the city.”
Avispa’s eyes narrowed. “We only have so many men, and we haven’t gotten as many recruits from the slums as we’d hoped. Increasing the patrols will cut down on the forces we have available to maintain our hold on the city.”
“I know.” Galvez’s eyes were hard as flint. “So, before we send them out, we will have to make some examples.” He smiled, the expression as dead and predatory as a shark’s. “Terror has a quantitative quality all its own.”
***
“If they’re holding hostages, we’re going to have to move fast, once this starts.” Brannigan frowned down at the map that Flanagan had marked up following their reconnaissance. The black-bearded man still had camouflage facepaint on, and looked exhausted. He and Cruz had just gotten back to Pacheco’s farm less than an hour before. It was well past midnight.
“There’s only so fast we’ll be able to move without overextending ourselves.” Wade stood at the other side of the table, his icy blue eyes fixed on the same markings. “I think that taking one farm at a time might be our best bet.”
“The people in the city will suffer for it.” Pacheco wasn’t arguing from where he stood, his arms crossed. He was simply stating facts. “The Green Shirts will not let such a challenge go unanswered.”
“I didn’t figure they would, but we don’t have a lot of options, at least not until we can recruit and equip more of a local force. Unless the National Army wants to step in, but if they’re more worried about the Venezuelans intervening…” Brannigan glowered at the map as if the entire situation offended him. That was another problem. He was worried about the Colombians. They hadn’t interfered with Clemente’s seizure of the city, but that kind of indecision could only last so long. A shooting war in their own backyard might just stir some Colombian politicians to action, and then the Blackhearts could end up caught between the hammer and the anvil.
“Fuentes is one of the bigger farmers around here, right?” Burgess had been quiet so far, but there was one thing Brannigan had learned about the quiet man. He was always listening and thinking. That was in marked contrast to their other SEAL, Jenkins, but Burgess was older, and had been around the block. “If they’re keeping such a small security element on his place and focusing more on the new coca farms, might there be some smaller farmers who’ve gone relatively untouched?”
“There should be.” Cruz sounded as tired as he looked. Despite his background, like Pacheco, he was no spring chicken. “We didn’t have time to check on any of them. They’ll be afraid, though. Most of them have nowhere to flee if the Green Shirts come burn them out, and I’m sure the threat has been put out there. Clemente doesn’t have the men to rule except through terror.”
“We’d have to be careful, then, but I’d be willing to bet that we can find a few who might lend a hand.” Brannigan was thinking in terms not only of manpower and firepower—the latter would necessarily be limited, at least at first. Pacheco had a surprising amount of weapons, ammunition, and gear squirreled away, but it wouldn’t be enough to arm and equip more than a handful. They’d have to capture some from the Green Shirts. But more importantly, the local farmers would know the ground. “Even if we can recruit ones and twos, get them to drift away into the jungle where we can stage for a follow-on attack, it’ll help.”
“I still think that Fuentes’s farm would be the best starting place.” Flanagan had seen the place, but more importantly, he was a thinker, too. “If Fuentes is the pillar of the community that Cruz says he is, then freeing him and his family will give the locals a leader to rally around. Especially if most of the high-profile citizens in San Tabal itself have been executed or imprisoned. And I think that we can fortify his house and use it as a better—and closer—base of operations.”
“There’s one problem in all of this.” Bianco sounded almost apologetic. “And that’s our original mission. We’ve been approaching this as if we’ve got to liberate San Tabal all
