Cruz was still moving, rushing toward the house, but there was something a little wrong with his stride. Flanagan didn’t have time to worry about it, but found one of the Green Shirts that was advancing across the field, firing from the hip. The kid—he looked like he was about seventeen—was getting his ass kicked by the recoil, but he was still holding the trigger down, even as the M16 bounced and jumped in his hands.
Flanagan resisted the urgency that clawed at him as bullets snapped overhead and smacked plaster off the farmhouse. He let his breath out as the Galil’s sights settled, and he shot the kid twice in the chest.
Suppressive fire only works if it’s close enough to force the enemy to keep his head down. Volume of fire can’t always make up for poor marksmanship.
The Green Shirt stopped dead in his tracks, the twin hammer blows to his chest halting his forward progress even before it penetrated to his brain that he was dead. The M16 slid out of suddenly nerveless hands as he fell over onto his back, staring sightlessly at the sky.
Flanagan had already shifted targets as soon as he’d been sure that the shot was good. His next pair were a little high, the follow-up shot climbing to smash the second Green Shirt’s collarbone, but that one was already choking on his own blood, as the first bullet had pulped a lung. Pink foam frothed out of his mouth and nose as he collapsed, his fall pushing the muzzle of his AK into the damp earth.
Gomez had already killed another one. The last two turned and ran back into the woods.
Flanagan was up and moving. He dashed forward a few steps before dropping to an almost perfect kneeling position, letting his breath out again before he got a single shot off. One of the Green Shirts had already disappeared into the jungle, but his shot took the second one high in the back. The man’s back arched as he was jerked up on his toes by the impact, and he stumbled a little farther on before he collapsed against a tree, sliding down the rough bark and leaving blood and skin behind. It didn’t matter much to him. He would be dead in the next few seconds.
Then Flanagan was running, passing the bodies, one of which was still twitching, and plunging into the woods after the sole survivor. They couldn’t afford to let word of this fight get back to Clemente.
The jungle was thick, the density of the undergrowth made worse by how close some of the trees were. The Green Shirt was thrashing through the vegetation ahead of him, making enough noise to follow easily.
Flanagan didn’t really like the jungle—he was far more at home in the high alpine woods back home. But he was good in the bush, whatever form that bush took. He knew better than to try to crash through the bushes—instead he sort of “swam” through the vegetation, ducking and weaving around the thickest branches, picking his footing as carefully as he could without slowing down too much.
He wasn’t running, but he was catching up with the fleeing Green Shirt quickly.
In a moment, he caught a glimpse of the other man, just as the Green Shirt glanced over his shoulder, his eyes widening as he realized that he hadn’t escaped after all. He tried to run faster, but only succeeded in tripping over a tree root and going sprawling. He rolled onto his back, scrambling to bring his shorty AR pistol around.
Flanagan was almost on top of him. He realized that a prisoner might be useful, but after a split second he knew he was just a little bit too far away. The Green Shirt got his hand on his AR’s pistol grip and snatched it up, whipping the muzzle toward Flanagan’s face as his finger tightened on the trigger, his teeth bared and a curse in Spanish on his lips.
Flanagan snapped his own rifle to his shoulder and double-tapped the Green Shirt from six feet away. He didn’t even bother to use the sights. The first bullet was slightly low, punching into the man’s solar plexus. The second one hit just above his sternum. The man grunted and jerked under the sharp blows as the bullets tore through his vitals, but he wasn’t out of the fight yet. His finger yanked spasmodically at the trigger, even though he only had one hand on the weapon, and it wasn’t quite pointed at his target yet. A burst of three rounds ripped past Flanagan’s ear and almost tore the AR out of the Green Shirt’s grip.
Flanagan had barely let the trigger reset from his second shot as he found the sights, put the front sight on the bridge of the Green Shirt’s nose, and squeezed the trigger.
The single shot echoed through the jungle with a deafening finality as the Green Shirt’s head bounced, blood spattering from the bullet hole and covering his suddenly fixed and staring eyes.
Flanagan lowered his rifle, his heart thumping and his breath rasping in his suddenly dry throat. He scanned the woods one last time before he turned back toward the farm. They’d have to move fast, now. There was no telling how far the sounds of the firefight had traveled.
There was one thing for certain, though. Someone would know that Clemente and his Green Shirts no longer held uncontested control of these hills.
Chapter 12
Flanagan came out of the trees to see Gomez crouched by the house and several of the farmer’s family emerging into the open. He frowned as he took in the scene. Something was wrong.
Gomez didn’t relax as Flanagan came closer, but Gomez wasn’t the laid-back type, anyway. There was always a coiled-spring readiness about the man. He was a killer to his bones, and he
