He was considering the next call when the phone rang. Looking down, he recognized the number and answered it. “Master Guns Drake.”
“Long time, Carlo.” Santelli had never served with Ben Drake in the Marine Corps, like Brannigan had, but he’d certainly known of him. Drake had been a fixture, a modern “Grand Old Man of the Marine Corps,” until his retirement after thirty years in uniform. But he’d had a bit of a hand in the Blackhearts—his recommendation had led to Javakhishvili’s recruitment—and the partnership with Drake’s “Old Fogies” network had been a close one ever since the Humanity Front’s hired killers had gone after Childress. “What do you need?”
“Information, Master Guns.” Santelli leaned back in his chair as he spoke. He was in his garage, so he wasn’t too worried about Melissa coming in and overhearing anything. She didn’t want to know details about the Blackhearts’ work, anyway. “Information of a rather sensitive nature. I need to know if there are any ops happening down in Colombia, particularly near the Venezuelan border. Even deep, dark, non-official ops.”
“Hmm. I take it you’re circuitously talking about that little coup and declaration of an independent city-state in San Tabal?” Naturally, Drake had already figured most of it out. “I haven’t heard about anything beyond the rumor that a small, deniable PMC might have been hired to intervene.” It was unlikely, given their connections, that anyone was listening in, but both men tended to be cautious when it came to this sort of thing. “I can do some more digging, but if it’s classified highly enough, I might not be able to find out.”
“If you can’t find anything, there’s a mutual acquaintance that I don’t have contact information for that you might ask. An older gent, name of Abernathy.”
“I know him.” Drake didn’t sound surprised. “I’ll see what I can find out. I take it this is somewhat time-sensitive?”
“It is.” The phone vibrated in Santelli’s hand and he took it from his ear to look at the screen with a frown. “Master Guns, I’ve got to go. Van Zandt’s calling.”
“I’ll get back with you as soon as I’ve got anything, Carlo. Have a good one.”
Santelli hit the button to answer Van Zandt’s call. “Talk to me.”
“This just got a lot more interesting.” From the tone in Van Zandt’s voice, it wasn’t a good kind of interesting, either. “John hasn’t contacted anyone but you, correct?”
“Not so far as I know. At least, no one but their contact on the ground.” That was getting more complicated by the minute, too, but Santelli didn’t consider that relevant to the conversation at hand. Not at the moment.
“I didn’t think so. And yet, I got a phone call from the client not long ago, demanding to know why the team had already left and made a Green Shirt patrol disappear in the jungle.”
Santelli’s eyebrows climbed toward his receding hairline. “Your client’s talking to someone else on the ground.”
“Yep. And as far as I can tell, it’s not our people. I can’t find any comms with any special mission units or paramilitary spooks down there. Hell, I can’t find any indication that we’ve got any special mission units or paramilitary operators in the vicinity, aside from the handful on liaison with the National Army in Bogota.” Van Zandt wasn’t known among the Blackhearts for his suspicious nature, but this was getting too blatant for even him to ignore.
“So, our client’s talking to the bad guys.” It wasn’t a question.
“That’s not entirely certain, but it sure sounds suspicious, doesn’t it?” Van Zandt sighed, his breath rasping over the mic. “I’m going to keep digging, but let John know that I’m pretty much ninety percent sure that the canned plan we got is a setup.”
“I think he was already assuming that, sir.” Santelli knew that he sure had been. Van Zandt signed off unceremoniously, and Santelli put the phone down on his workbench, thinking.
He ground a meaty fist into his palm. For all his worries about his family, for all the remembered heebie-jeebies he’d endured in Azerbaijan, he hated sitting back here while the rest of the team was in harm’s way. Sure, Brannigan needed someone to coordinate, but couldn’t Chavez do that? There was only so much he could do. He didn’t have Drake’s connections, never mind Abernathy’s insider information. All he could do was contact those who did have such connections and information, and then wait.
All the same, as he glanced at the garage door, he knew that he wasn’t getting any younger, and that while he worried about the other Blackhearts, he didn’t have to worry about leaving Melissa and Carlo Jr. alone and wondering, anymore. That was a relief.
He just wished that he didn’t hate himself for feeling that relief.
The phone rang again. He didn’t recognize the number, but after a moment, he snatched it up and answered it. “Santelli.”
“Santelli, this is Abernathy. I understand you’ve got an op going on down south?”
“Something like that.” Santelli, like most of the Blackhearts, was still unsure just who Clayton Abernathy was, or what his interest was. That he had connections—and was most likely either in command of, or otherwise involved in, some kind of covert unit of his own—was undisputed. And he’d helped them several times already. “We need to know if there are any others working the same vicinity—and possibly the same mission set.”
“No.” Abernathy was usually a man of few words, and this was no exception. “You can take that to the bank. Your boys are the only ones working down there at the moment. That answer your questions?”
“It does.” It didn’t solve the problems, not really. But it answered many of the questions, as long as they weren’t looking for specifics. “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me until your team is out of harm’s way.” Santelli
