Brannigan didn’t seem to think so, and that was his call. Javakhishvili wasn’t going to get too worked up about it. He was there to kill bad guys and get paid. He had no pretentions of leadership, and if Brannigan ever called it quits, he’d probably go find another PMC to take up with. They wouldn’t get the kind of missions that the Blackhearts did—and wouldn’t pay nearly as well—but the work was the work.
Movement caught his eye and ended his woolgathering. He was up on the hillside above Pacheco’s farm, with a pretty good view across the fields, clear out to the road. The slope of the hill thinned the jungle growth enough that he could see through the trees easily without sacrificing concealment.
Two pickup trucks had stopped on the road, a few hundred yards short of Pacheco’s driveway. They were still a couple of miles from the house, but they wouldn’t stop there for nothing. There was nothing else nearby.
At least, he didn’t think so. He might be a simple man at heart, but he’d survived far too many wars to take anything for granted. He didn’t believe in coincidences.
Bracing his binoculars against a tree, he studied the trucks. Sure enough, they were Green Shirt vehicles—two each in the cabs, and three to four riding in back of each. They were all armed, too.
As he watched, they split into three groups and spread out, moving into the trees to either side of the fields. They were moving roughly toward Pacheco’s farm, too.
It didn’t take a genius to see what was happening. Either they were made, or they were about to be. He scooped up the radio and keyed it. “Kodiak, Shady Slav. We’re about to have company.”
***
Pacheco might have had a history, and training, but his farm was still a farm rather than a fortress. Given Colombia’s laws, and the closeness of the FARC—peace deal or no peace deal—visible defenses might have drawn too much scrutiny. Remaining covert was the best way to survive in South America—or anywhere else, really.
So, there were no fighting holes, no bunkers, and very little cover to be had. But the Blackhearts spread out and got ready to ambush the Green Shirts as best they could.
Flanagan was puffing a little, sweat already staining his tiger stripes dark as he struggled up the steep hill behind the house. He was carrying his Galil in his hands, but he also had Pacheco’s IWI Galatz, the 7.62 NATO sniper variant of the Galil slung across his back. It made for more weight as he made his way through the vegetation, but if he was going to hold overwatch for the rest of the team, he needed the range.
He got up on a narrow shelf, lined with slender trees clinging to the shallow soil between the rocks, and took a knee. “Herc! It’s Joe. I’m coming in on your right.” He didn’t like just hissing at the other man, but they only had a couple of radios. Flying in through Customs with military radios for each man would have raised some eyebrows.
He really had to wonder what the client had hoped to accomplish with this mission. Deniability was one thing. Refusing to equip your deniable hitters—with the subsequent risk of mission failure because of it—was something else.
“Bring it in.”
Flanagan rose and slipped through the trees. Javakhishvili was still watching the scene unfolding below through his binoculars, though he turned to look as Flanagan approached, then twisted to check the hillside above him. It had been a risk, setting out a one-man outpost, but the Blackhearts were all experienced enough and savvy enough to be careful of their own security.
Flanagan had always just thought of it in terms of the old mountain men. They’d rarely had a partner to watch their backs. They’d had to keep their eyes and ears open all the time.
He moved in behind Javakhishvili, leaning his Galil carefully against the rocky slope before unslinging the Galatz, flipping out the bipods, and looking for a good window to set up.
Unfortunately, the shelf was too narrow for him to stretch out and get all the way behind the weapon. So, he had to kind of angle himself, adjusting his position behind the weapon to keep it steady without muscling it.
It seemed like a lot of effort for a semi-auto sniper rifle, but it was what they had, and the less his position affected the flight of the round, the better.
The window he found through the foliage was relatively narrow, but with some work and creative readjustment, he found positions that would give him overlapping fields of fire to cover the entire farm. “Any newcomers?”
“Not yet.” Javakhishvili had his eyes back to the binoculars. “I counted eleven, total. Looks like they’re just scouting so far. No sign that they know we’re here.”
“They’ve got to be this far out for a reason.” Flanagan tracked his scope carefully across the woodline, looking for targets. He’d have to rely on Javakhishvili to spot for him—the scope’s field of view was too narrow. “We’re a good way outside their sphere of influence.”
“Got to be because of that patrol you and Mario disappeared.” Javakhishvili took another break to sweep their surroundings. The ridge above them was steep enough that it wasn’t likely than an enemy would come at them from that direction, but it wasn’t impossible, either. “You put the fear of God into them, and now they’re trying to find whoever killed their buddies.” He frowned and got thoughtful. “You think they know about Pacheco?”
“Who knows? I don’t have a crystal ball that lets me sit in on their planning sessions.” Flanagan stopped, peering through the scope, then lifted his head and scanned above it. “Check about…five fingers over to the right from the house, just past that really
