Javakhishvili shifted the binoculars. “I got nothing.”
Flanagan had lowered his cheek to the Galatz’s buttstock again, and was once again searching the vegetation. “I saw movement, almost like somebody had just stuck their head out to take a look at the farmhouse. It’s gone now.”
“I saw one of the bigger fire teams go in there earlier, so there’s probably someone there.” Javakhishvili grunted. “They’re hunting, all right. If they were just patrolling, they would have come up the drive already.”
“They’ve got to know something about Pacheco, then. They wouldn’t be so cautious otherwise. Not thugs like these.”
“Maybe. Maybe they’re just nervous. How many of them did you and Mario kill, anyway?”
“Six.” That wasn’t a brag. Flanagan knew how many men he’d killed—well, those he could confirm that he had, anyway. Some would have seen that as slightly psycho, but again, Flanagan didn’t keep track for bragging rights. He felt he had a responsibility to know what he had done. The weight of the dead never quite left him. That was deliberate. It was too easy to make it into a game, otherwise.
Flanagan knew himself. He knew that siren song of combat and killing. It was a song that he’d answered many times, but he also knew that if he lost himself in it, he’d never quite find his soul ever again.
“Six of their compadres disappearing into the jungle without a trace will tend to make even the nastiest of these bastards nervous.” Javakhishvili paused, and something about that sudden silence made Flanagan lift his head.
“Here we go.” Several of the Green Shirts had emerged onto the dirt road leading to Pacheco’s front door. They were openly armed, and while they were looking around carefully, there was still that thuggish swagger to their movements.
“They don’t know we’re here.” Flanagan shifted his position behind the gun to get his sights on the two in the lead. “They wouldn’t come traipsing right up to the front door like that if they did.”
“Or maybe they’re just that stupid.” Javakhishvili shifted his Galil to make sure it was within easy reach. “Maybe they think that the guys you scragged weren’t as good as they are.”
“Maybe.” Flanagan followed the lead Green Shirt with his crosshairs. It was a head-on shot, though the increasing angle between his elevated position and the target meant he was going to have to aim a little low. The wind was negligible, even at the eight hundred yards between him and the target. “If they don’t know about us, though, Pacheco might be able to play this cool.”
The six Green Shirts spread out as they approached Pacheco’s lawn. Most of them held their weapons loosely but somewhat ready, though the one in the lead had thrown his over his shoulder. He probably thought it made him look tough and cool, but it would take him an extra couple of precious seconds to get it down and into action.
He looked up at the house and called out in Spanish. Flanagan couldn’t make out the words, especially at that distance, but the tone was arrogant, almost mocking. They were outside of their seized territory, they knew it, and they knew that nobody was going to cross them anyway.
Something made Flanagan shift his aim back to the treeline along the edge of the southern field, where he’d seen movement before. Sure enough, he spotted a Green Shirt aiming in at the house. The slightly pudgy man was screened from the house by a bush, but Flanagan had a clear shot from up on the hillside.
That explained the apparent confidence. They were nervous, all right, but they thought they were being clever, keeping a team back on overwatch. It said something about their training level. Like Javakhishvili had noted, these were thugs, not soldiers. They considered the most basic tactical measures a masterclass level advantage.
They were about to learn the hard way, unless Pacheco talked fast.
Apparently, the group out front didn’t get a response, at least not the response they were looking for. The man with his rifle on his shoulder yelled again, his voice even more strident. He was met with further silence.
Flanagan carefully scanned the woods around the first Green Shirt he’d spotted. Where there was one, there would be more.
There. That one was even less concealed than the first, his rifle in the fork in a tree, but he was a little bit farther back in the shadows, which was why Flanagan hadn’t seen him right off. That, and the limited field of view he had through the twelve-power scope.
From there, it got easier to spot the other five. “How many did you say there were?” He kept his voice down, even though it was next to impossible for the bad guys to be able to hear them from down there.
“I counted eleven.”
“So, unless they got some reinforcements that we didn’t see, they regrouped to come in on the farmhouse.” Flanagan moved his sights back to the first man he’d spotted. “Which means they’ve got radios.”
“Yeah. So, we got to get them all real quick, don’t we?” Javakhishvili was ordinarily fairly blasé when it came to the killing part of the job, and this time was no exception.
“Yes, we do. If it comes to that. More killing at this point is probably just going to show our hand.”
“That’s why you and John do all the thinking and planning.” Javakhishvili put his binoculars down and picked up his rifle. “I’m just here to do the grunt work. Seems to me that killing them all quick, before they can send a message, will just take eleven more obstacles out of the way.”
“I’d rather we do that on our terms.” But the words had hardly left Flanagan’s mouth when the decision was taken out of their hands.
The Green Shirts who had moved up to Pacheco’s porch were
