Of course, the other possibility was that they might be a bit extra aggressive in the hopes of getting some action to make up for being on the streets at that hour. There were a couple different ways that thugs might react to extra duty, neither of them particularly professional. The latter was certainly the most dangerous.
The night was quiet and still as they moved up the street. It was late enough that none of the locals would be out and about, especially not since the Green Shirts’ presence had all but obliterated the city’s night life—what there ever had been of it. They didn’t really have to worry about cameras, either. San Tabal was too far out in the boonies, too small and too poor, to merit the effort of putting a CCTV system in.
Brannigan had more than half expected to at least see some kind of open force on the streets, though. They didn’t have a good estimate of the Green Shirts’ numbers, but if they were holding a city by fear, he would have assumed that they’d see more of a presence. But the streets were deserted, at least the parts they could see as they worked their way toward Quintana’s house.
It didn’t take long. Without sneaking and moving from shadow to shadow, they reached the place in a matter of a few minutes. Pacheco slowed as they got closer. They didn’t want to blunder into anything.
The house itself was a small, two-story block of poorly fitted brick with a shallowly slanted roof, wedged between two more similar houses. Once they’d gotten deeper into the city, even the tiny yards of the outer houses had disappeared. Most of the people of San Tabal lived practically on top of each other, tenements and houses crammed wall-to-wall along narrow streets terraced into the hillside. It meant that if they did get spotted, their escape routes were necessarily limited, but there was nothing they could do about it. They needed to secure or turn Quintana, and they needed to do it tonight.
Scanning the street, they saw no one. A mangy dog trotted across from alley to alley about a hundred yards away, but it paid them no mind. Pacheco and Brannigan moved to the door, while Jenkins held security.
Now they had to break character slightly. Small, barred windows flanked the similarly barred front door. While everything was quiet and dark on the street, they couldn’t be entirely sure that no one was watching the windows. So, Pacheco and Brannigan ducked beneath the window as they moved to the door.
It was locked. Pacheco, however, had come prepared, and dropped to a knee, pulling a set of lockpicks out of his own vest and going to work.
Brannigan semi-shielded Pacheco from the street, trying to stay casual, letting his Galil hang from its sling while he tried to simultaneously watch the street, the door, and the windows. Pacheco was muttering under his breath as he worked the lock. The time ticked past, and Brannigan found himself getting anxious. This was taking too long. The street was still empty, but sunrise was coming fast.
Finally, the lock gave up, opening with a rasping scrape, and the door swung open with a faint creak. Pacheco stood, bringing his rifle up, and then the three of them moved inside. It wasn’t nearly as smooth as some of the Blackhearts’ entries had been in the past, but it was about as good as they could expect beside an old-school narco hunter they hadn’t trained with.
The tiny living room was spare and backed up against an equally tiny kitchen. Stairs in the back led up to the second floor. A small couch and a pair of chairs faced an old TV in the corner. The TV was off, and two Green Shirts were sprawled on the couch and one of the chairs.
Brannigan moved to one of them, while Pacheco took the other. Brannigan put his muzzle against the snoring man’s forehead, and gave him a light tap.
The Green Shirt’s eyes flew open, and the first thing he saw was a looming shadow pointing a rifle at his face. He froze, and, judging by the acrid odor that met Brannigan’s nose, he’d lost control of his bladder.
The other made a grab for Pacheco’s weapon, opening his mouth to yell. Pacheco yanked his Galil back, flipped it around, and savagely buttstroked the man in the head. The impact snapped the Green Shirt’s head back with a crack, and he slumped, then started to twitch.
“Holy shit.” Jenkins was looking over his shoulder at the spasming Green Shirt, just before the man shuddered one more time and went still, blood trickling from his ear.
“Keep your eye on the door, George.” Brannigan understood Jenkins’ reaction, to some extent. No one necessarily expects to watch a man die from a simple blow to the head. But blunt force trauma can do that.
He quickly tied and gagged the surviving Green Shirt. He wasn’t going to murder the man, though they were going to have to take him with them when they left, in case he talked. Then he turned toward the staircase, his rifle back in his hands. “Going upstairs.”
Pacheco just fell in behind him without a word. The former Search Bloc operator’s face was impassive, as if he’d just done nothing more intense than swatting a fly. Brannigan briefly wondered a bit at some of the stories about the Search Bloc. When fighting those with no morals or restraints, a man gets hardened to some things.
The house was still quiet as they climbed the stairs. The death had been almost completely
