“We’ll cut the fence and move through.” He glanced over the crest of the ridge and reassessed for a moment. When he dropped back down, he grimaced. “There’s too much light once we’re past the fence to try to do this the sneaky way. We’ll have to go loud immediately.” There wasn’t a lot of cover on the lawn. “Hit ‘em hard, hit ‘em fast, and move on the house. Don’t slow down for anything. Speed, surprise, and violence of action are going to be the only things that get us through this.” It was less than what he’d consider an ideal plan, but it was what they had.
No one had any objections or suggestions. Even Curtis was quiet, and he usually had something to say just for the sake of saying something. Flanagan nodded. “Let’s move.”
Bianco moved quickly up to the crest of the hill, looking for a good firing position. Curtis faded into the bush, following the crest of the ridgeline toward the north, looking for a better spot where he could fire on the trucks in the driveway—along with any reinforcements that might show up once the shooting started.
Flanagan, Gomez, and Javakhishvili slipped over the crest of the ridge and flowed through the vegetation toward the fence.
It was somewhat slow going, given the need for stealth. That close, they had to take extra care not to give themselves away before they could get through or over the fence. That meant placing each step carefully, pausing and listening often. Unfortunately, even at the late hour, music was still pounding and blaring from Ballesteros’s house, potentially drowning out any of the auditory warnings they might have had that the enemy was closing in on them.
Hopefully, it would also disguise the sound of the fence being cut.
They slowed even more as they got closer to the fence. Flanagan peered through the undergrowth toward the nearest security position, a roughly sandbagged pit with a mounted M60 machinegun. He could see the rust on the weapon from yards away, thanks to the ill-aimed floodlight up on Ballesteros’s roof.
The Green Shirts weren’t happy about being on guard duty, and that had been obvious from up on the ridgeline. One of the two was smoking, and the other one was sitting with his back against the sandbags, facing the house, bitching in Spanish. Flanagan could hear him from the other side of the fence.
Unfortunately, the fact that he could hear the Green Shirt meant that, presuming the Green Shirts weren’t high, they would be able to hear the wire cutters snapping through the fence. The music wasn’t quite that loud.
This might get interesting faster than they’d hoped.
He pointed at the fence, in the deepest shadow available, where some of the undergrowth had already started to grow through the barrier. Gomez moved toward it, slinging his Galil onto his back and pulling the wire cutters. Flanagan and Javakhishvili got down and aimed in at the Green Shirts, just in case.
Gomez went to work, holding each wire carefully before he cut it. He took his time, working through each wire carefully, rather than snapping them, and since he was holding the wires, the breaks didn’t reverberate down the length of the fence. Flanagan started to think that maybe they might get through the fence and onto the objective before they had to go loud.
Then the one who wasn’t smoking got up, slung his AK, and started sauntering straight toward their hiding place, unbuttoning his fly as he came.
Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.
Flanagan pivoted, his muzzle tracking the advancing Green Shirt. Don’t come all the way to the fence. Gomez needs five more minutes. Don’t come all the way to the fence.
But the Green Shirt must have really needed to piss. He threw a sarcastic bit of Spanish over his shoulder as he stepped within a yard of Gomez, who had frozen where he was.
Flanagan sized up the situation and made the decision. There was nothing for it. All that kid would have to do would be to look slightly to his left, and at the very least he’d see the growing hole in the fence.
The thunder of the shot echoed off the hillside, the Galil’s muzzle flash lighting up the Green Shirt for a split second as the bullet tore through his side.
The Green Shirt stumbled, his knees giving way, and fell on his face. Unfortunately, he fell against the fence, and the undergrowth and the wire held him up, despite the fact that his weight started to push open the gap that Gomez had been cutting in the wire.
For a split second, everyone on that lawn stared in shock, as the echoes of the gunshot rolled across the city below.
Then all hell broke loose.
The M60 gunner grabbed for his weapon, and Javakhishvili shot him twice, the hammer pair tearing through his upper chest and ripping out his throat. He collapsed on top of the gun, choking and aspirating blood.
Gomez dropped to his belly and wormed his way through the hole he’d cut in the fence, leading with his rifle, while Flanagan hammered rounds at the farther security position. Bianco probably couldn’t see a lot of what had happened, but he opened fire from up on top of the ridge, the Negev spitting tracers down to smash the other two Green Shirts to bloody doll rags in their fighting pit.
Gomez dashed to the first pit, though he didn’t get into it, but grabbed the 60 and turned it toward the house as he
