With a curse, Gomez racked the M60’s charging handle. The Green Shirts had left the rounds on the tray, but they hadn’t pulled back the bolt.
He leaned into the gun, opening up with a stuttering thudthudthudthud as he raked the rooftop with a long, roaring burst. The incoming fire fell silent, as Javakhishvili dashed to join him, and Flanagan crawled under the cut fencing.
Curtis had also opened fire, raking the vehicles at the front of the mansion. He was laying it on heavy, giving each vehicle long, stuttering bursts of fire. Flanagan couldn’t see the vehicles as he wormed his way under the fence, the wire catching at his gear and his NVGs, but he could imagine the devastation that Curtis was sowing with that Negev. The man’s personal life might be a train wreck, but he was an artist with a belt-fed.
Of course, he was also alone, and if they had a react force coming, his position would be easy enough to spot by the tracers and the Negev’s muzzle blast. They had to move fast. This was already going sideways.
Flanagan got clear of the fence, though one wire tried to snatch at his trousers, and rolled over, pushed himself up, and ran—not for the sandbags where Javakhishvili and Gomez crouched, but for the covered patio and the door leading inside.
Not a moment too soon, either, as a machinegun opened up from inside the mansion, shattering the glass wall that opened up onto the southern patio, raking the defensive position where Gomez had turned the Green Shirts’ own machinegun against them. Gomez and Javakhishvili hit the dirt as bullets chewed into the poorly secured sandbags that were all that stood between the two of them and imminent death.
Flanagan found himself alone, facing the door with a rifle and two frags.
Nothing for it. If I wait, we’re all dead.
Generally speaking, trying to storm an enemy house solo is not recommended. Flanagan wouldn’t have dreamed of it, if not for the fact that there was no other choice. Gomez and Javakhishvili were pinned, and Bianco and Curtis were too far away to help.
Quickly swiveling his rifle to check the front of the house and the bullet-riddled trucks in the driveway, he saw two corpses sprawled on the pavement, and one Green Shirt huddled behind an engine block. The Green Shirt saw him at the same moment, but Flanagan was faster. The pair of 5.56 rounds punched through the Green Shirt’s clavicle and tore through his vitals before he could bring his own Galil to bear. He still had enough life left in him to trigger a burst into the pavement, kicking up bits of smashed asphalt before he fell on his face.
Flanagan had shot the man on the move as he glided toward the side door. A single kick slammed it open—it hadn’t been locked. He found himself in a small entryway, and a half-step to his right put the two Green Shirts manning a MAG-58 in the living room right into his sights.
He might have trained to kill each with a controlled pair, but this wasn’t training, and two of his teammates were under fire. He dumped about half the mag into the two of them, raking his fire across their bodies. Bloody holes blossomed in their shirts as they jerked under the impacts, and the gun fell silent.
He didn’t dare stay put. To stay still was to die.
Taking a breath, he quickly rounded the corner, sweeping the living room to his right, where it faced the open patio and the lawn, where Gomez and Javakhishvili were already closing in, now that the machinegun fire had ceased. That side of the room was clear.
He snapped his muzzle back toward the back of the house, sweeping the rest of the room with his eyes just above his sights, feeling his back prickling at the thought of another Green Shirt back in that corner he’d just put his back to.
But the two on the machinegun had been the only ones in the room. The kitchen was empty, and the stairs leading up to the second floor lay just beyond.
He held his position, even as more full-auto 5.56 fire roared outside. One or both of their machinegunners were laying down some serious hate. But Flanagan had enough problems to solve inside the house, even as Javakhishvili and Gomez came through the shattered glass doors and joined him.
Without a word, Flanagan moved toward the stairs, even though he gave the door he’d made entry through a quick check as he passed. Even with three men, they still had to cover every angle.
The interior was strikingly modern. Everything was laid out in stark, straight lines and displaying a simple, minimalist design. The light wood floor and a few accents were the only parts of the interior that didn’t seem to be white—except for the spreading pool of blood under the dead machinegunners.
Pointing his rifle up the stairs, Flanagan led the way up.
A short hallway opened on three doors. One was open, the room beyond it dark. The other two had been closed, but Flanagan could hear someone yelling behind the single door that led toward what had to be the master bedroom. It was in Spanish, but he was pretty sure he heard the name Clemente somewhere in the ranting tirade.
The open door presented the most immediate threat, even though he knew that there were people in the master bedroom. He pointed, even as he kept his eyes and muzzle on the master bedroom door, and Javakhishvili swept past him, moving to clear that room. Flanagan posted
