The three of them moved on the master bedroom. They hadn’t made a sound since mounting the stairs, and the stairs and the hallway floor were covered in a thick, cream-colored carpet that rendered their footfalls soundless—especially since whoever was on the other side of that door was making far too much noise to listen to what was happening in the hallway.
A single kick splintered the doorjamb and sent the door juddering inward. Flanagan rode it to the wall, quickly clearing the corner and pivoting toward the center of the room.
Ballesteros was on the bed, pointing what looked like a very expensive semiautomatic at the door, screaming in Spanish as he cranked rounds at the intruding figures, though he only succeeded in putting one bullet through the doorway, the rest climbing into the plaster overhead. “¡No me matarás, Diego Galvez!”
Gomez and Flanagan shot him at the same time. Their bullets crossed through his chest cavity, spattering blood on the white sheets behind him. The immensely fat man flopped backward, the chromed pistol falling from a suddenly nerveless hand to land on the carpet with a muted thump.
He had been the only one in the room. Javakhishvili moved quickly to the master bath, his weapon up and ready. Clearing that took a matter of moments.
From there, they rolled to the second bedroom. It was as empty as the first, but from the clothing and backpacks—and the obviously used bed—it appeared that some of Ballesteros’s security had been sleeping there.
“Looks like he retreated alone here with his security. Wonder where he squirreled his family away.” Javakhishvili rubbed his chin as he let his Galil hang.
Flanagan shrugged. “Not our targets, not our problem.” He cocked his head and listened. The machinegun fire from outside had ceased. He keyed his radio. “Gambler, Woodsrunner. Status?”
“React force is Swiss cheese. I’m getting low on ammo, though. And I think I just heard something from Angry Ragnar. They might be under attack.”
“Roger.” Flanagan looked around. “Let’s grab as much of the weapons and ammo as we can, load it into a truck that’s not shot to crap, and get moving toward Wade’s position.
“The night ain’t over yet.”
Chapter 18
Brannigan looked over at Quintana as the radio fell silent. “We don’t have until morning. My guys have made contact with another potential ally, but they’re under attack right now, and they don’t have a lot of numbers.”
“Who did they meet with?” Quintana asked.
Brannigan hesitated, just for a moment. He’d seen this go pear-shaped before. Old grudges often got in the way in an irregular warfare environment—in fact, they often just poured more fuel on the fire. More than once, American forces had been unknowingly turned into the instruments of local vendettas, as one man turned in his long-time rival as an insurgent, when the other man didn’t necessarily have anything to do with the bad guys the Americans had been there to fight.
But they had little time, and sometimes risks had to be taken. Especially in unconventional warfare. That was a reality that many of his peers had had a hard time wrapping their heads around. “Rodrigo Lara.”
Quintana nodded. “He is the man I would have suggested. He is near the top of the list of ‘undesirables’ that I am supposed to be hunting down. I do not know him well, myself.” Brannigan’s eyes narrowed slightly. Something about the way Quintana had said that suggested he wasn’t telling the whole truth. “He is highly thought of, though, and Jurado already considered him a rival. Jurado did not have the cleanest hands, himself.”
Ain’t that always the story? There isn’t a politician alive with clean hands. Brannigan rubbed the stubble on his chin. I wonder what skeletons Lara has in his closet? Or Quintana, for that matter?
The slightly pudgy former deputy police chief ran a hand over his face, thinking hard. “I think I can get about twelve of us together quickly. Mostly policemen.” He sighed. “We might have to be…firm with some of them.” His expression remained flat and emotionless as he met Pacheco’s hard, icy stare. Then he shrugged. “They have stayed on in a police force that now answers to the Green Shirts. Most of them did so out of fear of repercussions against them and their families. Others…” He spread his hands. “Every man has his own reasons for doing things.”
Brannigan could appreciate the diplomacy while still seeing the weasel words for what they were.
“Well, we need to move fast. Those boys can hold their own for a while, but unless Lara’s got a hell of a security detachment, they’re four men with four rifles against a dedicated hit team. They’ve only got so many bullets.”
***
“Kid, take that window there.” Wade pointed to the second window that flanked the main door while he peered over Burgess’s shoulder. Sure enough, two trucks with what looked like about a dozen Green Shirts had pulled over on the side of the road at the base of the hill, and the Green Shirts were clambering out and spreading out across the fields below the house. “Hold your fire until I say.”
If the younger Brannigan, who had been a Marine captain and a company commander, resented being ordered around by a retired E-8, he kept his mouth shut. Hank apparently understood that he was still the low man on the totem pole among the Blackhearts, not to mention that most of the rest of the mercenaries had a lot more combat experience than he did.
Wade turned his attention back to the enemy with a scowl. These Green Shirts had learned some caution. They weren’t swaggering up to the house the way he’d halfway hoped
