But the foot mobiles didn’t show themselves first, not even by movement. The gunners changed the equation.
Both truck-mounted machineguns opened fire at the same time, their muzzle flashes flickering in the dark and tracers spewing up the hillside toward the house. The first rounds went high, but the gunners walked them down on target, and the three Blackhearts went flat as bullets punched through the window glass and chewed through the cinder block and plaster. Pulverized concrete, plaster, and bits of hot, spent lead and copper rained down on them as they tried to get as low to the floor as possible.
Wade cursed as the battering continued, dredging up obscenities he hadn’t actually used in years. The Green Shirts might not have mortars, but the machinegun fire could keep them pinned in the tiny house until the foot mobiles could close in and toss grenades in the shattered windows, or just stick their muzzles inside and murder everyone that way.
And lying there, pinned down, waiting to die, was not John Wade’s way.
Worming his way across the floor, he bumped into Hank, who was huddled underneath the window, and reached up toward the doorknob. He snatched his hand back with a curse as a burst of machinegun fire punched ragged holes through the flimsy metal door, scattering hot fragments across his forearm.
He gritted his teeth, then heaved himself up, grabbed the door handle, and yanked the door open. He could almost hear the gasp of fear behind him, but it wasn’t as if that door was providing any of them any protection as it was.
He shifted his position, leaning out into the partially open door and sighting toward the enemy. Only to find that he couldn’t see any of them.
The lay of the land was such that the top terrace was cutting off his line of sight—and field of fire—toward the machineguns and the gun trucks. The good news was that as long as they all stayed low, the machineguns couldn’t hit them. The bad news was, as long as they stayed low, they couldn’t shoot back, either, and the Green Shirts would be able to maneuver on them with impunity.
Wade still wasn’t inclined to just lie there and wait to die.
Burgess had pulled the door farther open, and looked across at Wade. “On three?” He was clearly thinking along the same lines.
Wade nodded. “On three. One, two, three!”
The two of them had been shifting their positions, getting their feet under them even as Wade counted. Finally, they heaved themselves up to a low kneeling position, bracing their rifles against the doorjamb. Both men opened fire within a split second of each other, even though they didn’t quite have targets yet.
Fire superiority has a value all its own.
But two rifles against two machineguns don’t make for good odds. Wade was just high enough off the ground now that he could make out some of the muzzle flash down below, and apparently, the gunners could see his, too. A moment later, both he and Burgess were forced back down to the prone as streams of tracers reached out for them, some skipping off the edge of the terrace in front of them, tearing through cornstalks and hammering against the house. More concrete and plaster was pulverized, and more glass shattered and rained down onto the floor.
Wade lay on his side, his rifle still pointed out into the night but without targets to engage, cursing a continuous blue streak through clenched teeth.
Hurry up, guys.
***
Brannigan was getting more than a little anxious. They’d gathered about half a dozen of Quintana’s loyal cops, and he had about half a dozen more on the list, but time was running out, and for all he knew, it may already have run out for Wade, Burgess, and Hank.
Finally, as the sixth man, Dominguez, hustled up the hill out of town toward the rendezvous with Pacheco, he couldn’t wait anymore. “We need to go. I’ve got men under fire.”
Quintana looked for a moment like he was going to argue. But he looked up at the towering, six-foot-four mercenary, and saw something in his face that made him shut his mouth with a snap and nod, jerkily. Together, he, Brannigan, and Jenkins headed for the hills.
They had to thread through several alleys and cross streets that were barely bigger than the alleys. They still moved carefully, muzzles pivoting to cover danger areas as they passed. They didn’t move slowly, but they moved carefully.
At that point, Brannigan was perfectly willing to slaughter his way out of San Tabal if it meant getting to his boy before the Green Shirts murdered him.
He knew that his emotions were getting the better of him. He didn’t care anymore. Hank was his flesh and blood, and he was already cursing himself for letting his son come on this mission. Never mind that Hank was already a combat veteran, and that Brannigan had encouraged him—even while warning him against certain mistakes—down that path. This was different. In the Marine Corps, Hank had had support waiting if he got into a situation like this. Out here, with the Blackhearts, there was nothing.
And Brannigan was out of position and behind the eight ball when it came to rescuing his own son.
They got out of the city proper and started struggling up the slope toward the road that ran along the ridgeline. There was another road leading up from the city itself, but Brannigan wasn’t so far down the emotional slippery slope that he was willing to compromise good tactics
