But if Hank was dead by the time he got there, he’d never forgive himself.
Brannigan quickly outstripped Jenkins and the Colombians as he forged up the hill toward the ridge road. He could already hear Pacheco’s truck idling up ahead.
He had to force himself to halt while he was still in the brush. Won’t do Hank any good if I get myself shot by friendly fire because I was too anxious to conduct a proper linkup. He keyed his radio. “Pacheco, Kodiak. I’m directly to your right.”
“Come ahead, Kodiak.” Pacheco didn’t waste time or breath on asking questions over the radio, especially since Brannigan loomed out of the jungle right outside the passenger side window. “What’s going on? I thought we had at least six more coming.”
“We’ll have to gather them up later. Wade’s element’s in contact, and it sounds like they’re pinned down.” He really didn’t have any more information than he’d had before, but his imagination was going strong, especially extrapolating from what Wade had said over the radio. Brannigan’s Blackhearts were extremely efficient killers, but outnumbered was still outnumbered.
“Get in.” Brannigan felt a wave of gratitude that Pacheco didn’t feel like asking questions. He clambered into the bed even as Jenkins and Quintana came out of the jungle both of them sucking wind.
“Mount up! We’ve got a fight to get to!”
***
Flanagan could hear the gunfire up ahead, around the bend in the road. They were probably too close according to some tactical manual somewhere, but he’d spent enough time in warzones over the years that he’d developed a pretty finely tuned sense for when to throw the book out and when to stick with it. This was a time to throw it out. They still had concealment, and it didn’t look like the Green Shirts had flankers out.
“Somebody get up on that gun! Somebody other than Kevin or Vinnie!” He hadn’t quite stopped, but he’d slowed considerably, and now he crept forward, riding the clutch and the brake, determined not to over penetrate.
“See! He does care about what’s important!” Curtis crowed.
“No, you and Vinnie already have machineguns,” Flanagan retorted. “I want as much fire superiority as we can get right now.”
Javakhishvili laughed. The sound was out of place, given the timing and the fact that he was preparing to lean out the side window with a Galil, while Gomez had climbed up without a word, slinging his own rifle onto his back and taking hold of the PKM, ignoring the splintered stock. But adrenaline does weird things when it runs high, and something about Flanagan and Curtis sniping at each other had struck Javakhishvili’s funny bone.
Their Georgian doc had a weird sense of humor, anyway.
They eased out into the curve in the road, slowly clearing the wall of trees and undergrowth. Flanagan craned his neck to see around the curve as far as he could.
Finally, with a muttered curse, he gunned the acclerator, clearing the trees and stomping on the brake as the two Green Shirt gun trucks came into clear view, their gunners crouched back behind their mounted PKM and M60, lit by the muzzle flashes as they poured fire up the terraced slope toward Galán’s house.
The truck was still rocking on its shocks as he and Javakhishvili bailed, keeping their heads down to make sure that the other Blackhearts’ fields of fire were clear. Gomez, up on the PKM, had already opened up, the stuttering roar shockingly loud up close, flame strobing from the muzzle brake as he leaned into the gun and raked the two gun trucks with a dashed stream of green tracers.
The first gunner went down immediately, smashed off his feet by a stream of flying metal that tore through his side and pulped his innards before ripping them out the exit wounds. The second started to pivot toward the new threat, saw his buddy get shredded, and tried to dive out of the truck.
He was too late by a second. Curtis had jumped out of the back of the truck as he’d realized that he didn’t have a clear shot at the angle they’d stopped, dashed to the side of the road, dropped prone behind his Negev, and his first burst took the second gunner high in the chest. He toppled backward, his feet flying over his head as he hit the edge of the truck bed and went over, disappearing into the dark behind the vehicle.
Flanagan was already up and moving around the back of the truck. He keyed his radio as he went. “Angry Ragnar, Woodsrunner. You still alive up there?”
“About time you got here, Woodsrunner.” Wade sounded simultaneously angry and relieved. More gunfire rattled from uphill, near the house, as the suppressing fire ceased.
“Watch your fires to the west. We’re moving up that flank.” Flanagan plunged into the trees, mentally cursing the jungle and its constraints on his vision. They’d be right on top of any Green Shirts in the woods before they saw them.
“Roger.” The emotion was gone as Wade got a handle on the situation. “Watch yourselves. We haven’t had eyes on since the suppressive fire started. They might have moved out onto the flanks.”
“Copy.” Then he and Javakhishvili went silent and concentrated on moving and hunting the enemy.
Sporadic gunshots rattled through the night, but it was much quieter now that the machineguns had been silenced. The Blackhearts with machineguns had ceased fire as well, since they didn’t have targets. Wasting rounds on the jungle would be counterproductive—at worst they’d even simply reveal themselves to the enemy. Muzzle flashes show up easily in the dark, and tracers work both ways.
“On your right.” Gomez didn’t bother with the radio, but his voice was pitched low enough that it was doubtful that anyone much
