The three Blackhearts kept going, moving through the bush as quietly but quickly as they could, weapons up and NVGs scanning for any movement, ears straining for the rustle that might herald an enemy combatant moving through the jungle—or any of the more dangerous Colombian wildlife.
Flanagan slowed as he heard twigs breaking off to his left. He lifted his rifle, and the Green Shirt practically ran into his muzzle, suddenly bursting through the undergrowth, an AK-74 held high in his hands, trying to move up and off to the flank.
He wasn’t retreating, so Flanagan shot him. He died with two bullets in his heart before he’d even registered that he wasn’t alone.
Then Flanagan had to duck behind a tree as another Green Shirt behind the one he’d just killed opened fire, raking the jungle with a long, rattling burst of automatic fire. Bullets chopped through branches and leaves and thudded into tree trunks, raining splinters and bits of shredded vegetation down before a fast series of shots snapped down from the house and silenced the shooter.
Then a voice was raised out in the terraced cornfield, shouting in Spanish. A moment later, more fire raked the jungle, forcing the Blackhearts into cover. Flanagan moved farther behind the tree he’d sheltered behind, staying low as he eased his NVGs and rifle around the trunk, searching for muzzle flashes. He spotted one, sighted in with his dark-adjusted eye, and squeezed off three quick shots, keeping the rifle braced against the tree trunk. The muzzle flash ceased as the weapon went silent, but the others redoubled their fire, and he had to get even lower as more rounds smacked into the wood above his head.
The fire slackened slightly, but it didn’t cease altogether. A moment later, it redoubled again, before slackening.
He knew what was happening. The Green Shirts weren’t stupid. They’d learned from the last couple of nights that they had to be more careful. They were maneuvering, some firing while the others moved.
The question was, were they retreating, or assaulting?
He eased out again, only to snatch his head back as another burst of fire spat fragments of bark into his face. One of them must have seen his muzzle blast before, and now they were targeting his position. So, it was time to change positions.
Dropping to his belly, he wormed his way uphill, heading for another stand of trees set close together. The trunks were thinner than his current cover, and they wouldn’t provide near as much protection, but they were better than nothing, and staying put was a non-starter.
He passed Javakhishvili, who had dashed a little higher before getting down as they’d taken fire. The long-haired mercenary was down in the prone, and he fired under a fallen log as Flanagan crawled behind him. Flanagan wasn’t sure if he could actually see what he was shooting at, but maybe the added return fire would discourage the Green Shirts a little.
Flanagan reached the stand of trees and got up on a low knee, searching for targets. He was a little past the beaten zone of the Green Shirts’ suppressive fire. And he suddenly had a better view of the cornfields from that position.
The Green Shirts were falling back, angling toward the road and down the hill, but keeping to the far side of the farm, away from the gun trucks and the Blackhearts’ machinegunners. Their fire and movement left more than a little to be desired—they were mostly running and shooting behind them, pausing only long enough to pour longer bursts at the trees and the farmhouse above, where Wade, Burgess, and Hank were picking them off. Even as Flanagan brought his own rifle to bear, the man he’d picked out as a target jerked and fell on his face.
It looked an awful lot like they were winning. Until a glimmer of light caught Flanagan’s eye, and he looked up to see headlights moving across the ridge on the other side of the valley. If he remembered right, that road linked to the road immediately below, along the edge of the fields. Those trucks—and there were at least six of them—were on their way, right to Galán’s door.
This was far from over.
***
Galvez could see the muzzle flashes on the other side of the valley, and he knew that this wasn’t going well. The fact that he couldn’t see streams of tracers meant that the Green Shirts’ machineguns were out of action. Whoever the American had sent, they were far too efficient.
I have to end this tonight. If they don’t kill Clemente, then I’ll just have to find another way to deal with him. Damn that American pig and his promises! He betrayed me and the revolution as soon as he made the deal! That Galvez had had no intention of keeping his part of the deal didn’t bother him in the slightest.
“Hurry up!” He lifted his radio to his lips. “All Revolutionary Force units, move on the Galán farm! We have the counter-revolutionaries cornered! Now is the time to finish them off!”
Chapter 20
Brannigan rode in the back of Pacheco’s truck, his teeth gritted, holding on for dear life as the former Search Bloc operator sent them tearing along the narrow, rocky mountain road toward Galán’s farm and his beleaguered teammates. He could hear the gunfight ebb and flow as the echoes of gunfire rolled across the hills. He prayed like he hadn’t prayed in a long time that they weren’t too late.
Pacheco slowed as they moved over the ridge and started down the other side toward the farm. They were still on the other side of the ridge from the fight, so he couldn’t see the muzzle flashes or tracers. He leaned forward, about
