He craned his neck, still partly on his back, to look up toward the road. He caught a glimpse of a figure jumping out of one of the trucks, but even as he shrank down into the weeds, he saw that they were all moving toward the fields above, ignoring his little hidey hole.
Gritting his teeth, he rolled to his side and started to scramble up the low slope to the west. If he could get clear, get around that curve, he might be able to get up on some higher ground—or just onto the Green Shirts’ flank—and hit them hard enough to at least gain some maneuvering room for the rest. He had to move fast.
***
Flanagan was deep enough in the trees, with Gomez and Javakhishvili, that he was outside the beaten zone and therefore could maneuver more easily. He’d started moving uphill even faster as soon as the shooting started, his legs burning, all too aware that he’d already been in one intense firefight that night, and he wasn’t getting any younger. But survival is a competitive sport, and he didn’t intend to lose.
In a matter of a couple more minutes, he was level with the house, just as Burgess opened fire on the Green Shirts’ assault element. Ignoring the bullets that snapped and zipped overhead, chopping through some of the higher leaves in the canopy, he turned and dashed for the house, keeping his head down as best he could while still moving fast. For a moment, he was fully exposed to the storm of death roaring up from the road, but a lot of those rounds were going high, and he got to the corner of the Galán house in seconds, dropping to a knee and bringing his rifle up.
The iron sights were all but invisible, though he still tried. He found he could just barely pick up the front sight through the NVGs’ aperture, though everything beyond it was sort of black, at least until one of the Green Shirts returned Burgess’s fire.
Muzzle flash makes for a pretty good target in the dark. Flanagan shifted his aim and fired. The Green Shirt was either hit, or the bullet passed close enough that he was shocked into ceasing fire and dropping prone to get out of the line of fire.
Flanagan gave him two more rounds just to keep him honest. Precise aim wasn’t all that doable under those circumstances, but aggression was more important.
Then he was moving again, dashing to the next corner, even though there wasn’t as much cover there. Burgess was holding his position behind a massive tree, about ten yards uphill, mag-dumping into the figures that had begun to dash forward toward the house.
It was a bit surreal. Their targets were little more than dark green silhouettes, barely visible in the shadows under the jungle, and the most they could do was point shoot and hope they got close enough. Gomez dashed up between Flanagan and Burgess, dropping prone and hammering a pair into another charging Green Shirt. That was definitely a kill—the man staggered and fell on his face.
But there were a lot more behind him, and soon the Blackhearts were simply raking the trees with fire. But the Galils didn’t have the ammo capacity that the belt-fed Negevs did.
“Reloading!” Burgess went dry and ripped his mag out, letting it fall to the dirt as he snatched a replacement out of his chest rig.
Flanagan knew he was getting close to empty, himself. “Mario! Get inside and get set!” This was about to become a siege. If they could get the team inside, without getting mowed down in the open as the fire from below continued.
And the Green Shirts had far more firepower and ammunition than the Blackhearts.
Chapter 22
Bianco was panting hard, sweat pouring into his eyes and drenching his fatigues under his chest rig. He’d slipped twice already in the last ten yards, but he was almost over the little finger that ran down from the side of the road. That didn’t mean that the worst part was over, but at least he’d have a little more cover, and he’d be closer to a better position.
The crackling roar of gunfire above him seemed to be intensifying, but that might have just been because he knew that his buddies were on the receiving end, and until he got a little bit farther, he couldn’t do a damned thing about it.
Maybe I should just get up there and open up. Sure, they’ll probably kill me, but at least the others will get a fighting chance. If they’re still alive.
That twisted his guts a little. He didn’t want to die. His earlier determination, now that he was genuinely staring such a sacrifice in the face, seemed like so much empty bravado, now.
Don’t puss out. He got over the top of the little finger and crouched in the undergrowth. He felt himself start to slide and caught himself by wedging one boot against the nearest tree. The angle started to squeeze his foot, but he ignored the pain. They’d do it for you.
That tore it. He turned back toward the road and started struggling through the vines and weeds, every gunshot hitting his nerves like a cattle prod. He tripped and fell on his face, almost losing his grip on the Negev. The noise almost made him freeze where he was, but the shooting up ahead was far too loud for any of the Green Shirts to have heard it. He scrambled back to his feet, hauling the machinegun back up, hoping and praying he hadn’t just speared the barrel full of dirt, and scrambled toward the top of the slope.
He came out farther down the road than he’d thought he
