It was awfully crowded in that tiny house, and it was going to get worse as gunfire continued to erode the cinderblock walls. But they had some cover for the time being, as inadequate as it might have been.
Flanagan had come away from the window to make the same assessment. “We’re up, Colonel.” He blew out a breath. The fire outside had slackened some, especially since the Green Shirts no longer could be sure where their opponents were. Burgess fired twice, and a yell of alarm sounded outside. A sporadic burst of fire smacked bullets into the cinderblocks, mostly high, and then it went quiet again.
“Well, this is the Alamo.” Brannigan’s voice was grim as he peered out the doorway. “At least until we come up with a better plan.”
He was met with silence. A better plan was going to be tough. They were pinned down, outnumbered, and outgunned. And unless Van Zandt had a relief force on the way that he hadn’t mentioned, the entire resistance was right there in one place. All the Green Shirts had to do was kill everyone in that rapidly crumbling house, and the mission was over.
Brannigan wracked his brain. He wasn’t ready to lie down and die. And he’d be damned if he let a bunch of druggie Communist thugs be the end of him.
There had to be a way out, a way to turn this to their advantage. He just had to think of it.
In the meantime, the Green Shirts started to move, the gun trucks beginning to edge their way up the sides of the cornfields. A burst of machinegun fire from Curtis shattered a windshield and discouraged that approach.
They could hold their own for a while. But as soon as their ammo ran out, they were dead.
***
Abernathy had indeed been waiting when Van Zandt and Santelli arrived at a small business park in Arlington, Virginia. While Santelli suspected that Abernathy was deeply involved in the dark side of special operations, there was nothing about the plain blue Ford Explorer that screamed “government” or “operator.” Abernathy himself, sitting in the passenger seat, was wearing a flannel shirt and jeans, far more casual than Santelli had ever seen him.
“Get in.” It was early in the morning still, but the old man was as keen-eyed as ever. “He won’t leave the house for another hour, so we’ve got time, but let’s not push it.” He jerked a thumb at the big blond man in the driver’s seat. “This is Hauser. He’s one of mine. He’ll provide security if we need it.”
“What about the client’s security?” Santelli was still a little hazy as to who their client was—Van Zandt hadn’t wanted to say over the phone, and it had been a very short drive from the airport. They’d covered more logistical matters than who their target was.
Abernathy snorted. “Senator Briggs treats his security like dirt. And I’ve already spoken to his detail lead. They won’t interfere.” He smiled coldly. “After all, we’re just there for an early meeting.” He nodded to Hauser, who’d already put the Explorer into gear, and they pulled away, heading toward the far more upscale part of Arlington.
***
Senator Alford Briggs lived in a massive, two-story, sprawling stone mansion that filled most of its one-acre lot. Built in a roughly Victorian style, it could only be described as “ostentatious.”
Two black, up-armored Yukons sat in the driveway, just inside the small, landscaped island in the center. Neither appeared to be occupied at the moment, as the considerably older and more beat-up Ford Explorer pulled up and stopped between them, right in front of the front door.
“You need me to come in, Clay?” Hauser scanned the entire front of the building.
“I don’t think we’ll need you inside, Cole, but on the other hand, we might want to leave in a hurry.” There was a hard gleam in Abernathy’s eye. “I’m pretty sure we’ve got Briggs’s balls in a vice, but he might not take kindly to that fact, and he’s not known for being particularly circumspect when he gets agitated. And we’re about to agitate the hell out of him.”
Abernathy led the way, swinging out of the passenger seat and striding up the steps. He shoved through the carved double doors, and pinned the young security staffer who was hurrying across the massive, two-story foyer with a glare. “Where’s the Senator, son?”
The kid knew authority when he saw it, even though Abernathy was wearing civilian clothes. Neither Santelli nor Van Zandt looked like a hit team, but they didn’t look like aides or staffers, either. Van Zandt still carried himself like a Marine officer, his back straight and shoulders back. Santelli looked slightly dumpy next to the other two, but at the same time, he had the build of a gorilla and almost the strength.
“He’s… uh… he’s upstairs. You were the ones who called? General…”
“General Abernathy, yes.” The hard-eyed old man kept moving toward the huge, grand staircase at the far end of the foyer. “Which room?”
The kid hustled to catch up. “I’ll show you, sir.” Santelli watched the young man with some sympathy. The kid looked like he was in his mid- to late-twenties. He was probably either former law enforcement or former military—that was a tossup, given Briggs’s documented prejudices toward both professions—and he took his responsibilities seriously. He had a wedding ring on his finger, so he was probably more worried about keeping his job and maintaining his family’s lifestyle than any loyalty to the senator.
From what Santelli knew about Briggs, any such loyalty would
