“Let’s go.” Without another word to Briggs, Abernathy led the way out of the room. As he headed for the stairs, he pulled a phone out of his pocket and brought it to his ear. “Cole? Get the boys moving. I think John could probably use some help.”
Chapter 23
Galvez stared at the carnage and cursed viciously, directing every bit of hatred and venom up toward the mercenaries and their bourgeoise allies huddled in the battered farmhouse. It looked almost like half his force was dead, dying, or gravely wounded and moaning in pain.
The American mercenaries had mauled the Green Shirts, badly. It would be a challenge to maintain control in San Tabal now. But perhaps if he had the mutilated bodies of the Americans and their local allies to parade through the streets, the psychological effect would be enough to keep the people in line until they could recoup their numbers.
And he would do just that. Already he was picturing the bloody spectacle, and it raised his spirits as he savored the images. He didn’t even know what most of the mercenaries looked like, but that hardly mattered. They wouldn’t be all that recognizable, anyway, not when he was through with them.
“Spread out, salvage the machineguns, and lock that building down. No one gets out.” He thought a moment, then grabbed Lorenzo by the arm. “Go round up some of the local farmers. Preferably those who have grumbled or caused trouble. We’ll give them empty weapons and drive them up through the fields, force the gringos to waste their ammunition.” A lot of bullets had been expended that night. Once the resistance was out of ammunition, taking the farmhouse and dragging them out would be easy.
He stared up at the farmhouse again. The eastern sky was getting lighter. The sun would be up in the next half hour. Soon, this would be over.
Then he’d have to deal with Clemente himself. He cursed again, glaring his hate toward the farmhouse.
***
“Hey, Colonel? You see that guy down there, just behind the least-shot-up gun truck?” Wade was squinting over his sights, having taken his turn at one of the southern windows. Since the Green Shirts had fallen back and the fight had died down to the occasional sporadic burst of fire from a distance, the weary and beleaguered mercenaries and their local allies had dropped to fifty percent security.
In reality, that had meant that the Blackhearts were up on guard, while the locals mostly collapsed. Pacheco seemed to be the only one who was alert and ready to fight. The rest—even though they were farmers and used to long hours of hard work, they weren’t used to the stress of combat—had just sort of slumped to the floor, staying low and away from the windows and doors, especially since the enemy fire had never completely stopped.
Brannigan moved carefully to peer out the window over Wade’s shoulder. “I see him.”
“Looks important, don’t he?” Wade was clearly sighting in on the figure. “Just saw him giving somebody orders.”
“Think you can hit him from here?”
Wade snorted. “Easy shot.” His finger tightened on the trigger. Unfortunately, right then the man pivoted on his heel and stalked out of sight behind the gun truck. “Fuck.”
“Don’t sweat it.” Brannigan turned away as another shot snapped through the east window to smack more plaster off the west wall. “That’s getting a little annoying.”
“They’re trying to draw us out.” Flanagan was set in on that window, standing well back in the shadows. “Some of them might just be idiots shooting for the sake of shooting, but I think they’re trying to draw fire.”
“What good does that do them?” Curtis patted his Negev, though he only had one drum left for it.
“Gets us to waste ammo. Gets us engaged in one direction so that they can rush us from another. Keeps us pinned down and occupied while they go get mortars or RPGs to flatten the house.” Flanagan shrugged without taking his eyes off the jungle outside the window. “Take your pick.”
“Fuck that.” Wade fired. Even without looking, Brannigan knew that another Green Shirt had just taken a bullet. The big Ranger was pissed, and he was on the hunt. He’d killed at least two more in the last half hour, until they’d learned that standing in the open wasn’t a good idea. Even the man that Wade had just spotted, clearly a commander, had still been behind the truck, only his head and shoulders visible.
That Wade had still been more than willing to chance the shot wasn’t a sign of desperation. It was rage. None of the Blackhearts liked being pinned down, but Wade took it as a personal affront. He was out for blood.
“If we just sit here trying to whittle them down one by one, we’ll be here until next week.” Burgess shifted his position, squinting as he eyed the trees below, on the west side of the ragged, battered, bloodstained cornfield. “In the meantime, they bottle us up so they can bring in those mortars or RPGs.” He spared a glance at Brannigan. “We’ve got to try something else.”
Brannigan mused on it, rubbing his chin. At times like this, he really missed Roger Hancock. Flanagan was a good tactician, as was Wade. But Roger had had a flair for it. And Flanagan was taciturn enough that he was less likely to have a burst of brilliance and just drive ahead with it, the way Hancock might have.
Again, that was nothing against Joe Flanagan. The man was solid—Brannigan wouldn’t have chosen him as Hancock’s successor otherwise. But his style was just different, and right then, Brannigan wanted to have Hancock with them.
But Roger Hancock was in a shallow grave in the Altiplano, and would never
