He’d never apologize for that.
So, despite searching his mind for an alternative, the best option he could come up with was Van Zandt’s plan. Play along until they could find out what was really going on.
Then cram it down the Senator’s throat.
He sighed. “Why haven’t the Colombians intervened? This is technically a Colombian problem.”
Van Zandt shrugged, even as he visibly relaxed. Brannigan might not have said as much, but the question had already established that he’d taken the job. “Nobody knows for sure. It’s possible that Clemente has something to hold over someone important’s head in Bogota, or he’s got an arrangement with somebody in high places. More likely at the moment, the proximity to Venezuela and the remaining FARC and ELN camps is a deterrent. Apparently, the Venezuelan Army has been running exercises in the mountains on the other side of the line for the last month. Colombia’s got all kinds of problems since their peace deal with the FARC didn’t result in sunshine and rainbows, and we believe that a potential war with Venezuela is more than they’re willing to risk.”
“That suggests that this Clemente has connections in Venezuela.” Brannigan stroked his graying handlebar mustache.
“It would fit with the Communist rhetoric,” Van Zandt agreed.
“What about logistics?” Brannigan finally pulled the plan toward himself and started to skim it.
“We can arrange transport via charter air. I’ll get on it as soon as I get back to the office.” Van Zandt pointed to the page in Brannigan’s hands. “Weapons will have to be procured down there—that’s already in the plan. There’s even a local contact, but I think that you should consider him compromised.”
Brannigan nodded, then folded the page and slid it into his shirt pocket. “I’ll need to start making some arrangements. The less that you know, the less that Senator can pry out of you when he comes sniffing around.”
Van Zandt nodded in turn. “Agreed. Can’t say as I like it, but you’re right.”
Brannigan downed the last of the coffee and stood up.
“John?” Van Zandt was looking up at him, concern in his eyes. It was an expression that Brannigan wouldn’t necessarily have expected to see on the other man’s face even a few years before. “Watch your back.”
“You too, Mark.”
Chapter 3
Brannigan was leaning against the corner of the cabin as Flanagan pulled up in his old Ford. The truck was well cared for, but it was pushing fifty years old, and some rattles were just par for the course.
Flanagan parked the truck, shutting off the engine and swinging the door open. Brannigan waited, taking in their surroundings.
He’d never been to Flanagan’s place before. It wasn’t quite like his own cabin, but Flanagan was a backwoodsman and didn’t like cities. Fortunately, Rachel appeared to like his taste in houses just fine.
“John.” Flanagan walked around the back and dropped the tailgate. Two five-gallon buckets were sitting back there, next to a fishing rod and a good-sized tackle box. “I’d ask what brings you out here, but from the look on your face, I doubt that it’s just to see how the fishing’s been. It’s been great, by the way.” He pulled the two five-gallon buckets down, and Brannigan saw that both of them were pretty full of trout, perch, and a couple of walleyes. Flanagan had limited out for the day.
“I kinda wish that was exactly why I’m here.” Brannigan took one of the buckets and joined the shorter, black-bearded man as he walked toward the front door. “That’s quite a haul. The melt’s still stirring the silt up where I’m at.”
“You can still catch plenty during the melt, if you read the water right. They’re still there, and they still gotta eat.” Flanagan unlocked the door and led the way in. Even up in the hills, miles from his closest neighbors, Joe Flanagan was security-minded enough to lock his doors.
Given what they both did for a living, a little paranoia was probably not unreasonable.
Brannigan helped the younger man, who’d been one of his junior Marines back in the day, get the fish cleaned and stored. They didn’t talk about the job, not yet. Brannigan asked after Rachel—he knew that the two of them weren’t living together yet; they were saving that for after the wedding—and Flanagan told him that she was away at her parents’ house, making some more arrangements for the wedding, which was now just over a month away.
“Not my thing. I’ll let her do whatever she wants for it.” Flanagan shrugged. “Honestly, she’s told me that it’s not so much her thing, either, but her mom’s going to take it personally if it isn’t just right.”
Flanagan put the last of the fish he was preserving into the freezer, shut the door, and went to the sink to wash his hands. “Okay, what’s the job?”
“Shady and suspicious as hell.” Brannigan sank onto one of Flanagan’s wooden chairs, his bulk making it creak a little. He was a big man, easily six foot four, broad shouldered and deep chested.
“What else is new?” Flanagan leaned against the counter next to the sink and folded his arms. “But somehow, from the way you say that, this is somehow shadier and more suspicious than usual.”
Brannigan filled him in. He watched Flanagan’s frown deepen and his scowl get darker as he talked.
“So, we’re getting blackmailed into becoming a government hit squad.” Flanagan was not happy. “Have I got that about right?”
“On the surface, yeah, that about covers it.”
Flanagan’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe I’m particularly slow today, but if there’s something else going on beneath the surface, I think you’re going to have to spell it out for
