He’d considered trying to weed out a few of them, the ones he wasn’t sure of, on the way, but his assault force had been whittled down to a handful of fighters. He’d need them all in the days ahead, as much as he hated it.
Rage and hatred burned in him as he paced the cavern floor. This entire plan had gone terribly wrong. That damned American had turned on him. I’ll make sure he dies, too. Someday. He’ll beg me for mercy before the end.
Despite the fury that made him want to strike out, to kill, to crush, to burn, a plan was slowly forming in his head. The American mercenaries were still few in number. He’d underestimated their aggressiveness. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. He had stocks of explosives secreted in the hills around San Tabal. He’d draw them into an ambush, then blow them all to bloody pieces.
But first he had to eliminate Clemente. He didn’t have a great reason, but he was beyond reason at that point. He’d set all of this in motion to kill Clemente and take over. He had to finish that.
He continued to pace, his fevered mind racing to find a way to snatch victory out of this bloody defeat.
***
San Tabal was eerily silent as the morning eased toward noon, the rain slowing before it stopped, though the clouds remained, settling atop the peaks of the hills.
Brannigan, Wade, Flanagan, and Pacheco watched from the hillside above. “Looks like everybody’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“I’m sure they are.” Brannigan peered through a pair of binoculars that Pacheco had brought along, scanning the empty streets. A face showed in a window for a split second, then disappeared. “Did the Green Shirts have any central positions within the city that they might have fallen back to?”
Lara pointed. “The police station, there on that hill, has been their primary headquarters. Clemente himself has generally stayed in the mayor’s house, there.” His voice turned even grimmer. “They hanged Jurado outside it, in the plaza, after forcing him to watch as they executed his friends and family.”
The police station, in its elevated position about halfway up the hill from the plaza, was easy to pick out, especially since it had the Green Shirts’ flag, red and yellow separated by a slash of black with a red star in the yellow, flying above it.
Clemente’s stolen mansion wasn’t that hard to pick out, either. The fact that Clemente had more of the red, yellow, and black flags dangling from the balcony above the plaza helped, but it was also the largest structure in view, as well.
He scanned the deserted streets and quiet houses. There was a tension on the air, a tension that he could feel even from up there on the hillside. Like he’d said, it was the sense that everyone was waiting for the other shoe to drop. The Green Shirts were hunkered down, waiting for the Blackhearts and their allies to come after them following the slaughter in the mountains, and the locals were hunkered down waiting for either the collateral damage that would come from an assault on the city, or for the Green Shirts to take out their rage on the local populace.
He’d seen it happen before. Mostly in Africa. Those who fancied themselves warriors, but who lacked the moral ethos of protection of the innocent, or the training to stand against those with greater skill and firepower, usually came away from getting their asses kicked with a great deal of wounded pride. And without that moral ethos, wounded pride was often salved by proving they were still “stronger.” And it’s easy to prove greater strength when beating on people who can’t defend themselves.
Brannigan had seen it all too many times, and he hoped to keep it from happening again here in San Tabal. But that meant they’d have to move fast. And that could present its own problems. Moving fast in urban combat was not always a recipe for success.
Or survival.
“Joe, you get the mayor’s house. Wade, take the police station.” He turned to Quintana. “Pick one of your most trustworthy cops to go with each element. They’ll pick out others—cops or civilians who know how to use guns—and recruit them along the way.” He glanced at the weary, dirty band of mercenaries. “We’re going to need numbers to carry this through. The ten of us aren’t going to be enough.”
Quintana nodded. “What about me?”
“You’ll come with me to grab more, in areas that aren’t along Wade’s and Flanagan’s route. Again, we’re going to need as many as we can get, and we’ll act as a mobile reserve. If one of those two teams gets in trouble, we’ll be their backup.”
“And Lara?” Quintana glanced over his shoulder at where Pacheco was keeping an eye on the farmers, all of whom were armed, but were still holding back.
Brannigan followed Quintana’s gaze. Lara looked tired and grim, as if he were already feeling the burden that he was going to have to take on as a part of this plan. He would be even more of a target if this worked—the Green Shirts probably had allies elsewhere in the country, and they would remember the man who returned to the office of mayor after overthrowing the “revolution.”
He’d be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life.
Welcome to the club, buddy.
“I’d be inclined to say that if he wants to be a leader, he’s going to need to take some of the risks, but on the other hand, unless you’ve got a replacement handy when the new mayor gets killed before even
