He wasn’t inclined to go in that way. If he’d had his way, and a platoon of Rangers with him, he’d hit the wall with a Carl Gustaf and go in through the hole. But he didn’t have a Carl G, or a breaching charge, or even a satchel of C4 or Semtex. He didn’t even have any grenades. For whatever reason, the Green Shirts they’d looted after the killing out on the farm hadn’t had any explosives on them. It had seemed weird to him, but they had to make do with what they had, which wasn’t much.
Wade’s icy blue eyes scanned the street and the intersecting alleyways, looking for a solution. Going over was a possibility, but that barbed wire was going to present a problem, and without a serious base of fire to keep the bad guys inside pinned down, they’d get slaughtered as they climbed over.
Then his eyes lit on a big panel truck parked just down the street, before moving to the T-intersection almost directly across from the gate. He had an idea…
***
Flanagan was taking a somewhat different tack to Wade’s. He was still moving through the streets as quietly and stealthily as he could, but he only had Gomez, Curtis, and Hank with him. Pacheco and his handful of San Tabal police had split off early, rounding up more volunteers. They would stage around the plaza, waiting for the signal to move in.
Flanagan and his element would provide that signal. Mainly when the shooting started.
The mayor’s mansion and the central plaza were in the middle of the old part of town, most of which was surprisingly open, though not as affluent as some of the old colonial plantation towns. The buildings were mostly solid and well-built, but they were showing their age. The plaster was cracking or chipped off entirely, a few of the roofing tiles had fallen to the street. A few trees grew in pots on the sidewalk, but the place wasn’t exactly landscaped.
Somewhat to his surprise, given what Quintana and Lara had said about the Green Shirts’ terror campaign, Flanagan didn’t see bodies hanging from lampposts or lying in the streets. That must have happened elsewhere in the city.
It could be surprising, sometimes, how little it takes to terrorize a population that isn’t prepared to fight back.
The four Blackhearts had a straight shot at the low wall that surrounded the loading area at the back of the house, leading into the service entrance. Flanagan looked around at the others, who were all on security, watching the roofs and windows above as well as the alleyway behind them. “Ready?”
He got three nods. “Let’s go.”
Almost as one, the four of them got to their feet and dashed for the wall. Speed was now their security.
The wall itself only stood about four feet high, almost more of a fence than a wall. Rifles snapped to either side as they crossed the street on the way toward the rear of the mansion, but there was no opposition out on the streets.
Inside, however…
Glass shattered as gunfire roared out from the second floor. A voice was raised in alarm as bullets snapped over the Blackhearts’ heads, the shooter not quite leading them enough. The rounds kicked dirt and fragments of the pavement into the air behind them.
The four of them flattened themselves against the wall, weapons out and up, Curtis leaning out just far enough to return fire, smacking plaster, glass, and bits of window frame back in the shooter’s face. The incoming fire died away.
Flanagan had paused at the base of the wall for only a second. He popped up, cleared the loading area with his muzzle, and then vaulted the wall, almost kicking Hank in the head—the younger man had taken cover a little too close. Gomez was right behind him.
The two of them held on the service entrance and the single window next to it just long enough for Hank and Bianco to get over and join them. Then they were moving on the door.
The window was dark on the other side, but that didn’t mean much, so they were all careful not to silhouette themselves as they passed. That meant some creative movement, but they were at the door in a second. Curtis stepped out, kicked in the door, then turned out of the way as Gomez, Flanagan, and Hank rolled in.
They entered into a darkened kitchen, with a large storage room immediately off to the left. Both were currently deserted, but Flanagan could hear shouts and footsteps from upstairs. Between the fire from the window and the crash of the door getting kicked in, the Green Shirts in the house knew they had to counterattack quickly.
Flanagan and Hank had gone left, while Gomez had gone right, Curtis flowing in behind them to take up security on the door itself. His Negev would be of only limited use inside—they had no intention of just mowing down everyone in the house—but he couldn’t just stay outside, either.
Boots clattered on the stairs nearby, and Flanagan turned to train his weapon on the door as a silhouette with a rifle in his hands appeared in it.
The Green Shirt clearly hadn’t been trained. He came through the door alone, and with his rifle still pointed off to one side.
Better than if he just came in spraying, but too bad for him.
Flanagan and Gomez both shot the Green Shirt at almost the same moment. He stopped dead in his tracks as the 5.56 rounds tore through his torso, then Gomez’s follow up shot snapped his head back and he collapsed in the doorway.
If any more of his compatriots had been following him in, they changed their minds really quick. The door stayed
