Wade ducked under the shower of debris and slowed as he neared the top of the stairs. He didn’t want to go charging out into the open before he knew what he was facing. That was a good way to get shot. He was aggressive, not stupid.
The landing opened onto a T-shaped hallway that led to the commandant’s office. Given how small the station was, and the fact that the stairs only went up one flight, instead of turning and going up for two, with a landing halfway up, he found himself at the top of the stairs, and covered from the raging automatic gunfire pouring down the hallway and hammering into the rapidly eroding wall.
Burgess was with him as he moved to the corner, but both Blackhearts stayed back, out of the hallway. They didn’t have long to wait.
Wade hadn’t been entirely sure that there was only one shooter. But when the gunfire fell silent without being immediately picked up by a second shooter, he moved.
Barreling around the corner, Wade charged the commandant’s office. He heard Burgess curse behind him, but the former SEAL was right on his heels a moment later, as he went through the door like a freight train.
The Green Shirt was crouched behind the desk, cursing in Spanish as he tried to reload his AK. Wade had cleared his corner in an eyeblink—just in case—before pivoting back toward the desk and quickly stepping around. He locked eyes with the Green Shirt for a split second as his Galil came level. The man was still trying to get the mag locked in.
Wade shot him three times through the heart. The Galil’s reports were painfully loud in the small office, and the bullets smashed the man back against the commandant’s leather-upholstered chair. He stayed upright for a second before he crumpled, his head bouncing off the edge of the desk with a clunk.
The police station was clear.
***
Flanagan and the rest cleared the mansion room by room, careful to communicate with Pacheco as they moved. There was definitely some risk that they’d give their progress away to the enemy, but with the locals going the opposite direction through the house, they couldn’t afford to lose track of each other. That was a good way to get a friendly killed. Or a lot of friendlies.
So far, though, the rooms had been empty. It was as if the defenders they’d killed near the entrance had been all that was left.
Flanagan didn’t trust that they had been, but that was why they were continuing to clear. He hadn’t heard anyone call out that they’d seen Clemente’s body yet.
The locals and the Blackhearts reached the master staircase at about the same time. Flanagan and Pacheco exchanged nods, and they headed up, weapons pivoting to cover the doors to either side of the balcony above.
Most of them were closed. They’d have to clear each of those rooms, as well. But for the moment, the primary target was the big double door at the top of the stairs.
There was no stack up. Flanagan didn’t have time to even suggest it. Pacheco went in and kicked the doors open, riding the right-hand door to the wall as Flanagan rushed to catch up, taking the left. He came up against a wardrobe set behind the door, but he cleared the corner before pivoting toward the center of the room.
It appeared to have been an entertainment room, but it had been retrofitted into something of a command center. A field desk stood in the center, while the entertainment center had been shoved against another wall. Crates and cases had been stacked up haphazardly around the room, several open to reveal piles of expensive things like silver platters and fancy vases.
He took all that in at a glance, even as one of the San Tabal volunteers came through the door behind him and took a shotgun blast to the face.
The man’s feet flew out from under him and he crashed onto his back in the threshold, his skull a bloody ruin. At almost the same time, Pacheco and Flanagan pivoted toward the field desk, which had been overturned.
The man behind the desk had fired over the top. But the field desk was hardly what anyone would consider cover. Both Flanagan and Pacheco opened fire right through the desktop.
Green-painted plywood splintered and cracked under the onslaught, as close to a dozen 5.56 rounds tore through the flimsy barrier and punched into the body beyond. The man grunted and collapsed, the shotgun clattering to the floor.
Flanagan moved forward, his weapon leveled, careful not to over penetrate to expose himself to some of the dead spaces behind the crates. He advanced just far enough to see who they’d shot.
There was no mistaking the identity of the blood-soaked, bullet-riddled body. He’d studied the target photos enough.
Ramon Clemente was dead. The contract, such as it was, had been fulfilled.
Now they just had to finish securing the city and get Lara installed as mayor.
Except that even as the gunfire fell silent, he could hear the distant growl of helicopters. And he didn’t think that they were friendlies, either. Not that close to Venezuela.
Chapter 26
Brannigan heard the helos, too, in the sudden hush that had fallen over San Tabal. Bursts of sporadic gunfire still echoed over the city, but that would probably continue for a while. There would be holdouts, people celebrating with gunfire, and some people would take advantage of the chaos to carry out vendettas or seize what they could.
The gunfire didn’t concern him nearly as much as the helicopters.
Brannigan, Javakhishvili, Quintana, and Lara had been joined by nearly two hundred volunteers. They’d run through
