So Brannigan told him what he and Van Zandt suspected. “I think Mark’s right. I think this is somebody’s political or criminal gamesmanship, and we’re supposed to simply be pawns in the game. Well, I don’t care to play somebody’s pawn, not even if they’re a Senator.”
Flanagan snorted. “Especially not if they’re a Senator.”
Brannigan inclined his head in agreement. “So, we’re going to go down early, do some snooping around, and find out what’s really going on. Then we’ll decide on what course of action to take from there. Honestly, from what Mark told me, and what little I’ve been able to confirm, it sounds like this Clemente probably deserves to die, anyway. And if the Colombians are too scared to touch him because the Venezuelans might intervene, well…”
“Somebody’s got to do it.” Flanagan sighed. “And that’s kind of why Brannigan’s Blackhearts exist in the first place, right?”
“True enough.”
Flanagan scratched his beard. “Who else knows about this?”
But Brannigan shook his head. “Right now? You, me, and Mark.” At Flanagan’s raised eyebrow, he shrugged. “I used to call Roger first. Now that you’re the Number Two man, you get first word.”
Flanagan nodded, looking down at the floor. “Big shoes to fill.”
“I can’t think of a Blackheart better suited to fill them. And I’m not just blowing smoke. You know me better than that. Roger would agree.”
Roger Hancock had been the Blackhearts’ second in command since their first mission on Khadarkh. He’d been Brannigan’s right hand up until a mission in Argentina, where he’d taken a bullet to the head while charging an enemy spider hole.
He’d already been dying, gut shot down in the Humanity Front’s underground research facility. He’d gone out like he probably had wanted to: with his boots on, his barrel hot, facing the threat and engaging the enemy.
Every one of them still missed him.
“I’ll do what I can. I call half, you call half?”
Brannigan nodded somberly. “That’s how we’ve worked it. Let’s meet at the usual spot in… three days? We’ve got three weeks until time on target.”
“We’ll be there with bells on.”
***
John Wade was an angry man.
Now, most of the men who’d known him over the years—especially his former comrades in the 75th Ranger Regiment—would have agreed with that statement just on principle. He was somewhat infamous for being a hard, unforgiving, and angry taskmaster.
But this had nothing to do with the constant, low-level background roar that was daily life for John Wade. No, this was because of his ex.
He was looking for something to punch when his phone rang. Gritting his teeth, he snatched it out of his pocket, ready to start snarling until he saw who it was.
“What’s up, Joe?” He was a little proud of how steady his voice was.
“Got a job. You free?” Flanagan wasn’t a man of many words, and even though he probably heard the simmering anger in the back of Wade’s voice, he wouldn’t comment on it unless it became an issue.
“If it means killing people, you’d better believe it.” Let the NSA chew on that if they’re listening in.
“It might.” Flanagan paused for a moment. When he spoke again, he sounded almost grudging. “There something I need to know about?” Flanagan had gotten out as a Sergeant. Wade had retired as a Master Sergeant. It probably felt weird, playing a leadership role to a man with Wade’s background.
But Wade didn’t care what rank Flanagan had held, any more than he cared much about his own. That had been then. The Blackhearts was now. Brannigan trusted Flanagan to be the 2IC, so Wade trusted him, too. He certainly had no particular interest in the job.
“Nah. Just fighting with my ex-wife. She’s kicking up a shitstorm about custody of my kid, again.” He snorted in renewed fury. “Once she found out how much I’ve been teaching my daughter to shoot, she decided to go running to CPS, claiming I’m putting her in danger.” He gritted his teeth. “Bitch.”
“Will it require you to stay Stateside for a while?” Wade realized that Flanagan was thinking a little farther ahead than he was.
“I don’t think so. This isn’t the first time this has happened, and I’ve got a good lawyer. I’ll be good to go. Just so long as it isn’t pure recon or babysitting duty, or something. I need to get my kill on.”
“It’s… complicated. Odds are there’s going to be some action, though, one way or another.” Flanagan clearly didn’t want to say more over the phone, and Wade didn’t blame him.
“Great. Usual spot?” By then, all the Blackhearts knew the campsite they’d turned into their de facto briefing room.
“Usual spot. See you there in three days.”
***
Vincent Bianco just started banging his head against the table.
“Come on, Vinnie, it’s not that bad.” Tom Glenn was a long-time friend and a co-conspirator when it came to trying to get The Legend of Morval off the ground. Unfortunately, his optimism wasn’t particularly helpful right at the moment.
“It is that bad.” Bianco sat up and gestured to the multiple legal pads strewn across the table. “It won’t work.”
“It just needs some tweaking.” Glenn rubbed the back of his head as he looked down at the lines of numbers and stats. “Maybe we’re trying to get too complicated.”
“No ‘maybe’ about it.” Bianco ran his hands over his face. “We’re trying to codify too much. Maybe we need to just stick with the bare-bones basic stats. Nobody wants to spend eight hours rolling up a character.”
“I don’t think we really need to go completely bare-bones.” Glenn wasn’t just Bianco’s gaming buddy. Unlike most of their circle, Glenn was also a combat vet. He’d been in Marjah, back in the day, and had the scars to prove it. He was also a huge nerd, possibly more so than Bianco. “I
