Hank audibly let out a sigh of relief. “The Colombians finally decided they didn’t want the Venezuelans getting involved.”
Flanagan didn’t answer. He’d dropped to his side and shoved out into the street as the surviving FARC gunmen kept shooting.
Flanagan fired twice. The first bullet missed, spitting dirt and gravel off the street. The second tore through the FARC shooter’s ankle and the man collapsed, screaming. Two more shots silenced him.
The remaining FARC fighter turned tail and ran.
***
When the Colombian Kfir’s drove the Venezuelans running hard for the border, the last of the starch seemed to go right out of the remaining Green Shirts.
Most of those near the second vehicle began to look up at the receding helicopters before throwing their weapons down and come out of cover with their hands up.
But four of them, led by a gaunt, wolfish man wearing a black beret, dashed toward the south, covering their retreat with a storm of automatic rifle fire.
“Galvez!” Fuentes was back by the fountain with Lara, his FNC leveled over the lip of the fountain. He dumped the last of his magazine toward the retreating Green Shirts, though his marksmanship left a bit to be desired. He sprayed bullets down the street, but he hit little besides the wrecked Land Cruiser and the walls on either side of the street.
Fuentes’s rifle ran dry with a click. He stared down at it for a moment, as Brannigan came out of cover. “Blackhearts, on me!” If that really was one of the Green Shirts’ leaders, he couldn’t be allowed to escape.
He barely avoided getting his head blown off from behind as one of the San Tabal irregulars ripped off another mag down the street. The man didn’t hit anything, and in the meantime, Galvez and his handful of killers disappeared around a corner.
“Galvez is on the move, heading south.” Brannigan panted into his radio as he ran back into the street and pursued. “Woodsrunner, head due south and see if you can cut him off. Angry Ragnar, have you got any police vehicles you can use up there?”
“Already moving.” Wade wouldn’t want to be left out.
Brannigan sprinted down the street, his boots hammering the pavement, his joints feeling all of the thirty years or more that he’d been fighting in foreign lands. He only slowed as he neared the corner that Galvez had disappeared behind.
Easing around the corner behind his weapon, he didn’t run into the ambush he’d feared, but he caught a glimpse of Galvez and the Green Shirts hustling between the vehicles parked on the street toward the next intersection.
They suddenly stopped, the lead man falling to the ground with limp finality, as bullets chewed into him and the side of the van parked right at the corner. The three survivors shot back as they retreated into a two-story storefront behind the van.
Brannigan, Javakhishvili, and Pacheco closed in on the store as Flanagan, Gomez, and Hank came around the corner, guns up. More gunfire from inside the shop forced them back, but Flanagan and Gomez quickly adjusted, crossing the side street and getting out of the line of fire as they continued to circle toward their quarry.
Engines roared on the far side of the block. “Angry Ragnar, lock down the streets for two blocks south of the plaza. Galvez has gone to ground.”
“Roger.” With another growl of engines, a green-and-white police Hilux surged into the intersection.
Brannigan, Javakhishvili, and Pacheco had quickly crossed the street to the same side as the shop that Galvez and his companions had retreated into. They hurried along, keeping close to the buildings. So far, it appeared that the Green Shirts were only aware of Flanagan, Gomez, and Hank. Flanagan and Gomez were closing in from behind the Hilux. Hank was on the corner, barricaded on the building, exchanging sporadic fire with the gunmen inside.
The front of the store had been covered by large picture windows. Bullets had shattered the windows and the glass door. Most of the shop—which appeared to be a grocery store—was now deep in shadow on the other side of the broken glass, shards of which reflected the scene on the overcast street.
Brannigan held just before the first window, briefly wishing he had some grenades. He didn’t know much about this Galvez, but he’d seen enough that he knew that those were no longer really men in there. They were cornered animals, and therefore they were more dangerous than they’d ever been before.
He momentarily locked gazes with Hank, across the intersection. He didn’t have to say anything. His son just nodded, lifted his rifle, and mag-dumped into the storefront.
The Green Shirts’ fire ceased as they sought cover. Brannigan made his move as soon as Hank’s mag went dry.
He didn’t bother trying to get to the door. Instead, he kicked out the last of the broken picture window and stepped over the low wall and into the store, his rifle up and ready.
One of the Green Shirts was crouched behind a standing rack of baskets holding corn and beans that had been half shot to bits. Shattered corncobs and scattered beans littered the floor. The Green Shirt saw the shadow moving in the window and pivoted toward it, but Brannigan and Pacheco shot him before he could get all the way around. Bullets punched through his chest and neck, and he collapsed next to the rack.
The second stood up to try to engage the two of them with his M16, but Hank shot him through the side, and he crumpled.
The store fell silent.
Brannigan advanced carefully, Pacheco and Javakhishvili in tow, broken glass and dried beans crunching under his boots. Flanagan and Gomez entered from the other side, keeping pace as they swept the store.
There was no
