by Peter Nealen
“Howdy, gentlemen,” the young man behind the counter said as they approached. “Anything I can help you find today?”
“We’re looking for some LWRC M6s,” Tanaka said.
“All three of you?” the younger man asked, looking around at them.
Tanaka nodded. “We’re putting together a carbine course,” he explained. “Aiming for standardization among the instructors.” If it wasn’t true, it was at least believable, and the kid had no need to know the details.
“I think we’ve got a few in stock,” the younger man said. “Let me check.”
***
Half an hour later, they were loading the cases for three LWRC M6A2 rifles, three FN-45 pistols, along with two cases per man of both 5.56mm and .45 caliber ammunition into the back of the van. “That was easy,” Santelli remarked.
“I told you,” Tanaka said. “Texans aren’t big on being busybodies when it comes to guns.”
“I know people back home who would be horrified,” Santelli said. “They’d immediately ask about criminals getting the guns so easily.”
“We still had to fill out 4473s and do NICS checks,” Tanaka pointed out, referring to the FBI’s National Instant Criminal Background Checks System. It was part of the paperwork involved in legally obtaining a firearm in the United States. “If we’d been felons, it would have popped up and we’d have been denied. People who think that reasonable gun buying only enables criminals don’t know what they’re talking about. Besides, once again, this is Texas. You pull a gun to commit a crime in most places around here, and the locals will pull their guns and shoot you.”
“If it’s this easy, why did we go with the sixteen-inch barrels?” Santelli asked. “Why not get the tens, given where we’re going?”
“Because Short Barreled Rifles are a whole different can of worms,” Tanaka answered, as he climbed into the van. “We don’t have an extra eight months to wait for the ATF to issue a tax stamp.”
Santelli nodded thoughtfully. He realized that he’d never really had to do this kind of weapons procurement; Hancock had handled the deal with the Russian mobsters in Dubai, and Van Zandt had done all the logistics prior to the Burma job. If he was going to be Brannigan’s right hand for this sort of thing, he needed to know more. He was glad he had Tanaka along.
Gomez climbed in behind the wheel, and looked over his shoulder at Tanaka, who was looking at the maps on his phone. “’The Minuteman’ is next,” Tanaka said, reading off the directions. “I’ve been there before. If you thought Ray’s was good, wait until you see this place.”
***
It was evening by the time the van pulled into the hotel parking lot. Curtis glanced out the window. “Looks like they’re back,” he reported.
Brannigan just nodded. He’d just gotten off the phone with Chavez. They had a contact. And he really wasn’t sure what he thought about it. But the clock was ticking. And they didn’t have much choice.
When the three men who’d gone on the procurement run came up to the suite, Santelli was shaking his head.
“I’ve been living in the wrong neighborhood,” he marveled. “We’d never be able to get this stuff up north. Maybe I should move.”
“Would Melissa be okay with that?” Bianco asked.
Santelli grimaced. “Probably not,” he conceded. “She doesn’t like the heat much.”
Brannigan looked at his former Sergeant Major and old friend briefly. Santelli had been convinced that he and Melissa had been on the rocks before Khadarkh. Somehow, though, it seemed as if his discovery of new purpose after forming the Blackhearts with Brannigan had saved that relationship; the two of them seemed closer than ever lately, even with Santelli haring off to risk his neck on the regular. He hoped that it would last, for Carlo’s sake.
“We’ve got the hardware?” he asked.
Santelli nodded. “An LWRC M6 rifle, with Aimpoint T2 sights, and FN-45 pistol for each man, eight rifle mags and four pistol mags, and about four hundred rounds rifle, one hundred rounds pistol each. We even got holsters and slings. No chest rigs yet.”
Brannigan nodded. “Jenkins is on that. He’s got a buddy in the business.”
“What about the rest?” Santelli asked.
“Grupo Huerta’s a bust,” Brannigan said, curtly explaining the result of his meeting with Cavaldes. “But we’ve got another contact, with a company called Ciela International. I’m leaving with Joe and Kevin here in the next few minutes.”
Chapter 5
“This sucks,” Curtis said, as the three of them stepped out into the parking lot. “Having to run around on business just as prime clubbing time comes around.”
“It’s Thursday,” Flanagan pointed out.
“Haven’t you ever heard of Thirsty Thursdays, Joe?” Curtis retorted. “And I’m not just talking about thirsty for booze, either, if you know what I mean. Cougars galore!”
“What about that fake blond?” Flanagan asked dryly, as if he already knew the answer.
But Curtis didn’t rise to the bait. “Oh, I know what this is about,” he said slyly. “Seriously, Colonel, I wish you hadn’t called when you did. You wouldn’t have believed it. Mopey Joe here was actually talking to a girl! A hot, hot, hot girl, too. Way out of his league.”
Struck by a sudden suspicion, Flanagan turned a glare on his shorter companion. “Why do I suddenly suspect that the entire thing was a setup?” he growled. When Curtis put a hurt expression on his face, Flanagan’s eyes narrowed further. “Let me guess; she was primed already. Was she an escort, Kevin?”
Curtis’ hurt expression turned to indignation. “Don’t you put that evil on me, Joseph!” he snapped. “That girl is a saint! You would not believe the lies Cindy and I had to tell her to get her to come out, about what a great, handsome, charming guy you are! You should feel grateful that she has such horrible taste that she not only believed us, she even apparently still believed it even after she met your grim, suspicious ass.”
Flanagan still eyed him suspiciously, but Curtis’ indignation seemed genuine. They fell silent as Brannigan led the way to the car.
“Seriously,” Curtis said after a moment, “you owe that girl an apology for even thinking that, Joe. As if I’d stoop that low. I don’t even hire girls like that!”
“Sorry,” Flanagan said, feeling somewhat ashamed. “She just seemed a little too good to be true.”
“That’s because you’re an Eyeore,” Curtis replied. “You need to have a little more faith in people. Including your friends.”
Flanagan realized that he’d genuinely hurt his friend. But a moment later, the thought was erased as his eye settled on the face dimly visible on the other side of the auto glass, watching them from beneath one of the bright streetlights that illuminated the hotel parking lot.
He took two long steps to catch up with Brannigan. “We’ve got company,” he said quietly.
Brannigan took a brief glance over at the car when Flanagan inclined his head toward it. “Maybe,” he replied. “Or maybe they’re just here to make a score, and are watching everybody coming out. We’ve still got places to be.” He pulled the car door open and folded himself in behind the wheel. It was an awfully small car for such a big man to fit into.
Flanagan shrugged and ducked into the passenger seat, leaving Curtis to get into the back. No sooner had Curtis’ door closed than Brannigan was putting the rental sedan in gear and backing out of the parking space.
They rolled down the slope and out of the parking lot. Flanagan was watching the rear view as best he could, though he had to crane his neck a little to see more than the side of the car. “They’re following,” he said.
“Just keep an eye on them,” Brannigan replied, sounding unconcerned. “They might be surveillance, or they might just be going the same way. Both you boys strapped?”
“Yeah,” Flanagan replied. His own STI Tactical was at the small of his back. Behind him, he could hear Curtis checking his M&P .45.
“Stay frosty,”
Brannigan said. “We’ll see what develops.”
Brannigan drove normally, but turned away from their planned route. The dark sedan behind them followed, but as the Colonel had said, that could just be a coincidence. The other car might just be heading in the same general direction. But Flanagan kept his eye on the other car in the rear-view mirror.
“Kevin, quit craning your neck to look out the back window,” Brannigan said as he drove down the street. “If they’re really following us, let’s not give them any cues that they’ve tipped their hand.”
Flanagan could hear the rustle as Curtis turned back forward. He could almost feel the smaller man’s frustration. Curtis might often say that he was more of a lover than a fighter, but Flanagan knew better. His friend was a hell of a fighter, and while he could be as patient as he needed to be in the bush, he wasn’t terribly subtle once the enemy was in front of him. He was at his best with a machinegun in his hands, after all.
Brannigan kept glancing in the rearview mirror as he drove. There was still a fair bit of traffic on the streets; it was getting dark, but it was still early in the evening. Flanagan found that he was having a harder time picking the target car out of the rest of the traffic as they wove between other cars and trucks on the road.
Brannigan turned left at the next major intersection, continuing to take them farther away from their destination. He was clearly taking the threat seriously.
“They’re still with us,” Flanagan confirmed, peering in the mirror.
They continued down the street, pausing at the next light. The car was still behind them.
Brannigan turned right. The sedan followed.
At the next light, Brannigan suddenly floored the accelerator as the light turned yellow. The other car abruptly accelerated to follow, running the red light to get through the intersection after them.
“Well, that tears it,” Brannigan announced. “Three turns and a red light. You called it, Joe. They’re definitely a tail.” He turned his eyes back on the road. “I don’t think that whoever got to Grupo Huerta is too happy that we’re still around.”
“What do you want to do about ‘em?” Flanagan asked.
“I’m driving,” Brannigan replied. “Find me a spot to go to ground. And get the rest of the team spun up. Might as well get those brand new LWRCs broken in.”
***
For the next half hour, they traced a twisting and turning route through the major thoroughfares of Corpus Christi, Brannigan careful never to turn down a side street or possible dead end where they could be cornered. If their shadows were just surveilling them, they might be all right with only three pistols. But it did not pay to walk into an ambush, particularly not so lightly armed.
Curtis had leaned over the center console, looking over the imagery on Flanagan’s phone, the two men’s bickering over some girl forgotten in the face of the threat. That was why Brannigan had never been bothered by the continual back-and-forth between the two wildly different characters. When it needed to quiet, it did. They were pros, both of them, and he wouldn’t want to go into a mission without either of them.
Once they had a destination picked out, Curtis had retreated to the back seat, where he’d called Hancock to report the situation and where they were headed. After that, it had simply been a matter of burning time.
Finally, Brannigan headed out of town, hitting Interstate 37 and heading northwest, toward the bridge that crossed the Nueces River and dumped out into San Patricio County. The sedan kept pace, and unless he was mistaken, looking in the rearview mirror, it had been joined by a pickup and an old, rattletrap Suburban that looked like it was half rust.
He sped up the freeway, the three vehicles maintaining pace and changing lanes as he did. None of them tried to pass the others, and the Suburban had to be straining to keep up, which further reinforced his suspicion that they were all part of the same crew.
Picked on the wrong guys, jackasses.
He took the ramp to cross over to the west, turning briefly onto US 77 before quickly exiting onto Highway 624 and heading west. The trio of vehicles kept pace, not far behind them.
At least nobody’s started shooting yet. He honestly wasn’t sure whether it was because the bad guys were waiting for a better spot to hit them, or if they were hoping that they’d go somewhere with less traffic, where violence might not be as out in the open, and therefore less likely to attract the attention of law enforcement.
He sped past the residential neighborhoods and small barbeque restaurants on the highway, only mashing the brake and turning off the highway once they were past the last houses and getting out into the fields. The sedan’s wheels squealing on the asphalt, he floored it, mentally cursing the rental’s anemic whine as it accelerated north toward the river, far too slowly.
There wasn’t a lot of terrain that they could use; that part of Texas was pretty flat. There was, however, thick growth along either side of the road; mostly scrub trees and tangled underbrush. And that was what Brannigan was counting on, whispering a quick prayer that the rest of the team was in position.
To his right, Flanagan was half-turned in his seat, ready to throw himself out the door, his STI 2011 in his hand. Curtis was out of sight behind him, but doubtless in a similar posture, his Smith & Wesson ready for action. The only one of the three without a gun in his hand was Brannigan.
The road dead-ended up ahead. Brannigan kept hurtling toward it as fast as he could reasonably get the little car going, until he could just see a tailgate around the corner ahead. That was the signal. He stomped on the brake as he passed the road on his right, skidding to a stop just before the pavement ran out and the car slammed into the trees ahead.
The car was still rocking on its shocks as both Flanagan and Curtis threw their doors open and dove out of the vehicle. It took Brannigan another second to follow, yanking his 1911 out of its holster as he plunged toward the brush on the side of the road.
The three pursuing vehicles were coming on fast, their headlights blazing in the early evening twilight. All three of them skidded to a stop not far on the other side of the turn, leaving their lights on.
Doors opened, and footsteps crunched and clattered on the crumbling pavement. Brannigan leveled his pistol at the blazing headlights that were concealing the men behind them, trying to flatten himself against the gravel at the side of the road. There wasn’t any cover; even hiding in the brush wouldn’t save them if their pursuers decided to hose down the vegetation.
A silhouette passed in front of one of the sedan’s headlights. “Hey, putos!” an accented voice called out. “You should have gone home! Now it’s too late!”
More figures were appearing, though they were little more than dark, blurry shapes, back-lit by the headlights. Brannigan squinted against the glare, as his finger tightened on the 1911’s trigger. He couldn’t see much, but the shotguns and pistols dangling from hands weren’t hard to make out.
A moment later, all hell broke loose.
Gunfire thundered from the left, muzzle flashes strobing from the brush alongside the road. Bullets smashed headlights, blew out windows, and knocked dark, shadowy figures off their feet.
Brannigan saw a shotgun come up, and squeezed off a shot at the man holding it. The gangbangers hadn’t stopped far away from the rental car, so it wasn’t a long shot. The figure staggered, and Brannigan brought the pistol down from recoil, centering the glowing tritium sights high on the man’s chest before firing again. That time, the gangbanger fell down on his ass, then toppled backward, the shotgun clattering to the asphalt beside him.
Almost as suddenly as it had begun, the shooting stopped. Brannigan stayed where he was for a moment, just in case any of their attackers were playing possum. He could hear groans coming from a few of the huddled forms on the road; not every one of their enemies had been killed.
Good. He got carefully to his feet, reloading as he did so. The 1911 was a top-of-the-line custom job, but it still was only a single-stack, which was why h
e had made sure he had newer, eight-round magazines. He knew younger guys who would insist that it still wasn’t enough ammo, but there were some things that Brannigan was wedded to, and John Moses Browning’s classic pistol was one of them.
Keeping the pistol indexed at his sternum, ready to punch it out and fire, he advanced on the gangbangers’ bullet-riddled cars. Curtis and Flanagan flanked him, their own pistols held in similar attitudes.
The rest of the team was coming out of the trees and brush alongside the road, rifles held at the ready. None of them were wearing chest rigs; those hadn’t come in yet. Extra magazines were shoved into pockets or belts.
Brannigan advanced on the guy with the shotgun, who was twitching and gasping on the pavement in front of the dark-colored sedan, blood bubbling from his lips. He’d been lung-shot, by the looks of it.
Looming over him, pistol still held ready, Brannigan kicked the shotgun away from his hand, though it looked like the guy was past even thinking about the weapon. “You ain’t got long, son,” he said quietly. “Tell me who sent you and I’ll call an ambulance.”
The dying gangster gurgled. There wasn’t any defiance or insolence left in his dark eyes. He was dying, he knew it, and the fear was plastered all over his face. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to have gone.
That’s what happens when thugs go up against professionals. Brannigan didn’t feel much pity. He didn’t know what this kid had done to earn his place in the criminal underworld, but he doubted that it involved a lot of charity work. Practice being a bully long enough, and you’re helpless against somebody who knows what they’re doing and fights back.
The kid tried to say something, but choked on his own blood. Holstering his pistol, aware of Flanagan and Curtis flanking him, Brannigan crouched down and heaved the kid off the pavement, pulling him up into a sitting position so that he could breathe. A little, anyway. He wasn’t just choking on his own blood; the bullet had clearly punctured the lung and collapsed it. If he didn’t get medical attention soon, the growing air pressure in his chest cavity would kill him.