War to the Knife (Brannigan's Blackhearts Book 9)

by Peter Nealen

  Brannigan shook his head. “I’ve brought it up. The birds still have to get through Customs, and apparently the crews are fine with moving spies and operators around, but don’t want to run the risk. They won’t fly with weapons aboard.”

  “Great.” Curtis was leaning against a tree. “So, how is Joe going to make a deal with the cartels or the FARC without starting World War Three? I think you need somebody who’s a little bit better with people.”

  “Like who?” Flanagan looked over with a raised eyebrow. “The guy who dates crazy chicks who try to stab him, or the guy who ends up hiding out in a hotel from the local mob?”

  “That is below the belt, Joseph. Two incidents do not invalidate all the other times I’ve glided through all levels of society and charmed the pants off supermodels, millionaires, and all kinds of other people.” Curtis huffed.

  “’Charmed.’ Is that the word?” Flanagan grinned. “Not what I’d use, given some of your history. I at least don’t consistently get into trouble. Some people actually trust the quiet guy more than the loudmouth, especially in this sort of a situation.”

  Curtis sputtered. “’Loudmouth?’ Is that what the socially inept one calls the guy who actually engages with people instead of sitting back and just watching and looking mysterious?”

  “Are you two done?” Santelli was shaking his head, though there was a little bit of a smile on his face. It turned a little sad after a moment. There had been a time when Roger Hancock would have growled at the two friends to shut up so they could get back to the business at hand. With Roger gone, things just weren’t quite the same anymore.

  “Seriously, though, as much as I hate to say it, Kevin’s right.” Wade rubbed his chin. “If we’ve got to get weapons in-country, the list of possibilities is pretty short, and we really can’t trust any of them. Hell, what are the odds that FARC or ELN doesn’t have something to do with Clemente’s little revolution?”

  “Pretty slim.” Flanagan had sobered, too.

  “I mean, we’ve kinda been here before—this wouldn’t be the first time we dealt with organized crime to get geared up for a mission. Hell, Dmitri just saved our asses in Azerbaijan, as much as I don’t trust that oily sonofabitch.” Wade grinned. “I kinda like him, but I sure as hell don’t trust him. And I’m pretty sure that Dalca chick isn’t exactly the most upstanding citizen, either.”

  “She isn’t.” Brannigan probably knew more about Erika Dalca’s background and activities than the rest. She’d helped them insert onto the Tourmaline Delta, and she had offered the information that had led them to Eugen Codreanu in Transnistria, not to mention the Humanity Front’s secret base in the Altiplano. She’d been an active player in a surprisingly—or disturbingly—large number of the Blackhearts’ operations.

  She had also made a pass at Brannigan himself a time or two. The rest didn’t know about that part, and they didn’t need to know.

  “What about her?” Flanagan looked up. He hadn’t been looking at the fire, the way some of the others had. Despite the fact that they were probably in about the safest, most secure spot they could find, miles up in the woods in a wilderness area, Flanagan was too much the woodsman to sacrifice his night eyes by staring into a fire. “She’s got to have contacts in Colombia.”

  “I’m sure she does.” Brannigan scowled. “But I’m not bringing her in if we can help it. She’s already positioned herself to have a lot more leverage over us than I like. If we’re being effectively blackmailed into this, the last thing I want to do is put us into a position where someone like Dalca can hold even more over our heads. She’s been helpful so far, but I don’t imagine for a second that she did it for any other reason than that it benefited her and her interests. The fact of the matter is, she’s still an organized crime kingpin. Hell, for all we know, Clemente’s one of her clients. Or vice versa, if he’s growing coca to support his little fiefdom.”

  “She’s said that she doesn’t deal in drugs.” If Curtis was trying to sound hopeful, he managed to sound more like he really didn’t believe it, himself.

  “And that may or may not be true. My concerns stand, and since I am, ultimately, calling the shots in this outfit, I say that she stays out of this until we don’t have any other choice.” Brannigan said it around the cigar.

  “And while I would tend to agree, it still puts us back at square one.” Bianco didn’t usually venture an opinion during planning sessions, but this situation seemed to have disturbed him enough to break through his reticence. “How many of us have spent any great amount of time in South America?”

  No one answered as the Blackhearts looked around at each other. The only American soldiers who’d really been down in Latin America over the last few years had been Special Forces and a few other SOF units. All eyes turned to Jenkins, who had been quieter than usual. In fact, the former SEAL had been downright subdued ever since Santelli and Gomez had found out he’d been using a self-defense class as a front for his own hookup operation, just before the Azerbaijan mission. He looked a little startled, but then shook his head. “I did some time in Mexico, but never Colombia.”

  Flanagan’s eyes narrowed in thought. “I’d be willing to bet Kirk’s spent some time down there. He might know somebody.”

  There were a few nods, some more enthusiastic than others. Ignatius Kirk had been a Blackheart for two missions, one of them Stateside. He’d taken a sucking chest wound in Argentina, his first overseas job, and had been in and out of surgery since then. He was still a Blackheart, though he had mostly kept to himself since he’d been wounded.

  “Will he be willing to help?” Santelli voiced the concern that was on Brannigan’s mind. Kirk hadn’t exactly been keeping in close contact with the other Blackhearts lately.

  “I think so.” Burgess knew Kirk better than any of them—the two of them had worked together on contract some time before. “He’s grumpy and solitary, but he’s only kept his distance because he feels useless while he’s still all stove up. If he were on his feet, he’d be here right now.”

  “I’ll go talk to him, then.” Flanagan stood and stretched. “I’m not entirely sure what more we can really plan until then. Maybe we can rehearse the ambush tomorrow—if we’re going to even plan on executing according to the canned plan.”

  “We’re not, but a quick run-through might not be a bad idea. We could probably all use the tactics refresher, just to bust the rust off.” Brannigan took one more drag on the cigar before tossing the stub into the fire. “Carlo will run things—I want you to head out and see if you can talk to Kirk in the morning, Joe.”

  ***

  Ignatius Kirk was at home, somewhat to Flanagan’s surprise. As he knocked on the door, he reflected that he probably shouldn’t have been surprised—he didn’t know the other man nearly as well as Burgess did, but he’d always struck Flanagan as the kind of man who wouldn’t want to stay in the hospital any longer than absolutely necessary.

  Kirk’s cabin was well back in the woods, invisible from the main road. The track through the trees to get to it was narrow and hard to spot. The cabin itself was built from cargo containers, partially buried. Somehow, Flanagan expected that Kirk probably had trail cams and early warning devices all through the woods around it. He had no doubt that the older man knew he was coming.

  He waited, slightly offset from the door. Some of that was habit. Some of it was because he had a healthy respect for Kirk’s paranoia. Any man who lived by himself way out here like this was probably not eager for visitors, and while Burgess was pretty sure that Kirk was still a Blackheart, Flanagan didn’t know him well enough to be able to say what his reaction might be when one of them showed up on his doorstep.

  But when the door opened, Kirk grinned a little. “Hey, Joe. Come on in.”

  Kirk had been a barrel-chested man with a massive, Grizzly Adams beard the last time Flanagan had seen him. He’d lost a lot of the weight, and it looked like he was still growing the beard back. He was still moving slowly and halt
ingly as he ushered Flanagan inside.

  Flanagan had never been to Kirk’s cabin, and he looked around, impressed that it didn’t look like the survivalist den that it had appeared to be on the outside. The walls were wood-paneled, the windows let in plenty of light, and those same walls were lined with hunting trophies, photos, and mementos from a long career in Special Forces and the contracting world, after that.

  Kirk pointed Flanagan to the couch in front of the fireplace. “Make yourself at home. Want a beer?”

  “Sure.” Flanagan sank into the couch, adjusting the 1911 on his hip as he did so. “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m surviving.” Kirk tried to hide a wince as he straightened from the refrigerator, but Flanagan caught it. He definitely wasn’t healed up entirely from the latest surgery. “Still not put back together enough to go back out, but I should be soon.” He handed Flanagan the beer then settled in his own recliner, obviously stifling a groan. “I hate feeling useless. This isn’t the first time I’ve been shot, but it seems like the recovery didn’t take as long, last time.”

  “We were all younger men once, and was the last time a sucking chest wound?” Flanagan lifted the beer and took a swig. It was in an unlabeled bottle with a flip top, and after a moment, he decided it was some of the best beer he’d ever had. Kirk must brew it himself.

  “No, but that doesn’t really make it any better.” Kirk took a swig of his own. “It sucks getting old, especially when I know you guys have already been out once without me.” At Flanagan’s raised eyebrow, he shrugged. “Tom told me.”

  “Well, you might be able to help this time, even if you’re stove up.” Flanagan took another swig of the beer. The look in Kirk’s eyes, the almost pained hope, had been uncomfortable for a moment.

  He leaned forward. “We’re heading to Colombia. The Colonel and I are going in first, then the rest will follow a couple days later. It’s complicated, but we need a contact down there, someone who we can trust, who might also have access to weapons and gear.”

  “Finding somebody you can trust in Colombia’s no easy trick.” Kirk took another sip, but his eyes were focused now, and he clearly already had a plan in mind. “That place has been fucked six ways from Sunday since La Violencia, and the people still carry the scars. Where are you going? Or can you tell me?”

  “Northeast. Near the Venezuelan border.”

  Kirk swore with feeling. “Right into FARC and ELN territory. Those your targets?”

  “Maybe. We’re running on short intel.” Flanagan filled Kirk in on the situation and the mission, watching the older man’s expression darken.

  “That’s a hell of a fix, man.” He stared at the fireplace for a moment. “There’s no way you can just tell ‘em to fuck off?”

  “Brannigan doesn’t think so. I’m inclined to agree. The fact that the people pushing this wanted us specifically doesn’t bode well.”

  “No, I suppose it doesn’t.” Kirk frowned. “Well, I think I can help you. I spent a few years down that way. I’ve got quite a few friends who are either cops, military, or retired from either. One was even both, but he’s probably old enough that he won’t want to get involved.” He started to get up and winced again. “Let me do some digging. We’ll find somebody who should be on our side.

  “Provided the bad guys haven’t gotten to them since I was down there last…”

  Chapter 6

  Brannigan had to admit to himself that he was glad that they’d gotten a taxi at the airport, rather than trying to drive themselves. It had been a while since he’d tried to negotiate Latin American traffic, and it was every bit as bad as Middle Eastern traffic. It was utter chaos. Bogota was generally considered the worst city in the world for traffic, and he could see why. They were motionless, stuck in a jam-packed mass of cars, vans, and trucks, for the fifth time since leaving the airport, despite the multiple attempts the taxi driver had already made to cut lanes and get around.

  With the way the man drove, Brannigan was slightly surprised he hadn’t already tried to get up on the sidewalk.

  Flanagan was watching out the right side of the car, his eyes never still. Bogota might be relatively peaceful, compared to past decades, but nowhere was ever entirely safe, and the Blackhearts themselves were not given to complacency. They’d been in too many warzones for that. Even at home, they were always alert.

  Well, most of them.

  Brannigan was mostly watching ahead and the other side. The streets were as narrow as they were crowded, and while there were a lot of green plants and flowers around, the signs of the uneasy security situation were everywhere. Open warfare with the FARC and the cartels might not be the rule any longer, but almost every window and door he saw was barred and gated. Crime was clearly still a problem, and a major one.

  He’d seen it before. Much of what they’d seen of Argentina had been similar. Latin America had problems—not that the US didn’t, but only certain neighborhoods there had bars on all the windows.

  It didn’t make him feel any better about flying in without weapons.

  ***

  The hotel was a three-story brick building that had clearly seen better days. All of Bogota wasn’t run down—they’d seen some very shiny, very modern parts on the way from the airport. But all of them could be expected to have some degree of surveillance on them, either governmental or criminal. Or both. And this was a lot closer to where they were headed.

  The rooms weren’t great, either. Brannigan didn’t see any cockroaches, but something about the sketchy carpet and cracking plaster on the walls made him expect that they were there, whether he could see them or not.

  Flanagan didn’t say much, but just looked around the room appraisingly before going to check that the door leading to the adjacent room was locked. After testing the handle, he grabbed a metal chair and wedged it under the handle. Flanagan was not a trusting man.

  He moved to one of the beds, dropped his day pack on it, and sat experimentally. The frame creaked alarmingly under his weight, but it held. He shrugged. He wasn’t especially particular about sleeping arrangements while deployed. Neither of them were; they’d both slept in much worse places. Brannigan was still half inclined to just move the covers onto the floor rather than risk the bed collapsing under him in the night.

  “Well, that took longer than planned.” Brannigan checked his watch. The advantage to working in the Western Hemisphere was that the jet lag wasn’t nearly as bad. It almost felt like they were still on a normal schedule, despite the delay involved in getting to the hotel. “Looks like we’re going to have to roll right into Phase Two.”

  “Fine with me.” Flanagan wasn’t going to get stirred up about it. “I’m kinda hungry, anyway.”

  Brannigan nodded as he swung his overnight bag onto the bed. “Unfortunately, given our contact instructions, it might end up being a while before we actually get to eat.”

  Flanagan shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time a messed-up timeline meant going hungry for a while. Fortunately, I’m not a hedonist, like some people I could mention.”

  Brannigan snorted. “Joe, compared to Curtis, you’re an ascetic.”

  Before they left the room, both men dug into the lining of their bags, pulling out slim polymer daggers. Slightly longer than a pen, the weapons might not be great for cutting, and were much less versatile than a steel knife or a gun, but they were much harder to detect in a country where civilian weapon carry was illegal. The weapons went into Brannigan’s boot and the back of Flanagan’s belt. Satisfied that they could handle just about anything short of an armed robbery at gunpoint—or getting rolled up by the Colombian police—they headed out.

  The café was just across the street. It was a bit of a hole in the wall, with a full glass front and a corrugated metal sign above that read, “Casa de Grande Pollo.” Stools faced a small bar against one wall, and regular tables lined the other, with the counter at the back, in front of the kitchen. The place smelled amazing, and Brannigan felt his
stomach growl as they entered. He hoped that his own prediction about their dinner turned out to be erroneous—he was hungry.

  They found a table near the back, where they could sit and watch both doors. The place was getting fairly busy, so it took a moment before the waitress came to their table. She was stunningly beautiful, though probably young enough to be Brannigan’s daughter.

  “Buenos dias, señores.” She was looking from one to the other of them curiously—there weren’t many gringos in this café. In fact, they were the only ones. “What do you want today?” Her English was halting and hesitant, but clear enough.

  “We’d like something that a friend told us about.” Brannigan smiled easily. “He said it’s not on the menu, so we’d have to special request it. Chuleta Valluna.” He knew he was probably mangling the name—most of the Spanish he knew was of the Mexican flavor, and some words the Colombians pronounced a little differently.

  Her brow furrowed a little. “I… do not think we can…” Then something seemed to click in her head. A memory, perhaps. “Let me ask.”

  She disappeared into the back. Brannigan and Flanagan traded a glance and went back to watching their surroundings carefully. They were getting some curious looks from the locals against the other wall. Fortunately, it was still a little early, so the café wasn’t crowded yet.

  A few minutes later, a stocky man, going a little bald, came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. He sized the two of them up as he approached the table.

  Both men were doing the same thing. He’s no ordinary cook. There’s a lot of muscle under that paunch, and he doesn’t carry himself like a cake-eating civilian. And he’s sizing us up for threats, not just wondering about two gringos who asked for pork in a restaurant that mostly serves chicken.