by Peter Nealen
“Well,” he whispered, though they were still the better part of a kilometer away, “that sure looks like you were telling the truth, Price. These guys are loaded for bear.”
“It could be concerns for safety, with Sudan so close,” Price allowed. “But it doesn’t add up.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Brannigan agreed, studying one of the guard towers. It was hard to see detail at that distance, but it sure looked like there was a machinegun in that tower. And NGOs rarely, if ever would spring for that sort of firepower. Certainly not those that trumpeted their humanitarian chops to the world, through the squishiest of celebrities.
He was looking for weaknesses as he scanned. If these really were the same terrorists responsible for the Tourmaline-Delta incident…but they clearly had some pros on their payroll. That was a well-defended outpost. It was going to be a tough nut to crack. “How much imagery do you have of this place?” he asked.
“A lot,” Price replied. “More than I put in that packet. I thought you needed to see this for yourself.”
“I did,” Brannigan said. “Let’s get back to the trucks. We need to plan our next step carefully.”
***
The return movement went more quickly, but it was almost dark by the time they got back to where they’d stashed the trucks. Making that movement in daylight had been a lot less than ideal, but if Price was to be believed, they were on the clock and under the gun. And nothing Brannigan had seen at that camp had suggested that Price was leading them on. They started mounting up, though not without setting security beforehand.
That was how Jenkins heard the faint buzzing sound above.
“We’ve got a drone overhead,” he announced, peering into the darkening sky. Brannigan followed his gaze, and caught a glint of the dying sunlight on something metallic, high above. Far higher than the Humanity Front drones had been flying.
“Can your little counter-drone gun take that out?” Brannigan asked Price. “Because somehow I don’t have the feeling that it’s friendly.”
“I doubt it,” Price said. “But we should get a move on. Whoever’s flying that thing, I don’t think they’re friendly, either. We need to get somewhere secure, quickly.”
“You just punched out of your base camp,” Brannigan pointed out. “Do you have a secure place picked out?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Price said. “Mount up and come with us.” He smiled a little in the growing darkness as he headed for his truck. “That wasn’t base camp.”
***
But wherever Price was heading, they didn’t get there before they had company.
“Helo, nine o’clock,” Hart called out. Brannigan looked past Jenkins to see the dark shape, its rotors limned with static discharge, coming in fast over the plain. And it wasn’t showing lights.
“Price’s guys are bombshelling,” Jenkins said. Looking forward, Brannigan could see the other trucks spreading out fast, scattering across the Sahel as the helo came in.
“Scatter,” he snapped. He wasn’t going to take chances; if Price and his boys were treating that bird as a threat, so would he.
Jenkins wrenched the wheel over and sent them bouncing and bumping across the plain, dodging between the scattered acacia trees, as the helo roared overhead. Brannigan got a good look at the profile, silhouetted against the stars, and frowned. The shrouded tail rotor and pointed nose made it look a lot like a Eurocopter Dauphin. Who would be flying one of those blacked out in Central Africa?
The question of the identity of the helicopter’s operators took a back seat, though, as a stuttering muzzle flash suddenly blossomed from the helicopter’s side door. Green tracers lanced down toward one of Price’s trucks.
They were in the open with no overhead cover. They were sitting ducks. Machinegun fire hammered at the truck, which suddenly slewed, then flipped over and started to burn.
“Get some return fire on that bird!” Brannigan snapped, cranking down his window. They really needed a belt fed, but right then, any firepower was better than none.
One of Price’s trucks had stopped, and a big man was leaning over the bed, aiming a weapon as the machinegun fire cut off and the bird started to bank around. Muzzle flash blinked and flickered as he opened fire, the rattling roar echoing across the Sahel.
Jenkins slewed the Land Rover to a stop under an acacia, and Brannigan piled out, throwing himself flat and pointing his L1A1 toward the dim shape of the helicopter. He steadied his aim, as difficult as it was through the PVS-14s, and his finger tightened on the trigger. The battle rifle thundered, the recoil hammering back into his shoulder, and he kept pumping rounds at the helo, unsure of his aim, but just trying to get some lead out in front of it. More rifles joined in to his right and left, accompanied by the higher-pitched barks of Price’s SCAR 16s and the heavier roar of that belt-fed.
Brannigan didn’t have much hope of shooting the bird down. It had been in the manuals since Vietnam, but he didn’t know of any helicopter that had ever been shot down with small arms fire. Still, there wasn’t much else to do, and better to shoot back than get gunned down on the run.
His mag went dry as the helo bore down on them, and he rolled to one side to yank another out of his chest rig, using it to sweep the FAL’s magazine release before rocking it in. Before he could work the charging handle, the helicopter seemed to shudder, then veered off sharply, put its nose down, and roared toward the north. The door gunner managed one more desultory burst before his field of fire was cut off by the bird’s tail, though more fire followed it for the next few moments, until it got too far out to be sure of a shot.
“Head count,” Brannigan rasped into the sudden shocking quiet as the belt fed fell silent.
“Up,” Flanagan said from a few dozen meters away.
“Up,” Wade echoed. One by one, the rest of the Blackhearts announced that they were alive, and unhurt. Brannigan breathed a sigh of relief, though as he looked toward the burning wreckage that had been one of Price’s trucks, he knew that Price, or at least Vernon, wasn’t feeling the same relief.
Presuming that neither of them had been in that vehicle.
Getting to his feet, trying to scan as much of the sky as he could, Brannigan started toward the nearest of Price’s trucks. “Friendly,” he called. Flanagan and Curtis flanked him as he advanced, their rifles ready if the attackers came back, or Price’s guys got too trigger-happy.
“Come ahead,” Price said grimly.
Price and Vernon were standing near the burning truck. Price’s face was impassive, while Vernon’s was set in a mix of fury and grief. He turned toward Brannigan. “Keith and Paul were in that truck,” he said. “They were good dudes.”
“I’m sure they were,” Brannigan said, noting Price’s lack of reaction. The PMC magnate was already turning away from the wreck, facing Brannigan. “But we can’t do anything for them now. We need to get gone, before that helo comes back.”
“He’s right, Vernon,” Price said. He sounded sincere, and maybe it had just been the weird, flat, green cast of the NVGs, but there had been something about the blankness of his expression that rubbed Brannigan the wrong way. “We need to get moving.” He looked at Brannigan. “We should be all right for a little bit. We’ve still got about twenty klicks to go.”
Brannigan nodded and turned back to the trucks. Curtis paused for a second, looking back toward the wreck, before he followed.
But none of them went without taking another glance at the sky above.
Chapter 15
The van was parked around the corner, about half a mile from the target house. Hancock stepped out of the Uber a quarter mile away, thanked the driver, and left him a healthy tip along with an admonishment that he had never dropped anyone off there. The less said about the big, heavy duffel he pulled out of the trunk, the better.
He waited in the hot, humid evening, the duffel slung over his shoulder, as the Uber disappeared around the bend. Only then did he make his way toward the van that they�
��d passed before he’d told the driver to pull over.
There was some movement in the cab, but no face was visible. Hancock knew that there had been a rifle or shotgun pointed in his direction until he’d been identified.
He came around to the back and tapped on the doors. They opened and he swung the duffel inside before following it. Ian pulled the doors shut behind him.
The van wasn’t big; it was an ordinary commercial panel van. With the gear, there wasn’t a lot of room. But since most of the hit team was in the woods with Burgess already, watching the target house, that was less of an issue than it might have been.
“How we looking?” he asked.
“Santelli got here an hour ago,” Ian replied. “He geared up and headed into the woods. We’re just waiting on Kirk and Gomez now.” Ian had been fully read-in, as had the other Old Fogey in the front, a skinny, mean-looking, balding man named Carl. “Kirk’s gathering some more logistics—mainly med supplies.” Hancock nodded at that. Javakhishvili had put a comprehensive list of what he needed together, given that they didn’t know how much the kidnappers were going to work their paraplegic comrade over. Not to mention if one of them got shot in the process. “Gomez just landed; he’s about forty minutes out.”
“We might not have forty minutes,” Hancock replied, pulling the duffel open. It was packed with CZ Scorpion EVOs, mags, and chest rigs. Hancock had gotten them for a song from a friend of a friend. Hancock knew people. Most of them had certain useful resources and a decided lack of a propensity for asking questions.
The EVOs didn’t have stocks, or braces, but he’d gotten a good crop of tension slings. They’d have to do. He started stuffing mags into a chest rig, after loading and making ready with one of the Scorpions and throwing the sling over his head. He was pretty sure that most of the rest out in the woods weren’t ready for a door-kicking operation yet. They’d have pistols, maybe a couple of rifles or shotguns, but these would be better for CQB.
A car went by with a faint hiss, and then red lights bloomed in the windshield. All three men froze, Carl already watching out the window. Then he relaxed slightly as the red lights dimmed and moved away. “Kirk’s here,” he announced. Hancock turned his head, his Scorpion still held ready in his hands, and saw that the burly man was walking down the street toward the van, a big med bag over his shoulder. He hadn’t shaved or trimmed his beard, though his hair was now covered by a dark ball cap.
He didn’t give the old SF hand a chance to rap on the back door, but swung it open. “Get in,” he said, glancing down the street. There weren’t any headlights visible, and the trees should obscure them from any of the nearby houses, but he didn’t want to take chances. The last thing they needed right at the moment was the cops getting involved. They might not get the answers they needed if the local law got to the bad guys first. “You got everything?”
“Everything and then some,” Kirk replied, dropping the bag on the floor. It was clearly heavy, the zippers straining to hold everything in. “Unless we’ve got to do emergency surgery, we should be set.”
Hancock nodded, zipping up his own duffel and pulling the strap over his shoulder before reaching for the door handle. “Get it set up as best you can, then grab that Scorpion and a chest rig, and come meet us,” he said. “Don’t take too long; I don’t think we’ve got a lot of time.”
“Won’t need it,” Kirk said, already reaching for the weapon. “It’s all modular and labeled. No point in scattering it all over the hell and gone in here.”
“Fine,” Hancock said, as the big redhead shrugged into the chest rig and op-checked the Scorpion. “Let’s go, then.”
“Your boy here yet?” Kirk asked.
“Not yet,” Hancock replied. “He’s gonna be pissed that we went without him, but Sam’s life is on the line.”
“Roger that,” Kirk said, deadpan. He slung the tension sling over his shoulder and head and looked at Hancock. “Ready when you are.”
Hancock turned to Ian. “If you’ve got to displace, make sure you notify me,” he said, “but don’t hesitate to do it if you’ve got to. You won’t do us a damned bit of good if we come out of the trees and you’re trying to answer the cops’ questions.”
“We’ve got it, Roger,” Ian replied. “Go get your boy.”
Hancock gave him a short nod, and then he and Kirk were out the back doors and heading for the woods, weapons held down by their sides to hopefully disguise their shapes from casual observers at a distance, the heavy duffel bouncing against Hancock’s spine.
Damn, this thing isn’t light. It wasn’t the first time Hancock had considered the way he wasn’t getting any younger, but the duffel seemed even heavier now. It’s the stress. Tammy being pissed, the fact that we’re being hunted at home now, and John and the rest of the boys out in harm’s way while we’re tied up back here. We’re all getting spread too thin, in more than one way.
They were into the trees fast. It didn’t get dark nearly fast enough at that time of year, but he imagined it was better than being up north, where Brannigan and Flanagan lived. Fortunately, the woods were pretty thick, though the undergrowth and the mouldering carpet of fallen leaves made footing difficult as he struggled up the steep hill just off the road with the duffel weighing him down.
Kirk was soon ahead of him, but not by much. The guy might have been out of the Army for a long time, but he’d clearly kept up his patrolling skills, because he’d pushed about ten meters in front, then slowed to match Hancock’s pace. Good sign.
It wasn’t a long trek to the attack position, about a hundred yards back in the trees from the target house. Javakhishvili, Burgess, and Andy, another one of the Old Fogies, a bald man with a nose that looked like it had been smashed flat several times, were on a knee in the underbrush, waiting. Javakhishvili and Burgess had pistols in their hands. Andy had come a bit more prepared; he was carrying an AR pistol. He also hadn’t been on reconnaissance; Ben Drake had called him, Ian, Carl, and another man named Frank in on short notice.
Hancock lowered the duffel to the ground and flexed his shoulder. “Load up, boys,” he said, as he took a knee and faced toward the target, his Scorpion held ready. “Any change?”
“The noises died down just before I switched out with Frank,” Javakhishvili said, his voice carrying a bitter edge to it. “Hopefully they’re just taking a break.”
“Hopefully,” Hancock allowed. He was too in the zone, too detached, to feel much about the alternative; that Sam was dead and they were going in to collect a corpse instead of a comrade.
A corpse, and vengeance.
The others armed up quickly, checking magazines and loading weapons. Hancock hadn’t been able to get NVGs, but each Scorpion had come with a small but powerful TLR-7 weapon light. They’d have to do in the house. None of them were planning on using them in the woods.
In a tight wedge, weapons up and ready, the five of them headed toward the target house.
***
Flint stood over Childress’ still form, flexing his bloodied hand in frustration. The kid was tough; tougher than he’d expected. He’d soaked up a lot of punishment so far, and hadn’t said a word beyond cussing Flint out and verbally spitting in his eye.
It was making him doubt, and he hated that. What if he couldn’t make the kid talk? What if he accidentally killed him first? He didn’t dare back off. If he did, Childress would just get his second wind. But if he pushed too hard, too fast, he wouldn’t get what he needed.
Why the fuck are you such a pain in my ass?
Of course, he had to take a break, now. The kid was unconscious. He bent down to check if he was even still breathing, but froze halfway as the unmistakable sound of a gunshot rapped through the night outside.
He spun as more gunfire echoed through the house. Two long strides took him to the barrel where he’d left his FK BRNO. He snatched it up, stuffing the spare mags into his back pocket. Even with Childress bound, he hadn’t thought it was a good idea to get up close w
ith his weapon on him.
He hit the steps up out of the garage and pulled the door open, just as a figure came around the corner ahead of him. He got a short glimpse of a shaved head and a hatchet face before he was almost blinded by the glare of a weapon light. He whipped his Field Pistol up toward the light, finger tightening on the trigger.
***
The back was well-lit, Hancock saw as they neared the edge of the woods. That could be a problem. Until he saw that Frank, sitting with his back against a tree, in the shadows a few feet from the edge of the back lawn, was holding a full-length AR with what looked an awful lot like a low-light scope on it. And he was actively scanning the back of the house. Santelli was on a knee behind a tree a few meters to his left, doing the same with a pair of low-light binoculars.
The oldster, who looked like he was well into his seventies, didn’t take his eye away from the scope as Hancock took a knee beside him and handed Santelli a Scorpion and a chest rig. Somehow, he seemed to know exactly who was approaching, even without looking.
“There was some movement about an hour ago, in the west window,” he whispered. “None since then; they’re keeping away from the windows and doors. I think your best bet will be to flank toward the garage and go in that big picture window.”
“Most of the noises were coming from the garage, anyway,” Javakhishvili whispered. “If we’re going to secure Sam, we need to hit there first.”
“Roger that,” Hancock said. “You good with hanging back here and holding overwatch, Frank?”
“My old bones ain’t cut out for door kicking anymore,” Frank replied, still watching the house. “You boys go in; I’ll hold the back door for ya.”