by Peter Nealen
“You have had training,” the Italian said flatly. “Which means that you are trying to play stupid. It is a good ploy, most of the time. But I have had training, too. I know that Erika Dalca does not hire stupid men for security. She hires professionals. So, do not make the mistake of thinking that I will be fooled by the stupid act, or by the beaten down and bewildered act. I know you know more about her movements and plans than you want me to think.”
He leaned forward, switching back to his friendly demeanor. “There are two ways this can go, my friend,” he said. “You can tell us everything we need to know about Erika Dalca’s business here in Salta, her schedule, her itinerary, and the security she will have at any stops she makes. And then you will be able to go your way, a much richer man. You can walk out of here with five million dollars. Or, you will tell us what we want to know anyway, except that by then you will no longer have any eyes, or testicles, or fingers, or toes, or however many other things we have to cut off, then we’ll shoot you in the fucking head and throw you in the trash heap.”
Burgess made a great show of thinking it over. The truth was, he simply didn’t have any of the information that they wanted. He could be perfectly honest when refusing to answer their questions. But that wasn’t going to save him. He needed to buy time.
Well, I could always lie and spin them a bunch of bullshit that will turn out to be wrong later. Might even come out five mil richer for it. He knew it was unlikely; they’d keep him until they found out he’d lied, after which they’d torture and kill him.
But that might just buy the rest of the team the time they needed to find him. Provided the police didn’t beat them to it.
“Okay, fine,” he said. It was a bit of a struggle not to take a deep, nervous breath. This was going to be one hell of a gamble. “Get me a map of the city and I’ll tell you what I know. I’m not stupid, and five mil is five mil. Damned sight more than I’m getting paid for this gig.”
***
“I don’t like this,” Wade muttered.
“Neither do I,” Hancock replied. “But I don’t see a better way.”
“Oh, I know there isn’t,” Wade answered. “I still don’t like it.”
There wasn’t much to like. The two of them were walking into the barrio, alone and unarmed except for the burner cell phones that they’d picked up while waiting for darkness to fall. If they attracted the attention of whomever had snatched Burgess, they were in a lot of trouble.
But if they got stopped by the police, who were still scattered all over the barrio, they’d be in a lot more trouble if they got caught with weapons. They needed recon before they tried to break in and get Burgess out. Otherwise, they weren’t going to accomplish anything. So, they’d play the dumb Americans, wandering into somewhere they didn’t belong. The rest of the team, except for Flanagan and Gomez, who were several blocks over, doing the same thing, were sitting on the vehicles with their weapons, parked in a clearing in the woods along the north bank of the Rio Arias. All it would take would be one phone call, and the team was going to come running with killing on their minds.
Wade just hoped they’d get a chance to make that phone call if they did run into trouble.
They kept to the shadows as much as possible, which wasn’t hard back there in the barrio. There were streetlights, but they were dim, few, and far between. They tried to look casual; acting furtive would have only attracted more attention.
“We’re getting looks,” he said quietly. A pair of young men had stopped haranguing the girl on the corner ahead to watch as they walked by. He suspected that only the presence of the police car farther up kept them from trying something.
“Hard to avoid it,” Hancock said. “We don’t look that local.”
They stayed on their route, walking past the two young men and continuing on their way north, feeling the unfriendly eyes on their backs as they went. There was a crackling tension in the air back there that night, probably more because of the police presence than anything else.
Wade just hoped that they could find their quarry and get out before that tension found a release. Not that he expected it would go that smoothly.
They started drifting west, away from the police cordon, which seemed to still be set up on just about every street. Soon they were nearing the Avenue Josè de Gurrichaga, one of the main roads through the barrio, and one of the few street names that Wade could remember in Salta, mainly because he’d been burning the map into his brain most of the afternoon.
“We’re getting a lot more attention,” Hancock muttered.
Wade looked around as casually as he could. There were more people on the street than there had been before; faces appearing at windows and coming out of doors to stand on the sidewalks. And far too many of them were young men.
“This isn’t going to go well,” he said. “Though I think I know how we might get inside the cordon.”
“If you’re thinking of running to the cops because we’re just a couple of dumbass tourists who wandered into the wrong neighborhood…” Hancock trailed off. “You know, as much as I hate to admit it, that might not be as bad an idea as I first thought. We don’t have weapons or anything illegal on us.”
“It’s a technique,” Wade said. “I’m not suggesting it as our primary course of action, but it’s an option.”
They came to the corner. Police cars were set up on either side of the median running down the middle of Josè de Gurrichaga, their lights still flashing. Beyond, through the glare of the blue light bars, he spotted a wrecked SUV, the entire back caved in and a smashed motorcycle still in the street next to it.
“Is that it?” he asked.
“Looks like it,” Hancock replied. “It fits the description. ‘Banged-up red Kangoo,’ Gomez said.”
“And we can’t get any closer without dealing with the cops,” Wade muttered, looking around at the rest of the barrio. “Presuming that we could find anything there that would point us in the right direction.” He blew out an angry breath. “This is a hell of a big grid to search, man.”
“Yeah it is,” Hancock replied. He didn’t sound any happier than Wade felt.
“How did you guys find Sam?” Wade asked.
“Luck,” was Hancock’s bitter reply. “And Tom being one hell of an observer. That was it.”
“Fuck,” Wade said, sweeping the barrio again. With the time that they’d lost waiting for darkness to fall, Burgess could have been taken anywhere. If the police hadn’t found him yet, he might not even be in the city anymore.
This job was already going to hell in a handbasket, and they hadn’t even made contact with the bad guys yet.
They started across the street, angling away from the police. They didn’t want to stay in one place for too long, particularly not ogling the scene of a vehicle crash and a shootout. The police on the cordon were definitely watching them, but they made a great show of talking between themselves.
Before either could come up with a workable plan about where to look next, Hancock’s phone rang. He snatched it out of his pocket and brought it to his ear. “Surfer.”
He listened for a moment, then said, “Roger.” He hung up and kept going. “We’ve been called back,” he said quietly as they passed into the shadows across the avenue and into another side street. “Seems that our hostess has a line on some information. The Colonel wants us to rendezvous and get back to the villa.”
Wade didn’t say anything. He didn’t trust Dalca any more than any of the rest of the Blackhearts, but at the same time, he recognized that having contacts in the criminal underworld had its perks. And that the gangs probably knew more about what was going on in Salta than they were going to be able to find out by roving the neighborhoods.
He just wished that they were paying her, rather than whatever shadowy relationship they had with her. Paid-off criminals he could understand. He had an ugly feeling that anything she was offering gratis was probably coming with a shitload of strings attached.
&nb
sp; Wade didn’t worry about it for long, though. They’d use Dalca’s contacts to get Burgess, and get back on mission. If she decided to make an issue of it later on?
Wade had no more problem with killing some international gangsters than he did with killing just about anyone else.
Chapter 11
The vehicles, including one of Dalca’s security vans, pulled up in front of a remarkably upper-class house. The red brick looked almost black in the dimness at just after two in the morning, the only light coming from the three lamps set in sconces above the doors. Unlike most of the rest of the houses, even in that relatively well-to-do neighborhood, the fence was low, with wrought iron curlicues standing between inverted arches of brick. The two front doors were set on either side of a Y-shaped brick walkway through the small courtyard in front. Even the security bars over the windows were fancy wrought iron. Whoever had built the place had clearly been trying to make it stand out.
The Blackhearts piled out of the vehicles, Curtis and Bianco moving to the corners of the lot to keep a lookout up and down the street. They were the only ones moving; the residential areas were dead, security doors and gates locked against the crime that was apparently rampant in Salta, just judging by what they’d seen of the locals’ security measures.
They’d fit right in.
Flanagan and Gomez took point, jumping the fence and moving quickly to the doors. The rest stayed in the shadows of the vehicles, at least until Flanagan reached up and unscrewed the light bulb above the right-hand door before moving to extinguish the other two, as well.
Gomez was already working on the lock. Lockpicking in the dark might not seem all that easy, but it’s more of a tactile skill than one requiring a lot of visibility. In moments, the lock clicked, and the door swung open quietly. They’d brought up the possibility of burglar alarms, but Dalca had said it wasn’t an issue.
After all, the target was one of her people. His burglar alarm went back to Ciela International’s security desk, not the Salta police.
The Blackhearts flowed silently into the entryway, pistols in hand. They were keeping this as low-key and quiet as possible; there was no sign that they’d been spotted or that their target had been alerted, so they were going to keep this as soft a hit as possible for as long as possible. It would keep the local authorities off their backs, and if this guy was linked in with the people who had snatched Burgess, it should keep them from being alerted.
The entryway was also the living room, with the big bay window that faced the street letting in a tiny bit of illumination. The mercenaries moved slowly and carefully, pausing once they got inside to slip PVS-14 night vision goggles on skullcap mounts over their heads.
With the living room suddenly illuminated in shades of green, suppressed Px4 9mms came level, and they started to move through the house.
The owner was not doing badly for himself. The furniture was good quality, and there was a very expensive entertainment system against one white-plastered wall. There was a lot of art on the walls, the coffee table, and the entertainment center, but it was lost on Flanagan.
Joe Flanagan was often said to be a quiet man. And he was. Not many people saw the fiery temper that lurked beneath his easygoing, laconic exterior. And that part never really came out in a life-or-death situation.
He got calm in combat. Emotions simply vanished into the back of his mind. Right at that point, he was a machine, quiet, focused, and deadly.
He led the way down the hallway toward the rear, with Gomez and Brannigan behind him. He knew exactly where he was going, thanks to Dalca. He moved past the first two doors, even as Javakhishvili and Jenkins went in one, and Kirk and Wade went in the next. He paused at the door at the end of the hall, keeping his pistol trained on it, and tested the knob.
Unlocked. He turned it and slowly, silently, opened the door.
The faint, orange light from distant streetlights came in the window to illuminate the pair of forms tangled in the bedsheets on the bed. Neither the man nor the woman stirred as the door swung open and the three mercenaries slipped into the room, weapons leveled at the bed.
Gomez moved around to the far side, where the woman was. Brannigan stayed by the door while Flanagan stepped to the man’s side, his pistol still pointed at the man’s head, and put his off hand over the man’s mouth and nose.
It took a second. The empty bottle and glasses on the nightstand explained the delay. But even a drunk has to breathe. The man jerked awake as Flanagan tightened his hold, then froze as he tapped the end of his suppressor to the man’s forehead.
He must not have been that drunk. The meaning of that cold metal circle made it through his alcoholic haze almost immediately.
The woman had started making some noise, but Gomez had clapped a hand over her mouth at the same time Flanagan had made his move. She wasn’t quite as aware as the man was, and tried to sit up, trying to scream through Gomez’ palm. He shoved her back down and leaned in close, whispering fiercely in Spanish. She quieted suddenly.
“I’m going to let you up,” Flanagan said quietly. “You’ve got some questions to answer. You try to fight, you try to run, you try to yell, and you get a bullet through the brain. Understood?”
The man nodded fractionally. Flanagan let go of him and stepped back, bringing his hand back up to his pistol and aiming it at the man’s head.
“Shut the blinds and turn on a light, Hernando,” Dalca said coldly from the doorway. Flanagan hadn’t realized that she’d followed them in.
The man got up hesitantly, his eyes wide in the dark. He wasn’t looking at the three men with guns by then. He was looking toward the door, where Dalca was standing. A part of Flanagan wanted to tell her to get the hell out of the fatal funnel, but there didn’t appear to be any threats left in the house.
“Now, Hernando,” she said impatiently. The sound of her voice seemed to have finally made the woman in the bed go still. The man hurried past Gomez to draw the blinds, then flipped on a small lamp on the dresser at the foot of the bed. He had the good sense to keep away from the other nightstand, where Gomez was standing with a pistol to the woman’s head.
Hernando was young, in his mid-to-late twenties, with sandy hair and a stringy mustache. He was in good shape, evident in his state of undress. The woman was dark-skinned and dark-haired, and Gomez had let her pull the sheets up to cover herself.
Dalca stepped forward. She was dressed in a simple black t-shirt and green cargo pants. She also had a suppressed Px4 of her own in her hand.
She stared at Hernando coldly for a moment, while he squinted at her and the looming forms of Brannigan and Flanagan on either side of her.
“Where are they, Hernando?” she asked.
Hernando’s eyes shifted from side to side. He was looking for a way out, and Flanagan didn’t think he was just looking for an exit from the room. “Where are who?” he asked.
Dalca gave him a humorless little smile. Then she lifted the Px4 and with a sound like a book being slammed shut, she shot him through the kneecap.
Flanagan didn’t flinch. None of them did. They were too experienced, too hardened, to flinch. And Flanagan had to admit that they’d all long suspected that Dalca had this side to her.
Hernando, on the other hand, collapsed screaming to the thin rug on the floor. His shrieks of pain were almost as shrill as the woman’s cries of terror in the bed, which were snuffed quickly when Gomez touched the muzzle of his suppressor to her temple. She was scared, but the fear apparently wasn’t enough to render her insensitive to the threat of the pistol.
It also said something about her relationship with Hernando. Flanagan found that he suspected that there was a substantial financial aspect to it.
“Be quiet, Hernando!” Dalca yelled. “You’re still going to live. For now.” She stood over him, the pistol dangling from one manicured hand. “But you’ve been a very, very bad boy.” She inspected the nails on her free hand. “I know you’ve been working with the Oficina de Envigado
and the ‘Ndrangheta to try to take over my operation in Northern Argentina. I know how much money you’ve taken from them, and I know that the plan was to whittle down my ‘security detail’ prior to kidnapping me.”
The calm, sweet tone to her voice was chilling, juxtaposed with the bloody mess that she’d made of Hernando’s knee. His screams died down, though, replaced by tooth-gritted groans.
She looked down at him when he didn’t respond, then leveled the Px4 at his face. “I know everything, Hernando. And I’ll deal with that later. Suffice it to say, you and your pathetic little friends have badly misjudged the situation.” She glanced at Brannigan where he loomed behind her, then smiled mirthlessly down at Hernando. “You should probably be grateful that I’m handling this.”
Her gaze hardened and her finger curled around the pistol’s trigger. “Where is their safehouse, Hernando?” she asked. “Where are they keeping him?”
Hernando looked up at the pistol, his eyes nearly crossing as he stared at the suppressor. He might have thought he was a hard, dangerous gangster, but with the wreckage of his own knee in his hands, and shock taking over, he suddenly wasn’t as tough as he thought he was.
“They have a house,” he said, “at the corner of Alaska and 9 de Julio. It’s red and white. There are a lot of them; most of the sicarios are Columbians, but there are three Italians.”
“Do they have lookouts?” Flanagan asked.
“I don’t know,” Hernando replied. Dalca tilted her head to one side, her eyes narrowing, and he got desperate. “I don’t know!” he all but screamed. “I didn’t see any, but I wasn’t looking!”
Dalca studied him for a moment, then turned to Brannigan. “Is that enough for you to work with?” she asked.
“We’ve got a location, and rough numbers,” Brannigan replied. “We can move on it. Just make sure you don’t schwack this kid before we’ve got Tom. If he’s bullshitting, we’ll want to pick his brain a little more…thoroughly.” He turned a baleful, gray-eyed stare on Hernando.