by Peter Nealen
“Copy,” Winter replied. “Take Kappa and Iota, and sweep up that western draw. I will take the rest and secure the eastern slope. We will meet on the ridgetop.” Linkup would be risky if they took contact before then, but his team was well-versed in the procedures.
He looked at Marsden. “Try to keep up,” he said.
***
Brannigan looked around the dusty, exhausted group, counting heads. Santelli was beside him, doing the same. With Hancock wounded and out of the fight for the moment, Santelli was the natural number two, and he probably would have done it anyway. It had been hard-wired into the stumpy Bostonian since long before their mercenary days.
He glanced at their prisoners once he was satisfied that all of the Blackhearts had made it out, except for Curtis and Kirk, whom Flanagan had assured him were still outside. He certainly hoped they were; after all, Flanagan and the other three who’d linked up with them on the stairs had been supposed to stay outside, too.
“Gambler, Kodiak,” he sent. His voice sounded barely more than a whisper, his throat was so dry. He felt like the exertion, the altitude, and the dust had sucked all the moisture out of him. “Status.”
“We’re alive,” Curtis replied indignantly. “Somebody want to warn us next time we’re going to drop a whole fucking mountain?”
“Can you move?” Brannigan asked, ignoring Curtis’ complete disregard for radio procedure.
“Lumberjack’s in a bad way,” Curtis admitted after a moment. “I’m going to need some help.”
Brannigan looked down the ragged remains of the slope to the east. They didn’t have a good route down that way, anyway. “We’re coming to you,” he said.
The words were barely out of his mouth when a rattle of machinegun fire echoed up the draw. “You might want to hurry,” Curtis said a moment later. “We’ve got more company coming, and they don’t look friendly.”
Brannigan glanced up in time to see Gomez and Flanagan conferring. Flanagan looked over at him and pointed to the next ridge over. “Mario and I will move over to the flank, while you guys move down to back Kev and Kirk up.”
Brannigan just nodded. “Go.” Flanagan and Gomez knew what they were about. Almost instantly, the two men slipped down off the ridgeline, moving fast for the other side of the draw. They had some distance to go, and some rough terrain to cover to get there, but they were pros.
More gunfire crackled down below. Things were getting hotter. He glanced over the group, now down two, and then turned his glare on the prisoners, especially Bevan. They all looked shell-shocked and dusty.
“Carlo, the prisoners are on you,” he said. “If any of ‘em get froggy, kill ‘em all.”
“Will do, Colonel,” Santelli replied. Neither man was especially in favor of killing unarmed men and women, but they at least needed the threat to keep their charges in line. Otherwise, the next few minutes could get extremely messy, and none of them would likely make it out alive.
“Echelon right, Wade on point,” he said. “Herc, take care of Roger.”
“I’ve got him,” Javakhishvili replied. Wade hadn’t said anything, but was already twenty yards down the ridge, heading toward the gunfire.
***
Flanagan fought his way up the far slope. They had come out close enough to the peak that there were only a few dozen yards to cover to reach the western ridgeline. It was still rocky, rough terrain, with the loose, sandy soil always ready to crumble beneath a boot and send man and weapon sliding back down the slope, but he was pretty good at finding firm footholds. And Gomez was a damned mountain goat, keeping pace easily.
He scrambled up to the crest of the ridgeline, looking down. The men moving up the draw toward Curtis and Kirk were tiny from that distance, looking like ants. They were also dressed more appropriately than the security they’d fought inside; their khakis blended into the browns and tans of the Altiplano, making it hard to see them unless they moved. And they were moving well, dashing forward in short bounds.
He slipped over the crest and down to the other side, where the terrain itself would mask their movement and let them move faster. The sky seemed to be clear of drones; they must have lost signal when the power went out, never mind when the entire roof fell in. It was an advantage he was determined to use.
The two men moved fast, as sure-footed as they could be on the unfamiliar terrain. The noise of the firefight below them was muted by the terrain, but not silenced, and as they descended, Flanagan thought that the increasingly long, savage bursts of automatic fire were probably coming from Curtis.
He stepped up his pace, risking a slip and a catastrophic fall. If Curtis was laying down the hate with that kind of intensity, it meant he was well and truly in trouble.
The two men were almost at a run, dirt and gravel slipping out from under their boots as they plummeted down the ridgeline. There was no disguising the faint plume of dust they were leaving in their wake, but battle was already joined, and stealth was only going to get them so far.
Even so, it took some serious effort to forestall their headlong rush as Flanagan gauged that they were past Curtis’ and Kirk’s position. Gravity had taken hold, and fatigue was affecting their control. He skidded and almost fell as he slowed himself, finally managing to halt by reaching out and grabbing a sharp rock sticking out of the ground. A trickle of loose rocks fell away down the slope from under his feet.
He glanced up to see that Gomez had actually fallen and was picking himself up. At least he’d caught himself, much as Flanagan had, before he’d slid out of control down the hillside.
Both men hastily checked their weapons then started up over the ridge.
Only to find that they weren’t the only ones who had had the idea.
Flanagan heard a scrape of rocky soil under a boot a split-second before he saw the man in desert tiger stripes barely twenty yards in front of him. Fortunately, the spare-framed black man was focused more on Curtis’ machinegun fire, and didn’t see the two Blackhearts coming over the ridgeline behind him.
Flanagan didn’t hesitate. The man’s head filled his prism scope, and he stroked the trigger.
The crash of the report was lost in the stuttering roar of another long burst of 7.62mm fire from across the draw. The man’s head disappeared from Flanagan’s reticle, and he fell on what was left of his face, rolling in a cloud of dust down the slope.
The man just behind him, out of sight until that moment, reacted quickly, spinning around and snapping a shot at Flanagan, who dropped flat as the bullet went over his head with a painful snap. Gomez took care of that one with a quick hammer pair, the twin reports blending together into a single, thunderous crash.
Then a rattle of fire from farther down skipped bullets off the nearby rocks, sending ricochets into the air with buzzing whines.
Flanagan didn’t get up. Instead, he wriggled forward, low crawling as fast as he could to the next bit of cover. Another burst of machinegun fire from uphill and across the draw chewed into the slope below him, and he briefly hoped and prayed that Curtis hadn’t mistaken him and Gomez for the enemy. But the lighter barks of 5.56 fire from below died away in the aftermath of the autofire, and Flanagan got himself behind a rock and peered over the top.
He immediately ducked down as a bullet spat rock chips into his face. He’d just barely gotten a glimpse of the man huddled in a wash leading down into the draw, out of Curtis’ line of fire and well-set to shoot at Flanagan and Gomez if they exposed themselves. They had the high ground, but from where the man in tan down below was set up, they’d skyline themselves if they tried to shoot at him.
So, Flanagan retreated instead, worming his way backward, the grit digging into his elbows and his stomach as he went. Let the man down there think he was still there; he’d move and flank him.
Gomez was already moving, after tossing a rock toward the enemy’s hiding place. The fake grenade toss hadn’t really worked before; but they could hope that it might work when there was slightly less noise.
At the very least, it would hopefully distract the shooter long enough for them to move without him figuring out where exactly they’d gone.
But the guy caught on fast. Another trio of shots chewed into the soil and rocks a few feet in front of Flanagan’s face as he neared the crest again. He didn’t know what had given him away, but he got as flat as he could as several more bullets went overhead, close enough that he felt their passage more than heard them.
Gomez had stopped moving. From his position, Flanagan couldn’t see the other man, but he hoped that he hadn’t gotten hit. Gomez was the type who would probably die without a sound, just because.
He sidled over a couple of feet. The shooter was probably aimed in at where he’d just been. A couple of feet might be enough, or it might not be. He looked up, then brought his knees up under himself, taking one hand off his rifle’s forearm to push himself up. Then he lunged up into a kneeling stance, his rifle already in his shoulder, slapping his hand onto the handguards as he searched for his target.
And immediately dropped flat on his side as another bullet almost parted his hair for him. He hadn’t moved far enough. Or if he had, the enemy shooter had anticipated it.
But he’d given Gomez the opening he needed. In that split second that the man was still trying to shoot Flanagan, Gomez sprang to his feet and went over the crest, firing as he went.
His ACE 52 barked and thundered, the reports rolling across the barren hills. Flanagan got back up as fast as he could and dashed forward, half doubled over as he crossed the crest of the ridgeline, muzzle tracking toward the wash where their enemy waited.
Only to find that the man was dead, sprawled on his back, head down toward the draw below, with Gomez almost on top of him.
And then another burst of 5.56 fire sounded above and behind them.
***
Javakhishvili didn’t know what made him turn around and check their six, other than habit. He and Hancock were in the rear, more by chance and due to Hancock’s wounds than design. The prisoners, while understandably reluctant to go running into the middle of a firefight, had sped up, probably because none of them were mountaineers, and didn’t know just how to control their descent on a steep slope. One had actually lost his footing and slid down into the draw, though he was huddled down there, apparently hurt, and not trying to make a run for it. So, while Santelli had yelled and cursed at them, they had gradually drawn ahead of Javakhishvili and his wounded charge.
Hancock was hurting, though he was putting on a brave face. He was pale and gray-looking, though, while his bandages soaked through with blood. Javakhishvili didn’t want to think too much about the faint sewer smell in the air, but he knew what it meant.
As Javakhishvili turned, though, all thoughts of the prisoners or Hancock’s wounds were driven out by the silhouette he briefly saw run to a rock before disappearing behind it.
He let Hancock down as lightly as he could, even as he crouched down to try to get some cover. But the slope above them was barren for almost a hundred yards.
A sudden blow knocked him flat, and for a split second he thought he’d been shot. He fell on his face in the dirt, as a storm of 5.56 rounds ripped through the air over him. He struggled to get up as he started to slide, fighting to bring his ACE 52 to bear. Somebody was dumping 7.62 rounds nearby, the heavier thunder distinct from the lighter barks of the 5.56.
That was when he realized that Hancock wasn’t with him anymore.
He looked up to see Roger Hancock staggering forward, his rifle in his shoulder, hammering shots at anything that moved on the slope above them. The agony he was in had to be excruciating as he fought his way uphill with a bullet through his guts. But he kept going.
Javakhishvili hauled himself up, bellowing, “Contact rear!” He snapped his rifle up and dumped three rounds at the nearest man in desert flecktarn who was shooting at Hancock. The first two rounds missed, but the third ripped the man’s throat out and he dropped with a gurgling scream.
Another went down, smashed into the dirt under Hancock’s withering fire. He couldn’t keep that rate of fire up for long; the mags only held twenty-five rounds.
And his rifle went dry the next second. Hancock fell to his knees, groping for a reload, as Javakhishvili tried desperately to shoot every silhouette he saw, trying to buy Hancock some time, even though he knew that it was all but over.
A single 5.56 round went through Roger Hancock’s skull just before Javakhishvili tore the shooter’s lungs out with a pair from seventy-five yards away.
Only then did the mountainside go quiet.
***
Winter looked down at the wreckage of his mission. He was fairly certain that he and Theta were the only ones left, with Marsden wisely keeping his head down behind a rock behind them. The man who had charged uphill, while apparently wounded, had killed two, and the man with him had killed two more. The sounds of gunfire down the hill, where Gamma had led his small team of three, had ceased as well.
He peered at the knot of prisoners on the other side of the three gunmen who were working their way back up. He couldn’t tell if Bevan was among them, but he was suddenly sure that he was. Several had died in the wild exchange of fire before the bald man had finally been killed, but Winter didn’t think that Bevan was one of them.
“We’re done here,” he said. He was not one to try to make a failed mission into anything that it wasn’t. He’d buried Site 117 and its research; if the prisoners talked, there was no evidence to back their story. Getting himself killed to try to finish the job was not on his list of priorities. He believed in the Front’s cause, but he was no jihadi.
“What about them?” Marsden hissed as Theta hauled him away, back the way they’d come. He was motioning toward the prisoners; he’d seen them just before all hell had broken loose. “You can’t let them fall into the enemy’s hands!”
“And what would you have me do?” Winter asked. “There are two of us left.” Because I miscalculated. That will not happen again.
“Kill them, of course,” Marsden snapped, though Theta didn’t stop dragging him away by the arm. “That’s your duty! Your responsibility! You said it yourself!”
“That was then,” Winter replied.
“Oh, you’ll pay for this!” Marsden said, apparently forgetting that he was on a barren mountainside, far from civilization. “After all this, you won’t finish the job? I’ll make sure the Board hears about…”
He stopped suddenly, his eyes bulging. He sagged in Theta’s grip, and the big man eased him to the dirt before pulling the long, slender dagger out of his chest. He’d placed it perfectly, thrusting up under the sternum to pierce the heart. It probably hadn’t even hurt that much.
“Let’s go,” Winter said.
“Where will we go?” Theta asked. “The Board will have questions.”
“I know,” Winter replied, starting to clamber down the slope to the north of the gaping crater that had been Site 117. “We won’t go straight back; I know a few places where we can lie low while I make contact and make sure that we don’t get put on the Organization’s target deck…”
Chapter 26
Brannigan stood in the middle of the upper western defensive position and surveyed the wreckage.
Burgess was bent over Kirk, placing a fourteen-gauge needle just below his collarbone to relieve the pressure in his chest cavity. As they’d feared, the sucking chest wound was causing a tension pneumothorax, as one of his lungs collapsed and his chest filled with air, crushing the other. Only letting some of that air out was going to keep him alive long enough to get out.
If they could get out in time; even with the wound sealed and regular needle-decompressions, the clock was ticking. Kirk’s lifespan was numbered in hours, and the minutes were counting down, fast. And they were still on top of a mountain, in the middle of nowhere, with almost a dozen prisoners to handle, with the vehicles over four miles away.
“Kodiak, Shady Slav,” Javakhishvili’s voice crackled over th
e radio. He sounded odd, slightly choked, and Brannigan suddenly knew what had happened. His shoulders slumped a little, though that was the only sign he dared give of the sudden, icy fist squeezing his guts.
“Send it, Shady Slav,” he replied.
“I’m going to need some help up here with Surfer,” Javakhishvili said. “I can’t carry him myself.”
The truth was, he probably could, but not without sacrificing security. Which they still had to maintain, even though they were no longer in contact.
He wondered, briefly, how long it was going to be before the Argentine government noticed something happening up this way and sent someone to investigate. After all, they weren’t all that far from the Bolivian border, and there was a lot of narco activity there. The fact that they hadn’t seen any government activity so far was a testament to just how much pull the Front had.
“Wade, go up and help Herc,” he said. Wade just nodded, clambering out of the fortified emplacement and skirting around the knot of terrified, dusty prisoners who huddled under Santelli’s baleful eye. Wade had heard the exchange, and he’d been around long enough to know what had happened, too. Brannigan wanted to go himself, but his place was there, in the middle of things. He could afford sentiment later, once they were out.
If they got out.
Bianco had pushed up to what was left of the crest of the ridge above them, getting eyes on the west and the road leading toward the ruined villa, staring out over the crater that had once been an expensive underground base. He suddenly turned and called down, “We’ve got company! Four vehicles on the road, about two miles out!”
“Do they look military?” Brannigan asked, looking up at him.
“Negative,” Bianco replied. “One SUV and three panel trucks.”
Which didn’t necessarily mean anything. They’d all been around long enough to know that there were plenty of regular and irregular forces kicking around the world that would use normal civilian vehicles.
After all, they’d done it plenty of times.