by Peter Nealen
Of course, he didn’t think that Brannigan was necessarily going to object. The Colonel wasn’t like most officers that Flanagan had known in the Marine Corps. He was an old-school warrior leader, and Flanagan meant that in the true sense of the word. “Warrior” had become a buzzword in the military over the last couple decades, and was rarely appropriately applied. But Brannigan was a true man of war, and he understood honor as much as he did the logistics and technicalities of command and warfare.
Next to Wade, he laid down his binoculars and got behind his rifle, starting to carefully range out each of his targets. Once the shooting started, they wouldn’t have much chance to correct for misses. He had to be on target the first time.
***
Mario Gomez wasn’t sweating, even though he and Javakhishvili were moving fast, jogging as best they could along the steep side-slope of the hill. They were only a couple meters below the crest of the ridge above them. They were concealed from the house, but wouldn’t have far to scramble to get on target. And time was of the essence.
His face was as stony as ever as he panted with each pounding footstep, moving just slowly enough to make sure of his footing. The slope was treacherous, and a wrong step could send him sliding halfway down the hill. Then there’d be no chance of being in position before Flanagan opened fire.
He wasn’t sure exactly what had prompted Flanagan to agree to this. They were both former Recon Marines, and he was sure that Flanagan had spent many an hour in a hide site, watching messed up stuff that he couldn’t do anything about. He suspected that that had more to do with the decision than anything. He knew that it couldn’t be personal. Gomez knew that he wasn’t close enough to the rest of the Blackhearts for any of this to be truly personal for them; they were doing this out of obligation and a sense of honor.
But for him, it was personal. It was personal in a way that he hadn’t suspected was possible before. The rage burning inside his chest was like a physical pain, one that could only be blotted out once the animals who’d slaughtered his parents and his kid brother and kidnapped his little sister had suffered and died, one by one.
His dad wouldn’t like it. His mom would have understood. She had been as Catholic as anyone in the family, but she was still Apache. Some instincts died hard.
He knew that Padre Ramirez would have had some strong words to say on the matter. Padre Castillo was younger, and he almost had to chuckle when he thought that the auxiliary pastor, who would have been far more understanding, was noticeably softer than the hard, weathered old priest. He’d always liked Padre Ramirez better.
But he had to do this. He couldn’t just let it go and try to find some other way to cope that didn’t involve getting blind drunk for a month. These animals had to be punished, and he had to do it himself.
He looked around. Even his vengeful reverie wouldn’t distract him from the necessities of navigation, security, and timing. Checking his watch, he saw that they still had about five minutes left.
They weren’t quite to the ninety-degree offset that Flanagan had directed, but they should have a good shot. Javakhishvili was panting hard behind him; their doc was carrying extra gear, since he had the main trauma bag, and he wasn’t in the kind of shape that Gomez was. He got within a meter and sank to a knee, heaving breaths, his rifle laid over his thigh.
Gomez made his decision. They weren’t going to get much farther around in five minutes. He pointed up toward the crest. “Here,” was all he said. Javakhishvili gulped air and nodded. Gomez had been moving faster than he’d been prepared for.
Without another word, Gomez was scrambling up the slope, going over the crest as low as he could get. He got several meters back down, huddled in the low, scattered brush, and waited and watched, to see if anyone down below had noticed the movement.
There was no reaction from the house, even as Javakhishvili came down after him, slipping and sliding a little, kicking up dirt and rocks that bounced some distance down the slope, catching himself and halting his descent a few feet above Gomez. A faint cloud of dust drifted over them, catching a little bit of the early morning sunlight. Both of them froze.
Gomez checked their distance. He didn’t have to get quite as detailed in his ranging as Flanagan; he knew this ground like the back of his hand. He’d grown up running around these hills. He’d never had to set up to shoot at his own house, but he had a good idea of where he was going. Keeping low, he scrambled for a small draw just to his left. It would provide a bit more cover and concealment. Herc followed, if slightly less stealthily.
He had seconds to spare as he got into position, lying as flat as he could, his rifle pointed downslope, tucking the buttstock into his shoulder as he loaded the bipods and found the scope with his eye. He was still about seven hundred fifty meters from the house. It was a long shot, but the OBR was more than capable enough for it.
He found his first target, a skinny man smoking a cigarette, a weapon dangling from his hand as he peered in the window, laughing. Letting his breath out, his body utterly still, Gomez’ finger tightened on the trigger.
Chapter 10
“Well, now,” Bianco said suddenly, leaning toward the screen of his laptop. “This is interesting.”
Jenkins looked up from the bed, where he was sprawled next to his rifle, looking at something on his phone. “What?” he asked. He didn’t sound particularly interested; it just seemed like a response was needed.
Bianco didn’t look up from the computer, though, and if he noticed Jenkins’ apathy, he didn’t remark on it. “So,” he said, “I’ve been mainly searching social media; there’s like, one newspaper for the whole county, and its website isn’t updated regularly. But there was a guy around here about six months ago who started making some noise on social media about some gang associated with the Espino-Gallo family, and missing persons. He’d apparently gone to the sheriff, and wasn’t impressed with their sense of urgency. He said in multiple places that he was going to go to the Feds.”
“Well, apparently he didn’t,” Jenkins said absently, turning back to his phone. “Unless the Feds are really, really low-key around here.”
“Pretty sure he didn’t,” Bianco said, frowning at the screen, “because a few days after he started talking, somebody broke into his house and blew his head off with a shotgun while he was lying in bed.”
“Brutal,” Jenkins said. “I don’t suppose they caught the shooter?”
“Not from what I’m seeing,” Jenkins said. “’Insufficient forensic evidence, case is still open,’ seems to be the sheriff’s department’s line.”
Jenkins sat up, putting his phone aside. “So, what? The sheriff’s office is dirty, and knocked this guy off to send a message that nails that stick up get hammered down?”
Bianco sat back and rubbed his chin. That was when he realized he hadn’t shaved in about three days. He didn’t really have an excuse; he, Jenkins, and Curtis had moved into the hotel room the night before. He’d just gotten caught up in the work and forgotten. That happened, sometimes.
“Part of it, I think,” he said. “I don’t know if it’s the Sheriff calling the shots, or this Espino-Gallo outfit. One thing is for sure, though. I think they’re watching social media. Maybe more than that. If they’ve got tech people who are sophisticated enough, they might be watching phones and emails, too.”
“You got that from one social media search?” Jenkins asked. Curtis was sitting by the window, his own rifle across his lap, watching the parking lot. Uncharacteristically, he hadn’t said anything yet.
“Not exactly just one, and not just social media,” Bianco replied. “There’s a lot more said in the gaps than in the actual information. But you can get a lot from social media alone, without even getting into actual intrusion stuff.” He rubbed his eyes. “I think the reason that nobody outside this county has looked into it is because everybody around here is too scared to say anything. There’s one more mention of the missing persons and the Espino-Gallo gang after Mr. S
haw got a face full of buckshot, and then it goes dead quiet.”
“Did they kill that guy, too?” Jenkins asked.
“No, he’s still posting, but there’s a four-day gap, and then it’s all innocuous stuff,” Bianco replied. “Well, it’s innocuous for social media, anyway. Mostly national politics and dumb memes. Outrage of the week sort of stuff, but all of it happening somewhere far away from Lordsburg and Hidalgo County.”
“So, somebody got to him,” Curtis said. He sounded vaguely distracted, his attention still directed out at the parking lot.”
“That would be my guess,” Bianco said. “Either that, or he saw that Shaw got blown away and decided to shut up for his own health. But given the size of this town? I’d guess he got a rather more specific warning.”
There was a triple knock at the door. Jenkins heaved himself up off the bed before the lock snicked open and Brannigan slipped inside, Hancock right behind him. Hancock quickly shut the door.
“It smells like feet and ass in here,” he commented. “You monkeys haven’t been here long enough for that kind of stink.”
“It’s Jenkins,” Curtis said. “Too long without hair product, and SEALs turn into animals. It’s tragic, really.”
“Fuck you, Curtis,” Jenkins replied.
“That ain’t even original,” Curtis scoffed. “You gotta try harder than that.” But he was still watching the parking lot, and his voice still seemed slightly distracted.
“Carlo’s on his way back,” Brannigan said, cutting through the banter. “He’s been tracking a van that we spotted meeting with the sheriff.” He blew out a breath. “It looks like the sheriff’s not an entirely willing participant in this crap. He’s being blackmailed, and given what else we know, I don’t think it’s a huge leap to think that somebody he cares about has been kidnapped and is being held as a hostage for his ‘good behavior.’ And that van headed south, toward the border.”
“Probably belongs to the Espino-Gallo gang,” Bianco said. He filled Brannigan and Hancock in on what he’d found.
“What can you tell me about these Espino-Gallos?” Brannigan asked.
“Not much,” Bianco admitted. He gestured to the laptop on the small hotel desk in front of him. “There are a couple of instances of that name popping up in connection with violence in Juarez, though it’s hard to tell who they were aligned with. That place has become a battleground between the Juarez Cartel, the leftovers of the Sinaloa Federation, and the CJNG. I think that Espino-Gallo was a family working with the Sinaloas, but it’s hard to say. American media doesn’t talk much about it, and some of the Mexican sources are a little spotty. There’s mention of an ‘El Destripador,’ though, that seems to go along with the Espino-Gallo name.”
“El what?” Jenkins asked.
“Destripador,” Bianco replied. “Means ‘ripper,’ or ‘disemboweler.’”
“Sounds like a fun guy,” Jenkins said.
“It fits with the horror show that is modern Mexico,” Hancock said grimly. “Sicarios putting human flesh in their tamales and shit.”
“Guys?” Curtis said suddenly. “We might want to move on. I think this hotel’s being watched.”
There was a sudden, electric tension in the room. Jenkins jerked his head up, taking a long step toward the window, but Hancock held him back. “Keep away from the window,” he said. They can see inside, remember?”
“What have you got, Kevin?” Brannigan asked.
“There’s been a car with two guys in it sitting at the edge of the parking lot, near the street, for the last hour,” he said. “Another one just pulled up next to it, rolled down the window, and one of ‘em was definitely pointing up here.”
Bianco looked around the room. It didn’t exactly look like a tourist suite. The Comfort Inn wasn’t a roach motel by any stretch, but it was hardly spacious, and currently just about every flat surface in the room was covered with field gear, weapons, and ammunition. He started shutting his computer down.
“You think they might have traced your snooping, Vinnie?” Brannigan asked. “I know that we’re talking about gangbangers here, but…”
“Nah, it wasn’t me, boss,” Bianco answered. “I was careful, and I used a VPN, so any snooping I did would have appeared to have been coming from Maine, not here. I think they’re just watching outsiders.”
“Good point,” Hancock said, shoving a rifle into a long case. Jenkins and Brannigan had also started packing everything up. They had to get it to where they could carry all the gear out in one trip, without looking like they were part of a platoon about to deploy to the sandbox. “Hard to blend in in a town this small.”
“We’ll bombshell out of here, and meet back at the adobe,” Brannigan said. “Don’t engage if you don’t have to. Once we get the word from Joe and the recon team, we can determine our next course of action, but I’m pretty sure it’s going to lead us across the border. This is primarily a rescue mission now, so we’re going to have to scout our objectives and move fast. Now, grab this crap and let’s get out of here.”
***
In minutes, they were out of the room and moving out of the side exits of the hotel. They hadn’t parked together, knowing that with the sheriff running interference for the cartel—the Espino-Gallos, if Bianco’s information was right—they were in hostile territory. They tossed their gear in vehicles and headed out, moving in different directions, staggering their exits.
The gangsters seemed a little confused as to who to follow. They let the car with Curtis and Bianco leave unmolested, then both of them followed Brannigan and Jenkins. Only when Hancock left did they seem to get uncertain and break off.
All three vehicles headed well out of town before turning south.
***
Gomez had taken up all the slack on the trigger. He was just waiting for Flanagan to open the ball.
A hissing crack echoed across the desert. It was muted enough by the suppressor that it sounded strange; it probably would take most people a second to identify it as a gunshot. Lamberte had apparently machined the suppressors himself, but they were every bit as good as a Gemtech or a Surefire. Gomez knew the sound well, though, and at the same instant it echoed in his ears, his trigger broke.
The OBR rocked backward ever so slightly, the recoil absorbed by his body, as the bullet soared downhill with a similar hiss-crack.
The laughing gangster hadn’t even noticed the first shot. He never really noticed the second. Gomez’ bullet passed just under his clavicle and tore his heart and lungs to pieces before bursting out just below his ribs. He dropped like a sack of dirt.
He was already shifting targets as Javakhishvili took his shot. The first bullet went high, snapping over the head of the man who had just peeked around the corner, apparently wondering what the weird noise he’d just heard was. Gomez shot the man in the high chest at almost the exact same time as Herc’s follow-up shot. 7.62mm bullets crisscrossed through the man’s torso and he staggered, then crumpled onto his face.
Gomez came up off his scope for a second, widening his field of view and scanning for his next target. He could just see the rise where one of the outer security men had been posted up. It was apparently empty, but he was pretty sure that the man was down. He hadn’t heard much in the way of follow-up shots from Flanagan or Wade.
Dimly heard across the distance, shouts started erupting from the house. An already broken window was shattered further by a wild burst of gunfire sprayed out into the desert. It was nowhere near their position, but Gomez kept himself flat, just in case, still searching for targets.
No one showed themselves. The yard was empty except for the two corpses, lying motionless in the dust. Still, he stayed patient, watching and waiting. Somebody had to come out and investigate, eventually.
And he’d be ready for them, ready to gun them down like they’d gunned his family down.
He had no doubt that that was what had happened. These punks wouldn’t be in his house otherwise.
Movement caught his eye. He glanced over, to see either Wade or Flanagan moving carefully down the slope. They’d be nearly invisible from the house, given the way they were moving.
They’re not waiting. They’re looking for a different vantage point to take more of them out before storming the house for the girl. He looked down at the slope in front of him. Which is what we should be doing.
Getting his feet under him, he hefted the OBR. It was decidedly heavier than the M4 he’d used in the Marine Corps, or, for that matter, most of the lighter carbines the Blackhearts had been fighting with on most of their jobs so far. But he could appreciate the heavier 7.62. Stepping carefully, keeping his eyes up and focused on the house, ready to snap the rifle to his shoulder and shoot as soon as he saw a target, he started down the slope, moving along the shallow draw. If need be, he could easily drop into cover.
Javakhishvili followed, if somewhat more loudly.
Even over the crunch of his boots on the rocky soil, he could hear voices from inside. The shooting had stopped, at least for the moment. The gangsters inside didn’t have targets, and at least one of them had probably yelled at the others not to waste their ammo.
There was another hiss-crack from off to his left. Either Wade or Flanagan had taken another shot.
How many of them are in there? Never did get a full count. But five got out of the van, and there were at least four or five outside. Herc and I killed two. I’m guessing that Joe and John got three or four by now. So, figure at least six still inside. They were outnumbered, but they still had something of an advantage.
The slope got shallower, the footing a little easier. He had to slow down; they were getting closer and closer to the house. The few windows facing the hills behind the house were clearly visible, though they were dark. The sun was just starting to top the ridgeline, which would provide an additional advantage. He and Javakhishvili would be in deep shadow, effectively hidden by the glare of the sunrise just above and behind them.