High Desert Vengeance (Brannigan's Blackhearts Book 5)

by Peter Nealen

  Having a loved one killed or harmed, when he couldn’t stop it, was one of the worst wounds a strong man could ever endure.

  “I’ll go talk to him,” he said. “You should probably go inside; we can take security for a while.”

  But Sonya shook her head. “I’ll stay out,” she said. “I don’t…I don’t really want to sleep,” she said, a little shyly. “And I don’t really want to go in there with the rest of them, either.”

  Brannigan looked at her. Despite what she’d been through, she was a pretty girl, darker than her brother and fine-featured. The bruises probably didn’t show as much as they might. And she was already withdrawing into her own cocoon, isolating herself from other people, even fellow victims of the same monsters.

  He didn’t have much to say. He was a soldier for hire, a man of war. He wasn’t a counselor or a shrink. She was going to have to work this out herself, one way or another. He wasn’t the one to offer sage advice.

  “Suit yourself,” he said. “But I’ll have a couple of the boys out here anyway. They won’t bother you.”

  I’ll skin ‘em alive if they do. But he wasn’t really worried about it. He was pretty sure even Curtis would shelve his usual ladies’ man routine in this case. He knew better than to try to make a pass at a teammate’s sister, much less one who had just escaped being sold into sexual slavery by a hair.

  Without much else to say, he turned and headed toward the barn. He could feel Sonya’s eyes on his back as he went.

  The barn was corrugated steel, pale in the starlight through his NVGs. The side door was open, and he stepped inside. He was still in his cammies and chest rig, his OBR hanging from its sling in front of him. It was pitch black inside the barn.

  “Mario?” he called softly. “It’s John.”

  “Up here, Colonel,” Gomez replied. His voice drifted down from the loft. A faint, bluish light came from the open window just below the peak of the roof. That would be where Gomez had set up.

  He found the ladder and started up. The loft wasn’t littered with straw, like a movie version of a barn loft; it was a storage area for tools, for the most part. The plywood floor was dusty, but otherwise clear. Gomez was a lump of darkness, crouched below a plastic equipment case, his rifle resting on its bipods on top of it, suppressor aimed out the window. He was scanning the desert outside, over the OBR’s scope.

  “That house is cleared out,” Brannigan said, finding another crate to sit down on. He was deathly tired. “We killed everyone in it and burned the drugs and goods they had in there. There’s some cash we seized.” He supposed that in some way, it could be said that they’d stolen it, but the “owners” were dead, and hadn’t exactly been upstanding citizens in the first place. “There wasn’t any sign of El Destripador. It looks like he got away.”

  He waited in silence, as Gomez processed that. He’d considered not telling him; there was no way of knowing just how he was going to react. The last thing they needed—the last thing his sister needed—was for Gomez to go on a one-man hunt for the guy in Northern Mexico. But he had always been honest with his men, and he wasn’t about to change that now.

  “You’re worried that I’m going to want to go after him.” It wasn’t a question.

  “In a word, yeah,” Brannigan said. “Hell, I probably would, in your place.” At least you had a target for your rage when your loved ones were killed, kid.

  “But you can’t justify a manhunt across all of Mexico just for revenge.” Again, it wasn’t a question. “Rescuing my sister was one thing. This is different.”

  “Afraid so,” Brannigan said. “We’ve already stuck our necks out pretty far. Several of us can stay here, in case he comes looking for revenge. He killed your parents. You’ve killed his.”

  “Yeah,” Gomez said, though he didn’t seem to have really registered the offer of additional security. That could get to be a problem; Hart was already back East with Childress. I need to start working on a domestic support network for families when we’re away. Carlo’s about to have a kid, things are starting to sound serious between Joe and his girl, Childress is going to be an invalid for a while, and now Gomez and his sister have a target painted on their backs.

  “You’re right,” Gomez continued thoughtfully. “If he’s the kind of psycho I think he is—and from what Sonya said, he is—he won’t let this go. We don’t need to go looking for him. He’ll come to us.”

  Something in the back of Brannigan’s mind, a remnant of the old schooling he’d gotten at the hands of people with no real experience or learning in the ways of violence, nagged at him to tell Gomez to let it go. That vengeance was never enough. The old adage, “When you set out to take revenge, be sure to dig two graves,” had always been one of those folks’ favorite aphorisms.

  But he’d lived with violence his entire adult life. He’d seen the viciousness not only wielded by people with guns, bombs, and knives, but by smiling, dishonest men and women with the power to ruin a man slowly and methodically through paperwork. They were the same sorts as El Destripador, only without the guts to get their hands bloody. They didn’t forget. Neither would the killer with the fancy revolver.

  Gomez and his sister couldn’t afford to “just let it go.” This wasn’t going to be over until El Destripador was dead.

  But he supposed that waiting for him in ambush was better than trying to hunt him down across Mexico.

  “This is all assuming that he didn’t get hit sometime during that ambush, and bled out in the weeds somewhere,” he ventured.

  Gomez shook his head, the movement all but invisible in the dark. “I don’t think so, Colonel,” he said. He didn’t elaborate. Brannigan shrugged.

  “You need a break?” he asked.

  “I’m good,” Gomez replied.

  But Brannigan heaved himself off the crate and stepped over to loom over him. “Go downstairs, make sure your sister’s doing okay, and get some rest,” he said. “I’ll take the watch for a while. Tell Roger to send somebody up in two hours.”

  Gomez turned toward him, and even though he couldn’t see details in the shadows, Brannigan knew he was going to protest. “That wasn’t a request, Gomez,” he said quietly.

  Gomez just looked at him for a second, then nodded and got to his feet. He heaved the OBR off the crate, and Brannigan set his own down, moving into Gomez’ spot.

  Without a word, the younger man moved away, toward the ladder. He paused at the top, as if he wanted to say something, but thought better of it and started down. Brannigan felt the quiver of his steps through the floor beneath him, then heard, just barely, the crunch of his boots on the sandy soil outside as he walked back toward the house.

  Then he settled in, scanning the dim, empty desert between the ranch and the Mexican border. He wondered if it would be tonight.

  ***

  “You’re sure he’s home?” Brannigan asked.

  Lisa Thomas was sitting in the front seat. It somehow hadn’t surprised him to find out that Lisa was Sheriff Thomas’ daughter. She had just the right sized chip on her shoulder.

  She nodded. She suddenly seemed a lot less aggressive and angry than she had been when they’d found her in Benito Espino-Gallo’s bedroom. She almost looked scared.

  “That’s his truck in the driveway,” she said. “Sometimes he’ll work on paperwork at home before he goes to the sheriff’s office.”

  Brannigan looked over at her. She suddenly looked very young. She couldn’t be much more than sixteen, but she’d already seen horrors that some grown women had never witnessed in their lives, much less endured. She’d be scarred for life, no matter what kind of cold, hardened armor she wrapped around herself.

  The question, and one that he suspected she was asking herself at that moment, was how her father was going to react to what had happened.

  Thomas had been a blustering man high on his own importance, in the encounters the Blackhearts had had with him. Once they’d found out about Lisa’s kidnapping, it had made sense
, being the reaction of a deeply frightened man who didn’t like being frightened. What might his ego drive him to do, when a stranger returned the girl he had been unable to save himself?

  There was only one way to find out.

  “Come on,” Brannigan said, opening the door and getting out. He was dressed as a civilian again, in jeans and a black leather jacket. “Nothing gained by dragging this out too much.”

  Lisa got out, her motions stiff and hesitant, her eyes still fixed on the door ahead of them. She was wearing old clothes; jeans, a blue t-shirt, flannel, and a puffy green jacket with a faux fur hood. Santelli had made a clothing run to the nearest Salvation Army store first thing that morning; few of the girls fit the clothes they’d taken from the Espino-Gallos, and Sonya didn’t have enough to loan to the ones who were her size.

  When Lisa hesitated, Brannigan started up the walk, taking the lead. She followed a step behind him.

  The doorbell was an old style, the faint ding dong echoing from inside the red brick house. There was a faint sound from inside, and then the white-painted door opened fractionally.

  “What do you want?” Sheriff Thomas asked, peering suspiciously up at Brannigan. He was half-dressed for work, in jeans and boots but only wearing a white undershirt, the collar stretched out around his thick neck.

  “I brought your daughter home,” Brannigan said flatly, stepping back to reveal Lisa, standing on the top step, her arms tightly folded around her chest.

  All of Thomas’ bluster suddenly drained out of him as he saw his daughter. He started to shake as he opened the door all the way. “Lisa?” he asked, as if he was almost afraid to believe it.

  She nodded jerkily, and then Thomas was holding out his arms to his daughter. She hesitated, and Brannigan saw that Thomas saw it, and it almost broke him. “What did they do to you?” he asked.

  “Not as much as they did to some of the others,” she finally said, tears glittering in her eyes.

  Thomas seemed to sense that his daughter was going to need time. He stepped back from the door. “Come in, please,” he said, looking at Brannigan. “Both of you.”

  Brannigan ushered Lisa inside and followed. Thomas shut the door behind him, then went to the table and sat down heavily, as if he wasn’t sure his legs were going to support him anymore. “What happened?” he asked.

  “Lisa was one of the girls that the Espino-Gallo gang had kidnapped, along with Sonya Gomez,” Brannigan said, his voice rumbling in the Thomas dining room. “We got them out. That’s really all you need to know.”

  Thomas looked up at him, almost as if he was braced for a blow. “You’re one of Mario Gomez’ friends, aren’t you?” he asked quietly.

  “I am,” Brannigan said. He wasn’t sure where this was going. Thomas might still try to sweep this all under the rug by making them disappear. He’d have a fight on his hands if he did, but it was an eventuality that Brannigan had to be ready for. And right now, he’d have to handle it himself, since the rest of the boys, with the exceptions of Flanagan and Gomez, were scattering out across New Mexico, Arizona, and south Texas, returning the other girls to their homes or relatives.

  Thomas’ eyes searched his face. Brannigan knew what he saw; a lean, hard face framed by a thick, bushy handlebar mustache and longish hair going gray. And icy blue eyes that accepted no excuses, especially not from a man who had bent the law to appease the people who had kidnapped his daughter.

  “Do you have kids, Mr…” Thomas trailed off, but Brannigan wasn’t giving him that particular bit of information.

  “I do,” was all he said.

  “Then you’ve got to understand,” Thomas said. “Once they had Lisa…”

  “And that helped her how?” Brannigan asked coldly. “Had these people returned anyone they took? Ever?” The sheriff’s face answered that question. “Meanwhile, they went about their business, kidnapping more girls, running drugs, killing who they wanted, because you looked the other way. And your buddy Acosta was right in the middle of it.”

  Thomas blinked hard at that. “Acosta?” he asked. “Francisco?”

  “Yeah, that Acosta,” Brannigan said. “Don’t worry about him now; he’s dead. It’s too late for you to fix that mess.” He stood. “You’re welcome for your daughter back, Thomas. I suggest you learn from this. You don’t ever appease terrorists. I hope you can live with yourself, having aided and abetted the same people who brutalized your own flesh and blood.” Without another word, he turned and headed for the door.

  He paused at the threshold. “Oh, by the way, if you go to a small adobe just off Banner Mine Road, about three miles south of the mine itself, you’ll find Antonio Gutierrez locked inside. He was also bird-dogging people for the cartel. I’ll leave what to do with him up to you.” He turned and opened the door without waiting for Thomas’ reply.

  He felt Lisa’s eyes on his back as he went. Thomas didn’t say anything, nor did he try to stop him.

  He stepped outside and headed for the SUV, leaving them to work things out for themselves.

  Chapter 27

  Mario Gomez awoke to the thunder of a shotgun blast.

  He rolled out of his bed as fast as possible, grabbing for the rifle leaning against the wall next to his headboard. He hit the floor like a cat, his eyes scanning the room.

  He was in his own bedroom, his old one, just down the hall from where his parents and his brother had been brutally murdered. It had been mostly cleaned out, and was almost barren in the aftermath.

  He’d been sound asleep, but now he was wide awake and alert, fully aware of his surroundings and ready to fight. He padded to the door and eased it open.

  The report had come from across the hall. Sonya’s room.

  The house was dark and quiet. Flanagan was supposed to be on watch. And as Gomez came out into the hallway, Flanagan appeared at the end, coming in from the living room, his rifle up and in his shoulder.

  Gomez just pointed at Sonya’s door. Flanagan moved up to join him, his boots almost silent on the floor as he moved.

  They paused for a second, and Gomez considered calling out. If Sonya didn’t know who was coming through the door in the dark, they might end up eating a face-full of buckshot in the next few seconds. On the other hand, if El Destripador was in there…

  “Mario!?” Sonya yelled from inside. She sounded scared. He wrenched the door open and went in behind his rifle, Flanagan half a step behind him, both of them quickly clearing the room.

  Sonya was still in bed, Flanagan’s Shockwave in her hands. She wasn’t pointing it at them, fortunately. It was still pointed at the shattered window on the northwest side of the house.

  “It was him,” she said. Her voice was shaky, as if she was trying not to cry. “I know it was. He was right there in the window…”

  Gomez moved quickly to the window, his rifle trained on it. The empty yard was all that met his eyes. There was no sign of an intruder. “You’re sure?” Flanagan asked. “It couldn’t have been a dream?”

  But Gomez had moved closer to the window and peered out, studying the ground. It was hard to see, even with his eyes fully dark-adapted. But he thought there might have been a dark stain on the windowsill. “I don’t think it was a dream,” he said. “He’s here.” Turning away from the window, he started immediately toward the door. “Stay here, Sonya,” he said, “and keep that shotty pointed at the window.

  “This shouldn’t take long.”

  It took a moment to duck back into his room, shoulder into his chest rig, and grab his NVGs. He was still in his boxers, and it was a chilly night, but he didn’t want to take the time to pull his trousers on. He did slip his feet into a pair of moccasins that he had made himself, years ago, using the old Apache pattern that his mother had taught him.

  Then he was heading out the door. Flanagan was already out there, waiting by the corner, down on a knee, scanning the brush.

  “Looks like it’s him all right,” Flanagan whispered, pointing ahead of him. “And Sonya cli
pped him.”

  Gomez followed Flanagan’s pointing finger. Sure enough, the ground was disturbed ahead. It took some time to make out that the roughness in the dirt were footprints, deep ones, like someone desperately running away, slightly off balance.

  As he moved closer, he thought he could see dark drops staining the dirt, black in the green phosphor of his PVS-14s.

  He scanned the brush carefully, moving toward a creosote bush a few yards beyond the house. He sprinted across to it, even as a flash split the night a short distance away. The bark of the shot was almost simultaneous with the whip of the bullet past his ear, as he dove for cover.

  Flanagan shot back, the crack of the suppressed 7.62 still sounding impossibly loud in the desert night. Gomez crouched behind the creosote bush, gone utterly still, and listened carefully.

  He might have heard movement out in the sagebrush, but he couldn’t see anything, even as he eased his head around the prickly branches.

  Flanagan sprinted forward, dashing a few yards and skidding to a knee behind a feed trough. He didn’t draw fire, but that only told Gomez that El Destripador had learned from the first time. He didn’t think that the man was down.

  The young killer was a predator, and he would learn quickly. Not quickly enough, though. This was going to be his last night on Earth.

  He didn’t dash this time, but rose up on the balls of his feet and started to slip through the brush, placing each foot carefully so as to make no noise. He knew roughly where his quarry was. He didn’t look straight at the spot, but kept as much brush between him and it as he could.

  He could barely see the movement out of his unfiltered eye, as Flanagan flitted ahead through the brush, dropping to a knee and scanning with his rifle up. He didn’t stop moving, but crept onward, watching and listening.

  He paused after about twenty yards, getting down behind a large clump of cactus. Reaching down with one hand, he found a rock about the size of a baseball. With a flick of his wrist, he lobbed it at a point a few yards to the right of where he thought his prey was hiding.