War to the Knife (Brannigan's Blackhearts Book 9) Page 3

  “John?” Van Zandt was looking up at him, concern in his eyes. It was an expression that Brannigan wouldn’t necessarily have expected to see on the other man’s face even a few years before. “Watch your back.”

  “You too, Mark.”

  Chapter 3

  Brannigan was leaning against the corner of the cabin as Flanagan pulled up in his old Ford. The truck was well cared for, but it was pushing fifty years old, and some rattles were just par for the course.

  Flanagan parked the truck, shutting off the engine and swinging the door open. Brannigan waited, taking in their surroundings.

  He’d never been to Flanagan’s place before. It wasn’t quite like his own cabin, but Flanagan was a backwoodsman and didn’t like cities. Fortunately, Rachel appeared to like his taste in houses just fine.

  “John.” Flanagan walked around the back and dropped the tailgate. Two five-gallon buckets were sitting back there, next to a fishing rod and a good-sized tackle box. “I’d ask what brings you out here, but from the look on your face, I doubt that it’s just to see how the fishing’s been. It’s been great, by the way.” He pulled the two five-gallon buckets down, and Brannigan saw that both of them were pretty full of trout, perch, and a couple of walleyes. Flanagan had limited out for the day.

  “I kinda wish that was exactly why I’m here.” Brannigan took one of the buckets and joined the shorter, black-bearded man as he walked toward the front door. “That’s quite a haul. The melt’s still stirring the silt up where I’m at.”

  “You can still catch plenty during the melt, if you read the water right. They’re still there, and they still gotta eat.” Flanagan unlocked the door and led the way in. Even up in the hills, miles from his closest neighbors, Joe Flanagan was security-minded enough to lock his doors.

  Given what they both did for a living, a little paranoia was probably not unreasonable.

  Brannigan helped the younger man, who’d been one of his junior Marines back in the day, get the fish cleaned and stored. They didn’t talk about the job, not yet. Brannigan asked after Rachel—he knew that the two of them weren’t living together yet; they were saving that for after the wedding—and Flanagan told him that she was away at her parents’ house, making some more arrangements for the wedding, which was now just over a month away.

  “Not my thing. I’ll let her do whatever she wants for it.” Flanagan shrugged. “Honestly, she’s told me that it’s not so much her thing, either, but her mom’s going to take it personally if it isn’t just right.”

  Flanagan put the last of the fish he was preserving into the freezer, shut the door, and went to the sink to wash his hands. “Okay, what’s the job?”

  “Shady and suspicious as hell.” Brannigan sank onto one of Flanagan’s wooden chairs, his bulk making it creak a little. He was a big man, easily six foot four, broad shouldered and deep chested.

  “What else is new?” Flanagan leaned against the counter next to the sink and folded his arms. “But somehow, from the way you say that, this is somehow shadier and more suspicious than usual.”

  Brannigan filled him in. He watched Flanagan’s frown deepen and his scowl get darker as he talked.

  “So, we’re getting blackmailed into becoming a government hit squad.” Flanagan was not happy. “Have I got that about right?”

  “On the surface, yeah, that about covers it.”

  Flanagan’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe I’m particularly slow today, but if there’s something else going on beneath the surface, I think you’re going to have to spell it out for me.”

  So Brannigan told him what he and Van Zandt suspected. “I think Mark’s right. I think this is somebody’s political or criminal gamesmanship, and we’re supposed to simply be pawns in the game. Well, I don’t care to play somebody’s pawn, not even if they’re a Senator.”

  Flanagan snorted. “Especially not if they’re a Senator.”

  Brannigan inclined his head in agreement. “So, we’re going to go down early, do some snooping around, and find out what’s really going on. Then we’ll decide on what course of action to take from there. Honestly, from what Mark told me, and what little I’ve been able to confirm, it sounds like this Clemente probably deserves to die, anyway. And if the Colombians are too scared to touch him because the Venezuelans might intervene, well…”

  “Somebody’s got to do it.” Flanagan sighed. “And that’s kind of why Brannigan’s Blackhearts exist in the first place, right?”

  “True enough.”

  Flanagan scratched his beard. “Who else knows about this?”

  But Brannigan shook his head. “Right now? You, me, and Mark.” At Flanagan’s raised eyebrow, he shrugged. “I used to call Roger first. Now that you’re the Number Two man, you get first word.”

  Flanagan nodded, looking down at the floor. “Big shoes to fill.”

  “I can’t think of a Blackheart better suited to fill them. And I’m not just blowing smoke. You know me better than that. Roger would agree.”

  Roger Hancock had been the Blackhearts’ second in command since their first mission on Khadarkh. He’d been Brannigan’s right hand up until a mission in Argentina, where he’d taken a bullet to the head while charging an enemy spider hole.

  He’d already been dying, gut shot down in the Humanity Front’s underground research facility. He’d gone out like he probably had wanted to: with his boots on, his barrel hot, facing the threat and engaging the enemy.

  Every one of them still missed him.

  “I’ll do what I can. I call half, you call half?”

  Brannigan nodded somberly. “That’s how we’ve worked it. Let’s meet at the usual spot in… three days? We’ve got three weeks until time on target.”

  “We’ll be there with bells on.”

  ***

  John Wade was an angry man.

  Now, most of the men who’d known him over the years—especially his former comrades in the 75th Ranger Regiment—would have agreed with that statement just on principle. He was somewhat infamous for being a hard, unforgiving, and angry taskmaster.

  But this had nothing to do with the constant, low-level background roar that was daily life for John Wade. No, this was because of his ex.

  He was looking for something to punch when his phone rang. Gritting his teeth, he snatched it out of his pocket, ready to start snarling until he saw who it was.

  “What’s up, Joe?” He was a little proud of how steady his voice was.

  “Got a job. You free?” Flanagan wasn’t a man of many words, and even though he probably heard the simmering anger in the back of Wade’s voice, he wouldn’t comment on it unless it became an issue.

  “If it means killing people, you’d better believe it.” Let the NSA chew on that if they’re listening in.

  “It might.” Flanagan paused for a moment. When he spoke again, he sounded almost grudging. “There something I need to know about?” Flanagan had gotten out as a Sergeant. Wade had retired as a Master Sergeant. It probably felt weird, playing a leadership role to a man with Wade’s background.

  But Wade didn’t care what rank Flanagan had held, any more than he cared much about his own. That had been then. The Blackhearts was now. Brannigan trusted Flanagan to be the 2IC, so Wade trusted him, too. He certainly had no particular interest in the job.

  “Nah. Just fighting with my ex-wife. She’s kicking up a shitstorm about custody of my kid, again.” He snorted in renewed fury. “Once she found out how much I’ve been teaching my daughter to shoot, she decided to go running to CPS, claiming I’m putting her in danger.” He gritted his teeth. “Bitch.”

  “Will it require you to stay Stateside for a while?” Wade realized that Flanagan was thinking a little farther ahead than he was.

  “I don’t think so. This isn’t the first time this has happened, and I’ve got a good lawyer. I’ll be good to go. Just so long as it isn’t pure recon or babysitting duty, or something. I need to get my kill on.”

  “It’s… complicat
ed. Odds are there’s going to be some action, though, one way or another.” Flanagan clearly didn’t want to say more over the phone, and Wade didn’t blame him.

  “Great. Usual spot?” By then, all the Blackhearts knew the campsite they’d turned into their de facto briefing room.

  “Usual spot. See you there in three days.”

  ***

  Vincent Bianco just started banging his head against the table.

  “Come on, Vinnie, it’s not that bad.” Tom Glenn was a long-time friend and a co-conspirator when it came to trying to get The Legend of Morval off the ground. Unfortunately, his optimism wasn’t particularly helpful right at the moment.

  “It is that bad.” Bianco sat up and gestured to the multiple legal pads strewn across the table. “It won’t work.”

  “It just needs some tweaking.” Glenn rubbed the back of his head as he looked down at the lines of numbers and stats. “Maybe we’re trying to get too complicated.”

  “No ‘maybe’ about it.” Bianco ran his hands over his face. “We’re trying to codify too much. Maybe we need to just stick with the bare-bones basic stats. Nobody wants to spend eight hours rolling up a character.”

  “I don’t think we really need to go completely bare-bones.” Glenn wasn’t just Bianco’s gaming buddy. Unlike most of their circle, Glenn was also a combat vet. He’d been in Marjah, back in the day, and had the scars to prove it. He was also a huge nerd, possibly more so than Bianco. “I mean, if our system is the same as a dozen other RPGs, then why should people bother?”

  “Because the rest of the rules are different.” Bianco stuck his thumbs in his eyes. “Hell, if I’d known this whole game design thing was this complicated, I’d never have started.”

  “Bull.” Glenn snorted. “You love this crap.”

  Bianco just groaned. When his phone rang a moment later, he grabbed for it almost as if it was a lifeline. Anything but staring at those legal pads and giving himself a headache trying to figure this out.

  “Vinnie, it’s Joe.” Flanagan’s voice actually triggered a wave of relief.

  Bianco sat up straighter. “We got a job?”

  “We’ve got a job. It’s complicated, but we’ll explain at the briefing. Usual place, three days.”

  “I’ll be there.” Bianco glanced over at Glenn, who was frowning a little, and briefly considered bringing his friend in. They could probably use another shooter.

  But no. Glenn’s scars went deeper than what the naked eye could see. Unlike a lot of vets who were one hundred percent disabled, according to the VA, Glenn was in no shape to go running around in the weeds with a rifle. Not anymore. He’d sustained some serious wounds in Marjah, and still needed to go to the VA hospital regularly. Bringing him along wouldn’t be doing him or the rest of the Blackhearts any favors.

  Especially since he’d feel honor-bound to try to hang if Bianco even brought it up. He knew Tom well enough to be sure of that.

  “We’ll see you in a couple days, then.” Flanagan hadn’t heard Bianco’s brief inner monologue. Bianco shook himself a little.

  “Roger that.” Flanagan hung up first. Bianco shoved the phone back in his pocket, and then, with a sinking feeling, realized that if the meetup was in three days, he still had time to work on this.

  ***

  “Hank!” Brannigan looked around the cabin as he got out of his truck. It had been a few months since the younger Brannigan had come to live with his dad, helping out around the place. Sure enough, he was splitting firewood in the back. “Come inside for a minute.”

  He led the way into the small cabin, which he had built for himself and Rebecca before cancer had claimed her. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to this conversation.

  Hank came in behind him, wiping his boots off and dusting his hands. He’d worked up a good sweat—he must have been at it for a bit. The young man was almost the spitting image of his father, if shorter and slighter of build, his hair still dark and cut short. Brannigan waved him to a seat at the table, then took the other.

  “I’m guessing we’ve got another job.” Hank sounded eager. Somewhat more eager than Brannigan might have expected. Or liked.

  “We’ve got another job. At least, the Blackhearts have another job.” Brannigan steepled his hands in front of him, leaning on the table. “The question is, are you going to come or not?”

  Hank frowned. “I thought I did okay in Azerbaijan.”

  Brannigan nodded gravely. “You did. That’s not the issue.” He sighed. “Son, I need you to be damned good and sure this is what you want to do. Because this mission’s not just combat dangerous. If it goes sideways, the US government might just come down on all our heads.” Better to get all the cards out on the table.

  But Hank just spread his hands. “I watched them scapegoat you for East Africa. I saw just how quick the knives come out when I was a Company Commander. That doesn’t worry me. It’s always been a risk. If it happens, we’ll deal with it.”

  That wasn’t exactly the answer Brannigan had wanted to hear. He realized that while he was proud of his son’s warrior spirit, a part of him really didn’t want him coming out and risking his neck with the rest of them. Hank was all he had left since Rebecca had died. “You’re sure? You might have gotten through your first mission, but they don’t get any less hairy.”

  Hank shrugged. “I’m not that used to being the low man on the totem pole anymore, but I can deal.” He sighed and squinted up at his father for a moment. “I know why you’re asking, Dad. But yeah, I do want to come. I can’t think of anything else I’d do.”

  “That’s a poor reason to carry a gun for money.” But Brannigan sighed. As much as he didn’t know that he wanted the merc life for his son, Hank was a grown man, and a warrior. He could make these decisions for himself. “All right. But we’re going to have to watch our backs.”

  “What else is new?”

  Chapter 4

  Brannigan put the phone down. That had been his second try to get through to Gomez, without an answer.

  If it had been anyone but Mario Gomez, he would have just figured that the other man had decided that he’d had enough and was leaving the Blackhearts. Gomez was generally a man of few words, anyway. He was even more taciturn than Flanagan.

  But Gomez was also a stone-cold killer, and about as unlikely to just walk away as he was to suddenly join the Peace Corps. Something else was going on.

  He’d just turned to call the next man on the list when the phone rang.

  Brannigan glared at the phone, tilting his head to see who was calling. He’d never been eager to get a cell phone in the first place, but the fact that the Blackhearts were spread all over the country meant that it was kind of necessary. And if either Van Zandt or Hector Chavez needed to contact him, then it made it easier to keep things low-key.

  He still hated the damned thing. Even though the number of people who had this number was extremely small.

  He recognized the incoming number. He’d just called it.

  “You’ve been harder to get ahold of than usual, Mario. Everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine. We have a job?” Gomez sounded as calm and deadpan as ever.

  “We have a job. Can you get up here in three days?” Brannigan was staring at the wall, his eyes slightly narrowed.

  “Easy. We had some issues down here, but everything’s under control now.”

  Brannigan’s frown deepened. “Anything you need help with? I can get in touch with Drake.”

  “No. Like I said, it’s all under control.” He might have heard an echo of Gomez’s faint, wolfish smile, about the most expression he’d ever seen on the man’s face. “I’ll be there.”

  Brannigan hung up, his eyes still narrowed. I wonder just how many bodies are currently attracting the buzzards down there in New Mexico?

  ***

  Erekle “Herc” Javakhishvili scanned the scrub-covered flats around Kitengela as the eastern horizon began to lighten. He wasn’t visibly arm
ed, but the AKS-74 in his pack was still within easy reach.

  Tom Burgess, his long hair pulled back in a ponytail, his salt-and-pepper beard neatly trimmed, joined him, opening the driver’s side door of the ancient Land Rover. “Any sign of them yet?”

  “Not yet.” Javakhishvili kept his eyes out as he climbed in and Burgess started the truck.

  At first glance, especially here in Kenya, the two men might have been mistaken for brothers. Both lean and rangy, both with long hair, and both white men in a decidedly black part of Africa. “Is David coming?”

  “He should be along in a couple minutes.” Burgess kept the engine running, though he kept the gears in neutral. “Father Metaxas wasn’t all that happy about this little expedition.”

  “Because we’re doing it, or because we’re bringing David?” With the door shut, Javakhishvili pulled the Kalashnikov out, flipped the stock open, and set it on the floor under his feet. He wanted to have it handy if this went badly.

  “Because of David. You know Father Metaxas.” The priest in charge of the St Anastasius of Sinai Mission had no particular objection to the two trained soldiers of fortune stepping in to protect his flock. But he was fiercely protective of that same flock, and David Kinyanjui was barely into his teens.

  Kenya wasn’t the safest place to grow up, though, especially a mere two hundred miles from the Somali border. Al Shabaab and other jihadi groups had made far too many inroads, despite the Kenyans’ efforts to curtail them.

  And it had been David who’d learned about the impending attack on the mission in the first place.

  Running footsteps came up from behind the vehicle, and Javakhishvili glanced in the rear-view mirror. David skidded to a halt next to the rear door, pulled it open, and jumped in.

  “Grab that bag in the back seat.” Burgess jerked a thumb toward the duffel he’d shoved in there earlier as he put the Land Rover in gear. “But it’s only for a last resort situation, you understand? You’re still staying with the vehicle.”

  David reached into the duffel and pulled out the old AKMS. It had clearly seen better days, but while Javakhishvili often called himself the “Shady Slav”—in fact, that was his callsign among the mercenaries who called themselves Brannigan’s Blackhearts—there were limits as to just what he could find.