the hard-packed dirt one hundred meters from the house. Salvio jumped first. His men followed, boots hitting the ground on a dead run. The choppers roared away and took up overwatch, circling high and wide as the Scorpion operators raced toward the main house. Beneath the moonless blue-black sky, the ancient farmhouse was a gray shadow.
Salvio landed at the four o’clock. He whispered orders into his comms for the advance of the rest of his team, knowing full well his men could do it without him.
“Bravo One, we’re on the ground,” Salvio said. “Watch your fire.”
“We have your back, sir.” The sniper team was positioned at six o’clock, the big Barrett M95 directly opposite the front door, ready to put a .50 BMG slug through any cabrón that stepped into its night-vision glass.
Salvio’s squad advanced at a slow, crouching trot, as did the others. Out in the open on the flat, grassy plains there was little chance of finding cover, so dropping in close was the only choice. He’d chosen the night, hoping the fighters inside didn’t have night-vision capabilities.
The twenty-four troopers closed in rapidly from three directions, weapons high, rounds chambered, safeties off. Heavy boots thudded onto the rickety wraparound porch, where the squads split up, stacking on either side of windows and both doors, front and back. Flash-bangs were pulled.
Salvio took the front door. Arab music blared from a tinny radio inside. He whispered another order into his comms. Flash-bangs crashed through window glass in six places simultaneously. The men closed their eyes and opened their mouths just as the grenades detonated.
Doors crashed open under their boots and Scorpions poured through into darkened rooms. The tactical light on Salvio’s Glock 17 illumined the living room, as did the swiftly panning lights on the carbines around him.
“Clear!” one of his sargentos shouted from the back of the house. Other shouts of “Clear!” soon followed. Soon, Acuña appeared, disappointment in his flash-lit eyes.
“All clear, sir. Nobody’s home.”
Salvio swore as he holstered his pistol. Where the hell were these bastards?
“Aquí!” a man shouted from the kitchen. Salvio and Acuña dashed in. Private Gallardo’s lighted weapon pointed at the floor inside a small pantry closet. A trap door. Salvio tore it open and pulled out his pistol, activated the tac light on the barrel.
“Gallardo, Hermann, with me,” Salvio ordered as he dropped into the darkened tunnel.
* * *
—
Salvio and the others returned to the kitchen entrance empty-handed. The tunnel ran seventy or so meters to an empty outbuilding. The terrorists must have fled from there, out of sight of his sniper team.
Salvio checked in with the chopper pilots on his comms, all deploying night vision and thermal imaging. “See anything?”
“No, sir. Not even a rabbit.”
Damn it!
He was supposed to report the capture of the two terrorists to the comandante mayor as soon as it happened. The old man would be pissed. All he had in his hands at the moment was his own swinging dick. Not exactly what HQ was hoping for.
Salvio barked orders. He’d tear the place apart for intelligence. Maybe come away with something to show for their efforts.
* * *
—
They ripped through the house front to back, flipping mattresses, tossing drawers, pulling rugs, tearing up floorboards. The place looked like a debris field after a tornado.
Somebody had been here—trash and butts on the floor, a filthy, unflushed toilet.
But not one shred of intel to bring back for a trophy.
While his men stood around gulping water from their hydration packs and scarfing down protein bars, Salvio called his pilots, ordering them to land for exfil. Might as well get back to barracks at Ciudad Evita and call it a night.
Ten minutes later, his unit’s three Eurocopters touched down, their turbines slowed. His men ducked low to avoid the carbon-fiber rotors raking the air just above their heads and piled into the choppers. They made room for the sniper and his spotter, who’d had to hump in six klicks by foot the day before to avoid detection. The sniper grabbed a spot on the floor at Salvio’s feet.
At least the men were in good spirits, Salvio told himself. They laughed and joked among themselves as young men do for release after the adrenaline rush of a combat operation.
Even one where no shots were fired.
“Ready, Ensign?” the pilot asked.
“Let’s get back to the barn,” Salvio said, in English. Just like his instructor at Fort Benning used to say. “Rápido.” Salvio’s son, a striker, was finally starting on his fútbol team. With