Wild Hearts (Novella) by Tina Wainscott Page A

this particular compound when it was held by another cartel. The tentative relations between the two countries were why this had to look like Los Negros. Otherwise, it would seem pretty bad to the world, Americans killing the “good guys.” Others would be livid that the U.S. was funding “terrorists,” no matter their stripes.
    Risk crept to the back hallway, cleared it, then followed Gutterson to the right, where Romero was supposed to be sleeping. Saxby Cole, known as Sooch—short for“Southern charm”—and Knox Logan headed down another hall to take out Romero’s brothers, while Julian and Rath Blackwood headed toward the back of the compound for their targets. There was nothing charming about Sax, or any of them, in black face paint and the dark fatigues Los Negros were known for.
    Risk covered from the rear as Gutterson led the way. They flanked the target’s door and listened. Not a sound; not even breathing. Gutterson turned the knob and pushed it open, his gun pointed and ready. Risk could make out two figures lying in the bed. The goal was to kill Miguel, leaving his wife none the wiser—and alive. Unless she aimed a weapon at them.
    With the NVGs, Risk could see that Miguel slept on the left side, his assault rifle within easy reach. He wasn’t reaching for it. Gutterson aimed at Miguel. Risk saw something strange on the man’s pillow but didn’t have time to gesture before Gutterson squeezed off two shots.
    Though the wife didn’t move, Risk saw the odd pattern on her pillow, too. He tapped Gutterson’s shoulder and pointed at it.
    Glass shattered as an assault rifle sprayed a line of bullets at them from outside the window. Risk’s body reacted instantly, dropping him to his knees. Gutterson fell with a thud. Risk came from the side and fired back. He saw no one there, but they’d lost the element of stealth. The compound woke up. Risk could feel it and hear it in the clatter of guns and pounding footsteps.
    Gutterson wasn’t moving. Not even a groan when Risk shook him. Risk hoisted Gutterson over his shoulders and darted toward the door, watching both the hallway and the window for movement. Warm blood poured over his shoulder and made his shirt stick to his skin.
    Risk swung his weapon right and left before stepping into the hallway. A shadow fell over the tiles on the floor, and he aimed the weapon at the person about to come around the corner. His finger stiffened on the trigger as his brain computed what he saw: a little girl, armed only with a teddy bear.
Holy shit
. The Wolf had said women and children were kept separate from those who might be targets. But here was a kid. Risk lowered his weapon and told her in his limited Spanish to hide. But the kid … hell, she was frozen right there, her big brown eyes reminding him of that deer-in-the-headlightssaying.
    Risk tightened his hold on Gutterson, one arm looped around his leg, with one hand gripping his sleeve and the other holding his rifle. He ran out of the hallway, a barrage of bullets zinging past them. Puffs of dust came out of the walls where the bullets hit. They weren’t quite as troubling as the men waiting in the main living area, guns drawn. Risk ducked as the salvo cut across the room inches above him. He could hear suppressed weapons in other areas of the house, probably his teammates.
    A woman screamed. Fucking hell. Women and children. The Wolf had either lied or screwed up.
    Risk cut two of his assailants down at the knees. Hunching low, he ran for the door, now guarded only by a couple of bodies. The force of a bullet hit him in the chest and threw him to the floor. Gutterson fell in a heap. Pain thrummed through Risk, and he sucked in a ragged breath. The shooter approached from the side. Risk spotted his MP7 on the floor, too far away.
    The guy nudged him with a toe. Bare feet, so not prepared for this late-night attack. Risk let him think he was dead.
Three. Two. One
. He grabbed the man’s ankle, jerked, and