by D W Bell
“Meh, this is the boring part.” He called the micro drone back from its holding/recon pattern and set it to hover over the kill house and wait for the operator to emerge. It would automatically reacquire John’s GPS marker and shift to its orbiting overwatch mode once his boots had touched down outside of the structure. “Scanners are still clear. All my screens are green for exfil once he starts the burn.”
“I’m clear here too. Hard drive is nuked. I’ll give Mr. Smith a buzz and see if we can hurry him along.”
―
John was confused. His earpiece had just buzzed again with the sequence of beeps that told him to move to the next stage, but there was no next stage. This was it. He was setting fire to the plants and shelving as he backed towards the round window for egress, just as he had been ordered.
Curious, he turned towards the window as if his handlers would be standing there with an explanation as to how to proceed. Then he saw them. Not his handlers, but a series of large black drums lining the attic wall on either side of the window he had entered and had planned to quietly exit through. Large, glossy black cans shone menacingly, stacked neatly, in the growing flickers of firelight. In panic and disbelief, he scanned the newly flame-lightened eaves and realized the whole attic was ringed with the stuff. He had an idea the trouble he was in, but his fears were confirmed when he saw a torn label with most of the word “DANGER” and all of “Anhydrous Ammonia” printed on it. Natural and organic my ass.
Knowing that things with DANGER emblazoned on their containers and uncontained open flame don’t typically mix well, and, hearing the distinctive pop and hiss of pressure relief valves doing their duty, John sprinted for the now fire-wreathed hole guarding his passage into the starry night.
BOOM.
―
John’s body had just cleared the portal as he dove into the cool, starlit darkness, when, with a whoosh, he was propelled by a great, unseen force and instantly set ablaze. The fiery momentum of his streak across the sky was halted by a stately, solid tree trunk in the front yard. Still burning fiercely, he crashed to the ground and crushed an exceedingly hideous, mustachioed garden gnome before furiously rolling in the nearly barren grass to douse the flames.
―
The old van shook with the force and sound of a powerful series of explosions. Eyes wide both techs stared at each other and mouthed what the fuck?, each springing to action and checking the data and visuals on their terminals.
“Hooooly shit, bro. The whole fucking house blew!” The scanner tech stared transfixed by the blaze through the eye of the micro drone.
“What the fuck do you mean?” He twisted roughly in his chair to look at the live feed.
“The house, it’s just fucking gone!” He scanned the images for any sign of movement, but the camera just seemed to be hovering.
“Call it back. We gotta get the fuck outta here.” With that he quickly clambered into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and pulled onto the street to leave the area.
“Something’s up with the drone. It’s headed this way, but there’s no way we can rendezvous at cruising speed with the pace it’s going. Maybe the blast concussion screwed something up?” He smacked the side of his monitor as if that would help. The image was grainy and distorted, but they had to try to retrieve it.
“Alright, I’ll slow down and double back to that cross street. If it still won’t link up there we gotta nose it back into the fire with the rest of this mess.”
“Roger.” The van was still a block away and wouldn’t be terribly suspicious to any groggy eyes that would now be blinking at the blazing and still exploding fire, but sirens were in the distance and they couldn’t linger. “Yes! Got it. Drone is stowing now. Let’s roll…Jesus!”
It startled both men when the back doors banged open and a badly burned, still smoking, nearly naked man passed out and collapsed forward into the back of the van.
“Shit! Damnit! Pull him in, we’ll dump the body later.” And those were the last words John heard as he succumbed to the darkness.
“Ugh, fucking stench!”
Chapter 13
The Eagle’s Nest. Whether named for Hitler’s Kehlsteinhaus or in honor of the Ismaili assassin fortress Alamut is anyone’s guess, and probably both the truth. Ironically, this commemorative Eagle’s Nest was not perched high and inspirational atop a majestic mountain peak in a foreign range like either of its namesakes; it squatted in nondescript solitude on the bleak, endless flatlands of America’s empty heart.
It was a long drive from nowhere. The company had procured all the ranch and farmland for at least a ten-mile radius around the old, abandoned, windowless slaughterhouse, even manning the former family farms with obsolete assets; a humane way to put the best out to pasture when they were past their prime but had a record of distinguished service, and an expedient mechanism to furnish a flesh and blood surveillance net to augment the technological safety and privacy measures already in place across the unconcealed and coverless approaches.
They all still farmed and ranched as appropriate to maintain the deception, some even turning a small profit, but any entity entering the perimeter was observed, recorded, and monitored until it exited the other side of the refuge.
With only one main road bisecting it, being gravel and in general disrepair, there was no reason that uninvited vehicles should do aught but simply pass through the protected area, navigating the craterous moonscape of potholes as best they could, to reach their destination somewhere farther down the road, or, better yet, circle back and find a more scenic and less rustic route. A vehicle attempting to travel the spider web of packed dirt roads branching off from the damaged main artery would be especially scrutinized as these paths only led to dead ends within the company-owned acreage.
Customers always complained about the bumpy ride in, especially since they were normally ferried via beat up farm trucks with bad shocks and worn-out suspension to blend in to the nonexistent rural traffic, but for the less sophisticated consumer it added to the mystique and mystery of the process. Made them feel safe and appreciative of what they were getting for their money.
Boudreaux liked the idea of the low-rent punters getting shaken up in those old rattle-cans. Such was the case when they were dropped off at the front door of the old, crumbling slaughterhouse, or abattoir as Boudreaux insisted it be called, and led inside to the pristine, comfortable, and modern office suites hidden behind the edifice. It was explained, apologetically, that the decrepit, mundane vehicles were necessary should the facility be subjected to aerial or satellite reconnaissance. It wouldn’t do for Big Brother to spy hardscrabble farms and ranches being visited by a steady stream of extravagant motorcars and limousines, he may be led to believe things are amiss.
Of course, the truly prestigious clients arrived by helicopter. The organization maintained a small three ship fleet of state-of-the-art Bell 525 Relentless luxury whirlybirds, real high-speed low-drag shit sheathed in an opulent airframe flown by retired military pilots with combat experience. A fast, low, and smooth flight with the belly of the beautiful beast trimming the treetops, if there had been any to trim, was a true and rare delight for clients who warranted a ticket to ride.
They even had a couple Huey IIs and two surplus AH-1 SuperCobras, proper gunships with full military loadout. These unique assets were tucked away in outlying barns, constantly at the ready for close air support and troop deployment should things go awry anywhere on the old homestead. The SuperCobras were codenamed The Twin Sisters by their Texan flight crews, but outsiders never saw those other than during rare demonstrations for only the highest-level clientele. These special toys of Boudreaux’s were strictly need to know.
The most elite VIPs, such as the one rocketing toward The Eagle’s Nest at this very moment, were met at the landing zone by Boudreaux himself. In this case the definition of elite VIP was having a blood relative prominently pictured on the Saudi riyal. Boudreaux always did dote over royalty. The helicop
ter had barely touched the ground before the tuxedoed crew chief sprang from the cabin door, placed an ornate wooden stool in the perfect spot, and popped to attention holding the door open with a white-gloved hand. Boudreaux was there before his guest’s sandaled foot had left the stool to meet the concrete, smiling and yelling over the still turning rotor blades.
“As-Salam-u-Alaikum wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh, sheik! Welcome to The Eagle’s Nest.” He shook hands with slightly less pressure than his guest applied but gripped the sheik’s shoulder firmly with his free hand and led the man in flowing robes toward the facility. “How was the flight?” He didn’t show it, but he was a little perturbed as he noticed two more men stepping down from the aircraft. Large, mean, and obviously packing weapons under their western-style suits, for fuck’s sake one was openly carrying a sheathed katana in his offhand. These men must be the sheik’s protection detail.
Private security is strictly forbidden at The Eagle’s Nest, but when Boudreaux glared at the crew chief he just shrugged as if to say, “What the fuck was I supposed to do?” and began buttoning up the helicopter to get airborne again. Boudreaux didn’t miss a beat and put up his charming facade.
“Wa Alaikum Assalam wa Rahmatullah, Boudreaux.” He cut an impressive figure, tall and lean, but his dark sunglasses on top of traditional Arab garb stepping out of a helicopter amidst America’s amber waves of grain made him look like a stereotypical wealthy, black-bearded villain in a bad terrorist movie, especially with his black-clad killers in tow. To be truthful the sheik relished the thought and often played up the part accordingly to get his way.
“Please, allow me to welcome you and your companions to my humble home. You must take refreshment after your long journey.” Still smiling, with a gesture and a bow, Boudreaux directed the sheik and his minions through the rusted portal into the cool sanctuary within. The overly formal display of a Westerner trying too hard to please was of course all part of Boudreaux’s calculated sales pitch.
They had been watered, fed, and made comfortable. As closely and lavishly true to the original Bedouin practices as Boudreaux could manage. Only the unexpected retinue had eaten, big bastards, Boudreaux and the sheik sat across from each other exchanging pleasantries and sizing each other up. Neither touched the tea, water, or delicacies on offer to honor the guests.
Finally, the unanticipated guard dogs were sated, simultaneously sitting back from the table and placing their folded napkins over the remnants on the china platters.
“Please, gentlemen. I insist you eat your fill. What else may I bring you to make you feel at home in these austere surroundings?” Boudreaux and the two men went through the old ritual of insistent offer and polite refusal several times until the sheik interjected with a raise of his hand, allowing Boudreaux to halt the never-ending cycle and turn his attention back to his client.
“Thank you, Boudreaux. I and my men find your hospitality more than adequate and are fully sated and refreshed.”
“It’s kind of you to honor me with praise for my accommodations, modest as they are. May we adjourn to my office to discuss the circumstances that have blessed me with your visit? Your men may wait in the lobby, I will see to it that they want for nothing while we are in conference.”
“Very well,” the sheik rose to his feet and his bodyguards stood in unison, “I’m told you possess a great collection of fine cigars. Take me to your humidor.”
―
Relaxed now, out of sight of the help, both men luxuriated in the overstuffed leather chairs and clouds of blue smoke. After a few puffs, ensuring that they were both well lit, Boudreaux regarded the sheik with an impish smile, “May I serve you tea or coffee to revive you after your exhausting journey?”
With a flourish he directed his guests gaze to the bar cart where a delicate teacup had been placed strategically in front of a bottle of gin, while a coffee mug rested in front of the whiskey, showing his hospitality did not pass judgement or adhere to cultural laws. Boudreaux could barely contain a giggle as he asked, “One lump or two?”
The sheik smirked and pretended to stroke his beard in contemplation, “Without question your Great Plains are as vast and taxing as our Rub’ al Khali. Perhaps a coffee, two lumps.”
Boudreaux sashayed happily over to the bar and poured a healthy double into a proper whiskey tumbler, made another for himself, and delivered the “coffee” to his guest, “I dare say you won’t find water such as this in your Empty Quarter, even at the djinn-haunted oases…Ha, ha. Sorry, that joke only works if you had chosen tea, and therefore gin, but I couldn’t pass it up.” Both men chuckled and settled back to sip their drinks and puff their fat Cubans.
“So, sheik,” Boudreaux leaned forward slightly into his practiced listening pose, “what assistance may I, your joyous host and willing servant, offer you?”
“Thank you. A man of my status and righteousness collects enemies like lesser men collect lovers, and my enemies are quite passionate. Formerly I traveled with just one retainer, but you see that I have had to double my complement. They are good boys and strong, but they aren’t true warriors. In the days of the Prophet I would have called my tribe together and led them in a raid against our rivals, but our people have gone soft in modern times, grown fat with oil wealth.”
“Such is the world, sheik. I too often pine for the days of girding on the sword and fire in the night.”
“Absolutely, I had thought as much. Your understanding of revenge and diligence in procuring it is why I have sought you out. I want no army of my own, it would turn me from benefactor to tyrant in the eyes of my people, but my enemies must be cut down for their insolence nonetheless. So, I have traveled these many miles to judge your firm’s ability to act as my proxy. To have a look at your livestock.”
“I am sure you will be quite pleased with the beasts we have on offer,” Boudreaux sipped his drink and began his discovery questions, “Shall I assume most of the targets will be of the Muslim faith?”
“Not exclusively, but for the most part yes.” The sheik shifted back in his chair and regarded Boudreaux coolly.
“And, for their insolence, these faithless ne’er-do-wells must be shamed?”
The sheik puffed his cigar as if in contemplation, “Well, it wouldn’t hurt.”
Boudreaux had that gleam in his eye, “Say no more, sheik. Believe it or not our firm and the Islamic faith go back a long way. Despite all our high-technology it is our deep, historic roots that set us apart. Granted, this isn’t really Alamut and I’m no Old Man in the Mountain, but the ancient brothers of our order saw the power of the Ismaili Fedayeen during the Crusades and took steps to preserve their traditions and practices before they were wiped out, even saving a few key texts from the library. We have kept the tenets alive for centuries now, nurtured them into the modern, changing world, and intermingled them with the techniques of other powerful warriors that we have been able to procure over the years.”
“So, you know of the Hashshashin?” The sheik arched an eyebrow as he tested Boudreaux.
“An unfortunate and inaccurate sobriquet thankfully fallen from use, but, as in most myths there is a kernel of truth. Now, allow me to suggest some things. Anyone with money can arm a jihadi with an AK or a bomb vest and set him loose, but it would be messy and exactly what everybody else is doing. Your vengeance needs to stand out with the strength of your principles, for those with the eyes to see. I suppose the deepest shame for your Muslim brothers who have lost their way would be to have one’s life taken by the People of the Book? I do have a Jew or two in the inventory and available.”
“Hmm. As you say, shameful, but a little too generic and on the nose for my taste.”
“A Jewess, perhaps? The dual-edged sword of Jewness and womanhood should do it, don’t you think?”
“Ah! A woman…but not a Jewish woman. That approach is too direct. One of your blonde, blue-eyed Americans, maybe. Bride of the Great Satan and so on.”
The salesman swatted the
table in agreement, “Sheik, I like a man who knows what he wants. You’ve hit the nail on the head. No greater shame than to die at the hands of a dyed-in-the-wool infidel, unless said infidel is also a woman. Well played.”
“Thank you again, Boudreaux, but there is still the matter of perusing you inventory for a suitable candidate before we get down to brass tacks as you people say.”
“Of course!” Boudreaux checked the fancy timepiece at his wrist, “I think a few of our little infidel hellcats should be in a training session now. Well, they’re always in training around here to be fair. There’s no need to stand on ceremony, shall we top off our drinks and adjourn to the showroom floor? I think you’ll be impressed with the new, improved models we’ve launched for this year.”
―
While the offices and conference rooms of The Eagle’s Nest had been thoroughly remodeled and modernized, no longer bearing any resemblance to the former slaughterhouse with the exception of the outer façade, some internal parts of the structure had been left unchanged purely for training and theatrical purposes.
Specifically, the killing floor. It was immaculately sterile, but still smelled vaguely of its gory past, effluvia of iron and copper. The original, rusty grates set over the sluices that ran the length of the space stood out against the clean but cracked white tiles. The gantry hoist was still in place, and the rails, chains, and meat hooks, long ago used for hanging and transporting the meaty carcasses, hung ready to be called into service at a moment’s notice. As was often threatened by the modern “butchers” tenderizing the fresh cuts with exercise, training, and beatings on the hard floor.
