The house was lavishly furnished with tacky postmodern décor. Half the stuff in the large downstairs recroom looked like it came from Ikea. An expensive-looking pool table sat in the middle of the room. I searched the downstairs area in silence. The lower level was deserted, but I could hear sounds of movement coming from somewhere in the house. My grip on my weapon tightened slightly as I made my way up the stairs to the second floor.
I walked down the second-floor hall. The first door on my left led to a bedroom. The bed was covered with pillows and stuffed animals, and posters of several teen pop idols decorated the walls. A pit formed in my stomach, and I felt the Calm begin to waiver. It had never occurred to me that Gordon might’ve had a daughter. Shit. I noticed that the drawers on the girl’s dresser had been pulled open and emptied. Had Gordon and his family fled? If so, who was in the house?
I steeled myself and quietly returned to the hallway, padding along on the carpet. At the end of the hall was a door to what looked like a master bedroom. The door was open, but I couldn’t see any movement inside. There was a room kitty-corner to it, also with the door open. I froze when I heard someone cough loudly from that room.
My eyes narrowed as I brought my weapon up in both hands. I took one last deep breath and swiftly entered the room. I was surprised by what I saw.
Gordon Willis sat at a desk, facing the doorway, with his face buried in his hands. A large bottle of vodka sat open on his desk, and I could smell booze in the air. Next to the bottle was a Glock pistol. The room was some kind of study.
Gordon looked up when I entered the room, eyes wide. He swore aloud and reached for the pistol. My revolver roared in the confines of the study. The slug shattered the vodka bottle, blasted through Gordon’s hand, and smacked into his desk. Gordon screamed in pain, clutching his pulped right hand with his left. The Glock was sent clattering to the floor.
He stared at the blood pouring down his arm for a moment, then looked up at me. “What took you so long?” he asked heavily, convulsing with pain. “What are you waiting for?”
“It was a long drive from Nevada,” I said coldly.
Gordon froze and stared at my face intently for a moment. “V . . . Valentine? They sent you?” He paused for a moment, grunting in pain. “Jesus, I should’ve known. Well, just . . . just get it over with.” He looked down at his desk.
“Gordon,” I said slowly, keeping my weapon trained on him, “who is it that you think sent me?”
“What? You mean you’re not . . .” Gordon trailed off for a moment. He then let out a pained laugh. “You picked a hell of a day to show up.”
“What are you talking about?” My patience was running out.
Gordon nodded his head at his computer screen. The Drudge Report had a lead article about Project Heartbreaker and the abandonment of American personnel in Zubara. Bob Lorenzo had come through. He’d leaked Hunter’s flash drive, or at least part of it, to the public. “They told me there was no reason for my family to suffer,” Gordon said slowly, grasping his bleeding hand even tighter. “They let me send my wife away with my little girl. They . . . they told me to wait here. They said they’d come for me.”
“Who?” I asked. “Majestic?”
Gordon managed a sardonic, half-in-shock smile, all while tears of pain were leaking involuntarily from his eyes. “You think you got it all figured out because you found out a name?” He scoffed, wincing in pain as he did so. “You have no idea the forces that are at work here, kid. This is bigger than us. They know everything now. They know about the deal I made with Eduard Montalban. They even found out I was proceeding on Blue!”
“I’m not working for anybody. You don’t know why I’m here, do you?” Gordon looked at me in silence, inebriated from both shock and alcohol. My face hardened. “Her name was Sarah.”
“What? Oh . . . right . . . McAllister. I was sent a report about you two.”
“I know. I read it. She’s dead because of you, you son of a bitch!”
“I know,” Gordon groaned, squirming from the pain. “What do you want me to say? I was cleaning up loose ends. It was part of the deal. But that’s all ruined now. They found out.”
I smiled coldly. “Hunter gave me a lot of information before he died. I made sure it got into the right hands.”
“You? You did this? Do you have any idea the damage you’ve done? Well you’ll find out soon enough. Or not. I don’t know. They’ll probably just kill you. You should’ve taken me up on my offer.”
“And you should’ve listened when I told you not to fuck with me.” Then I shot him through the heart. The bullet punched through the back of his chair in a splash of blood, and Gordon tumbled to the floor.
I stood there for what seemed like a long time, not moving. I slowly lowered my gun. It was done; Gordon was dead. I’d avenged Sarah.
Yet I felt no satisfaction. Nothing had changed, except I’d ended one more life. Ling had warned me that if I went down this road, I might not like what I found when I reached the end. She was right. I’d reached the end, and I felt nothing.
Turning to leave the room, I nearly ran into the barrels of several suppressed weapons. A full squad of men dressed in tac gear was standing in the hall.
“Drop your weapon!” one of the men commanded.
Very slowly, I laid my revolver down on the carpet. I stepped back and placed my hands behind my head. The men in the hall rushed me then. I was turned around and slammed against the wall. My hands were roughly pulled behind my back and cuffed together.
Searing pain shot through me as one of the men shoved a high-powered taser into my back. I gasped for air, my knees buckled, and I fell to the floor. A black bag was pulled over my head, and I was hit with the taser again.
I found myself wondering if they’d come for me, or if they’d come for Gordon. I doubted I’d live long enough to find out.
LORENZO
Somewhere in the Caribbean
August 28
“It has been a month since billionaire philanthropist Eduard Montalban was killed in a tragic plane crash. The FAA has concluded their investigation and have determined that his Gulfstream jet was brought down by a mechanical failure as the pilot attempted an emergency landing at an airport in rural Nevada. According to the National Transportation Safety Board, there is no evidence that the plane was brought down by a surface-to-air missile, as was originally rumored,” the anchorwoman said. Like most cable news people, she was easy on the eyes yet hard on the brain.
The screen switched over to a prerecorded press conference. The caption on the bottom of the shot said Special Agent Robert T. Lorenzo, FBI. Bob looked awkward on camera, enormous behind the podium, and the press spotlights caused a reflection from the top of his bald head. “I can assure you that there is no need to panic. There’s absolutely no evidence that there are any anti-aircraft missiles in the United States. Air travel is perfectly safe.” My brother lied well. It must run in the family. “The reports of a wild west-style gunfight in the Nevada desert beforehand are nothing more than unfounded rumors passed on by conspiracy theorists. Mr. Montalban’s death was a tragic accident. He was a great humanitarian and will be missed by all.”
They showed a file photo of Big Eddie waving to the crowd at some bigwig charity function, supermodel on one arm, poodle in the other.
Good riddance. Freak.
How could such a pathetic shell of a man cause so much suffering? I didn’t think I would ever understand what made him tick, what motivated him to threaten me. The wicked trinket that had cost Train and Carl their lives was buried in a pit of ashes in Nevada. It had gone from one hole in the desert to another. It could rot in those ruins forever for all I cared. It seemed fitting.
The picture changed back to the vacuous reporter. “But with the recently revealed secret files concerning Project Heartbreaker, new questions have been raised. According to the files anonymously placed on the Internet, Eduard Montalban’s older brother, Rafael, was one of their targets in the
Middle East and was assassinated by members of the rogue operation codenamed Dead Six. Now members of Congress are questioning the NTSB’s ruling and demanding that the investigation be reopened.”
The picture changed to footage of several men in suits leaving a courthouse. A mob of reporters screamed questions at the men while mirrored-sunglass-wearing security rushed them into large black cars.
“In related news, the Project Heartbreaker hearings have continued. The president has vowed that the perpetrators will be found and that no secrets will be kept from the American public. The House Minority Leader has insisted on the appointment of an independent commission to—”
Jill picked up the remote and killed the TV. “That stuff will rot your brain.”
She was wearing a simple white dress and had flowers in her hair. Through the window behind her, I could see the pristine beach stretching into the distance, bright green trees rising behind. Brilliant blue waves were washing onto the sand.
“I was hoping to hear something about what happened to Valentine,” I explained. “After he got arrested, he just disappeared into the system. Even Reaper can’t find any information about where they sent him.”
“You don’t even know it was him. They did rule Gordon’s death a suicide.”
“Suicide?” I snorted. “Five bucks says the kid killed him.”
“Maybe.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me up. “Come on. We’re on a tropical island in the middle of nowhere, and you want to watch the news? That’s just wrong.” She dragged me up the stairs and onto the deck. Our yacht rocked gently against the wooden pier. I wasn’t wearing a shirt, and the sun beat down on the mass of scars that was my back.
It had been one of Big Eddie’s boats, but it was mine now. In the confusion immediately following his death, we had gone to work embezzling as much of his fortune as was possible. Eddie’s computer had been packed with valuable information. He wasn’t worried about password security, because only a fool would steal from Big Eddie. But he was dead now, and you’d never find a bigger pair of fools than me and Reaper. With the contacts I had made in all of my years of doing Eddie’s dirty work, and with Reaper’s mad skills, we had been able to make an absurd amount of his wealth disappear into a maze of foreign banks before news of his demise spread and his accounts had been locked down.
Basically, we were now obscenely wealthy. In fact, this little island had been Eddie’s also. Most of it, anyway. It did have a little town on it. The rest was mine now. Apparently the Montalbans hadn’t even used the place in years. Reaper had found it in his frenzied searching of Montalban shell-corporation properties. Jill and I had been holed up here together for the last few weeks. With such a huge burden lifted from my shoulders, they had been some of the happiest days of my life.
And what we did together during that time was none of your business.
My family was safe, and as far as all of them except Bob knew, I was still just the flaky world traveler. Reaper had taken his share of the loot and gone his own way. He’d kept in touch and kept asking if I wanted to go back to work. I always turned him down. Valentine’s final words still haunted me.
“Want to head into town?” Jill gestured inland. Her arm was darkly tanned. “We haven’t gone dancing for a while.”
“I need to talk to you about something,” I said. “Something serious.”
She stopped smiling, folded her arms, and leaned on the railing. “I’m listening.”
“With all of the information about Dead Six public, and with Gordon dead, you aren’t in danger anymore.”
“I know,” she said slowly.
“You don’t need to stay hidden. You can be yourself again.”
Jill turned away, scanning across the beach as the wind whipped her dark hair around her shoulders. We’d spent a lot of time together recently. Being in hiding tends to do that to people. I was older than her, wearied and scarred by the world. She was a beautiful young woman with her whole life ahead of her. I was a criminal, wanted by the law in a dozen countries and wanted dead by hundreds of evil men. We both knew that though my life was calm and happy now, there was no guarantee that my past wouldncatch up with us eventually. And for men like me, sometimes the past comes back to haunt you, while other times it comes back to cut your head off.
She’d be better off without me. She’d be safe, no longer a target. “Jill, what I’m saying is, you can go home.”
Jill continued to watch the surf and the wheeling seagulls. It wasn’t like she needed to stick around for the money. She’d helped us loot Eddie’s fortune and had gotten an equal share. The only reason she had to stay now was me.
“You know what, Lorenzo? I think I am home.” In one smooth move, she pulled her dress over her head, tossed it on the deck, and dove into the perfect blue water.
I grinned stupidly and followed.
My first official act as the island’s new owner had been to change the name from Montalban Island to St. Carl.
It had a nice ring to it.
Home.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Larry Correia
Larry Correia is the New York Times bestselling author of the Monster Hunter series and the Grimnoir Chronicles for Baen Books. He graduated with a degree in accounting from Utah State University and went to work for a Fortune 500 company as a financial analyst. Eventually, Larry ended up in the gun business, where he was a machinegun dealer, firearms instructor, and freelance writer for various gun magazines. Most recently he has worked in military contracting. Larry lives in the mountains of Utah with his very patient wife and children.
Mike Kupari
An explosive ordnance disposal technician in the US Air Force, Mike Kupari also served six years in the Army National Guard. He grew up in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula and enlisted at the age of seventeen. He has worked as a security contractor with several firms, did a tour in Southwest Asia with a private military company, and is an NRA certified firearms instructor. Mike currently resides in Utah with his iguana.
FB2 document info
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Document creation date: 3.6.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.53, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
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Larry Correia
Mike Kupari
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Dead Six Page 59
