The Mercenary

by Dan Hampton

  “It’s close . . . it’s close.” Her hips came up to meet his movements and she grabbed his forearms to hold him in place. “That’s it . . . close . . .” she panted.

  He shifted then and rolled the girl even farther back on her shoulders. Grabbing the edge of the bed to keep from slipping he slid full length into her and felt his cock scrape her cervix.

  “Oh . . .” Her head came back and her eyes closed. Half in pain, half in pleasure. “Oh . . . yesss!” The girl moaned heavily and her hands clutched frantically at the sheets as her orgasm struck. A dusky blush flowed down from her hairline through her cheeks and onto her chest. Her collarbone stood starkly out against the reddening skin and her breasts darkened. Clenching down hard with her legs she held him motionless and he felt her inner muscles twitch. Every movement he made sent spasms through her quivering body, so he paused and watched, enjoying her pleasure.

  “Oh . . . my . . . God . . .” she gasped, opening her eyes and staring blankly at the ceiling. “Oh . . .” As her chest rose and fell, he reached down and gently twirled a nipple between his fingers.

  “Ummm.” Her eyes slowly came into focus and shifted to meet his with that amazed look she always had after an orgasm. That look no one had seen but him. And he loved her for it.

  But he couldn’t wait any longer. His cock ached and his balls felt heavy and swollen. As if on cue she reached behind him and cupped them in her little hand.

  “Yeah . . .” she breathed. “Give it to me.”

  His thrusts became quicker and he felt the familiar feeling begin deep in his groin. His own breathing quickened at the sight of her. Spread out below him, her beautiful face flushed and her perfect tits bouncing with each thrust. Bracing his forearms hard against her knees he stared down between her legs. The sight of his cock buried in her neatly trimmed pussy did it, and the rush hit him. Grunting like an animal, he grabbed a breast as his head came back, and thrusting hard one more time, he spurted hard inside of her.

  Collapsing on her chest he pressed his face against her neck and tried to focus his eyes. Her arms twined around his neck and he felt her lips in his hair. .

  “Ummmmm . . .” she whispered. “More . . .”

  Lifting his head, he looked into her eyes. “Tell me,” he whispered back, and she smiled.

  With a start he woke up. He reached for the girl, reached for her warm body and opened his eyes to see her beautiful face.

  But she wasn’t there.

  No one was there.

  Then he knew. Another dream.

  The girl wasn’t with him. And she never would be again. His chest got heavy and his breathing quickened. Swallowing hard, the mercenary rolled over and stared at the ceiling. Anger boiled up from his chest and knotted in his throat. They took her. They let her die. He squeezed his eyes shut. It shouldn’t have been like this. It didn’t have to be like this.

  He pressed a forearm over his eyes. The girl had brought him back to life. Back from the edge. For years he’d known he was there. He’d clung to normalcy in a life that was anything but normal. Four to six months of each year in a desert somewhere, shitting water and eating slop. People trying to kill you for more than a decade took its toll. The stress of living with death every single time he flew. Snipers through the wire, trucks with explosives blowing up around the compounds.

  The wars. He’d been in every American armed conflict for the last twenty years. How many widows had he made? How many orphans? They’d been trying to kill him but he was the one who’d survived. He kept coming back when others didn’t.

  Despite his skill and sacrifices, he’d watched others who did much less reap the rewards. Men with shiny shoes and pressed flight suits who’d never been anywhere or done anything. He’d become cynical and hard. The only real joy came from the flying, and even that had drifted away on the wind of reality. Reality being the knowledge that promotion beyond a certain rank had nothing to do with fighting ability. It had everything to do with politics. Knowledge that those in power didn’t really give a damn as long as they could claim the credit and collect the perks.

  So he’d countered by doing the things that they couldn’t do. Becoming indispensable through sheer competence and skill. So when they had a problem that couldn’t be solved through PowerPoint, they came to him. Sarajevo, Baghdad, Yemen, and a half dozen other unpublicized missions that had to be done. So he did them more from personal pride than national duty. In the end, he’d been fading inside for years by the time the girl re-entered his life.

  She’d changed everything. Made him remember again that the world had more in it than enemies and surface-to-air missiles and fighter jets. A world where he too could have a family. And peace.

  She’d drawn him back from the edge and filled him with a contentment he’d forgotten. The anger and contempt had slipped away like dirt under a long, hot shower. He’d been happy.

  He rubbed his eyes slowly and fought back the memories that haunted him. The mental pictures he still buried every day of his life. They attacked the back wall of his mind like crashing waves. Picture after picture.

  The girl. His wife. Smiling that smile a woman only gives to the man she loves. Swimming together in the ocean. Bright cheeked and grinning on a Canadian ski slope. Her voice and her laugh. The smell of her skin. Warm . . . like fresh-baked bread.

  That last Christmas and the girl’s mischievous gifts. Her simple delight in doing something nice for him. A loving face glowing in the soft firelight as they quietly planned for the future.

  And the child. His little girl.

  And she was gone. And his baby. She’d died alone and afraid. He would never forgive the system and the men who had done that. Never. He wasn’t even supposed to be there, at Langley. He’d had an assignment out. A training squadron in Arizona. It wasn’t the front lines, but after three wars he’d had enough of that anyway. In a training outfit he’d be home every night. There would be no deployments. He could take care of a wife and children. But they’d canceled his assignment because their ambition meant more than his family.

  Lying perfectly still for a few moments, he waited for the anger to pass. For it to slowly sink back into his chest. He waited until the hot flash of rage became the sullen, heavy hate that never left him. Opening his eyes, the mercenary stared at the pattern on the ceiling. He tried to count the revolutions of the fan, the spirals in the stucco. Anything to focus.

  Eventually the emotions passed and he was empty, as always. Rolling out of bed, he pulled on a pair of baggy Arab cotton pants and walked to the window. Gazing out, he was struck, as always, by the contrast between the modern world and one much older. Satellite antennas and mosques. Suits and robes. Donkey carts and Mercedes. Leaning against the huge bay window, he yawned and let his eyes clear.

  The door to the past was shut again.

  Standing two inches over six feet, the mercenary had wide shoulders, long, thin legs and a deep chest. Dark skinned, he had an angular face with high cheekbones that ended at his eyes. Eyes that could shift oddly from light cloudy gray to hard gunmetal, and whatever thoughts lived behind them rarely showed. It wasn’t a handsome face but it was an interesting face. Most important, it was a face that could be Arab or European or even American.

  Catlike, he stretched and yawned again. Damn, his shoulders ached. It had been a long forty-eight hours.

  He’d coasted into Victoria Harbor just past 0315 hours, Hong Kong time. It was just as deserted as it had been two months earlier during his reconnaissance trip to the port. Smelling like hot oil and salt water, the cigarette boat had been well provisioned and served him well. Eating several bananas and some jerky, the mercenary had some cold water then opened the leather bag he’d left with the boat. Idling offshore, away from the ferry lane, he’d delayed long enough to change out of the stale flight suit. After slipping on a pair of blue jeans, deck shoes, and a black turtleneck, he motored qu
ietly up to the Pacific Club and tied up. The Kowloon dock was used exclusively for pleasure craft and at this hour was completely deserted.

  Depositing his flying clothes, boots, and checklists into a canvas bag, he weighted it with the boat’s extra anchor and dropped it overboard. The data cartridge had gone into the other black bag, which he hoisted onto the dock. Taking a last look around, the mercenary ducked below and opened the sea cocks. He stared a moment as the dirty dark water poured in, then stepped back up the companionway onto the deck.

  Jumping lightly onto the floating dock, he untied the Tiger and shoved it backward. The big boat turned sideways and slowly drifted with the tide. Satisfied that it was settling in the water, he slung the bag over his shoulder and scanned the predawn waterfront.

  There was a security gate at the club’s dock entrance, but he knew it was only manned during the day. After hours it only opened out, to accommodate club members who arrived during the night. There were no cameras. Within minutes he’d passed beyond the gate and strolled up Kowloon Park Drive until he came to the park itself.

  Entering on the western edge from Haiphong Road, he walked past the Lily Pond until he came to the circular Water Garden. The tinkling sound of the various fountains was muted by the surrounding woodland park. It would’ve been charming under other circumstances but the mercenary couldn’t have cared less.

  Just beyond the garden was a rectangle cut in the trees that contained a men’s lavatory. These toilets contained showers and private stalls due to their proximity to the mosque at the southwestern corner of the park.

  No one was moving about to notice him enter the park toilet a few minutes after four A.M. Taking a corner shower stall away from the door he hung his two bags on a wall hook and stripped, showered, and shaved. Toweling off with the turtleneck, he opened the larger bag. Slipping on a pair of black lizard-skin Mezlan moccasins, he then quickly dressed in a dark, beautifully tailored Caraceni double-breasted suit.

  The black leather bag was now folded into a compact satchel holding the data cartridge and his shaving kit. His primary and backup travel documents were carried in both inside pockets of his suit. Concealing them in baggage was too risky these days as they would show up on airport scanners. The only way they could be discovered on his person was from a physical search. This rarely happened to well-dressed, polite businessmen, which was exactly how he appeared. In any event, he’d only fly commercial as a last resort.

  Emerging from the toilet, the mercenary walked briskly past Bird Lake and exited the park to the north via the footbridge. Turning left, back toward the harbor, he entered the Kowloon Airport Express metro station ten minutes later. The Hong Kong Metro was clean, efficient, and fast. There was only one stop and no train changes, so he’d strolled into the Chep Lap Kok Airport station at eight minutes past five in the morning.

  Buying a newspaper and hot tea, the mercenary spent the next thirty minutes unobtrusively studying the morning crowd. Convinced that nothing was out of the ordinary, he folded the paper and quietly walked outside to hail a cab. Twenty minutes later he walked through the doors of the Business Aviation Center on the south side of the airport.

  Greeted obsequiously by the agent for JAC Jet Executive Charters, he’d been shown into a plush lounge. The agent politely requested his passport and apologized profusely for the tiresome customs requirements to screen outgoing passengers. Especially those who paid substantial sums in advance for the luxurious and efficient services JAC offered. In the old days, the agent said, such things did not happen. But it was a result of 9/11. The Global War on Terrorism, of course. The mercenary quite understood, and gave the man his passport.

  Switching on CNN International, he noted that the “apparent gas pipeline explosion” outside Taipei the previous evening was being thoroughly investigated. That had produced the merest glimmer of a smile. Taipei knew. And China knew. And the Americans knew. And everyone knew that they knew.

  It was a knowledgeable world.

  By 0620 hours, two pilots dressed in black blazers, white shirts, and black ties had appeared to show him to the jet. A six-passenger Hawker with a 3,000-mile range. The agent fawned his good-byes and returned the passport. Priority departures were commonplace for exclusive private jets and the wheels came up precisely . . . at fifty minutes past six. As Hong Kong disappeared in the clouds beneath the Hawker’s tail, the mercenary slowly breathed out a quiet sigh and settled down to sleep.

  Two hours later, the jet dropped smoothly into the tiny sultanate of Brunei, on Malaysia’s north coast. He’d awoken with the change in altitude and casually strolled up to the cockpit. Professing an interest in aviation, he’d managed to stand behind the pilots during most of the descent. Listening to the radio transmissions to air traffic and watching the instrument approach, he was satisfied that everything was normal. There would be no unwelcome reception waiting for him.

  JAC provided a limousine to the main terminal, and by 10:15 A.M. the mercenary was through security and waiting in the Royal Brunei Airlines business-class lounge. From there he’d made two communications. First to one of his Lichtenstein clearing banks, which informed him that no wire transfer had occurred within the past twenty-four hours. This bank was a conduit to other offshore accounts where his considerable fortune was hidden beneath various corporate fronts.

  The second communication was made just before boarding. A simple message in plain English to an email forwarding service in Bangkok. It would automatically resend the message directly to an unclassified computer belonging to the Chinese staff intelligence officer in Luqiao. It read:

  HUIFENG. CARTRIDGE TO YOU WHEN XFER CONFIRMED. SANDMAN.

  Royal Brunei Flight 873 lifted off precisely on time, at 12:30, and the Sandman relaxed with a hot gourmet lunch. Rewarding himself slightly with a half carafe of wine, he’d tried to get interested in the private movie selection, but Tom Cruise’s latest hyperactive short-man antics put him fast asleep instead. Ten hours and twelve minutes later, the mercenary stepped off the jetway in Amman, Jordan, more than twenty hours since he’d landed the FLANKER in China.

  Standing now at the window of his suite at the InterContinental Hotel, the Sandman felt reasonably well rested. He’d arrived at the hotel at six P.M., showered, and ordered room service. Sending his suit down to the valet for a press, he’d eaten hummus and spiced lamb, then gone straight to bed.

  Glancing at his watch, he saw it was just after ten A.M. Quickly dressing in his dark suit and a clean burgundy shirt, the Sandman took the mirrored elevator to the ground floor. Strolling through the lobby, he walked onto the stone-tiled forecourt. Three sides were enclosed by an arcade with various shops. A double row of enormous date palms stood like sentries amid rectangular reflecting pools and fountains. It was a clear, hot morning and he paused a moment beyond the big doors. Unmistakable, he thought, sniffing the air. A faint, slightly sweet odor of burning trash, dust, and roses. Middle Eastern cities were always an assault on the nose. Each one was different and, in its own way, exotic.

  He nodded to the two security guards in their dark suits and ties and stepped out into the arched walkway. Lining the promenade, before the security checkpoint, were several upper-end clothing stores, and he spent the next hour buying what he needed from Benetton, Pal Zileri, and Ralph Lauren.

  Afterward, in the suite, he dressed in his new athletic clothes, draped a towel over his shoulder, and then returned to the lobby. There was a separate elevator to the health club and within minutes he was walking through the tunnel that connected the spa to the hotel. The InterContinental had a state-of-the-art health club. Real free weights. Man weights. And the place was almost always empty since Arabs rarely worked out.

  For an hour he worked out the kinks and then enjoyed a massage. By three P.M. he was showered and casually dressed in baggy tan linen pants, sandals, and an oversized white cotton shirt.

  Taking a small table by a pill
ar in the enormous lobby, he ordered an orange juice and ostensibly scanned the two papers in front of him. No one noticed the casually dressed gentleman reading his papers. But he noticed everyone. After thirty minutes he slipped out and took the stairs down to the pool.

  It was moderately sized and not over-landscaped like most pools in luxury Middle Eastern hotels. Surrounded on three sides by the hotel and spa, the courtyard was a pleasant place. There was sun if you wanted it, shade if you preferred, and a full bar against one stone wall. The pool itself was kidney shaped and very deep so the water was always cool. There was an irregular stone fountain near the shady end with little alcoves for leaning or dozing. The hot tub was a huge teardrop near the bar with four wide steps leading up to it.

  Admiring the female scenery from behind his dark glasses, the mercenary walked to the bar for a plate of appetizers and a drink. He paused there, enjoying the warm sun on his face and faint music wafting through the foliage. There were three blond women, all about six feet tall, with Penthouse Pet bodies and thong bikinis sitting at the hot tub. They looked Swedish or Danish. Scandinavian definitely, and almost certainly flight-attendant types. Or were they cabin managers? Whatever.

  A brunette woman with hip-length straight hair and flawless, mahogany skin strolled past on her way to the chaise longues. A very nice package with small, tight breasts and superb legs, she glanced demurely at him but kept walking. Probably Indian, he thought, watching her receding figure with interest. Two perfect little spheres in a blue, one-piece suit slit up past her thighs.

  I never did like blondes.

  There were several couples swimming together or talking in the shallow end. One European or American pair who managed to do a complete circuit of the pool without letting go of each other. He eyed them bleakly. The Happy Family and Loving Couple act meant nothing to him. A faint memory better forgotten.

  Then there were the wolves. Mostly Middle Eastern men in their standard uniform of tiny Speedos and dark Ray-Bans. Swaggering around the pool in twos and threes, bellies wobbling over their banana hammocks, they all seemed to have a cigarette and at least two gold chains around their necks. Most of the attention was focused on the blondes and the mercenary was amused to see that the girls were responding.