by Paul Bishop
It was too inviting a target.
The big Aussie’s head jerked with the blow and when it returned to center, his lips drew back to reveal crimson-coated teeth in a large grin.
This son of a bitch was as tough as he looked and then some.
As Milton began to lurch forward, two bouncers grasped his arms and dragged him back. He simply planted his feet and swept his arms forward to thunk the two good-sized men together with a resounding crunch and both sagged.
His smile hadn’t left his huge face.
Lassiter took a step back and raised his hands in a boxing stance. His intention was to deliver a solid kick to the big Aussie’s forward leg, but the spell of the fracas was broken by the intrusion of a long, heavy wooden cane that smacked on top of the bar in the space between the combatants.
AJ stood there and held the hooked portion of the cane in his left hand. His right held a huge Desert Eagle pistol. His mouth, visible amongst the white hair of his full beard and mustache, was a tight line.
“Enough,” he said. “You know I don’t allow this stuff in here.”
Lassiter remained in his fighting stance. Milton dropped his guard and wiped at his torn lip with the back of a big hand.
“No harm meant, mate,” he said. “You must know how we Aussies love to fight.”
“You never miss a war,” AJ said, his expression unchanged. “Do you?”
“Not hardly.”
The proprietor gave him a hard look. “I don’t allow wars in here. You violated my rule. It’s time for you to take your two buddies and leave.”
“Okay by me,” Milton said. “I never argue with a man holding a fifty caliber.”
AJ stared at him for a few seconds, then turned to Lassiter. “I know you didn’t start this, so you can stay for one more drink if you behave yourself.”
He lowered his fists and nodded. While he had no more money for a drink, he didn’t want to be kicked out on the street with three men who’d held him at gunpoint.
“See here,” Milton said, canted his head back, and looked askance at the proprietor. “I’ll be glad to pay the house for any inconvenience and cleaning fees.” His eyebrows flicked upward in a sympathetic gesture. “It seems my untidy friends have dribbled blood on your clean, well-swept floor.” He pointed to his upper shirt pocket. “May I?”
“As long as it’s only money you take out of there,” AJ responded and held the Desert Eagle unwaveringly on the man.
After he’d unbuttoned it, the Aussie’s fingers danced in the pocket and withdrew a roll of currency. Lassiter could see the denominations of the bills were large. If it wasn’t a flash roll, it was more money than he had seen in a long time. The big man peeled off several bills and laid them on the top of the wooden bar. The proprietor eyed the money but made no move to retrieve it.
“It’s good,” Milton said. “I finished printing it an hour ago.” He waited a beat before he laughed at his own joke. “A little Australian humor, mate.” Turning to Lassiter, he extended the hand with the money in it toward him. “The rest is for you to compensate for ruining your drink.”
He made no move to accept it but it appeared to be a substantial amount. Enough, perhaps, to buy a plane ticket out of there.
“Go on, mate. It’s yours. And I’ll double it if you come along now and listen to the business proposition we have for you. No strings attached.”
The two men exchanged glances. The bartender shrugged while he considered his options and realized he had none. Armand was up on all fours now and levered his legs under himself with his palms still on the floor for balance. Lassiter stepped forward, grabbed the Algerian’s collar and pants, and thrust the man’s head into the bar once more. As Armand collapsed again into the regurgitated mess of his vomited stomach contents, he reached into the man’s right side shirt pocket and withdrew the pistol. It was a small Beretta 84FS Cheetah, a nice little dependable weapon with fourteen rounds. The safety was on, which gave him the impression it had been used more as an intimidation factor than an actual threat. Nonetheless, it was a deadly bargaining piece. He slipped the gun into his own pocket and looked at the big Aussie, who still held the roll of currency toward him.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll hear what you have to say.”
Milton’s lips pulled back to provide another glimpse of his blood-stained teeth. The man wiggled the money and after no response, lowered his arm.
“I assume your two friends will not accompany us?” Lassiter asked.
“You assume right, mate.” Milton glanced at Pierre who was coming round now and spoke to him in French.
“I’d rather not be left out of the conversation, mate,” he said and added a sarcastic lilt to the last word.
“He said to take the bald one to the hotel and help him get cleaned up,” AJ said. He still held the Desert Eagle but he’d lowered it to the side of his leg.
“A bartender of many talents and languages. Impressive,” Milton said.
The proprietor shrugged. “This is the French section. I had to learn enough to get by but it ain’t my native tongue. Or my favorite.”
“Mine neither,” the Aussie agreed, looked at Lassiter, and inclined his head toward the door. “Shall we?”
He nodded. Pierre glared at him as they passed. Outside, Milton held the roll toward him again.
“You hold onto it for now,” he said. He didn’t want to be distracted counting money when he wasn’t sure how this little drama would play out.
Milton shrugged and stuffed the bills into his upper pocket.
“That’s my car over there,” he said and indicated a large Humvee. It looked dressed-up with the right accessories, including extra armor plating and sets of flame throwers on the fenders. He withdrew a remote from his pants pocket and pressed the button. The vehicle jumped to life.
Lassiter stopped at the front passenger side and used his left hand to pop the door while he held the Beretta inside his lower shirt pocket with his right. He inspected the seat as Milton pulled the left side open.
“Hop in,” the man said and sandwiched his huge frame behind the wheel.
He stepped back and opened the rear door to check the compartment and the rear section as well. Satisfied that no one lurked inside to inflict another surprise on him, he slammed the rear door and got in.
Milton grinned. The blood was almost gone from his teeth now.
“A cautious man,” he said. “I can’t fault you for that.”
“Good.” His right hand retained a firm grasp on the butt of the pistol. He extended his left. “I’ll take the money now.”
The big Aussie snorted and withdrew the wad of currency. “There you go. No tricks, mate. Count it if you like.”
Lassiter fanned through it, not wanting to be distracted with counting. It wasn’t a flash roll. Even with his cursory examination, he could tell it was more money than he’d seen in a month. He allowed himself to relax slightly as he stuffed the wad into his pocket and secured the buttons.
“That’s for coming with me,” the other man said. “I’ll double it after you’ve heard what we have to say.”
“What’s this really about?” he asked.
Milton shifted the Humvee into gear and began a fast trek down the dusty street. He honked noisily at the scant number of pedestrians walking too close to what passed for the main thoroughfare.
“This is about employment opportunities, mate.”
He blew out a slow breath and considered.
“Where we going?”
“To talk to some people. Or better yet, for them to talk and you to listen.”
“All they want to do is talk?”
“Absolutely. No strings.”
“And the money’s mine regardless?”
“Right again.”
“If you only wanted to talk, what was the idea of the rough stuff?”
Milton grinned. “As I said, we Aussie’s love to fight.”
Lassiter frowned.
“And,”
the big man said. “I wanted to size you up for myself. You have a good rep but sometimes, those can be deceiving. Many times, they are blown out of proportion.”
“Did I pass?”
The Aussie smiled again. “You’re here, aren’t you?” He tapped the horn at a couple of Legionaries accosting a group of drunken mercs and two hookers. “If my well-being will depend on someone else, I damn sure want to make sure he has a good set of balls.”
Obviously, he needed to know more. “Depending on me for what?”
The driver chuckled. “In due time, mate.”
He shook his head. What the hell did this big brute have in mind?
After a couple of quick turns, he saw they were in what passed for the industrial section of the French Zone. Numerous warehouses lined the street, all guarded by a plethora of armed security guards.
Milton stopped the Humvee in front of a large overhead door. One of the guards adjusted the MP-5 suspended against his chest with a yoke-like strap and stepped closer to the vehicle. The driver lowered the window and spoke to the man in French. The guard nodded and spoke into a radio mic on his shoulder. The overhead door began to rise and lights flickered on inside.
“Another legionary buddy?” Lassiter asked.
“Yes.”
He watched the door’s progress and scanned the inside of the warehouse as more of it became visible. It was sectioned off, and this part appeared to be fairly empty except for several stacks of wooden crates and cardboard boxes at the opposite end. A set of large generators stood to the left of the overhead door and hummed quietly, and large black cables snaked to an electrical panel on the wall where two more men with MP-5’s stood.
Several partitioned smaller rooms, all with windowless doors and walls, occupied the space on the right. A red flag popped up in his mind. It was the perfect place to take someone who might never be seen again. There were too many people around who would notice his absence, but he kept his hand on the Beretta. If it was a trap, he’d go down fighting.
“If you’re Australian, how’d you end up in the French Foreign Legion?” he asked as they slowly pulled forward.
Milton laughed. “That’s the same thing my drill sergeant asked me during basic training.”
Lassiter had known several Legionaries. They were a battle-hardened outfit.
“That’s not much of an answer,” he said.
“No, it isn’t.” The man brought the Humvee to a stop and turned in his seat. “Did you know Australia was once England’s dumping ground for criminals of all sorts?”
“It’s common knowledge.”
“Being true to my ancestral roots, I got in a little trouble down under.” His face twisted into a wry smile. “And the opportunity arose for a new start. Join the Legion, finish your term of enlistment, and you’re granted French citizenship.” He winked. “Under any name you choose.”
He regarded the man for a moment, then said, “I’m glad you didn’t choose Samson Agonistes.”
Milton snorted and clapped Lassiter on the left shoulder. It was meant to be a friendly blow, but he felt he’d been hit by a bat. He tried to show no discomfort as he opened the door and slid out.
The floor beneath them was corrugated metal planking covered with the ubiquitous layer of fine sand. There was no escaping it around there. The big Aussie pointed to one of the offices, trudged over to the door, and opened it. He waited for his companion to enter first and followed.
The room contained a table and two chairs. A large monitor screen rested in the middle of the table. Milton picked up a remote and extended his hand toward the chair on the opposite side of the table. Lassiter waited for the other man to sit first and shot a querulous look at him. The big man shrugged.
“You Americans like to watch the telly, don’t you?”
He started to stand but the man held his hand up, palm outward. It looked as big as a small frying pan.
“Go ahead, leave if you want, mate. But keep in mind you don’t get the rest of the money unless you stay for the entire presentation.”
The money. It always came down to the money. He hadn’t closely scrutinized the wad the big Aussie had given him. For all he knew, it could be counterfeit. He’d have to check the watermarks but to do so now wouldn’t be prudent. Anything that distracted him left him open to attack. He sat in his chair but checked for the comfort of the Beretta in his pocket.
Milton smiled again and his white teeth still showed a faint residual crimson trace. He pointed the remote at the video monitor and pressed the power button.
The image of a man in an elaborate medical wheelchair appeared. He was hooked up to numerous monitors that showed three rows of squiggling colored tracks. His legs were both amputated above the knee, and the lower half of his left arm was also missing. The camera focus began to zoom closer and centered on the man’s battered face. He appeared to be Caucasian, but this was discernible only by the pale patches of skin interspersed between an array of cuts and bruises. His hair was clipped military-short, and his features were so battered as to be unrecognizable. Crisscrossed ridges of deep scratches and lacerations lined his forehead, cheeks, and neck. He had similar tracks on each arm. His face was so swollen his eyes were twin slits between the dollops of turgid flesh that obscured them.
An unseen narrator, obviously on the other side of the camera, recited the date and time and added that this was the interview of Herman Schmidt. Before the interviewer could ask his first question, Milton flicked the button on the remote and froze the image.
“I think we need an explanation first,” he said. “And an admonishment.”
“Admonish away.”
His face lost all trace of merriment. “What you’re about to see is to be kept totally confidential. You’re to discuss it with no one outside of here, regardless of what you decide in terms of employment. Understood?”
Lassiter was beginning to like this less and less.
He nodded.
“Speak up, please.”
“What?”
“Enunciate. Acknowledge your agreement orally.”
This meant they were being recorded, but by whom? He scanned the upper corners of the room and located a small plastic half-moon-shaped piece of plastic. A pan-tilt-and-zoom camera, no doubt.
His companion raised an eyebrow.
“Agreed,” Lassiter said. “I haven’t had too many people to talk to lately.”
“Understand this also,” Milton said, his large face devoid of emotion. “If we discover you’ve violated this rule, we’ll be very angry. I’ll come looking for you. And believe me, mate, you wouldn’t like it.”
“I’m the picture of discretion. But I don’t like being threatened.”
Milton waited for a few seconds, then continued. “The video interview you’re about to see was recorded four weeks ago.”
About the same time teams stopped going into the Biodome and picking Pita petals, he thought. When word began circulating about the glut in the market.
“The man you see there was a member of one of the last mercenary teams to venture beyond the walls. He was the only one of his team to survive, but he sustained serious injuries during the mission.”
“I can see.”
The Aussie nodded slightly. “Unfortunately, he succumbed to his injuries shortly after this video was recorded.”
Convenient, Lassiter thought. Another red flag popped up.
Milton pressed the button on the remote again and the video continued.
“We were deep inside da zone.” The swollen lips made a lisping sound as the man spoke in a German accent. “We’d found a real good patch and were collecting da petals.”
“Were you observing the proper safety protocols?” the interviewer asked.
“Of course.” A flicker of pink tongue crept over the cracked lips. “We were very careful, taking only da petals, making sure we did not uproot any of da plants.” The man’s mouth gaped slightly, and he took two laborious inhalations. “Dis wasn’t
our first trip inside. We’d all made dem before.” He paused again and lowered his head. “But dis time...”
“This time?” the interviewer said. “It was different?”
The man’s head rose and he seemed to gather himself against some remembered onslaught.
“Go on,” the interviewer said. “Tell us what happened next.”
“We vere verking, two of us standing guard. Everything seemed normal, or at least as normal as tings could be in dere. One of dose big locusts flew over us several times. I tought about shooting it, but tings were quiet. I did not want to rock da boat.”
“The locust. Did it remain in the area?”
“No, it flew away. Then I noticed someting strange. It got very quiet. De insects stopped chirping. Even de air itself seemed to stop circulating.” He paused again, swallowed, and continued. “Den I happened to look up and I saw him standing on a big rock forty meters away.” He lowered his swollen face and shuddered. “He was like a dschungelgott, looking down on us like we were no more significant dan a group of rodents.”
“Can you describe him better?”
The swollen face rose, the mouth compressed into a thin line. “He vas a black silhouette the same size as a man—a regular man—with long brown hair down to his shoulders. It was dark, but I saw de colors when I shined my light toward him. And he had—” His voice cracked and faded.
“He had what?” the interviewer asked.
“On his back dere were spots. Glowing spots up and down his spine—greenish-blue, like da Pita plants and de ones on some of de beasts.”
“And then what happened?”
“When I shined the light, he disappeared.” The man’s mouth hung open like he was panting for air. He took several rapid breaths before he continued. “He reappeared, closer dis time. Maybe twenty-five meters away and on de other side of de structure. By de dome.”
“What do you mean, reappeared?”
Schmidt stopped talking and swallowed hard as if he’d consumed a bitter taste.
“I haf told you, he vas a dschungelgott. He moved like a wraith.”
