“Hey, Max-a-million!” a drawling voice boomed into his ear.
It took a moment for Max’s brain to identify the Okie, then he sighed. “Banner? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“No jokes about it. Long time, no see, old friend. This isn’t a social call, unfortunately. I have something for you, if you’re still in the game, that is.”
Max sat up straighter, his interest somewhat piqued despite his distaste for Banner. “I might be.”
Banner chuckled. “If you aren’t, it might be in your best interest to cut short your retirement. Trust me on that; this job is a big one. You ever heard of Elizabeth Grey? Greytech Industries?”
“Sure. I happen not to live under a rock.”
“Multi-billionaire, Fortune 500. And she wants to hire you for what might be your easiest mission yet.”
“Yeah? And what’s that?”
“An on-site security assessment. Nothin’ to it, Max, and her money’s good on Friday, as my daddy used to say.”
“I’ll bet.”
“And you’d win. You interested?”
Max’s mind shifted into overdrive while considering the offer. Was he interested? Why was Banner offering it to him? The two of them hadn’t exactly parted on the best terms in the agency. The team had returned from Mexico only days before. Despite being in phenomenal shape, Max felt tired and achy. The sheer intensity of battle drained a lot from a young man, and in his early forties, Max no longer fit that demographic. His team weren’t spring chickens either. No one had been seriously injured in Mexico, but Max doubted they could function at their best. His guys needed a break, even if the job proved to be as simple as Banner claimed, which it likely would not. He’d worked with Banner on many occasions as part of the CIA’s Special Activities Division. Somewhat upstanding for a company man, he could dissemble and prevaricate with the best of them. Trouble seemed to follow him, though, and Max never got the best vibe from the guy. Plus, he tried to stay clear of jobs with ties to the Agency.
However, after the disheartening mess in Mexico, a slam-dunk mission, if that proved true, could do wonders for team morale. “I need a lot more info before I can commit.”
“Understood. You’ll receive an email with all the details in a few minutes. Trust me, you’ll wanna take this one.”
“You already said something to that effect. I’ll judge for myself.”
“You’ll thank me, Max.”
“We’ll see.”
Max terminated the call and pulled on some sweatpants and a t-shirt. His broad shoulders cast a shadow in front of him as he walked down the hallway. He was built like a professional athlete—sprinters legs, a muscular torso, with a barn-door-sized back from which hung long, burly arms, with biceps the size of softballs that ended in thick, calloused hands. His body a by-product of years of intense physical training that showed the scars of decades at war. His sandy-brown hair was cropped short and it framed a ruggedly handsome face with honey-colored eyes that took in more than they gave out.
He trudged to the kitchen. The room never saw much action since he considered cooking a tedious pain in the ass. Still, he could appreciate the stainless-steel appliances and the practicality of the pots and pans hanging over the center island. He opened the fridge and pulled a can of Diet Mountain Dew from the open twelve-pack on the bottom shelf, along with a single-serving container of no-fat cottage cheese. Max didn’t drink coffee; an anomaly among Marines. He simply hated the taste of it.
Carrying his soda and the first of many small meals he would consume that day, Max made for his office. He passed through the living room, admiring the breathtaking view of the Las Vegas Strip before he switched on the overhead lights. He’d purchased the home in the Seven Hills section of Henderson, Nevada, in the hope that it would come to symbolize the sort of stability necessary to win back his son and perhaps even his ex-wife. A vain hope as it turned out.
There were thus no feminine touches evident in the decor. The sparse furniture was expensive and plush; the TV a giant flat-screen. And as much as he sometimes abhorred the duties of his profession, his home’s decor bespoke of his fascination with fighting and warfare. A Spartan warrior’s bronze helmet sat square in the middle of his coffee table. A mannequin dressed in an authentic Crusader’s chainmail hauberk stood in the entry hall. An antique gun cabinet of glass and ebony displayed his prized collection of WWI infantry rifles with fixed bayonets, the Allied and Central Powers both represented.
Max took a last glance at the distant blinking neon of the Strip before moving along to the smallest of his home’s five bedrooms—his designated office space. His curved Mameluke officer’s sword hung prominently on the wall behind his glass computer desk. A painting of Smedley Butler leading Marines taking Fort Riviere, Haiti, adorned another wall.
Once he woke his desktop computer, he checked his email on his private server. An advertisement for Persian Rug Liquidators’ clearance sale, this weekend only, had posted three minutes earlier. He clicked on it and the information from Banner came on-screen.
The mission statement appeared simple and vague enough: secure site and conduct security assessment for client, Greytech Industries. GPS coordinates of the site were provided, along with several satellite photos of the area. The mission needed to be conducted ASAP.
Max scrolled down and saw a number that shook the last vestiges of sleep from his brain: ten million. “God damn,” Max breathed as he took in the figure, one million two hundred and fifty thousand per man, not counting expenses and his firm’s cut. He shook his head. Simple missions didn’t pay in the millions, but he vowed to withhold further judgment until he’d assessed all the data. He still pondered why the man had referred him this mission, his mind searching for a connection. Though it wasn’t unusual to get referrals from contacts in the government, they typically got a commission from the client.
He downloaded the attached satellite photos and examined them closely. They showed the rough terrain of Alaska’s heavily forested, high-altitude wilderness in November. Perhaps this mission wasn’t the softball it appeared to be. Not with that price tag. There’s a catch, likely several.
Max opened a search engine and spent the next half-hour researching Elizabeth Grey. She was of the old-school notion of hard work, apparently: brilliant student from a lower-middle-class background; a partial-ride scholarship to the University of Chicago followed by work as a low-level R&D employee at a green energy firm. She had perfected and patented a revolutionary photovoltaic process in her late twenties and used it to found the fledgling Greytech Industries, a corporation that now netted profits of over seven billion dollars per year. With guts, gumption, and genius to spare, Max couldn’t help being impressed. And she was quite a looker too; a tight body with the best face money could buy. It might be worth a trip to Seattle just to see if she lived up to her photos.
The email listed Ms. Cynthia Hilliard as his contact at Greytech, available twenty-four seven. Max called her from the phone on the desk. Despite the early hour, the woman on the line sounded wide awake and a bit winded, perhaps getting in an early workout before reporting to work. He told her he was interested in meeting with Ms. Grey to discuss the mission. She reminded him that time was of the essence and assured him that transportation for his team would be waiting at the airport in Seattle. Max didn’t ask her for any further details regarding the mission, and she likewise volunteered none. Their brusque conversation suited Max just fine.
He dialed Lance Thompson’s home number, got no answer, and then tried his cell.
“What’s up?” LT asked over club music thumping in the background.
“Plenty. Where are you?”
“Luxor. Just finished playing poker with some friendly Japanese gentlemen. You should come on down.” Female laughter tinkled in the background, followed by a mumbled remark from LT.
“Good take?”
“Eh, not bad, but I’ve done better.” More mumbling as LT said something to the woman. “Sorry, I�
��m a little busy here, can I call you later?”
“No. We have a mission or a potential mission at least. We’re flying to Seattle and we have to be ready to go immediately from there.”
“Damn, already? We just got back.” LT sounded annoyed.
“This is our biggest mission ever. Think over a million bucks per man.”
LT laughed. “Well shit, why didn’t you say so?”
“I’m serious. Get the team assembled with all their gear and book us a jet to Seattle, departing ASAP.”
The line went quiet for a moment. “Gotcha. I’ll call you with flight info when I have it.” LT ended the call. If there was one thing he valued more than poker and pussy, it was earning the kind of money that provided for his prodigal lifestyle.
Max packed and loaded his gear before cramming in a quick workout in his extensive home gym. LT called at six twenty-seven. Their flight out of Henderson Executive Airport left in an hour. Go time. As dawn broke, Max climbed into his black Ford Raptor and headed off, his mind energized about the potential mission ahead.
Max watched the hangars at Henderson Executive Airport zip past as the jet blasted down the runway, the roar of its powerful engines barely a whisper within the luxurious cabin. He knew Henderson well: the closest airport to his home and also the location of the helicopter flight school where he had been taking lessons for a while. With almost enough hours of supervised flight, he itched for his first solo. As it stood, he figured he’d learned enough to fly a chopper in a pinch if necessary.
The jet leveled off after making its initial climb out of the airport. Max swiveled his extra-wide leather lounge chair and gazed out the window at the barren desert and lonely brown peaks far below, pondering how it was the warrior’s lot to travel. How many flights to how many godforsaken places? The nations, some of which no longer existed, rattled off in his head, the places where he’d faced the most intense violence rising first from his memory.
Maybe this really would be a skate mission. No, nothing involving Banner is easy.
Max turned from the window to face the luxurious cabin. There, seven men in various states of dress and coherence sat, waiting to be briefed on why he’d summoned them from bed—or, in Gable’s case, from the floor of Sugar’s den—to carry out another mission in some frozen circle of the world. The time for answers had come.
Mindful of the low ceiling, Max stood. He turned and faced the rear of the cabin.
The flight attendant secured her refreshment cart and hastily retreated into the galley. This particular flight crew had never flown his team before, and all of them seemed nervous about his men. Mostly bearded and covered in tattoos, they more resembled a biker gang than a band of elite professionals.
Max cleared his throat, then grasped for the right words. He saw no reason to reveal the client until they’d struck a deal.
Chris “Red” Bergman recited: “Friends, Romans, countrymen...” This elicited chuckles from a few of the men.
“Put a sock in it, Bergman,” LT grumbled from his chair across the aisle from Max.
“Four score and seven...”
“Red.”
“Ich bin ein...”
“Red, shut the fuck up.”
Peevish as usual, I see. LT seemed a bit disgruntled of late and ripped from his favorite casino in the middle of the night, his demeanor had turned temperamental.
Max clapped his hands once. “Lend me your ears.” This elicited a couple more laughs from the group. “I’ll keep this brief, gentlemen, because I know about as little as you do. The job isn’t a lock yet, but this could be our biggest mission yet, should we be fortunate enough to land it.”
“Big how?” asked Johnny Gable, who had spent last night on the floor, a flag planted in his chest by Johnny Walker. His breath smelled flammable from several feet away. “’Cause that last mission was about the biggest shit storm I ever signed up for. We could stand to think small for a while.”
Several nods concurred. LT, however, seethed in his seat, ready to pounce on Gable for the interruption.
“Big bucks.” Max gave them a moment to roll their eyes in certainty that he was exaggerating. “One-point-two-five million per man, minus the firm’s share and expenses.”
“God damn!” Sugar gasped, while a couple of whistles accompanied his comment.
Max replied, “My sentiments exactly.”
“And the catch?” Brian “Irish” McKern asked in his deadpan Texas twang.
“Hell, if I know,” Max responded. “We’re to secure a site and provide a simple security assessment.”
Gable raised a single skeptical eyebrow. “Sounds like a Nigerian scam to me.”
“Nobody asked you,” LT snapped.
“Well pardon me for questioning why we’re being paid millions for doin’ nothin’.”
Max had expected as much from Gable. Almost fifty years old, Gable looked the part of an out of the box GI Joe with his vintage sixties crew cut and faded forearm tattoos. On the job, he was a consummate professional, possibly the best breaching man Max had ever worked with. On the town, he was a terror, the sort of man that made commanding officers cringe whenever he went on liberty.
“Fair enough question,” Max admitted. “I don’t have the answer. The rest won’t be revealed until we reach Seattle. So, rest up and enjoy the flight. I need bushy tails on every one of you bastards if we’re going to get this done. That’s all.”
Since there were no more answers, the men had no more questions. General small talk took over. The flight attendant moved forward with the refreshment cart.
“Don’t look so nervous, Diaz.” Red dropped a meaty hand on the medic’s shoulder.
“Don’t get shot this time,” Diaz responded to general laughter. This made former Navy Corpsman Javier Diaz’s third mission with the team. Since Red had worked with him in Afghanistan years before, the Miami Cuban was a natural choice to replace Max’s last medic and security man, Casey Collins, who’d gotten cut down on a mission in Georgia.
“Speaking of which, how’s the arm?” Max asked.
“Tip-top, fer sure,” Red replied in a thick Scandinavian accent. “Viking power!” Standing six-foot-five, with long red hair and two sleeves of Nordic tattoos running up his arms, Red certainly resembled a Viking, though he actually hailed from Montana. Max envisioned him, battle-axe in hand and one of those ridiculous horned helmets on his head, sacking an English village. The image never failed to crack him up. A retired Air Force master sergeant, Red served as the team’s communications specialist, appropriate for a guy who didn’t know when to shut the hell up. He was equally proficient with heavy weapons
“You best be tip-top,” Sugar informed Red. “I ain’t taking up your slack again.”
“No problem.” Red nodded toward Gable. “You got enough of a mess to clean up after.”
Coach put in, “He cleaned up after him just this morning.”
Max couldn’t imagine sleeping in Sugar’s den. Known to the team as the I-Love-Me Room, Sevelt “Sugar” Jackson displayed his various citations and awards from his distinguished career as a Navy SEAL in there. The Odd Couple came from diametrically opposed backgrounds: Sugar from the mean streets of Compton; Gable from the backwoods of southern Alabama. Something between the two men clicked, and it wasn’t just a mutual love of soul food.
“No, my wife cleaned up after him this morning,” Sugar corrected. “I swear, sometimes I think that woman loves him more than me.”
“She is a glutton for punishment,” Irish teased. Like Sugar, he’d served on SEAL Team Six, and the two men were familiar with each other. “Taking care of two misfit toys.”
“A fly wouldn’t land on that woman, saint that she is.” Gable punctuated the comment with a pointed finger.
The flight attendant stopped her cart next to him.
“Bloody Mary,” Gable requested.
LT shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Let it go,” Max muttered to LT. Louder,
he stated, “One hair of the dog, Johnny, no more.”
“Thanks, Chief. You’re quite the gentleman and a good judge of bad whiskey.”
Coach snickered. “Ah, you bring a certain element to every mission, Gable. Uncertainty.” Steve Thatcher had been an Army infantry officer and a member of Delta Force. He was also the team’s de facto physical training instructor, hence the nickname “Coach”, due to his obsession with dieting and fitness. His sniper skills had proven invaluable over and over. The battle in Mexico would have ended much differently if not for his uncanny accuracy with a rifle. Max had plucked the now retired police officer from NYPD SWAT where he’d grown bored as a marksmanship instructor.
“Here’s to ya, Thatcher.” Gable raised his freshly mixed Bloody Mary. “What would we do without you?”
“Feed the maggots in a bombed-out drug compound in Mexico?”
“You have an overly inflated opinion of your abilities.”
Always ready to exchange insults, Coach grinned. “Stick to blowing shit up. It’s the sort of slop artistry you’re good at.”
Gable tipped his head. “It’s how wars are won, my friend.”
“Just remember you owe me.” Coach said it lightly, but he wasn’t joking.
“You’re not about to let us forget,” Irish muttered. Coach’s personality could wear on folks, and it grated on the big man from Texas more than the others. A bit laconic, the rare humor that passed from his lips came out desiccated.
Like any salty military officer, Max maintained an appropriate distance from his men, for familiarity did indeed breed contempt. LT and Irish were as close to friends as he had on the team. After putting in his twenty in the Navy as a SEAL, Irish had taken his breaching skills to the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team. It had taken some doing to pry him away from lucrative government work, with its pensions and perks, but Max prevailed by touting the freedom to be had by working independently. In the end, after years of taking orders from martinets obsessed with SOP and brown-nosing, Irish gladly accepted Max’s offer.
Red suddenly yowled like a cat, raising his hand and scratching the air twice, throwing in a couple of hisses to keep it real. “Such vanity! You girls should be rushing a sorority or something.”
Existential Page 6
