“We’re winning the war right here!” Theo shouted, his own M249 Sawsall—
It’s SAW. Squad Automatic Weapon.
—right, SAW, he was butchering with it.
“I have never seen this much sexy killing in my life!” Chase screamed, ripping her top off and letting those bad boys flop as she lit up her totally badass lightsaber power and jumped into the battle at the rear, her glowing green beam cutting into enemy soldiers and tearing them apart. She whirled and spun, and heads flew off, Iraqi soldiers clutched at their chests where she plunged her light blade in through their lungs and hearts. When they were all dead, it was a pile of bodies everywhere. We’d killed more Iraqis than the entire US Army and Marine Corps combined.
… I kinda doubt that.
And then we walked tall down the hallway and I kicked open the door, my machine guns smoking from all the shooting I’d just done. There were bullet holes in all the walls, and it smelled like sexy gunpowder everywhere, including my oiled-up, sweaty biceps.
There were a bunch of guys in the room just cowering in fear, and I was ready to squeeze the trigger on them when Greg pushed past me. “Stop,” he said, “this isn’t the mission.”
“Whatever,” I said, and lifted my gun. Saddam Hussein was right there, and I wasted him with a hundred rounds from the M2. He screamed, his little mustached lip quivering as he opened his mouth wide and trilled a note high enough to make me believe he had no nuts.
Then I shot his nuts off, blood spraying everywhere as his crotch exploded like a pastry cake I’d put my fist through. If he was screaming before, he was screaming louder now, and I turned his entire upper body into red Jello paste with the big .50, and finally turned loose on his head to make that stupid noise stop. Once he was dead, I said, “YEAHHHHHH!” and jumped over there and teabagged his corpse—
… Saddam Hussein was hanged to death in 2006. He did not die at your hands in 1991. Dipshit.
Well, that’s how I remember it, but maybe I missed my shot. I dunno.
“That’s not our mission,” Greg said, brushing my M2 aside as I pulled the trigger and killed some random stupid dude in an Iraqi military uniform. His chest turned into shredded mozzarella and spaghetti sauce and he made wheezing noise as he died. The shooting sound made a ringing in my ears too, so I didn’t hear what Greg said for a few seconds. When it faded, he said, “… and if you continue to press your luck, you and your sons will end up like your general over there. There is nowhere we can’t get to you.” And he made Saddam Hussein or maybe his secret imposter or something, anyway he made the guy nod, eyes wide and full of fear.
Also, pretty sure Saddam, fake or real, peed himself. Real profile in courage, that guy.
“I believe our mission here is complete,” Greg said with irritating precision.
“Not mine,” I said, and hosed down the room with ammo! People screamed, died, cried, begged for mercy. Chase shook her boobies with excitement, those puppies flopping wildly about as I wildly sprayed bullets everywhere.
Greg slapped my gun barrel down before I could have too much fun. “Not … the … mission. Come on,” and he waved for us to leave the room, which we did, sealing the metal door behind us.
“That was amazing,” Theo said. “Greg, you were amazing.”
“Yeah, he was totally kittens,” I said nonchalantly. “But you know who else was amazing?” I pointed with two thumbs at myself. “This guy.”
Greg got right up in my face, and suddenly he was taller than me, and his face was huge, like the moon eclipsing the sun, and I was like, “Ohhhh, shit, I dun it now!”
“Do your job,” Greg said, all up in my face. I felt like he spat all over me as he spoke, and then he kinda … went back to normal. But mad. And he tossed me a blindfold. “Put that back on. The rest of you, too.”
“Say it, don’t spray it,” I said, and he gave me another look that I gave him right back. And then I put on my blindfold like he asked, because I’m a polite guy.
“I think we just won the war,” Jon said as I stood in the darkness with the others, waiting for Greg to do … whatever the hell Greg was going to do. I could hear him moving around out there, and he touched me for a second on the arm as he went past.
“Because we are totally kittens!” I said, nodding my head. I knew we’d be back at base, soon, and I was looking forward to getting Chase alone so we could—
Okay, that’s it, you’re done, unless you have something germane to the story to tell me.
Oh! Right! So, I was just standing there, thinking about what I was going to do to her when we got back and I heard Greg snap at Theo. “What are you doing with your blindfold off?” He sounded super pissed.
“I didn’t—I’m not—I mean, it slipped for a second, I don’t know how it—
I heard a scuffling, and then Greg shoved me and the others, you could tell by the grunts, and I was climbing up a set of stairs and then the door shut, and he ripped my blindfold off along with everyone else.
Greg’s face was purple with rage, and he was pointing a finger at Theo. “So help me … if you ever tell anyone what you just saw … no one will ever—EVER—see you again. Do you understand me?”
Theo looked like he’d swallowed a live kitten. “Yes,” he said, and his voice cracked like he was going through puberty. Which he probably wasn’t. I mean he was young, but not that young.
Greg just stared at him, all furious and stuff, and then stormed back into the cockpit and slammed the door, only opening it a crack so we couldn’t see anything as he went in.
“What the hell did you see?” I asked after he was gone, whirling on Theo.
“I don’t even want to know,” Jon said, and he zipped to the back of the plane.
“I don’t think I want to know, either,” Chase said, and she spider-monkey climbed over the seats to head back to the middle of the plane with Jon.
“Baby, no!” I shouted after her, but I couldn’t pull myself away. “Seriously, Theo … tell me, brutha … what did you see when you took the blindfold off?”
Theo just stood there, shaking, and then he looked right at me, fear filling his eyes like my own penis in my hand. Huge. Huge fear. “I didn’t see anything, man. Nothing.” And then he went forward, locking himself in the bathroom for the rest of the flight, as I sank into my seat and pondered the infinite mysteries of the universe that had just been opened to me, at the tip of my grasp—
Oh, shut up. So you really don’t know anything else about what Greg can do?
No, but Theo does. Clearly.
Maybe. But I’m guessing you don’t know where Theo is.
Come on. We can find him together. Like we did with Jon.
What? We didn’t find Jon, Jamal did. And when we did find him, you were useless.
I distracted him!
Sigh. So now we have to find someone else, in the faintest hope that this Theo maybe—just maybe—has a clue about how this Greg works his mojo. Great.
He’s a real killer, that Greg. You should have seen the shit he did later, when we were in Operation Enduring Freedom. It was off the chain.
I have a feeling I’ve seen something similar. Because I’ve dealt with this Greg all of twice … and honestly? He’s kind of impressing me with what he can do. Which … for me … is more than a little scary.
Well … now I’m scared, too, Sienna. Hold me!
I will drop you right now, you giant dipshit.
23.
Greg
Greg didn’t feel comfortable taking so much as a breath until he was safely back in his plane, headed east, vector locked toward Chicago. He stroked the plush leather seat that he’d had refurbished, replacing the straightforward military style plastic and vinyl bucket arrangement in this, his very own SR-71. “At least I still have you,” he said to the empty cockpit.
It was hard to fathom exactly how much damage Sienna Nealon had done to his arsenal in just two encounters. A flawless Browning M2 that now needed replacement because she�
�d turned it to slag. An F-35B that he’d painstakingly stolen—those were still incredibly rare. Though not so rare as the Comanche, which was nearly irreplaceable, one of only two that had ever been built. He’d stolen it when it was still in the testing phase; now that it hadn’t been adopted by the military, he was going to be hard pressed to find the only other model. He might have to step down to the AH-64 Apache if he wanted to fill that particular gap in his lineup.
Greg pressed his damp palm to his forehead, mopping the hair out of his eyes. The slight sweat he left behind caused his eyes to sting. “No one has ever humiliated me this badly,” he said to the empty cockpit. And no one had.
Planning had always been his hallmark. Where others failed, he succeeded at tasks because of exceptional planning and preparation. Preparedness was the grease that made any mission go smoothly.
But Mark McGarry had failed to adequately prepare him for his mission. First in failing to inform him that Percy Sledger was actually a metahuman. One ounce of information could have insured that Greg killed him the very first time, never giving him a chance to slip the noose at the Columbia River Gorge. Greg could have switched weapons if he’d only known. He could have used something even more lethal. Perhaps a Mark19 grenade launcher. A round or two through Sledger’s midsection and he’d have been Humpty Dumpty as he fell, splattered into so many pieces that even his metahuman healing couldn’t have put him back together again.
But no, the information had been denied, and Greg hadn’t been able to plan accordingly. If he had, Sledger would already be properly dead, because Greg would have been able to use the right tool for the job. Overkill was a messy business, a wasteful philosophy that Greg simply did not subscribe to.
If only he’d known Sledger was Springersteen … if only he’d known what to use to insure the kill …
Then he never would have had to run across Sienna Nealon. And he’d have his M2 Browning still in flawless condition, as well as his pristine F-35B and his RAH-66 Comanche in perfect working order.
Greg heaved a sigh. This was becoming a costly contract, and logic would seem to suggest cutting his losses before entangling himself further.
But pride wouldn’t allow it. Greg held tightly to the center stick, his strength threatening to leave clamp marks where his fingers gripped the plastic and steel. He’d been humiliated here. The gauntlet had been thrown down, and Sienna Nealon had made no secret of her intention to defend Sledger.
If preparation was truly his calling card, then Greg’s course was clear. Now that he knew what he was facing, in precise detail—a Hercules and an unleashed succubus with flame power, near-instantaneous healing, faerie light nets, Quetzlcoatl transformational abilities, an Odin’s Warmind …
And apparently, now, telepathy. That was an interesting twist.
“The right tool for the job,” Greg said under his breath. How did one approach a foe as canny and destructive as that? A Hercules was an easy matter, and if it was just down to dealing with him, Greg might have gone with a sniper rifle again, at a distance, with an exploding shell.
But Sienna Nealon had declared her intent to insert herself in this private matter, this dance of death that Greg planned with Sledger, and that was not a wrinkle to be casually overlooked. No, intense preparation would need to be taken. Planning would have to be adjusted. Certain … items would have to be used, ones that Greg had never intended to see use.
Then again, what was the point of having these weapons if not to eventually use them?
“Unfortunate,” Greg said, though he lied, a little, to himself. It wasn’t entirely unfortunate.
After all, what was the point of going to the trouble to steal a nuclear bomb if you never got a chance to use it?
24.
Augustus
“Staff meeting!” Reed shouted as we walked into the bullpen back at the agency office in Eden Prairie, Minnesota. We’d left a pretty damned glorious, warm spring afternoon outside when we came in, which was a shame because I was shivering after the long, plane-less flight from Colorado. Apparently, the cold of being in the upper atmosphere did not bother my co-flyer, because he was bopping along into the building like ice hadn’t been building up in his undies.
Well, it had in mine, and I had to shake it loose in big chunks when we came down. Also, I had to take a big breath, because that air up there? Thin like Kat the week before filming a season of her TV show.
I passed my desk and touched the surface, leaving behind a little trail of moisture from what I was sure was ice buildup on my fingers. I would have happily thrown myself into my chair, but Reed had called the staff meeting, and I could already see everybody filing into the conference room at the far end of the bullpen, so I soldiered on, figuring I’d just sit once I got there.
“You all right?” Reed asked with a ready smile as I entered the room. Scott Byerly was standing next to him, and the two of them were like twin poles of good-looking, white-boy stereotypes—the blond, short-haired preppy Scott and the dark-haired, ponytailed, swarthy Reed in his ragged leather jacket.
“I know the cold don’t bother you, Elsa, but my nuts are not winter-safe, okay?” I shook a leg as I passed the two of them, and watched Scott snicker as a few flakes of ice fell out of my pants. I bet he’d flown with Reed a time or two and knew what I was talking about.
“You get used to it,” Reed said with a smirk.
Scott shook his head as if to say, “No way,” but what he actually said was, “Unless you’re a man of the wind, I doubt it.”
“You guys just aren’t tough enough, I guess,” Reed said.
“This from a dude who looks like he’s part of the cast of Saved By the Bell: The Surly Post-Teen Years,” I shot back as I headed into the conference room. Scott let out a loud guffaw and I added, “You shouldn’t laugh too hard, curly-haired Zack Morris.” That didn’t stop him, though; he had a good sense of humor and he kept laughing.
J.J. and his girlfriend, Abby, were already sitting at the conference table, Abby’s wild-pink hair shading looking like she’d popped some bubblegum up there. J.J. was looking less plump lately, but he still wore those thick-framed glasses. “I never really noticed that before,” J.J. said, peering at Scott and Reed, “they kind of do look like a couple of, uh—I don’t know—”
“Like the cast of a CW drama,” Abby said, not looking up from her phone.
“Does that make us part of it, too?” Jamal asked. My brother sat just down the table from them, tapping his finger against the conference table, suspiciously lacking a phone or any other sort of electronic device. I hadn’t asked him about it, but it looked to me like he’d been trying to limit himself or something, put his nose in books and in the real world more often the last few months, keep his computer time to working hours only. It was pretty weird considering he’d been a full-on electronics geek for as long as I could remember, but we weren’t the kind of close that made me feel comfortable asking him about the change. “Because I don’t want to be the black dude that dies once the second one joins the cast.”
“Shit, I think I’m the one that’s going to die, then,” I said, taking a seat next to him. We both exchanged a look. “It’s always the one that’s been there longer that gets the axe once the new hotness comes in, you know.” I pretended to look at him. “Guess I’m safe, since you’re older and also not hot.”
“Oh, that is not true,” Abby said, putting down her phone, in full motherly protective mode, even though she was probably younger than my brother. “Jamal is very cute. I like a guy in glasses.” She smiled at him.
“Lucky for me,” J.J. said, staring at his screen, apparently oblivious to his girl talking about another guy’s attractiveness. He struck me as a kind of dense dude in a lot of ways. Abby could probably climb up on the table and cuckold ol’ J.J. right there, and if he was staring at his computer, he might not notice.
“Is Angel coming?” Reed asked, looking out over the bullpen again. I sat up a little straighter in my seat. I
had forgotten about Angel, which wasn’t usually an easy thing to do.
“No idea,” Scott said. “I think she’s out for the day. Migraine or something.”
“What about Veronika?” I asked. She was another one that made me uneasy. Girl had never yet met an innuendo she didn’t want to tongue in front of everyone else. It made her an uncomfortable person to be around. “Or Colin?”
“Colin’s home in Seattle,” Reed said. “Same with Veronika, in San Fran. They’re enjoying their paid vacation benefit.”
“Lucky them,” I said under my breath. I was wishing I was taking advantage of mine right about now, since I’d damned near helped destroy a town just this morning.
Scott worked his way around the table and sat down with a lot more grace than I had when I plopped into my chair. He made it look cool. “I trust this meeting has a purpose behind it?”
“Why?” I asked. “You got better things to do? Like get some Manny’s take-out for lunch in your Ferrari?”
Scott shifted in his chair a little self-consciously. “Manny’s isn’t really a, uh … take-out kind of place. And I don’t drive a Ferrari.”
A low chorus of snickers around the table was interrupted by a fierce buzz from my brother’s cell phone. He scooped it up off the table nervously and spoke into the receiver. “I’m going to have to call you back.”
“No, you don’t,” a hard female voice replied.
He looked around the table, and said plaintively, “I’m in a meeting.”
“Get out of it.” Everyone at the table was staring at him, wondering who the hell would be giving Jamal orders like that.
“It’s my girlfriend,” Jamal said, looking around self-consciously.
“Why does everyone want me to be their girlfriend today?” the woman asked. The voice sounded pretty damned put off, but it was faint enough I couldn’t really recognize it and could only hear it by virtue of my turned-up meta hearing.
Small Things (Out of the Box Book 14) Page 11
