Dead Six

by Larry Correia; Mike Kupari

  I was quiet for a long moment, as our waitress brought us our check. “You know, last night at work I got bitched out by an employee at the facility. She showed up at the south gate at about zero-two-hundred and wanted a temporary badge. The south gate doesn’t open until zero-six. So instead of going to the front gate, she sat there and bitched out the dispatcher on the phone until he sent me down there. Then she bitched me out until I issued her the temporary badge.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Tailor said. “You should’ve told her to go to the main gate or sit there all night.”

  “I can’t. We’re always getting nasty-grams in the e-mail from the Branch Office, reminding us that serving the client is the number one priority, that we’re there to make things better for them, blah blah blah,” I said, waving my arm theatrically. “Basically, if I enforce the rules I’m supposed to enforce, people complain and I get in trouble. If I don’t enforce them, people complain and I get in trouble.”

  “Why don’t you look for a new job?”

  “Like I said, it’s hard to get jobs with my skill-set. Normal jobs, anyway. I mean, what am I going to do, sell cars? Flip burgers? And I don’t have anything else going on. I don’t really have any friends here. I don’t have a girlfriend. I mean, I guess I could go out to bars or whatever and try to pick women up, but what am I going to say? Hey, baby, I know I’m emotionally damaged and unstable, and I spent the last five years shooting people for money, and now I’m a security guard and everything, but why don’t you overlook all that and come have sex with me in my crappy little apartment?”

  Tailor let out a raucous laugh. “Then come back to work, Val. To hell with it.”

  “Yeah . . . yeah. I mean, why not? I can’t possibly hate my life any more than I do now. Screw it, let’s do this. It’ll be good to work with you again.”

  “You sure, Val?”

  “I’m sure. Hey, what did Skunky say when you called him?”

  “He wasn’t interested.” Tailor shrugged. “Says he’s got his own thing going on or something.”

  “I’m glad he’s doing better than me. Come on, take me home. I’ve got some arrangements I need to make.” Tailor grinned and stuck his fist across the table. I made a fist with my left hand and bumped it against his.

  VALENTINE

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  January 19

  1059

  “Mr. Valentine! It’s good to see you,” the man said earnestly, giving me a firm handshake. “My name is Gordon Willis. This is my associate, Mr. Anders,” he said, indicating a tall, muscular man with tan skin and cropped blond hair. Anders looked like an old Waffen SS recruiting poster. The Übermensch grunted. “Please, sit down,” Gordon said then, indicating a chair on the opposite side of a cluttered desk.

  Sitting down, I studied Gordon for a moment. He was in his late thirties or early forties, with a slick haircut and an expensive suit. He smiled with perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth, and observed me with piercing blue eyes. I immediately distrusted this man. He was slick, but my gut told me he was a snake. I tried to ignore it and listened to what he had to say.

  “I trust Mr. Tailor has filled you in on the job opportunity I can offer you?” he asked, folding his hands on the desk in front of him.

  “Uh, yes,” I said, trying to quell my unease. “He didn’t have a lot of details himself, but he told me about the pay. Twenty-five thousand dollars a month?”

  “Yes!” he said, beaming. “Tax exempt, of course.”

  “How . . . how is that possible?” I asked. “The tax law says that—”

  Gordon interrupted me with an obnoxious little chuckle. “Mr. Valentine, I’m sure you have a lot of questions. I’m afraid that there are a lot of things I simply can’t tell you unless you sign. All I’m at liberty to say is that you won’t have to worry about paying any taxes. We’ll take care of the IRS documentation and filing for you. You’ll keep every cent of what you earn.”

  “Who are you people?” I asked flatly, my eyes narrowing. “What’s this all about? I can tell that this isn’t your office,” I said, moving my arm to indicate the small storefront we were sitting in. “You probably rented this place out a week ago.”

  Gordon sat back in his chair and studied me with a knowing grin on his face. “Mr. Tailor was right about you,” he said. “You’re very sharp.” He then pulled a large manila envelope out of his desk drawer. He opened it and began to read to me. “Your real name is Constantine Michael Valentine, yet you somehow managed to get Constantine left off of your military ID.” My mouth fell open, but I didn’t say anything. I hadn’t heard anyone say my real first name in years. “You served a four-year term of enlistment in the United States Air Force, including a six-month combat deployment to Afghanistan. You were involved in an incident there, and while you were discharged honorably you have a reenlistment code of RE-3. They asked you not to come back.”

  “Okay, so you were able to pull my DD214,” I said. “Are you with the government?”

  Gordon set the papers down before speaking. “Something like that. I’m afraid I really can’t say much more at this time. Ever since Mr. Tailor indicated that you might be interested in the job I’m offering, we’ve been doing a very thorough background check on you. I know that you went from being a career contractor with Vanguard Strategic Solutions International to working as a night-shift security guard for a local defense contractor. Your annual income is about one quarter of what it was last year, and that doesn’t include the generous operational bonuses or hazard pay that Vanguard was famous for.”

  “So?”

  “So, Mr. Valentine, your friend Mr. Tailor told me that you’re better than this. And you know what? I agree. I’ve studied your entire dossier, going back to when you were in high school. I know what happened to your mother, and I can only imagine the effect that had on you.”

  “Mr. Willis,” I said coldly, “You have no idea the effect that had on me.”

  “Ah, I see,” he said, his voice softening. “I apologize, Mr. Valentine. I didn’t mean to bring up bad blood. All I was trying to say is that I think what I’m offering is perfect for you.”

  I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose between two fingers as I did so. “Mr. Willis, what exactly are you offering me?”

  “Straight to the point.” He beamed. “I like that. You wouldn’t believe how many guys we get through here that get intimidated when we pull out their file. I’m not going to lie to you,” he said, leaning in closer. “This job is going to be dangerous. You’ll have to be able to deploy right away.”

  “I see. That shouldn’t be a problem. How dangerous are we talking here?”

  “As I’m sure you’ve guessed,” Gordon said, “absolute discretion is required. Look at the world situation right now, Mr. Valentine; war in Mexico, war in the Middle East, war in Southeast Asia and Africa, more in-fighting in Russia, and an uneasy cease-fire in China with a thousand-mile-long DMZ along the Yangtze River. The world is spiraling into chaos and our country’s conventional military and intelligence assets just aren’t enough to deal with it all.”

  “I’ve been shot at in half the places you just listed, Mr. Willis,” I said. “I’m well aware of the geopolitical situation.”

  “I’m sure you are, Mr. Valentine. Since joining Vanguard you’ve been on—” he trailed off as he checked my file— “five major deployments overseas. Nearly five years of your life fighting other peoples’ wars. I’m offering you a chance to serve your country again. There’s a critical situation developing, and we need the best people available to manage it before it gets out of hand.”

  “Don’t you have the CIA and Special Forces for that?” I asked. Something about this whole thing stank. The money was too good, and the facts were too few.

  “As you can imagine, they’re stretched thin as is,” Gordon replied.

  “I can’t imagine you’re having trouble recruiting people with the money you’re offering.”

  “You wouldn’t th
ink so, but many of our candidates have the same professional paranoia as you, Mr. Valentine. Due to the nature of the situation, I’m simply unable to disclose much more than I’ve told you before you sign. Many otherwise promising candidates have balked at the lack of information.”

  I chewed on that for a moment. It was disquieting, to be sure, but I had a feeling there was more to it than that. “I see. Am I to assume that this will be a combat operation?”

  “If all goes well,” Gordon said, “the combat will be minimal. We’re trying something new in our area of operations. You’ll be trained in mission-specific skills above and beyond door-kicking and trigger-pulling. As I said, the utmost discretion is required. I’m also required to inform you that while you’re away, you’ll only have minimal contact with loved ones back home. We regret this, but security is necessary until the operation is completed.”

  “What kind of time frame are we looking at here?” I asked.

  “Hopefully, we’ll have everyone home by Christmas. Now, I’m sure you’ve heard that before, so I’m not going to mince words. The contract is for an undetermined period of time not to exceed three years. You’re ours until the mission is over, basically. Obviously, at the pay rate we’re offering, it’s in our best interest to accomplish the mission as soon as possible.” Gordon let out a convincing chuckle at his own joke.

  “Tailor told me he got a signing bonus.”

  “Ah, yes!” Gordon said, retrieving another manila envelope from his desk. He opened it and placed a piece of paper in front of me. It was a standard government direct-deposit form. “If you’ll fill this out,” he said, “we should have that in your bank account in three to five business days.”

  “And . . . you’re sure there won’t be any problems with the IRS? This is all going to my regular checking account with the Las Vegas Federal Credit Union and I’m not going to have the tax man breathing down my neck?”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Valentine,” Gordon said, grinning. “We’re bigger than the tax man.” That sounded more ominous than promising. I realized then that the big guy, Anders, was still standing in the corner behind Gordon and hadn’t said a word the entire time. He observed me with a bored look on his face, but I didn’t doubt that he’d made a plan to kill me the moment I walked in the door. These guys undoubtedly knew that I had a concealed-firearm permit, but they hadn’t said anything about it.

  “Who, exactly, is we?” I asked, looking over the contract Gordon had pushed in front of me. It was full of vague legalese and only referred to Gordon’s organization as the party of the first part.

  Gordon grinned. “I’m afraid you’ll have to sign to get filled in on all of that, Mr. Valentine,” he said and set an ornate pen down in front of me. “All I can say until then is that you’ll be serving the best interests of the United States and will be protecting your country from enemies foreign and domestic.”

  I picked up the silver pen. It had XII, the Roman numeral for the number twelve, engraved on it. I wondered what it meant. I took a deep breath and signed the document. Gordon smiled.

  “I guess I’ll have to call my boss and tell him I’m not coming in Monday,” I said.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Gordon answered. “We’ll take care of everything. You can take the direct-deposit form with you if you don’t have your bank routing number available right now. Within forty-eight hours, you should receive a packet with everything you need to know. You’ll be deploying within two weeks.”

  “Deploying where?” I asked, handing him back his pen.

  “Everything will be in the packet,” he said. “Until then, take some time to get your affairs in order. You’ll likely be out of the United States for an extended period of time.” Gordon stuck his hand out. I hesitated, then took it. He had an excessively firm handshake. “Welcome aboard,” he said and stood up. I gathered my papers and stood up as well. “You did the right thing.”

  “I hope so,” I said, taking my papers and turning to leave.

  “Mr. Valentine?” Anders, the big guy, said as I opened the door. I turned and looked back at him. “If you fail to arrive at the deployment location at the appropriate time, we will come get you. It’ll be best if you’re punctual.”

  “I get it,” I said and closed the door behind me. What the hell did I just do?

  LORENZO

  Confederated Gulf Emirate of Zubara

  January 20

  The marketplace was busy, the large Sunday crowds nervous. Change was coming, and the people could feel it. I made my way through the bustling place, gray and incognito as usual, dressed like the locals in a traditional white thobe and checkered headdress. In my line of work, you never stick out. It keeps you alive longer.

  There were three sections of Zubara City (Ash Shamal, Umm Shamal, and Al Khor). Each was a narrow sliver of land extending into the Persian Gulf for a couple of miles. Half a million people were packed on those three little peninsulas, mostly Sunni, some Shiite, a mess of imported workers, and I was spending my day in the poor, dangerous one, Ash Shamal.

  Nobody used the country’s official name, or the abbreviation CGEZ. The Americans or Europeans who ended up here usually called it the Zoob. The rest of the world just referred to the tiny country as Zubara.

  I got to the entrance of the club fifteen minutes early so I could survey the area. This neighborhood was one of the oldest in Ash Shamal, but there was much new construction underway. It was also one of the more traditional. It was interesting to note the fundamentalist graffiti that was popping up in many of the alleys, and even more interesting was that the local authorities hadn’t bothered to cover it up. Either there was too much of it to keep up with, the official government types didn’t bother to come into this neighborhood, or the cops actually agreed with the message. Either way, it was a grim omen.

  Zubara was a relatively modern state, dragged kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century by the current monarch. Bordered by Qatar and Saudi Arabia, the tiny nation wasn’t nearly as rich as its neighbors but was relatively clean, organized, and, by Arab standards, efficient. Zubara was one of the jewels of the Persian Gulf, but that appeared to be changing with the current power struggle, and my specialty was to capitalize on the inevitable chaos that would result.

  I had spent my entire adult life in various third-world countries. I’d seen revolutions, famines, wars, and the utter collapse of societies. I made my living on the fringe of mankind. I didn’t know what was going to happen here yet, but I knew something was coming.

  Zubara would be just another job, just a little more difficult than normal, or so I tried to convince myself. It had been six months since I had been drafted for this job. Six months since Eddie had brutally murdered one of my crew just to let me know how serious he was. Half a year of preparation and groundwork to pull off an impossible mission. There was a bitter taste in my mouth as I prepared for this meeting.

  I walked around the block to scope out the back entrance, just in case. There was some construction going on across the street, but the workers all looked like the normal Indonesians and Filipinos that did all the grunt labor in this country. I saw no indications of a trap. Making my way back to the front, I leaned against the corner of a building and watched the club. The man I was supposed to be meeting would probably be running late, like pretty much everything in this part of the world. I couldn’t spot anyone else surveying the place, so it was either safe or they were really good.

  Waiting gave me time to think, which was unfortunate, because right now thinking about what I was doing just made me angrier. This job sucked. It was suicide, and I had been forced into it against my will. It was going to take months to accomplish, but once this gig was completed, I was going to devote my life to finding the man who put me in this situation. I vowed that I was going to go on a killing spree that would become the stuff of legend.

  My thoughts of murder were interrupted when a black Bentley parked in front of the club. The luxury car didn’t seem o
ut of place on the same street as a vendor selling live chickens, but that was the nature of the Middle East. The driver exited and held open the back door for his charge. The man that stepped out was in his forties, wearing a brown suit, white shirt, and no tie. This was pretty fashionable apparel in the region and was what all the cool terrorists were wearing.

  He was early. Amazing. The driver stayed with the vehicle. I waited a few extra minutes, watching for anything out of the ordinary before I followed him into the club. The interior was dark and cooled by rows of ceiling fans. Inside, the social club was far nicer than its drab outside appearance suggested. It was relatively crowded by middle-aged men smoking hookahs, playing chess, and bitching about local politics.

  The server acknowledged me as I entered, but I waved him off as I spotted the man I was looking for sitting at a table in the back. The server retreated deferentially.

  The man saw me approaching and nodded once. I pulled up a chair and sat. “Lorenzo,” he said before taking a sip of his pungent tea. “I didn’t recognize you.”

  “That’s the general idea,” I responded. Say what you will about the man-dresses, they were actually pretty comfy and enabled me to conceal a few weapons. Even still, they do make you look like a big stupid marshmallow, and you can hardly run in one. I’d taken a few days to brush up my Arabic and perfect the local accent. I’d grown my beard out, and my natural features enabled me to pass for a native Zubaran rather easily. After all, I had a knack for blending in wherever I went. “Good to see you again, Jalal.”

  Jalal Hosani smiled. “No, it is not good, I am afraid. You are a wanted man in this country, if I recall correctly.” His English was perfect. It should be, since he’d attended Oxford, paid for by his friends in the Qatari royal family.

  “Actually, no. You’re thinking of Syria, and the UAE . . . oh, and I think the Saudi courts want one of my hands. This is my first time in lovely Zubara. It’s kind of nice, except that whole pending revolution thing. So, what brought you here?”