Dead Six

by Larry Correia; Mike Kupari

  “Business grew difficult in Baghdad,” he said with a casual wave of his hand, as if a couple hundred thousand American troops interrupting his illicit arms dealing was a minor inconvenience. Jalal pulled a silver cigarette case from his suit. He offered me one. I shook my head. “Still the health nut, I see.”

  I only smoked when the cover required it. “Cardiovascular fitness comes in handy in my line of work.”

  “About that.” Jalal lit his cigarette and took a long drag. “What is your work this time?” He waited for me to respond, and when I didn’t, he continued. “I see . . . Usually your work involves the involuntary transfer of wealth and countless murders. I can safely assume this will be the same?”

  “But of course,” I replied as I pulled a fat envelope from my man-dress and passed it over. “As usual, you don’t want the details. I was never here.”

  Jalal raised his eyebrows as he flipped through the stack of money. He looked around the room as he shoved the money into his coat. “That is a considerable sum,” he said. “A considerable sum indeed. You do realize, however, that there are men hiding in this country who are with organizations you have stolen from. In fact, I know that one very dangerous man happens to frequent this very club on occasion. I could just keep the money, say who you are, and—”

  I cut him off. “I know who hangs out here.” Everyone knew Zubara was a safe haven for various terrorist organizations. Diplomatically, the government was friendly to the US, and tolerated the Israelis, but the official government was growing weaker by the day. “Maybe you talk, and I end up on an Al Jazeera video getting my head sawed off?” I had robbed, conned, or defrauded every major criminal organization on earth at some point. It had made me both a lot of money and a lot of enemies. “We both know that won’t happen, because you know I’d find a way to take you with me, and besides, I pay way better than those cheap bastards.” I gestured toward the envelope. “That’s the first installment. I’ll pay you double what I paid you in Dubai.”

  “It was only a hypothetical.”

  “And just so you know, I’m doing this job for Big Eddie. So if you hypothetically cross me, you hypothetically cross him, which means that he’ll track you down to the ends of the earth and hypothetically feed your entire family into a wood chipper.”

  His eyes grew wide as he processed that information. Regardless of who you were in the criminal underworld, you were afraid of Eddie. He was evil incarnate. It was my ultimate trump card, because no one on Eddie’s naughty list lived for long. Jalal’s demeanor changed and he gave me a big smile, always the businessman. “Of course, my friend. How can I be of service?”

  Jalal Hosani was a facilitator, not a man who got his hands dirty. He knew people. When you are operating in a new area, you had to have intelligence, and that meant knowing the right people. Jalal knew the right people. Of course, he would also sell me out as soon as it benefited him. So I had to make sure that the math stayed in my favor, because I actually kind of liked Jalal, snake that he was, and killing him would make me . . . sad. Sort of.

  “Later on I’m going to need a source for equipment, weapons, vehicles. Usual stuff, but right now I need information. I need to know what’s really going down in Zubara.”

  “The emir is having a battle against one of his generals for control of the government,” Jalal said as if this were common knowledge. “The pro-Western factions are siding with the emir, the fundamentalists and Iranian puppets are siding with the general. It hasn’t become violent yet, but it is only a matter of time.”

  I nodded. “I know that much. What I need to know is who all the players are, and then I’m going to have you do a few introductions for me. Which side are you on?”

  “General Al Sabah is a very dangerous man, but the emir should not be underestimated.” My old acquaintance appeared to give it some thought. “I suppose I will wait and see which side wins. That is always the side to be on.”

  “I killed a guy named Al Sabah once.”

  “It is a common name.” Jalal shrugged. “Either way, most of the army is loyal to the general and his personal guard is growing with many foreign”—he paused, looking for the right word— “volunteers.”

  “You mean fundamentalist nut-jobs who got tired of getting their asses kicked up north decided to get a different job where they could still sock it to the Great Satan?”

  “Something like that. Now let us get down to business.” We spoke for another half an hour, during which he provided me with the low down on the various players in this unfolding drama. I was careful to give him no information about what I was actually doing here. I asked random questions about unrelated things, to cloud the issue just in case he was planning on betraying me. The meeting was beneficial, and I learned quite a bit more about the inner workings of Zubaran politics. Finally we were done, and Jalal, late for his next appointment, excused himself. We would be in touch.

  I leaned back in my chair and watched him leave. The power struggle complicated things. Politics in this part of the world was like a high-speed chess game where the losers got put in front of a firing squad. Heightened tensions led to heightened security, which could prove to be a pain. If the situation deteriorated too quickly, it might spook our mark, and ruin Phase One. We would have to adjust accordingly.

  A moment later the server approached me with a menu. The young man greeted me with a great deal of respect. “We did not know you were going to be visiting us today, Khalid.” He addressed me by the fake identity I had been cultivating here over the last few months. “How can I be of service?”

  Zubaran food was relatively bland for this part of the world, but it was tolerable, and scheming always made me hungry. “Kusbasi kebab, and make sure to spice it up this time. And fetch a chess board. I’ll be meeting Al Falah for a match shortly.”

  He snapped his heels together and retreated toward the kitchen. The service here was excellent, as it should be, since I was their new landlord. I had bought the club outright as soon as I had arrived in Zubara. I checked my watch. My next appointment should be on the way.

  At least for now, Phase One was proceeding according to plan.

  Chapter 2:

  If You Die, They Don’t Have to Pay You

  VALENTINE

  Quagmire, Nevada, USA

  January 30

  1420

  It was quiet in my Mustang, save for the noise of tires on gravel, as I made my way down the long, winding road to Hawk’s home. I hadn’t been down this road in months, not since I’d first settled in Las Vegas.

  Hawk’s real name was John Hawkins. I’d met him in Afghanistan years prior. He’d been the team leader of Switchblade 4, my team, before moving into the training section, then retiring. It had been Hawk who’d taught me how to shoot a revolver and instilled in me a love of Smith & Wesson .44 Magnums. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I saw that Tailor’s Expedition was right behind me, shrouded in the cloud of dust my car was kicking up. Our two vehicles were laden with nearly all of my worldly possessions. It was surprisingly little, all things considered.

  The dirt road passed through a barbed-wire fence, but the gate had been left open. Up ahead, I could see Hawk’s ranch house and the barn beyond it. Several trees shaded the house from the afternoon sun. I could see a couple of horses absentmindedly chewing their feed, paying us no mind.

  I came to a stop near Hawk’s Dodge turbo-diesel pickup truck, and Tailor parked next to me. I stepped into the cool desert air, glad that I’d worn a jacket. Tailor joined me a second later.

  “Place hasn’t changed much,” Tailor said, looking around.

  “Look, he’s got solar panels on the roof now.”

  “Hawk likes to live off the grid,” Tailor said. “He’s got his own water supply, his own food supply, and his own electricity. You could ride out the end of the world here.”

  I chuckled. “That’s probably his plan.” As we approached the house’s large front porch, the door opened. Hawk stepped out into the af
ternoon air, squinting slightly in the light. He looked the same as ever, tall and fit, with rough features and hard eyes. His hair and goatee had more gray in them than they used to, but overall he was doing pretty well for a guy in his fifties. Hawk was wearing a tan button-down shirt, faded blue jeans, and cowboy boots. As usual, his Smith & Wesson Model 29 revolver was in its custom-made holster on his right hip.

  Tailor and I both began to grin as we climbed the short steps. Hawk greeted us with a smile and roughly shook both of our hands. As always, his handshake nearly crushed mine.

  “Goddamn, boys, it’s good to see you,” he said, his voice raspy and harsh. “How the hell are ya?”

  “Doing just fine, sir,” Tailor said.

  “How ’bout you, kid?” Hawk asked me.

  “Things are looking up.”

  “C’mon in, boys. Let’s sit down before we start unloading your truck.” Hawk opened the door and led us into his house. We followed him into the kitchen, where he had us sit down before opening the fridge. He still walked with a slight limp.

  “You boys want a beer?”

  “Uh, no thanks.” I hate beer.

  “We’re driving,” Tailor said. “Got any Dr. Pepper?”

  Hawk turned around, closing the refrigerator door. He had in his left hand one large can of beer, and in his right hand two cans of Dr. Pepper. “I bought a case after Val called me,” he answered, sitting down. “So, boys, why don’t you tell me what’s going on? Tailor, I haven’t heard from you in a year. Val here hasn’t e-mailed me in a couple of months. Then all of a sudden I get a call, asking me if I can store his stuff. So what’s going on?”

  “We’re not supposed to talk about it,” Tailor said. “It’s a job. We’re going to be gone for a long time, probably over a year.”

  “A job with who?” Hawk asked, sipping his beer.

  “We’re . . . not really sure,” I said. Hawk set his beer down and raised his eyebrows. “I mean, I think it’s the government. It’s all very hush-hush.”

  “How’s the pay?” Hawk asked.

  “Insane,” Tailor responded.

  “We’re not supposed to talk about it,” I said, echoing Tailor’s words.

  “Don’t give me that bullshit, boy,” Hawk said. “You know I ain’t gonna go calling the newspaper or anything.”

  “Does Quagmire even have a newspaper?” Tailor asked.

  “Sure as hell does. The Quagmire Sentinel. Yesterday’s front-page headline was about the truckload of chickens that overturned on the highway outside of town. There were chickens everywhere. Now, do you have any idea where they’re sending you?”

  “All they’d tell us was that it was someplace where the US doesn’t have any ongoing operations,” Tailor said. “So I’m guessing somewhere in the Middle East, probably.”

  “Or somewhere in Africa,” I suggested.

  “Christ, I hope not,” Tailor said. “I don’t want to go back to Africa.”

  “Me, either,” I said. “But that’s the thing, Hawk. They won’t tell us anything. They just had us sign a three-year contract.”

  “Kid, are you telling me you signed a contract when you had no idea who you’re working for or where you’re going? Why would you do that?”

  “Twenty-five large every month,” I said. “They’ve already dropped a twenty-K signing bonus into my checking account.”

  “Damn,” Hawk said. “That’s good money. Hell, I haven’t made that kind of money since Decker and I retook that diamond mine from the rebels. We got paid in cut stones. I still have some of ’em in the safe downstairs. Anyway . . . boys, are you sure about this?”

  “No, I’m not,” I said honestly. “But . . . Hawk, I tried living the regular life. I had a normal job and everything.”

  “You hated it, didn’t you?” Hawk asked, studying me.

  I hesitated briefly. “Yeah. I hated it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. After Mexico . . . Christ, Hawk, most of my friends are dead now. How could I want to go back to that life? What’s wrong with me?”

  “Goddamn it, Val, we’ve been over this,” Tailor said angrily.

  Hawk interrupted him. “Hold on, Tailor. Val, we all go through this eventually. You get over it, and you go on to the next job. You miss that life because it’s all you’ve done. You miss the money, the excitement, the shooting. It’s normal. Anyway, you’re good at it. I’ve never seen anyone run a six-gun like you. The first time I handed you a .357 you shot like you’d been born with it in your hand. Why do you think I talked Decker into hiring you? I saw what you did in Afghanistan. You cleaned out that Hajji nest like a pro, and practically by yourself.”

  “I got kicked out of the Air Force for that,” I said.

  “Forget ’em,” Hawk responded. “The bureaucrats that run the military these days don’t know talent when they see it.”

  “I know. Honestly? I don’t feel bad about wanting to go back. I feel bad that I don’t feel bad about wanting to go back.”

  “No point in trying to be something you’re not, Val,” Tailor said. “That’s why I called you for this. I figured you wanted to go back as much as I did.”

  “Tailor’s right,” Hawk stated, a hard gleam in his eye. “You’re a natural-born killer, boy, and you always will be. You’re guaranteed to be miserable until you accept that.”

  “It’s a good thing Tailor called,” I said. “I was about to accept Ling’s offer and join Exodus.”

  “I knew it!” Tailor exclaimed. “Hawk, will you talk some sense into him?”

  “Kid, Exodus is bad news. Now, I know they helped you get out of there after things went to shit in Mexico, but that’s probably only because you saved that Oriental girl’s life. They’re dangerous.”

  “So were we,” I said.

  “But we were professionals,” Hawk replied. “They’re true believers. That’s a different kind of dangerous. Better to stay away from it.”

  “I don’t have the best feeling about this gig, either,” I said.

  “You don’t have to go.”

  “I already signed the contract.”

  “So? If you need to disappear, we can make that happen. It’ll be a huge pain in my ass, but it’s doable. I’ve done it before for other folks.”

  “No. I don’t want to go on the run.”

  “The money’s too good to walk away from,” Tailor said.

  “No kidding,” I concurred, cracking a smile. “I’ll be living large when I get back.”

  “Well, let’s get to unloading your stuff, then,” Hawk said, setting his empty beer can on the table.

  As darkness fell, Tailor, Hawk, and I sat on the front porch, watching one of the most beautiful desert sunsets I’d ever seen. Hawk leaned back in his chair, sipping a beer. Tailor and I sat next to him, studying the shades of red and purple that filled the sky as the sun slowly sank beneath the mountains. Real moments of peace are hard to come by in life, and no one wanted to ruin it by talking.

  The sun slowly disappeared, and the stars were increasingly visible overhead. It was cold out, and our breath smoldered in the chilly air. Hawk looked over at Tailor and me. “Now you listen, boys,” he said, taking another sip of his beer. “A long time ago, I was on a job that paid too good to be true, too. More than twenty years ago now, I think. It was before we went legit and founded Vanguard. It was just Switchblade back then.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “We were straight-up mercenaries. We worked for just about anyone that had the cash to pay us, and we didn’t ask questions. We always got the job done, too. We spent most of our time in Africa. Business was good. Until this time we got in over our heads. We . . .” Hawk hesitated. “We basically overthrew the democratically elected government of Zembala.”

  “Where’s that?” I asked.

  “It doesn’t exist anymore,” Hawk replied. “It’s called the Central African People’s Republic now. The government of Zembala was corrupt, teetering on collapse. They had tribal conflict, religious con
flict, and the Cubans screwing around there, too.”

  “Fucking Cubans,” Tailor and I said simultaneously.

  “We had been paid to protect the president of Zembala. He was a real piece of work, let me tell ya. He was a lying, whoring drunk, and the validity of the election results were questionable. Anyway, he was hoarding the cash from the state-run diamond mines, trying to fund his army to keep the Commies from overthrowing him. We protected him. He didn’t trust anyone from his own country. Too much tribal bullshit. We didn’t have a dog in that race, so he trusted us. But we got a better offer.” Hawk paused for a moment. “The Montalban Exchange, some big international firm, offered us a lot of money to kill the president.”

  “That didn’t work out, did it?” Tailor asked.

  “Christ Almighty, it was bad,” Hawk said, finishing his beer and crushing the can in his hand. “Decker went for it. We killed the president. That was easy. It got complicated after that. We left the capital for Sweothi City, getting our asses kicked the whole way. There were only a few of us left. The Montalbans were supposed to have a plane there to extract us.”

  “There wasn’t a plane, was there?” Tailor asked.

  Hawk laughed bitterly. “Hell, no.”

  “How did you get out?” I asked. “Did the Montalban Exchange help you?”

  “No, they didn’t. They just left us to die. We hooked up with some Portuguese mercs and made a run for it. Decker sacrificed one of our guys, young fella named Ozzie, to distract the Cubans. He pulled it off, though. The rest of us managed to get on a plane to South Africa. Lost a lot of good men in that mess . . .” Hawk trailed off, looking toward the darkened mountains.

  “Holy shit,” Tailor said. “Ramirez never talked about that.”

  “And yet the story sounds strangely familiar,” I said, giving Tailor a hard look.

  Hawk opened another beer. “None of us talked about it. We made a mistake, and it got a lot of people killed. Well . . . even if we hadn’t been there, the same thing probably would’ve happened. And Africa’s Africa. Every time some politician sneezes over there a hundred thousand people get slaughtered.”