Dead Six

by Larry Correia; Mike Kupari

  I didn’t like this plan. There were way too many things to go wrong. But if this didn’t work, then I was going to be reduced to trying to climb over walls that were probably under video surveillance. “I hate winging it,” I muttered. Carl grunted in affirmation.

  “I’ve got a truck on camera. He’s at the base of the road, ETA, one minute,” Reaper said. “No thermal hits from the back.” Carl started the engine. The plan was to come up behind potential vehicles and tail them to the last roundabout. If it was a good one, we’d go for it. If it wasn’t, then we’d take the turn and come back here to wait for the next target.

  It was a Mitsubishi truck, with a ragged tarp covering the back. It passed us slowly. The driver was a blond Caucasian and the passenger was a black guy, so they probably didn’t live here. It didn’t have a tailgate, so that was one less thing to worry about. “This one looks good,” I whispered. Carl nodded and rolled out behind him. “Jill, the white truck. Get ready to intercept.” I pulled the hat low onto my head and placed my hand on the door handle. The metal was scorching hot to the touch.

  “Have visual. Truck’s coming toward the roundabout. Distraction time,” Jill reported matter-of-factly.

  “Good luck, everybody,” I said. The van rolled up behind the Mitsubishi. “Now, Jill. Go! Go!”

  I opened the passenger-side door. We had disabled the interior lights. The truck was slowing on the roundabout. We had one shot. Jill was dressed as a local, weighed down with bags of groceries. She blundered right into the path of the truck, playing oblivious to the hilt. The driver of the Mitsubishi hit the brakes. Red lights illuminated my world. I was out of the van in a heartbeat, Carl pulling the door closed behind me. I could see the passenger’s profile in his mirror, his attention on Jill.

  The tarp was dusty with talcum-powder sand. Trying not to make a sudden impact against the shocks, I slid under and right onto the burning heat of the truck’s diamond-plate bed. The horn sounded, making me flinch involuntarily. I heard Jill shout back at the driver and could imagine her shaking her fist.

  “I’m in,” I whispered.

  Jill heard and continued on her way across the road. Carl pulled through the roundabout and headed in a different direction. I lay on the metal that was hot enough to fry bacon and tried not to cry. The truck rolled forward. I slowly shifted myself around on the greasy, hot surface until I was squished in the shadow of the cab as much as possible. After another minute we left the paved road and the tires began to make a different noise on the gravel. We were getting close. The brakes whined as we stopped.

  “You’re coming through the gate,” Reaper informed me.

  I could barely hear the passenger. “Hey, Studley, what’s up, dawg?” I couldn’t make out the guard’s response. “We’ve got the last of the stuff from Safe House Five. . . . I know, right?” There was laughter.

  “Interior guard is waving them past. You’re inside.” Then music started playing in my earpiece. It was some techno-remix of the Mission: Impossible theme.

  “Turn that shit off,” I hissed.

  It stopped. “Sorry, just trying to set the mood.”

  The brakes whined as we rolled to a stop. The smell of diesel was strong in the air. The engine died with a gurgle, and the doors slammed. I heard voices speaking in English, somebody laughed, and then it was quiet.

  “They’re walking away from the truck. You’re parked just south of Building One.” I had memorized the overhead layout of the place, and we had numbered every structure inside. “You’ve got somebody on the wall directly above you. Hold on a second—I’ll warn you when you’re clear.”

  I scurried around until I could see out the back. The interior of the fort was getting darker by the minute. There were only a handful of exterior lights scattered about, and luckily most of them were low wattage. Once it was fully dark, this place was going to be my playground.

  I’m coming for you, Valentine.

  Chapter 18:

  Civil War

  VALENTINE

  1955

  As darkness fell on the tiny Gulf emirate, the Zubaran Civil War began in earnest. Fighting had broken out all across the city as forces loyal to the Royal Family clashed with the numerically superior forces of General Al Sabah. According to news reports, there was heavy fighting near the palace. As expected, the Royalists attempted to retake Zubara’s seat of government.

  By now, most everything we were taking with us was packed onto pallets, ready to be loaded onto the boat when it arrived. Everything else was being systematically destroyed. We were leaving nothing behind for the Zubarans to capture.

  A lot of us didn’t have anything to do. Everything had been broken down and packed away, so we didn’t even have a television to watch. We ended up gathering on the roof of the dormitory, where we had a pretty good view of the city, to watch the fighting.

  It was like a grim fireworks show. The occasional stream of tracer fire arced into the darkened sky. We could see flashes and hear distant rumbling as both sides shelled each other with artillery. Jets roared overhead, and ancient air-raid sirens screamed throughout the city. Several large fires had broken out. Volleys of rockets were exchanged. We watched in awe as a Zubaran jet, engulfed in flames, plunged into the bay.

  I sat on an old metal bucket and played my harmonica. I was rusty, but I’d been pretty good back in the day. I played a sad, lilting tune. I didn’t know what it was called, but no one seemed to mind me setting things to music as we watched Zubara burn.

  “We caused this,” Anita King said. She stood near me, arms folded across her chest, looking off into the distance. “We destroyed this country.”

  “We were trying to prevent this,” Holbrook said, looking through a pair of large military binoculars.

  Tailor’s face was briefly illuminated as he lit a cigarette. “This was bound to happen sooner or later,” he said, snapping the lighter shut. “There was no way a handful of guys was going to come in and change the course of this country.”

  “Then why did you sign up?” Holbrook asked.

  Tailor shrugged. “It was something to do. I was bored.” He cracked a smile, and Holbrook shook his head.

  Frank Mann, the armorer, was with us. “It’s been nice working with you guys,” he said. “You didn’t abuse my weapons. I appreciated that.” We all chuckled.

  “You know what really pisses me off?” Holbrook asked. “You know they’ll try this again.”

  “Who?”

  “Whoever the hell we work for. These black-ops guys. Project Heartbreaker failed. But you know they’re going to try this again somewhere else. Might be a year from now, might be twenty years. But they will try again. And a handful of guys will die trying to accomplish a mission an entire army would have trouble with.”

  He was right. If Gordon Willis was representative of whatever shadowy organization he worked for, I knew they’d try something like this again. Our employers had no regard for human life, neither ours nor those of civilians caught in the crossfire. They would do anything, no matter the cost, to accomplish their ambiguous and convoluted goals. We were the ones that paid the price.

  Whoever they were, they were powerful, well-funded, and connected. And they were arrogant. I had no doubt in my mind that they’d try again someday. A strong wind gusted from the ocean. A storm was coming, unseasonably late in the year.

  LORENZO

  I hung from the underside of the stairs of the big forties- era structure we had christened Building Two, sweat rolling down my face and stinging my eyes. My grip was tight on the hot metal bars, and I prayed that the Dead Six personnel standing ten feet away would hurry up and find a better place to be.

  “Aqua Teens is way better than Venture Brothers,” the first argued. There were some clicking sounds, and then a lighter flame appeared, briefly highlighting the two men. I could hear him take a long drag. The nearest light was burned out, and it was dark enough that I could only see the glowing red embers.

  Using the ther
mal camera on Little Bird, Reaper had warned me right before the Dead Six men had turned the corner. My awkward perch was the best that I could come up with on short notice.

  “Dude, you’re stupid,” the second replied. “Venture Brothers has Brock Samson. Brock Samson, man. All you got is a milkshake. Quit hogging that.”

  Who argues about cartoons in the middle of the night? Ignoring the growing pain in my arms, I contemplated shooting them and getting it over with, but it was too damn hot to have to drag their bodies to a hiding place. Luckily, after a few minutes the two super geniuses decided they needed some munchies and went back inside. The smell from Building Two’s open door told me that it was the chow hall.

  I slowly lowered myself to the floor, careful to settle my weight without making a sound. Checking my watch, I cursed the delay. I didn’t know what was going down at midnight, but I didn’t want to be here to find out. I’d crept around the first few buildings now and I still hadn’t seen Nightcrawler. My best bet was to isolate him and find out where the box was. If he had any clue how incredibly valuable it was, he had more than likely kept it for himself. If not, I could certainly carve the box’s location out of him.

  Building Three looked liked like the living quarters, so that’s where I’d start. I could stick to the shadows under the wall of the old steel building all the way there. It took nearly twenty minutes, since I had to low-crawl through a few narrow patches between rays of naked light, but this was my element, I was a ghost, I was a predator. Move . . . stop, wait, listen . . . move. Every time I heard Reaper’s voice I would freeze and wait until the danger passed. There was one final wide space to cross, but it was relatively dark and scattered with miscellaneous barrels and bits of cover, and then I was in place.

  Building Three had a covered stairwell on both ends. Reaper’s thermal camera couldn’t help me once I was under a roof. I heard the footsteps coming and unconsciously calculated where they would be looking as they descended. I pulled into the darkest corner, hand coming to rest on my Greco Whisper CT. The 5 º inch blade came out slowly, not making any noise, and I held it in against my body. A bearded man came down the stairs, whistling. If his eyes so much as flick in this direction . . .

  Knives aren’t for fighting. Knives are for killing. I was already visualizing his death, when luckily for both of us, he just kept going, opened the door, and walked out. I started breathing again and sheathed the blade back under my vest.

  The second floor. Hall clear. I couldn’t believe it. Their names were actually written on the doors. The first door said McAllister. The next door read Valentine and had a stupid heart with an arrow through it. Jill had thought that she’d heard Nightcrawler called Val back at the Hasa Market. The door was locked, but I picked it in under five seconds. I drew my 9mm, screwed the suppressor on, and entered the room without hesitation. Thankfully the hinges did not squeak.

  The nearest exterior lights of the compound provided enough illumination to see by through the open balcony door. The balcony was empty. The bed was unoccupied. I checked the bathroom. The shower was damp, and there was still condensation on the mirror. He had not been gone long. Music came from the other bedroom attached to this bathroom. I had to hurry. I closed the door. If anyone returned, it would at least give me a brief warning.

  Some weapons were thrown on the bed. There was a disassembled 7.62mm SCAR sitting on top of some armor. The armor itself was stained with dried blood and had a bullet impact on the trauma plate. I could not help but notice the oddball sidearm still holstered on the green web gear, a weird, customized S&W .44 Magnum. That was probably the same gun that had blasted a hole clear through Hosani and into me. I’d found the right room.

  I began to ransack the room, going through the footlocker and checking the contents, trying not to disturb the scene. If the box wasn’t here, I was going to hit the main building next, and the last thing I wanted to do was raise an alarm in this ant’s nest. Clock was ticking. The shooter was bound to be back any minute. Nothing of interest so far. Closet next. Random gear and clothing had just been dumped in here. He must have known that this was temporary.

  On the floor was a plain duffel bag. Unzipping it revealed a whole bunch of money. I was positive that some of the rubber-banded stacks had come from me. Bastard. But on top of the money was a small wooden box. Could it be? I picked it up. It felt exactly like the replica I had left to be mangled in Adar’s house fire.

  YES! YES! YES!

  “I’ve found it,” I whispered into the radio. The others, even Carl, actually cheered. Leaving the money, I stuffed the box into my vest. All that cash . . . It would just slow me down, though. The oldest, scariest part of me was really tempted to stay there until Nightcrawler came back, just so I could murder him on general principle, but it was time to go. “Prepare to extract. Reaper, how’s it look out there?”

  “Compound looks clear right around you, but I can’t see under the overhangs.”

  “Military vehicles? Lorenzo,” Carl’s voice sounded urgent. “There’s something weird going on down here.”

  “What’ve you got?” Something moved in the corner of my vision. “Wait—”

  Lights flashed inside my skull, and the world exploded in pain.

  VALENTINE

  My hand hurt. I hadn’t busted anybody in the head like that in a long time. The stranger in my room flopped to the floor like a sandbag. My mind raced as I tried to figure out what was happening. Who is this guy? Are the Zubarans coming after us?

  I’d crossed over from Sarah’s room by hopping the balcony. I’d left my balcony door open, so the guy hadn’t noticed when I came in. He’d been huddled over by my closet, holding something in his hand. I was on top of the guy immediately. I didn’t give him time to breathe. I slammed my knee into his spine, putting all of my weight on it, while I checked him for weapons. I found some kind of fancy 1911 pistol, a boxy custom job with a wide-body frame, tucked in a holster on his right side. I had a hard time pulling the pistol out, since there was a long suppressor screwed on the end. My own gun was still in its holster, sitting on my bed across the room. I swore at myself for leaving the room unarmed. It was a stupid thing to do, given the circumstances.

  I swiped off the safety of the stranger’s gun as I stood up, and kept it pointed at him. My eyes darted to the gun in my hand, and something clicked in my brain. I stepped around the splayed-out intruder and hit the light switch.

  “You!” I snarled. “It’s you!” I couldn’t believe it. It was the guy from Hasa Market. Lorenzo, the girl had called him. “What the fuck are you doing here?” I said and kicked him in the ribs as hard as I could. He gasped in pain, and I kicked him again. He flopped over onto his back. “What did you think was gonna happen here, asshole?” I asked. “Huh? You got some balls, man, I’ll give you that.” I tried to kick him a third time. He was ready for it. He spun around on his back, feet moving so fast I couldn’t keep up. He kicked the pistol out of my hands. It flew across the room and slid under my bed.

  Lorenzo tried to scramble to his feet, but I was on top of him. I grabbed his tan vest, hoisted him up, and slammed him against the cinder-block wall. He was still disoriented. I reached behind him and clamped onto his vest again. I was a lot taller than Lorenzo. I pulled his vest up from behind and down over his face. I leaned into him then, punching him in the head over and over again, hockey-brawl style.

  I thought I heard Lorenzo say something, but I couldn’t understand him. Then the building was rocked by an explosion outside.

  LORENZO

  My brain must have really bounced off the inside of my skull, because I couldn’t remember how I’d ended up on the floor with a mouth full of blood. My earpiece was lying next to my head, and I could barely hear Carl screaming about something.

  Someone was talking, angrily asking me questions. The kick that landed in my ribs was unbelievably hard. The second was even worse. It was that son of a bitch, Nightcrawler. There was a gun in his hand. My gun, damn it! He tried
to kick me a third time, but I reacted and kicked my gun across the room. Strong hands grabbed me, jerking me to my feet and hurling me into the far wall. He pulled my vest over my head and was on me in a second, knuckles slamming into my face repeatedly.

  I slid down, shaking my head, trying to focus, which is difficult when you’re getting punched. I couldn’t hear Carl, but he could still hear me through my throat mike. I needed a distraction. “Carl, hit it.”

  A concussion shook the room as Carl radio-detonated the Semtex plastic explosive I had left in the Mitsubishi. Nightcrawler spun, surprised by the noise. I shoved myself upright as he turned back to me. I kicked him in the chest. Dust flew from my boot as he crashed back into the wall next to the bed. I moved in while he was off balance and threw a knee to his side. He grimaced but stayed up. I followed with an elbow to his face, but he blocked it with his forearm and then used his size advantage to shove me back with one big meat hook against my sternum.

  The kid was bigger and stronger, but I was faster. He was using a form of Krav Maga, but he was rusty. He didn’t practice much, I could tell. I locked up on his arm, spun inside of it, and slugged him in the kidney, then put my foot on the inside of his knee and forced him down. I jerked up on his arm, trying to snap it at the elbow. He crashed into the shelf, snapping boards and sending things flying. He shouted incoherently as his other arm came around with something shiny and metallic and caught me on the side of the head. Thunk!

  I must have gone out for a second. I was down, blood spewing from my mouth. The room spun as I refocused, again on the floor, and at the blood-stained Korth revolver that he’d just hit me with.