Dead Six

by Larry Correia; Mike Kupari

  My trained eye picked up the multitude of cameras and guard posts watching us. We stopped at the base of the palace, and I prepared myself as my “bodyguards” exited and opened my door. Carl extended a hand and helped me out. The heat was like a blast furnace.

  I was in character now.

  A hulking brute of a man approached, with four rifle-armed guards trailing behind him. He looked awkward in a suit. “Ali bin Ahmed Al Falah, my name is Hassan, and I am the director of security for Prince Abdul.”

  “What happened to Adar?” I asked suspiciously. “He was in charge of security the last time I was here.”

  “He left for other opportunities,” Hassan replied without hesitation. In reality he had left for Iraq, where there were more opportunities to hurt people, until Falah had called him to Zubara.

  “Of course. I had not heard from my old friend recently. I’ve been worried about him.”

  “Please come with me, sir. The other guests have already arrived.”

  I followed Hassan up the stairs, Carl and Reaper behind me, and the four guards behind them. I spotted at least one sniper on the roof. There were two helicopters parked on a nearby pad. Several other limos and expensive super-cars were parked just forward of mine. Through the steel-reinforced twelve-foot front doors, cold air washed over us as we came into the entryway that was bigger than the largest house I’d ever lived in. A solid gold chandelier was overhead, and the best word to describe the interior of the palace was opulent. Paintings and statues that would have been centerpiece attractions at the finest museums in the world lined the walls, mere trinkets here. The prince had some cash.

  Hassan gestured toward a metal detector manned by two more guards. Adar’s box was safely concealed inside my padding. Whatever metal the key was made out of didn’t trigger metal detectors, we’d already checked. I stepped through, clean, followed by my crew.

  Nobody brought weapons anywhere near the prince.

  It beeped as Carl stepped through. The four guards lifted their guns slightly. Carl raised his hands. “I got a piece of metal stuck in my back,” he stated. Two other men appeared and immediately led Carl aside for a more invasive search. As a VIP, I knew that I would be spared such indignities.

  Hassan held up one gigantic hand to stop me. “I apologize for the inconvenience, but surely you must understand, with all the questionable activity concerning your disappearance and the resulting confusion, I need to be sure of your identity before I allow you into the presence of Prince Abdul.” He held a small box with a scanner window in his other hand. It had two lights on it. One red. One green.

  “But of course,” I replied. Without hesitation, I put my right thumb on the window.

  Reaper had spent hours testing the prosthetic attachment. It was a relatively new technology, and the single, tiny piece of etched, synthetic flesh glued to my hand had cost a ton, and just to be on the safe side, I was wearing one on each finger. Micro engraved with preprogrammed whirls and ridges, it was the most practical way to fool a fingerprint machine. The machine would only read Falah’s fingerprints.

  The red light lit up.

  Not cool. A single bead of sweat rolled down my back. The guards shifted, spreading out around me.

  Hassan shook his head. “Technology, it never works right. Please try again, sir.”

  I put my thumb on the glass. Hassan nodded at the guard behind me. If this didn’t work, we were going to die. Horribly. Turn green, you little bastard.

  Green light.

  “Ah, excellent. I apologize for the inconvenience.” Hassan smiled. His teeth looked slightly pointed. “There is just one more thing. I have someone who wishes to speak with you, an old friend who was most shocked by your sudden disappearance.” He clapped his hands.

  “Please hurry,” I said with some exasperation. This was not good. We had not planned on anyone close to Falah being at the palace. He was known to these people, but only because of an annual meeting. Conning a close associate was a thousand times more difficult than mere business acquaintances. “I do not wish to be late.”

  A young man in a gray guard’s uniform came around the corner. “Al Falah!” he exclaimed, his face lighting up. “Oh, I was so sure you had been murdered.”

  Flash back to the apartment, hours spent going over the cards, each card a picture of one of Falah’s people, with a name and a description on the back. Carl had quizzed me mercilessly, hammering these strangers into my brain. “Rashid!” I exclaimed. “What are you doing here?” Really, what was he doing here? Rashid was one of the bodyguards that had supposedly been killed during the hit. He had been in the chase car that had taken off after the sniper. This was way too close.

  I’d been practicing for weeks, talking like Falah, moving like him, watching videos, listening to phone calls, and then finally watching him in person in the club, conversing with the man, playing games of chess against him, all coming down to this.

  “I saw you get shot, and then we chased the assassins. They crashed into our car. I was the only one who lived. I woke up, and there was this tall American standing over me. He pointed this huge revolver at my face. I prayed for my life. He fired, but the bullet only grazed my head.” He eagerly indicated a long scar going down the side of his head. “I thought I was dead, but Merciful Allah spared me!”

  Valentine, you cock-fag sack of shit monkey-humping pus ball!

  I smiled broadly. “How fortuitous.”

  “But how did you live?” He studied me carefully, obviously suspicious. Apparently he’d shared his concerns with Hassan also, because the tall man had that look in his eye that suggested he was ready to break me in half at a moment’s notice.

  “I hired Khalid, from the club, to stand in my place. I had heard rumors of Americans operating in the city, and it worried me. Allah smiled upon me, as I had been wise to do so. Rashid, I’m so very glad to see that you are alive.” I spoke as he spoke. I moved as he moved. I was Ali bin Ahmed Al Falah.

  “As am I to see you.” He grinned, buying the act, then nodded at Hassan. “I am working for the prince now, but I would be honored to serve you again, should you ever need me.”

  “Of course. Thank you, my son.”

  Hassan gestured toward the epic marble staircase. “Right this way, sir. The meeting is about to start. Your men will stay here, and we will provide them refreshment.” I nodded at Carl and Reaper. They knew what to do.

  There was an elevator shaft in the center of the staircase. Hassan and I traveled up several floors. The motors were utterly silent, and it was the smoothest elevator I’d ever ridden. The control panel was encrypted, and the basement levels couldn’t be accessed without authorization from central control. Even the carpet inside the elevator was so thick that I left footprints.

  “The prince respects you a great deal,” Hassan said, attempting small talk. “He was worried that you might have been hurt in the recent unpleasantness.”

  “I am only sorry that so many of our brave brothers gave their lives to the cowardly Americans,” I answered. “And I’m greatly troubled that I would have caused a man as noble as Prince Abdul any distress. I do hope that he will accept my humble apologies.”

  The door whisked open at the top floor. We exited into a long hallway, and Hassan led the way into a meeting room the size of an aircraft hangar.

  It was only because of Big Eddie that I knew anything about this meeting which was conducted annually in extreme secrecy. By special invitation only, it was a gathering of the region’s movers and shakers, and a handful of special guests from the rest of the world. Businessmen, politicians, scions of powerful families, royalty, and propaganda masters, some of the most important string-pullers on Earth were gathered here. Unspeakable things were planned in this room, agendas set, and massive checks written. This was where the real behind-the-scenes action took place.

  Reaper’s conspiracy-theory radio would have a heart attack.

  The guests were milling around, eating endangered species o
ff a buffet table that could feed Ecuador for a year, mingling and waiting for their host to arrive. I recognized many of them from the flashcards, others from the news. I stayed in character, passing through the room, looking for familiar faces, watching for anyone who might know the terrorist financier that I was pretending to be. In this crowd, Falah was a low-level player. He barely ranked an invite only due to his many contacts. If a bombing was going down within 1,500 miles, Falah probably knew about it beforehand.

  The prince had not arrived yet. In a country with 4,000 members of the royal family, he was not even close to being the heir, but through malicious use of his fortune, Prince Abdul had carved a place for himself as the ultimate arbiter of power in the Middle East, and since the world’s economy had stupidly become dependent upon this region’s resources, the decisions he made affected every person on the planet. He had his fingers in everything, oil, war, politics, even entertainment. Nothing happened here unless the prince had knowledge of it. OPEC was his bitch.

  The annual meeting was held for two reasons. First, so the prince could set his agenda for the next year, and coerce or bribe the various VIPs to work together to accomplish his goals. Second, it was to stroke his massive ego. He liked being so important that presidents and dictators jumped at his command. Factions that absolutely hated each other came together for this meeting, all evil but each hoping to be the side that curried the prince’s favor this year. This must be what Satan’s throne room was like.

  Of the hundred or so guests, there were maybe a dozen Europeans, a few Asians, and a handful of Africans. I recognized one American, a former senator who was surely here lobbying on behalf of something nefarious.

  There was one man standing to the side that I knew immediately, not from the flashcards but from the protestor’s signs. General Al Sabah had come himself to pay respects to the ultimate Godfather. He looked a little uncomfortable. Maybe his ascension hadn’t had the prince’s blessing, but he’d earned his way in through ruthlessness. I’m sure he’d fit right in.

  Flash back to the model. Remember the layout. Focus on the mission.

  A hand fell on my shoulder. I slowly turned. It was one of the Europeans. “Ah, Mr. Al Falah. What a pleasure to meet you,” the man said. He didn’t look like much.

  Falah’s English was rough, halting, and so was mine. “The pleasure is mine . . .” I did not recognize him from the flashcards. “Mister?”

  “Montalban. Eduard Montalban.” He smiled, but his eyes were pools of nothing. I had looked into serpent’s eyes that held more soul. He leaned in close and hissed in my ear, “But for you, Lorenzo, my friends call me Big Eddie.”

  I couldn’t speak. Big Eddie was real.

  His accent was British, and his manner was effeminate. His nails were manicured, and each finger had some form of expensive jewelry on it. Probably only in his thirties, with Flock of Seagulls hair and dark circles under his eyes, he looked skinny and weak. He even spoke with a bit of a lisp.

  All this time, I had been picturing Lex Luthor, and instead I got Carson from Queer Eye. It was a bit of a shock. As Carl would say, Big Eddie was a poofter. This really wasn’t what I had expected.

  But I would be a fool to underestimate him. I knew for a fact that he was directly responsible for hundreds, if not thousands, of murders. He was a pure killer. This man had more blood on his hands than anyone could ever imagine.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Montalban. I do not believe that I’ve seen you at this meeting before.” It was difficult to stay in Al Falah mode and not just snap his neck. The room was lined with guards, and I wouldn’t make it ten feet. I could live, well, die with that, but it would seal my crew’s fate as well.

  “No. You would be correct. This is my first year. Normally my half-brother represents the family interests.” Eddie did not blink as he appraised me. My initial take had been correct. There was no soul in there. He was empty.

  “It is unfortunate that he could not make it.”

  “Yes. His boat exploded. Bloody sad bit of business, that.” He glanced over his shoulder at the American delegation. “That Senator Kenton is a batty shit, isn’t she? Hag just won’t shut up. Her people are a constant pain in my arse.”

  “Indeed. Filthy Americans,” I responded. What was he doing here? I struggled to be polite while the wheels in my brain were turning. “So, what is it that you do, Mr. Montalban?”

  “The family business.” he waved his hand dismissively. “Shipping, mostly. All the oil in the world won’t do any good if they can’t move it, you know. I don’t trouble myself with the details.” Then Eddie leaned back in and whispered into my good ear. “Just a slight change of plan, chap. You just keep up the good work. Pretend I’m not here.” His closeness made me cringe.

  “This wasn’t part of the deal,” I whispered.

  “I make the deal. You do what I say.” He must have caught the murderous glimmer in my eye. “That would be a mistake, my friend. Even if you succeeded in taking me out, your family would still die.”

  “What do you want?”

  His breath stank of menthol lozenges. “Why, you’re a legend. The family wouldn’t be where it was today if it hadn’t been for you. I just wanted to meet you in person.” He reached up and tugged on the end of my beard. “I’d say face-to-face, but this is close enough. You’re probably the best employee I’ve ever had. When you quit, I was simply heartbroken.”

  I had been warned back then. Nobody left Big Eddie’s service. Nobody. “Yeah, me, too.”

  “Do your job. Now get back to work.” Eddie adjusted his silk tie as he walked away, waving foppishly at someone else, returning to the party.

  Focus on the plan. Deal with Eddie later. It took me a moment to compose myself. Why had he bothered? It didn’t make any sense. Shit. He’d told me his name. He was going to kill me.

  Servants in tuxedos began to usher the guests away from the buffet and toward a rectangular table the size of a basketball court. Bummer, since the harp seal looked delicious. The meeting was about to begin. I could only hope that Reaper and Carl were ready. I checked Falah’s Rolex, the meeting was exactly on schedule. It was time.

  Hanging back, I waited for the group to begin to sit in their assigned places around the giant table. The room gradually darkened; projectors came out of the ceiling and displayed images and maps on the walls. The prince entered the room, and the power brokers politely clapped. Prince Abdul was one of the richest people in the world. If he woke up with a tummy ache, gas prices would go up fifty cents a gallon by lunchtime, so you damn well better believe they clapped.

  While the main attention was elsewhere, I grimaced, stumbled, and caught myself on the edge of the buffet table. There was a servant by my side almost instantly.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  “My arm hurts. Oh, my chest.” I gasped and wheezed, doing my best to contort my face. The servant was on a radio, and I had a guard on each arm helping me toward the exit within seconds. In the background, the prince was giving his opening comments. Most of the power brokers did not notice my exit. Big Eddie winked.

  We had memorized the layout of the palace. Every room and corridor was known to me. I knew exactly where I was as the guards pushed my wheelchair down the marble hall. The infirmary was the tenth room on this wing. The guards chattered into their radios, asking for one the prince’s physicians to meet them.

  “Oh, the pain.” I was really milking it. “It is my heart again. Summon my men; they have my special medication.”

  “Do as he says!” one of the guards ordered as he rolled me into the white-walled room filled with state-of-the-art medical equipment. They gently lifted my padded bulk onto a padded table. There were two guards in the room now.

  This was right where I needed to be. The building plans indicated that the infirmary backed up to the secondary security-control station. They shared the same wiring conduit behind the walls. The plans said that the access panel was ten feet from the northwest corner. Reaper
figured that it would look like a half-size metal door with electrical warning stickers on it. There.

  “Dr. Karzi, it is Al Falah, one of the guests. He has fallen ill. He says it is his heart,” one of the guards exclaimed as an older man entered the room, pulling a white smock over his starched shirt and tie. He rudely pushed the guard aside and pressed his fingers against my neck. He scowled.

  “That is odd,” he muttered. “Describe your pain.”

  “It hurts.” I held up my arm and risked a glance at my watch. I had been playing sick now for three minutes, which meant Carl had probably tripped Starfish’s timer by now. “I need my men . . . my medicine . . .” On cue, Reaper appeared, being led by a third guard. He gave me an imperceptible nod.

  The doctor began to open the front of my traditional dress. “Your heart rate is only forty beats per minute. Something is abnormal.” There were some downsides to having ice water running through your veins.

  “I have his medication,” Reaper said, holding up the briefcase he had been allowed to obtain from our car. Sadly, there were no guns in it, because we had been certain that even in this scenario, they would probably still give it a cursory check. He opened the case.

  The doctor was going to figure out something was wrong any second now. The guards looked more concerned for my health than for any trickery. Well, they should be concerned; Al Falah was buddies with every badass terrorist in the business. I was the equivalent of a rock star to these guys.

  Several stories below, Starfish was counting down to firing. I was technically illiterate, but Reaper had done his best to educate me. Starfish was a NNEMPD, a Non-Nuclear Electromagnetic Pulse Device. When Starfish’s timer hit zero, it was going to use a small amount of explosives to cause a compressed magnetic flux. It would nail every electronic device within a couple hundred yards with the equivalent of getting struck by lightning ten times in a quarter of a second.

  Reaper came out with a syringe full of amber liquid. He tapped it and squirted a bit out to remove the air bubbles. The doctor glanced at him. “This isn’t a coronary. What is his condition?”