The Contractors

by Harry Hunsicker

  Eva liked her life and her boyfriend, the most confident man she had ever met.

  So what if she had to pretend that she didn’t notice certain things, the bodyguards and the guns, his sudden disappearances in the night, the occasional sounds of weapons being fired in anger or shrieks of pain from the basement rooms.

  The good times were worth it.

  She was dancing with her boyfriend to a slow song. Poison, “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.” Her head was spinning, the champagne and the light from the mirrored ball reflecting across the disco’s floor. These were happy times, the parties that never stopped, money to spend, consequences for the day’s decisions that never came.

  Smiling, content, she pressed her cheek against her boyfriend’s chest, the not-unpleasant aroma of tobacco smoke, sweat, and cologne thick in her nostrils.

  Then, in the time it takes for a heart to beat or a thought to form, he was gone.

  An empty space on the dance floor.

  She was conscious of movement, the touch of his body leaving hers. She opened her eyes, saw a rapidly closing gap in the crowd, the back of his head moving away. Then nothing of him remained.

  The lights strobed, blinded her for a moment. The music seemed louder. The safe, familiar sensation of her lover replaced by something else, a feral odor that one of her friends would later call the stench of testosterone.

  She looked up and saw a man with eyes the color of a grave, black and endless. He was handsome like a movie star, a cleft chin and a long, thin nose. His body was lean, ropy with muscles. Wavy dark hair.

  Eva noticed all this but kept coming back to his eyes, black orbs that missed nothing. His gaze was tender and dangerous, all in the same moment.

  He smiled and she felt her knees go weak. Desire like she’d never known roiled inside, but she willed the arousal away. Some might have called her a tramp, but she was faithful. Usually.

  Her boyfriend was nowhere to be seen though.

  “My name is Lazaro,” the man said. “Who are you?”

  “Eva.” She brushed back her hair.

  “Would you like some champagne, Eva?” Lazaro led her to a table in the corner that was surrounded by hard-faced men with their shirts untucked.

  In the middle of the table sat a silver bucket full of Dom Perignon, icy cold. Next to the champagne lay a mirror covered with strips of white powder. Several young women who Eva recognized were there as well. Party girls. Young and pretty. Vacuous expressions on their faces. Disposable.

  “Would you like a bump?” Lazaro pointed to the cocaine.

  Eva shook her head. Beyond the occasional joint, drugs held no sway over her. She didn’t like how her heart raced on coke. Didn’t want to fall asleep from the opiates.

  Lazaro nodded like he approved. He poured Eva a glass of champagne and told her to sit down. She did. She took a sip and asked where her boyfriend was. No one answered. The music got louder and more people joined the party.

  Lazaro and Eva married in Mexico City three months later.

  She never saw her boyfriend again.

  Supposedly, the next week his mother received a package in the mail containing his head. But that was just a rumor.

  - CHAPTER FORTY-NINE -

  The sandy terrain of West Texas was a blur outside the windows of the helicopter.

  Keith McCluskey, DEA contractor and Paynelowe’s ops commander for Region 7, turned his back to the others and rubbed the last few grains of cocaine on his gums. He felt good, alive with the possibilities of success. Righteous.

  He looked at the picture again. A tourist snapshot, he and Eva Ramirez at the Mexican restaurant on the River Walk in San Antonio, taken a few weeks before, arm in arm.

  The sight of Eva, her smiling face, her beauty, made his heart race as much as the coke.

  A few more hours and he’d have her in his arms again. His one true love. Then, he’d no longer need the drugs. He’d have successfully completed the mission, retrieving the witness, his darling Eva. She would provide a few nuggets of intel that his supervisors would use to negotiate a new, much more lucrative contract. Details about the new contract were above his pay grade but the numbers were supposed to be huge, the services provided more than just law enforcement contracting. Overrun money and slippage fees had been built into everything so that the executives at Paynelowe and their political patrons could wet their beaks easily.

  In exchange for Eva’s information, Paynelowe had already given tentative approval to arrange a new identity for her. She would be able to disappear and not risk testifying against the monster that was her husband.

  The downside, of course, was that her husband, Lazaro Morales, a cartel leader, would go free because of lack of evidence. Also, McCluskey had yet to retrieve the scanner, the device he had lost.

  But such was the way wars went. Sacrifices had to be made for a greater good.

  He and Eva would melt away. He had several false identities of his own prepared, along with money skimmed from contract overages, more than enough to last them for a few years until he could figure out a new career path. The divorce papers for his current wife were waiting to be filed.

  The plan was going to work. Love would triumph.

  McCluskey shifted the headset and mike a little, trying for a more comfortable fit.

  The back of the helicopter was loud from the twin turbine engines.

  The Chinook had been in use by the US Armed Forces since Vietnam, its primary mission the deployment of heavy artillery and large numbers of troops. The cargo area of this particular aircraft held two ground vehicles and a handful of newly hired Paynelowe contractors dressed as civilians. Jeans and T-shirts, lightweight windbreakers to cover their sidearms.

  They were the dregs. Drug abusers and sociopaths. Malcontents.

  The op had been arranged on short notice, and the battle plan contained elements designed to please his supervisors. They needed certain equipment to be used, money allocated from select budget items, all part of the negotiating process for a new contract. Unfortunately, this was not a good scenario for designing the most efficient battle plan or getting the best personnel.

  Each contractor had a shiny new badge and ID, indicating that he was an agent with the Drug Enforcement Administration.

  The men, hired on the cheap because Paynelowe’s freelance personnel budget for the year was nearly depleted, were armed with the latest and most expensive in small-arms technology, the Reaper, a catchy name for the acronym REPR, or Rapid Engagement Precision Rifle.

  The twelve-inch-barreled firearm looked a little like the standard M-4 army weapon—adjustable buttstock, ventilated forearm—but fired the more deadly 7.62-millimeter round. At the request of Paynelowe’s human resources department, each Reaper was equipped with the latest generation Surefire sound suppressor even though the silencer would hinder the bullet’s performance, the trade-off deemed acceptable due to the potential liability from workplace hearing loss.

  In addition, one of the team carried a Remington 700 sniper rifle that had been outfitted with a Leupold tactical scope. That contractor had been issued earplugs.

  The team’s mode of ground transportation were two brand new Porsche Cayenne Turbos, $120,000 sport utility vehicles. A Paynelowe subsidiary owned a dealership in South Texas.

  Hundreds of thousands for equipment, yet a pittance for the people to operate it all. Budgets and bureaucrats, the scourge of the fighting man since the dawn of time.

  McCluskey shook his head at the inefficiency of it all as the pilot’s voice sounded over his headphones. Their initial ETA was twelve minutes.

  He mentally ran through the checklist one more time. Everything was in place.

  The only non-Paynelowe employee on board, a semiretired FBI contractor from a competing company, lurched down the length of the cargo area, holding on to the straps hung every few feet for balance.

  The man had to be sixty, red hair going gray. His face was flushed, a spider web of burst capillaries on his nose.
He wore gray Sansabelt pants, a golf shirt stretched to the point of tearing, and black sneakers designed to look like dress shoes. He sat next to McCluskey on the bench seat and plugged in his headset so they could converse.

  McCluskey wrinkled his nose at the odor of whiskey. “You’ve been drinking.”

  “One of your goon squad just smoked a bowl of hash.” The man pulled a pint bottle of Cutty Sark from his back pocket. “And you’ve got blow all over your face. So don’t give me any grief about getting my scotch on.”

  “That’s my demolition expert.” McCluskey wiped his face. “Guy can’t keep off the weed for one full day without going loony.”

  The bombers were always the worst. The devastation they wreaked did something to their minds, altered the moral compass a good soldier was supposed to possess.

  “What the hell you blowing up out there anyway?” the older man said. “Jackrabbits?”

  “A highway.” McCluskey tapped a manila folder. “It’s part of the battle plan.”

  “Are you nuts?” The man took another drink.

  “Think of it as a link in the food chain. Paynelowe’s sister company has the contract for road repair in this state.” McCluskey put the folder back into his briefcase. “What was your name again?”

  “My friends call me Costco.” He put the bottle away. “You can call me Agent Barnett.”

  “I realize there’s some tension between us.” McCluskey sniffed. “The merger process is never easy.”

  Paynelowe was in the midst of a hostile takeover of the other man’s company, Blue Dagger Industries.

  “Quit trying to squirt Lysol up my butt.” Costco crossed his arms. “We’re both diving into shit soup. Neither of us is gonna come out smelling very good.”

  “We’ll of course be professional about the business at hand.” McCluskey rubbed his nose. He was glad he had another package of cocaine to keep his readiness for the operation high.

  Two of the contractors were sitting across the cargo area from McCluskey and Costco, talking on their own intercom system. One obviously said something offensive to the other as both men stood, fists raised, preparing for a fight.

  McCluskey motioned to a third, his most reliable subordinate. The subordinate jumped between the other two, calming them down. For the moment at least.

  Hopefully, the next group would be better, maybe less psychopathic. After dropping off this bunch, he was to fly to Houston and pick up a new batch of contractors who were being assembled, just in case this squad failed. He didn’t want to miss his reunion with Eva, but some things needed his hands-on control, especially with his superiors getting nosy about everything.

  “Professional.” Costco nodded. “Oh, yeah. I see that.”

  “I brought you along as a fail-safe, not an operative,” McCluskey said. “Don’t forget that.”

  “Really?” Costco cocked his head. “In my mind, I’m here because I got three ex-wives and my AA sponsor was off the grid when I met my fourth.”

  “What?”

  “I sold my soul for a pocketful of coin, dipstick. What’s your excuse?”

  The chopper banked to the left and tilted downward. McCluskey had no reply. He thought of Eva’s body, her limbs intertwined with his. He thought about true love. Emotion choked in his throat.

  “This guy we’re going after, Jon Cantrell, he used to be a friend of mine.” Costco pulled out the whiskey bottle again and drained it. “You make quick work of it or I’ll do things to you that make you wish you were being waterboarded instead.”

  Neither man spoke for a moment, each sizing up the other.

  “The package in the front.” McCluskey pointed to the forward section of the aircraft. “Took a lot of resources to acquire it. I’d like to know how it’s relevant.”

  “Let’s just say I know what buttons to push on Jon Cantrell.” Costco rubbed his eyes.

  “And what would those be?”

  “Your nose is bleeding.” Costco smiled. “Altitude getting to you?”

  McCluskey grabbed a handkerchief and held it to his face.

  “When I get to hell,” Costco said, squeezing his knee, “I’ll save you a seat next to mine.”

  - CHAPTER FIFTY -

  I worked my jaw, swallowed, trying to clear my ears of pressure.

  The temperature gauge in the rearview mirror of the Tahoe read ninety-five. A dry heat to be sure, not unlike an oven.

  Was that thunder in the distance?

  A faint rumble, a slight disruption to the consciousness of the here and now, like a dream half remembered.

  The sky was cloudless, the color of damp cobalt, pale blue and platinum.

  Heat waves shimmered on the blacktop. Desert plains lay on either side of the highway, rimmed by a broken line of shallow hills, the remnants of the caldera that formed this particular flat spot ten thousand millennia ago.

  We’d been on the road for a while. It was mid-morning, and we were a little under three hours from our destination.

  “Did you hear something?” Piper said. “Like a boom?”

  I slowed a little. Eighty became seventy.

  Eva stirred in the rear seat. She blinked, stretched.

  A few miles later, on the western horizon, the line between sky and earth grew indistinct, ethereal. A sand-colored cloud swallowed the ragged boundary between the heavens and the desert, making it difficult to see where one ended and the other began.

  “What the hell is that?” I slowed some more.

  The two-lane highway we were on was the only passage west. The last turnoff had been about an hour before, a northbound road leading to Interstate 10. The land on either side was privately owned, part of one or more vast ranches contained within the seemingly endless lines of barbed-wire fences.

  I tapped a button on the GPS. The next turn-off was a private road that led nowhere, about twenty miles ahead. The cloud was obviously before that.

  Eva leaned forward. “They have found us?”

  “We don’t know that for sure.” Piper picked up her subgun from the floorboard.

  I eased off the gas as the cloud of what now appeared to be dust grew larger, then wrapped around us. An instant later, the Tahoe broke through and topped a small rise.

  “Holy crap,” Piper gasped.

  I jammed on the brakes, and the truck screeched to a stop.

  The road was gone. Disappeared. Adios, Señor Highway.

  In its place was a huge, smoking crater.

  On the other side were two low hills with flat tops, broad mesas that offered a panoramic view of the hole and the terrain to the east. Of us.

  On the hill to the left, maybe five hundred yards away, sat a Chinook helicopter, its massive rotors idle, drooping.

  “Hey, Jon.” Piper slid the subgun’s safety to the fire position. Her voice was calm, almost casual. “How about you get us the hell out of here.”

  “Roger that.” I yanked the transmission into reverse, jammed on the gas.

  But not fast enough.

  Thunk. The sound of metal crunching like an aluminum can being mashed.

  Steam billowed from underneath the hood.

  I kept a foot on the accelerator, head craned behind me to peer out the back window.

  The next shot hit a tire, and the Tahoe slewed at an angle. The stench of antifreeze and hot rubber filled the inside.

  Eva swore. Shouted in Spanish.

  Piper slung open the passenger door and rolled out.

  “Eva.” I popped the transmission into park. “Head for the ditch.”

  The rear door on my side opened, and she was gone.

  I grabbed my subgun, dove out, landed on the road. The heat was ferocious. Pebble-covered asphalt dug into my elbows and knees, the surface as hot as a griddle.

  Ching-ching. Ching.

  All around me dollops of road surface flew upward like the splatter of asphalt raindrops.

  A sniper, dialing in the range.

  I ran to the drainage ditch and rolled to the bot
tom, maybe two or three feet below the grade of the highway. Nothing there but weeds and dust, scant protection from the bullets.

  Eva landed on top of me a quarter second later.

  I pushed her off and belly-crawled toward the source of the attack. “This way. Keep down.”

  We were below their line of sight but far from safe. The best tactical move was to keep mobile. The best strategic play, because it was counterintuitive, was to head toward the source of the attack.

  After about thirty seconds I stopped, waited for Eva to catch up. Piper would have gone to the ditch on her side of the Tahoe. For the moment, she was on her own.

  The ditch on my side had deepened. A few feet away, a boulder the size of a sedan rested on the ditch bank opposite the highway. The rock was flanked by several smaller chunks of stone and a fringe of cactus.

  On my person: one H&K submachine gun with two thirty-round magazines taped together. One Glock, loaded, with one extra fifteen-round magazine. One disposable cell with no coverage at the moment. And a pocketknife.

  What I didn’t have: water or food. Or a functioning vehicle, though the Tahoe might be able to limp back the way we came for a mile or so.

  I crawled to the side of the boulder. Listened.

  The sniper appeared to have stopped firing. Nothing but the rustle of weeds from the slight breeze that whispered through the ditch. My face was slick with sweat, arms speckled with dirt.

  “Who are they?” Eva crouched next to me. “What should we do?”

  “There’s a company out of Houston.” I struggled to catch my breath. “They have a contract with the DEA to—”

  WHOOSH. A loud noise like air forced through a garden hose at high pressure.

  I ducked instinctively, covered Eva.

  A crash. Metal ripped; glass shattered. Then, an explosion loud enough to rattle fillings as the temperature of the air doubled for a half second.

  Fifty feet behind us a fireball rose skyward, followed by a mushroom cloud of black smoke.