by Brian Drake
“Then why are you mad?”
“The gun was a gift. A very special gift.”
“You don’t strike me as the sentimental type.”
She sat back and smiled, which brought a mischievous glint to her dark eyes. “First man I ever—you know.” She slashed a finger across her throat. “He never saw my knife. He was so impressed that as he died, he gave me the gun.”
“Fascinating. Bullshit, but fascinating.”
“It is okay. You thought you were playing a joke. I take something from you next. Your locket, maybe?”
The silver chain, visible around his neck, ended at a scuffed sterling silver locket under his shirt. He never told anybody what it contained. He never looked himself. He knew what was in there. His conscience. The force motivating his war without end. The ghosts who urged him to fight for those without a champion.
Raven turned serious. “Touch it and I’ll make you eat your fingers.”
She laughed. “I like my fingers. I like doing things with my fingers.”
“Counting money?”
“Speaking of money—”
“In my room.”
“Cash?”
“Electronic transfer. Safer. I don’t make a habit of walking around with a crap ton of cash.”
“We will go to your room,” she said, “after wine.” She grabbed the bottle and filled her glass to the top.
Raven had Zenya half undressed before the hotel room door shut.
At least it seemed as such. He only had the knot of her blouse undone, and the sight of her pale white belly was enough to rev the engines. Two more buttons held the blouse together.
They breathed hard like animals unleashed from a cage. Zenya’s wine-scented breath flooded his senses as he steered her to the bed. She knocked a foot out from under him and threw him onto the mattress. He landed on his back with a laugh.
Zenya straddled his legs at the knees and clawed at his belt. She pulled too hard moving the zipper down and Raven hoped she hadn’t torn anything. The trousers hadn’t been cheap.
“Now I will show you”—she tugged his pants down a little—“lift your ass, darling—what I like to do with my fingers.”
Once she had Raven’s pants and boxers off, she began her demonstration, narrating the effort.
3
Later in the evening, Raven stood at the window looking out at nighttime Paris. Raven had never met a woman as insatiable as Zenya Oromatova. She was willing to do things even he found objectionable. But everybody runs out of gas and she was no exception. The Russian redhead lay on her stomach beneath a tangle of covers, snoring. Raven, restless, left the bed to stand naked in front of the window and looked out at the lights of Paris.
But not before snaking his locket off the nightstand and putting it back around his neck. He didn’t think Zenya would try and take it; the locket was his only connection to his past life. He wore it to remember what anybody else would want to forget.
He’d been a CIA operative; before that, 82nd Airborne and Special Forces, eager to serve his country. When he’d had enough of fighting, he left active service to settle as a civilian. Then tragedy struck, and he went back to war. But not for his country this time. He went back to war to save others from the tragedy fate had dealt him. When protection wasn’t possible, he avenged.
It was a lonely life broken by sporadic distraction like Zenya Oromatova, but such distractions were temporary. He had a feeling his time with her was ending, which was why he couldn’t sleep. Something, or somebody, was out there, calling to him through the ether. He’d know for sure soon enough.
He wasn’t aware Zenya had stopped snoring. Nor did he hear her rise. When she snaked warm arms around his torso, he jerked in surprise.
“If you’re still awake, I haven’t done a very good job,” she said. “Why are you awake?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“There’s something on your mind. Is it another woman? Are you cheating on her with me?”
“What if I said yes?”
“I’d say you’re a naughty man and should be punished, but I didn’t bring my paddle.”
“I may have to leave soon.”
“Not before you give me my money.” She ran her fingers through the hair on his chest. He felt her soft breasts pressing into his back as she leaned against him.
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know.”
“You are waiting for a ghost to give you directions?”
If you only knew. “Maybe.”
She scratched her nails down his chest to his belly and then let her fingers travel further. He grunted as she seized him.
“What’s happening down here?”
He turned, grabbed her below her bottom and lifted her off the floor. “You talk too much, Zenya.” She let out a squeal of delight and he dropped her on the bed and moved on top of her. She opened her legs to accommodate him and he went in with an easy thrust and Zenya’s eyes rolled back.
“You’re right…oh…oh…less…ahhhhh…talking…oh my…more…oh, yes, don’t stop.”
He didn’t.
Raven transferred her money as promised the next morning. She joked about feeling sore. He said if she could still walk, he hadn’t done a very good job. And then Zenya Oromatova went her own way. It was a simple goodbye with no promises about seeing each other again. But Raven knew it wasn’t the last time he’d see the crazy Russian redhead. Their paths would cross again. Someday.
He stayed in Paris for lack of anywhere else to go at the moment. He was waiting for the call, the cry for help, whatever it was alerting him to more action in the war without end. Paris was as good a place as any to receive the message.
Meanwhile, he might as well enjoy the wait. During lunch he thought about a CIA pal he hadn’t seen in a few years named Aaron Osborne. They’d served together in Iraq, part of a CIA unit responsible for snatch-and-grab operations. Osborne had left the Agency to work as a mercenary, fighting in various conflicts around the world. They didn’t speak often, but when they did, they raised hell like brothers.
Raven tried calling but only connected with Aaron’s voicemail. He decided to prowl some of the Paris mercenary haunts to see if he could find him.
And if he couldn’t find Aaron or anything else of interest after a few days, he’d return home to Stockholm. The call to action would find him anywhere.
As it turned out, Raven didn’t make it home for several more weeks.
It was hard work visiting bars in Paris, enjoying the scenery, the people watching, catching odd glances here and there. The women looked at him, but so did the men, though not the same way. The men had the same appearance as Raven. Military bearing, eyes always scanning, watching for threats though they were far from battle. Paris remained the city where mercenaries congregated between jobs and made themselves available for new contracts. Raven didn’t know what was so special about Paris, and no merc he ever asked had an answer, either. They simply knew. You want merc work, hang out in Paris. He suspected the tradition began after World War II. Paris was an easy place to be when you had no country to return to. Or didn’t want to go home. Judging by the crowds, a lot of mercs were currently between contracts.
Raven sat in a dive called Jean Pierre’s, one of those blink-and-you-miss-it spots on a side street not traveled by tourists. The bar catered to the kind of clientele looking for action, and not the female variety. None of the rough-looking men would refuse female company, but they wanted work, too. Raven saw a lot of hard faces, fighters who had seen every horror the world had to offer yet kept going back for more. It wasn’t a love of war which kept them returning to the battlefield, but instead a love of action. The love of challenging oneself to survive in situations where the odds were next to zero. Victory didn’t come with defeating an enemy; it came from surviving. Survival was victory. If you survived long enough, you died an old man in bed, the ultimate victory, achieved by only a few.
A glance in the mirror b
ehind the bar revealed Raven’s countenance matched those around him. He hadn’t noticed; if he had, he’d paid little attention. Maybe he should start. The softness of youth was gone. The years were catching up, war without end taking a toll, showing beneath the skin. Too much war. Too much killing. Too many nights hiding in the shadows. He didn’t fight because he liked to; surviving only meant the war continued. Raven had no idea what future victory might look like, but he had his reasons for continuing, and they were enough to keep him going despite the wear and tear.
Raven swallowed a mouthful of beer. He’d come looking for an old pal and wound up taking self-inventory. He didn’t like what he found and wanted to stop thinking.
It wasn’t the life he wanted or chose, but there had been no option after what he truly wanted vanished in a river of blood. Victory might happen when the ghosts stopped talking, but what would he do after?
Raven finished the beer and waved for another. He had to stop thinking and fast. No Zenya to distract him this time. He looked around some more.
Jean Pierre’s was narrow in front, where the bar was, and wider in back, where the booths waited. In some of the booths, conversations took place. Men leaned close, talked in hushed tones, and appreciated the lack of light in the rear. Nobody who knew what was good for him stared, so Raven looked away.
A blonde waitress in ripped jeans and a tight Tee-shirt, her thick blonde hair bouncing, carried a tray shoulder high. She delivered drinks to four men playing pool and snapped obscenities at one who tried to grab her rear end. Pivoting, she returned to the bar to fill another order. The two bartenders, both with thin dark hair, served customers along the counter.
No jukebox blared. Raven wasn’t sure there was a jukebox. He liked to think if there had been one, somebody put a bullet in it, because jukeboxes were the most annoying machines on the planet. The only noise was the crush of voices and clacking of sounds from the billiard tables.
A heavy hand landed on Raven’s left shoulder. Raven, startled, turned his head. A man sat on the stool to his left. Aaron Osborne said, “I never thought I’d see you sitting in a bar without a woman.”
Raven laughed. It was as if the time between their last visit had only been a few days earlier instead of a few years. Raven silently chided himself, though. He should have been alert instead of lost in so many thoughts.
“The waitress over there,” Raven said, gesturing at the never-stopping blonde, “already told me to go to hell.”
“It’s okay. She told me the same thing once.” Osborne asked the bartender for a beer and a shot of whiskey. Raven drank down his second and asked for a third. He and Osborne shook hands with big smiles.
“You doing all right?” Aaron said.
“Okay. I was already with a woman, by the way. Crazy Ivan named Zenya.”
“Can’t wait to hear about her. What brings you to Paris?”
“The Crazy Ivan. She’s gone now, left this morning. When I realized we hadn’t talked in a while I thought I’d try and find you. Ever answer your phone?”
“Not lately,” Aaron said.
“What have you been doing?”
“I’ve spent the last six months guarding oil rigs in the Med.”
“You don’t like being on water.”
“I hate it. Some nights it would have been easy to jump over the edge and drown. Hell with it.”
“Why rigs?”
“Only job I could get!” Aaron threw up his hands in frustration. “It’s been tough. See all these guys here? Everybody’s looking for work and there isn’t much to go around. You take what you can get. After six months I quit. I’d rather starve.”
“Are you starving?”
“Not yet but money’s low. I’ll be starving by next month.”
Their drinks arrived and Aaron snapped back the shot. He toasted Raven with his pint and they drank.
Raven studied Osborne. He looked tired. He still wore the close-cropped GI haircut, but there was less hair on top of his head. He matched Raven’s height but was a little leaner and narrower. Raven had seen how those who underestimated Osborne's stature fared in a challenge. There weren’t many who survived to take him on again.
He was always sweating, though. His dome reflected a bright sheen; a trickle or two ran down his temples. In cooler environments, the sweat was minimal. Put him somewhere humid or hot, and he drenched his shirts. Raven once suggested he get checked for hyperhidrosis, but Osborne waved it off. He said he only sweated when under stress. Based on the wetness on his forehead and shirt collar, Raven wondered what stress he might be feeling.
Going broke with no sign of work was enough to make anybody jumpy, though. And Raven wondered if his friend’s problem was the call to action he was waiting for.
Raven said, “If you aren’t working, what are your plans?”
Aaron drank some beer. “Well, there is something I’d like to talk to you about.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s get breakfast tomorrow and I’ll give you the rundown. This isn’t the place. I’m really glad you showed up, Sam.”
“Anything for a pal.”
“In the meantime, let’s ditch this joint and I’ll show you where some real tough guys go for their drinking.”
“You looking to get into a fight?”
Osborne laughed. “If I haven’t split a face open by two a.m., I’ll be very disappointed.”
They finished their drinks. Osborne dropped a large euro note on the bar and set his empty pint glass over the bill. Raven followed him out.
4
Osborne was simply another member of Raven’s Ground Branch team until he saved Raven’s life.
Osborne was the new guy, newly recruited by the CIA from Marine Force Recon. To Raven, the first day they met, he was a replacement. A nobody. His team had lost two guys the previous week; the brass picked Osborne to fill the gap. Raven figured if he carried his share of the load, Osborne might do well. Most Marine Recon personnel performed admirably in Ground Branch. Others, not so much. They passed through Ground Branch with motives other than getting the job done, Army, Navy, and Marine hot shots who wanted to turn their “covert action career” into an exploitable property for Hollywood. Working for Ground Branch gave them “street cred” to brag about. The CIA had its share too.
Raven found such characters disagreeable. “Covert” meant keeping your damn mouth shut about what you did, not signing a book deal or becoming a Tinsel Town “consultant” looking for sycophants to tell you what a bad ass you were. Luckily, those types didn’t last very long. Sometimes they went home in body bags.
With his “let’s break in the new guy” attitude, Raven and his team set out to perform a routine snatch-and-grab. Their target was an insurgent leader and bomb maker named Ameer al-Ghazi. Al-Ghazi not only built improvised bombs, but taught others how to make them, too. His devices had killed and maimed too many US and allied soldiers; the brass decided it was time for him to go. If he could be brought in alive, they’d pick his brain and squeeze every last ounce of information from him and then punch his ticket. If they failed to take him alive, nobody would lose any sleep.
Three a.m. The streets empty, the city quiet, and a crisp 54-degrees with light wind. The kind of night where the Middle East seemed like a nice place to live. Raven and his team traveled in two Oshkosh L-ATVs (Light Combat Tactical All-Terrain Vehicle). Four men to each vehicle. Raven rode up front. Osborne sat in back next to Max Buckley, another member of the team, while driver Ace Higgins sat at the wheel.
Raven sat with his automatic rifle in his lap. Behind him, following a GPS course on a laptop, Max Buckley called out: “Fifty meters ahead.” The glow of the screen lit his face.
They’d left the city limits. Most of the surrounding terrain was open desert with a few structures scattered about.
“Pull over here,” Raven said to Higgins. He spoke into his com unit, “Team two, hang back. We’re going to check the house.”
The other team copie
d.
Raven turned to Osborne and said, “You ready, Marine?”
“Got an itchy trigger finger and I’m tired of waiting,” Osborne said. He kept his attention out the window. He looked confident. To his credit, he didn’t talk much, or ask too many questions. He’d listened to the briefing and repeated the mission goals when Raven asked. So far, so good. The remainder of the night would tell the rest of the story.
The driver slowed and turned off the road into a cluster of trees. Raven, Buckley, Higgins, and Osborne slipped out of the vehicle. Raven spotted the other L-ATV about 100 yards away.
The four men crossed the dirt road. The target house, lit inside, was a single-level with bullet-scarred walls. In the dark, the house looked as if duct tape held it together. It did not inspire structural confidence.
From a ditch fifteen yards away, Raven scanned the porch through night-vision goggles. He was looking for a slash of infrared paint. Their informant had instructions to apply the paint to the door post if al-Ghazi was at the house.
He spotted the slash to the left of the doorframe.
“Target is inside. Team two, move in and cover us.”
Raven, Buckley, Higgins, and Osborne made a final check of their weapons and prepared to the assault. They left the ditch and advanced at a slow pace across the open ground. Their boots crunched lightly on the dirt. Raven and Buckley reached the door first and stood to one side. Higgins and Osborne lined up on the other side. Higgins approached the door and applied an explosive to the doorknob. He rejoined Osborne, counted with three fingers, and pressed a detonator. The blast ripped the door from its hinges and sent it spinning away.
Raven entered first, weapon at his shoulder. He sensed the others moving in behind him.
The front room presented targets right away. Raven opened fire with two-round rapid bursts, tagging the insurgents sitting or standing. They appeared dazed from the shock of the explosion. More shots cracked behind him. The insurgents dropped with no time to react.
