Chapter 1:
Job Security
Finding nothing out of place, I returned to the front of the building. Mounted on the wall next to the front door was a small metal button, resembling a watch battery. I retrieved from my pocket an electronic wand, and touched the tip of it to the metal button on the wall.
Nothing happened. “Goddamn it,” I grumbled, wiping both the button and the end of the wand with my finger. The wand was my electronic leash. As I hit the buttons across the facility, the wand recorded the time that I was there, thus proving to my employers that I was actually doing my job. However, if there was any moisture at all on either the button or the wand, it wouldn’t register.
I tried the button again. Still, nothing happened. Swearing some more, I pulled a small cloth out of my pocket and wiped down the button and the tip of the wand. Yet again, nothing happened. A pulse of anger shot through me, and I threw the wand against the steel door of Building 21. It bounced off, leaving not so much as a dent, and clattered to the concrete sidewalk below.
I took a deep breath and looked around. The sprawling ATC facility was dark, lit only by the amber lights around the buildings and along the roads. To the south, the omnipresent glow of the Strip lit up the sky. The night air was cool but had the familiar dusty stink of Las Vegas.
I looked down at the wand and frowned. Everywhere I’d been, everything I’d done, and this was what I was reduced to. I had seen combat on four continents and had survived it all, only to be utterly defeated by badly designed electronics. I sighed loudly, though there was no one around to hear.
I picked up my wand and made one last attempt. Touching it to the button, the wand beeped loudly and registered the hit. Muttering to myself, I stuffed the wand back into my pocket and returned to my patrol truck. Building 21 was last on my scheduled rounds; I had nothing else to do but drive around for the remaining three and a half hours of my shift.
As I drove, I listened to a late-night radio program called From Sea to Shining Sea. It was basically four hours of people talking about conspiracy theories, aliens, ghosts, and stuff like that. Most of it was a bunch of hooey, in my opinion, but it was often entertaining. Listening to the conspiracy theories regarding Mexico, the United Nations, and Vanguard Strategic Services always gave me a chuckle. They had no idea. The host, Roger Geonoy, was talking about secret government black helicopters or something with a guest. The guest was a frequent visitor to the show and only called himself “Prometheus.” He never gave his real name. Because, you know, they are listening. I barely paid attention as they went on about the supposed shadow government and its stealth helicopters. I did get another chuckle when Prometheus insisted that these choppers are sound-suppressed and can fly in what he called “whisper mode.” I’d ridden in enough helicopters to know just how freaking loud they are.
As Roger Geonoy listened to Prometheus blather on about black helicopters and cattle mutilations, I remembered my last helicopter ride in detail. The noise of the engines, the roar of gunfire. The sickening sound of bullets hitting the hull. The shrieking of the alarm as we dropped into a drained swimming pool. The ragged, bloody hole in Ramirez’ head. Doc’s guts spilled out onto the floor of the chopper.
“Sierra-Eleven, Dispatch,” my radio squawked, startling me. I realized that I’d been sitting at a stop sign for minutes on end. From Sea to Shining Sea had gone to commercial break. My heart was pounding.
Shaking it off, I answered my radio. “This is Sierra-Eleven.”
“Electrical Maintenance needs you to let them into Building Fourteen,” the Dispatcher said.
“Uh, ten-four,” I replied. “Ten-seventeen.” I took a deep breath and returned my attention to doing my stupid job.
Hours later, I pulled my patrol truck into a parking space behind the Security Office. Putting the truck in park, I finished the paperwork on my clipboard, recorded the mileage, and cut the engine. My breath steamed in the cool January air as I stepped out of the truck and made my way into the office.
“Mornin’, Val,” my supervisor, Mr. Norton, said as I passed his office en route to the ready room. “Anything happen last night?”
Pausing, I leaned into the doorway for a moment. “It was quiet, Boss.” Leaning in farther, I handed him my paperwork. “Is McDonald here yet?”
“Yeah, he’s on time today,” Mr. Norton said. “Have a good weekend, Val.”
“You, too, boss,” I said, leaving the doorway and making my way down the hall. I pushed open the door to the ready room. My relief, McDonald, was standing by the gun lockers, seemingly half awake. He was always seemingly half awake and had a perpetual five o’clock shadow on top of it. I found him tiresome.
He had the muzzle of his pistol in the clearing barrel as he chambered a round. Stepping past him, I opened my own gun locker, drew the .357 Magnum revolver from the holster on my left hip, and placed it inside.
“Why do you still carry that thing? We’ve got the new nine-mils, you know,” he said, holstering the pistol he’d just loaded.
“I shoot revolvers better,” I answered, not looking at him. “Not much to pass on. It was quiet last night. Some contractors are working by the old warehouse on the south side, so make sure Gate Ten is closed and locked after they leave.” I slung my gun belt over my shoulder and made my way out of the office and into the parking lot.
I found my Mustang and cranked it up. My radio was playing the morning news as I drove home, but I found it hard to pay attention. I’d lived outside of the United States for years; domestic news was something I was used to just ignoring. Frowning, I changed radio stations and listened to music for the rest of my commute home.
My apartment building was halfway across town. It didn’t look like much, but it was cheap for Vegas and wasn’t in a really bad neighborhood. It was an old motel that had been converted to apartments. The rooms were small, but there weren’t a lot of gangbangers and hookers hanging around all the time, and the cops weren’t there every night.
I made my way upstairs to the second floor. As I approached my door, I saw my next-door neighbor leaning against the railing. She smiled. “Hey,” she said, sounding tired. She removed a pack of cigarettes from her jacket pocket.
“Mornin’, Liz,” I said, leaning against the railing next to her. She was wearing a blue uniform, like me, but she wasn’t a security guard. Liz was a paramedic, and like me she also worked the night shift. She usually got home about the same time I did. Her curly red hair was pulled into a bun under her cap.
“Long night last night?” I asked as she dug for her lighter.
“Jesus Christ,” she said. “Goddamn tweakers.” Liz had been a medic for ten years and had seen just about everything.
“Here,” I said, handing her my Zippo lighter. “You okay?”
“Thank you. I’m fine—my partner just had to fight with this one asshole.” I’d never met Liz’s partner, but apparently he was a big dude. That was probably for the best, as Liz herself stood barely five foot three. She paused while she lit her cigarette. She then snapped the lighter closed but didn’t hand it back to me.
“That’s an interesting logo on there,” she said, holding my lighter up. It was matte black and engraved with a skull with a switchblade knife clutched in its teeth. I’d had the lighter a long time, and it was pretty scratched up. “Were you in the military?”
I didn’t say anything. Looking over at Liz, I saw that she was studying me intently. “I was,” I said at last. “Air Force. A long time ago.”
“You’re too young to have done anything a long time ago.”
I chuckled. “I enlisted when I turned eighteen.”
“I figured,” she said, handing me the lighter. “You seem like the type. Was that your unit logo or something?
“This? No. I was in the Security Forces. I did one stint in Afghanistan before I got out.”
“What’d you do after that?” she asked.
“I went to work,” I said awkwardly. I didn’t know Liz all that well, and I wasn’t used to talking about myself with people. “I was a security consultant for a few years.”
“Consultant? What kind of work did you do?” she asked.
“Uh, the usual stuff,” I said awkwardly. “Can’t really tell you.”
“Oh whatever,” she snorted, exhaling smoke.
“No, really,” I said. “I signed a nondisclosure agreement.” Leaving out the fact that my company no longer existed, I made a big show of yawning. “Hey, I think I need to hit the rack.”
“You sure you don’t want some breakfast? It’s my weekend to have the kids. I’m making bacon and eggs in a little bit.”
“Thanks, but I’m really tired,” I said with a sheepish smile. I turned and unlocked my door.
“Hey, Val,” Liz called after me just as I stepped inside. “I do PTSD counseling on the side. If you ever need to talk . . .”
I smiled at her again. “Thank you. I’m okay, really,” I said, before closing the door. I locked it, dropped my backpack on the floor, and plopped down in front of my computer. I had one e-mail waiting for me.
Michael Valentine:
Have you considered my offer? You’re an excellent soldier and you risked your life to save someone precious to us. Our organization could use people like you. I hope to hear back from you soon.
Song Ling
The e-mail was from a randomized address, so I had no idea where it was sent from. It included a footnote with a long phone number for me to call if I was interested, and it said that I could call that number from anywhere in the world.
Leaning back in my chair, I took a deep breath, and rubbed my eyes. I closed my e-mail browser and stood up. I wanted to take a shower and go to bed. I hoped that I wouldn’t have nightmares this time, but I knew that I would. I always did.
“Hello?” I asked, my voice sounding groggy.
“What’re you doing, fucker?”
“Who is this?”
The voice laughed. “Has it been that long, bro?”
“Tailor?” I asked.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m sleeping. How did you get this number?”
“Well, get up! I’ll be there in about half an hour.”
“Be where?”
“At your apartment.”
“What? How the hell do you know where I live? How did you get this number?” Tailor didn’t answer. “Never mind. What do you want?”
“I’ll tell you when I get there. Get dressed, I’m taking you to lunch. Don’t dress like a slob, we’re going someplace nice.”
“But—”
“Val. Trust me.”
I was quiet for a few seconds. “Fine. This better be good.” I hung up on him, ran my fingers through my hair, and got up.
Twenty-five minutes later, there was a knock on my door. Now fully dressed and mostly awake, I crossed my small apartment and looked through the peephole. I saw Tailor’s misshapen head, distorted through the tiny optic, his eyes hidden behind Oakley sunglasses. I opened the door.
“Tailor.” His head was slightly less misshapen in person. Tailor grinned. He hadn’t changed a bit. His dirty blond hair was buzzed down to almost nothing, as always. He was dressed casually but still looked uptight. He was wearing a nice leather jacket.
“Val.” He stuck out his hand. I took it, and we shook firmly. “Long time no see, bro.”
“C’mon in,” I said, stepping aside.
Tailor looked around my apartment. “This is where you live? What’d you do, spend all your money?”
“I’ve got plenty of money in savings,” I said testily. “I just wanted to keep a low profile. This place isn’t bad.” Tailor then noticed my blue uniforms hanging against the wall.
“You’re a security guard?” he asked incredulously. “You’ve been in how many wars? And now you’re a security guard?”
“Ain’t much demand for my skill set, you know,” I said, looking for my jacket. “Where are we going?”
“I found a steakhouse.”
“You’re buying me a steak? What? Okay, what the hell is going on?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll tell you about it over lunch.” I looked at him hard for a moment. I was about to tell him to get the hell out of my apartment and go back to bed. Something told me to hear him out, though. I felt that I owed him that much; hesaved my life more than once. I nodded, put on my sunglasses, and followed him out the door.
***
“It’s good to see you again,” I said from the passenger’s seat of Tailor’s Ford Expedition, looking out the window. Neither one of us had said anything since we’d left my apartment.
“You, too, bro,” Tailor replied, his voice sounding unusually upbeat.
“So, where are we going?” I asked as he drove me across town. We were headed downtown, toward the Strip.
“Ruth’s Chris,” he said. “It’s over on Paradise.”
“Dude, that place is expensive.”
“When did you become so cheap, Val?” Tailor asked. “Besides, I’m buying. Don’t worry about it! You think I’d drag you out of bed and not buy lunch?”
“Yes,” I said, folding my arms across my chest.
“Fair enough.” A lopsided grin appeared on his face. “But I didn’t this time.”
A short while later, I found myself sitting at a booth in the steakhouse, waiting for my food. Tailor sat across from me. We both sipped glasses of Dr. Pepper and talked about nothing.
“Okay, Tailor, what’s this all about? I haven’t heard from you since Mexico. Now you show up on my doorstep and buy me an expensive steak. What’s going on?”
Tailor set down his Dr. Pepper. “Have you thought about going back to work?”
“I have a job,” I said, sounding a little huffy.
“What do you make, ten bucks an hour?” Tailor asked, sarcasm in his voice.
“I make eighteen bucks an hour,” I said, sounding more than a little huffy this time. “And no one shoots at me. Also? I haven’t been to a single funeral since I started.”
“Okay, how’s that working out for you? Are you happy?”
“What?”
“Are you happy doing this? Going to work every day like a regular guy? Is that what you want?
“Well, I . . .” I fell silent, and remained quiet for a long moment. I took a deep breath. “I hate this,” I said quietly. “It’s like . . . I try so hard to fit in, to understand people, to make this work. But I can’t. I just . . .”
“You know what the problem is, Val?” Tailor asked, interrupting me. I raised my eyebrows at him. “You’re a killer.”
“That’s not it,” I protested.
“The fuck it’s not,” he said. “How long have I known you? Four years, right?”
“Since Africa,” I said, remembering my first deployment with Vanguard. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since then.
“Right. And you know what I’ve learned in all that time? You’re a badass. You don’t think you are, and you’ve got that baby face and stupid smile, and you act all quiet and shy. But when you strip all that away, you’re a killer.”
“So?” I asked. His analysis of my personality was making me uncomfortable. I looked around the restaurant, studying the other customers, watching the doors as people came in and out.
“See what you’re doing right now? You’re checking the exits, aren’t you?” Tailor said.
“Fine. So I’m the problem. I’m some kind of badass that can’t understand how to fit in the real world, just like in that old Kurt Russell movie. Is that it?”
“No. The problem isn’t that you don’t understand. It’s that they don’t understand,” he said, moving his arm to indicate the other people in the restaurant. “They don’t live in the real world. They haven’t seen the things that you’ve seen or done the things that you’ve done. Most of these people have never killed a man or buried a friend. Hell, most probably have never even fired a gun. And there you sit, concealing a 44 Magnum, watching the exits, surrounded by people who just don’t get it. You’re a killer, Val, and no matter how long you work a bullshit nine-to-five job, you’re not gonna change that.”
I didn’t respond for a few moments. “You’re more perceptive than you look,” I said at last, rubbing my eyes.
“The question is,” Tailor went on, “what changed? It didn’t used to bother you. I know you have nightmares, Val. Everybody has nightmares. Everybody has regrets. Well, except me. I don’t. But most people do. It didn’t used to eat you up. It’s eating you up now. I can see it on your face. What happened?”
“Mexico happened, Tailor,” I said flatly, looking him in the eye again.
Tailor took a deep breath and leaned back in his seat. “That was ugly, wasn’t it?”
“Ugly? We got stranded in hostile territory, abandoned, left to die. We barely got out alive. So yeah, I guess you could say it was ugly.”
“We got out, didn’t we?”
“Only because of Ling and her people.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Tailor said, taking another sip of his soda. “We lived.”
“Tell that to Ramirez’s family.”
“Ramirez didn’t have any family, Val,” Tailor snapped, setting his glass down hard. “None of us did. It’s why we were good at our jobs. It’s why we got the good jobs, the good pay, and the good equipment. It’s why we were on the Switchblade teams in the first place. We had nothing to come home to anyway. Ramirez is dead. Harper is dead. Tower is dead. Everybody dies, Val. You don’t get to pick how or when. I worked with Ramirez longer than you. Don’t you dare use his death as an excuse to mope around like a teenaged drama queen!”
I didn’t say anything, and I didn’t look at Tailor. We were briefly interrupted as the waitress brought us our food.
“Is that what’s eating you, Val?” Tailor asked at last, chewing expensive steak with his mouth open. “Survivor’s guilt?”
“You don’t understand,” I said quietly, cutting my steak.
“How the hell do you know what I understand?” Tailor said to me. “I’ve been doing this longer than you, Val. You think you’ve seen some shit? I’ve seen some shit, too. The difference is, I deal with it instead of letting it screw me up. Until you do that, nothing’s going to change for you. Living in this dump, punishing yourself with a stupid job and a stupid life isn’t going to make you feel any better.”
I ate my steak in silence, not sure what to say. We were quiet for an awkwardly long time before either one of us spoke. I set my fork down and looked at my former partner. “What’s this all about, Tailor? I know you didn’t drive all the way to Vegas and buy me an expensive steak just to yell at me about my angst.”
Tailor took a moment to finish chewing before he spoke. “I’ve got a job offer for you.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I’m listening.”
“You’d have to leave soon. Like in the next week or so.”
“I’d have to break my lease.”
“Will that be a problem?”
“No, I just won’t get my deposit back. Who’s it with?”
“I don’t know,” Tailor said, flatly.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
Tailor leaned in, his voice hushed. “I think it’s a front for the government. They’re real hush-hush about everything. They just call it The Project. They’re offering twenty-five K a month, plus expenses.”
I almost choked on my Dr. Pepper. “Christ, that’s like three hundred thousand dollars a year!” My annual salary with Vanguard had been about a hundred thousand dollars a year, plus operational bonuses. I only got paid that much because I was on one of the Switchblade teams.
“Tax-exempt,” Tailor added.
“What? From a US company? No Medicare or Social Security?” By US law, if you were out of the United States for three hundred and thirty days of a year, you didn’t have to pay income taxes. This capped out at eighty thousand dollars. Everything above that was taxable income.
“You get paid what you get paid. They told me they’d take care of the IRS aspects of it.”
“And you’re just trusting these people?”
“Val, they’ve already deposited a twenty thousand dollar signing bonus into my bank account. I trust that.”
“Money talks, huh?”
“Money talks.”
“Have you told anyone else about this?”
“I called Skunky,” Tailor replied, sipping his soda.
“Really? How’s he doing, anyway? Haven’t heard from him.”
“He lives in California now.”
“Eew,” I said, making a face.
“I know, right?”
“You know, you’re not the first one to offer me a job,” I said.
“Really? Have you been looking?”
“No. Every couple of months I get an e-mail from Ling. She wants me to sign up with her group.”
“Val, that crazy Chinese bitch ain’t gonna sleep with you.”
“What? That’s not—”
“Oh, the hell it’s not,” he interrupted, grinning. “Come on, Val, I know you. You’ve got a thing for Asians, and I watched you drool all over her from the moment she showed up. The puppy love was cute, Val, it really was.”
“Hey, that crazy bitch saved our lives.”
“Well, we wouldn’t have been there if Exodus hadn’t hired us in the first place. We were expendable. And we paid for it.”
I sighed. “I know. It’s why I haven’t answered. Her group considers me some kind of hero, I think, because I saved that kid we rescued.”
“Val, her group . . . how much do you know about them?”
“I’ve done some research. It’s hard to find much. They’re like global vigilantes. They kill slavers, drug runners . . .”
“That’s just the beginning,” Tailor said. “They’re a very secretive, very well-funded transnational paramilitary organization. They’re like a cult. They go around the world, shooting people and blowing shit up in the name of the greater good or something. The UN considers them a terrorist group.”
“They didn’t think too highly of Vanguard, either, Tailor.”
“Look,” Tailor continued, “I’m saying you might want to think twice before getting involved with some crazy terrorist group because you’re bored and you’re trying to get laid. I mean come on, this is Nevada. If you want to screw an Asian chick so bad, just go to a whorehouse.”
My mouth fell open. “You . . .” I cracked a smile and began to laugh. “You’re a dick, you know that?”
“Yeah, I know,” he said matter-of-factly. “Even still, you shouldn’t rush into something like that when you don’t know anything about it.”
“Says the guy who shows up on my doorstep and tries to get me to take a mysterious job with a mysterious company he doesn’t know anything about,” I said, a wry grin appearing on my face.
“Okay,” Tailor admitted, “but we’ll be there together. If there are any problems, well, we’ll deal with it. We’ve been in bad situations before.”
“The money’s too good, Tailor. Something stinks.”
“I know,” he said again. “I think it’s something to do with the Middle East.”
“As in Afghanistan? I really don’t want to go back to Afghanistan, Tailor.”
“No, I think they’re going to send us someplace that the US ain’t supposed to be. I think that’s why the pay is so good, and that’s why there’s so much secrecy.”
“Huh,” I said. “How’d you find out about this?”
“Friend of a friend got me in touch with this guy named Gordon Willis.”
“Who’s he?”
“I don’t know. He’s pretty cryptic about everything, but he’s obviously got a lot of money behind him. All he’ll say is that he represents the best interests of the United States.”
“That sounds, um, ominous.”
“Right?” Tailor asked. “I know, Val, I know. Like I said, the money’s real good. Everything I’ve seen from these people is on the ball. They pay in advance. And their cars have government plates.”
“You’re really going along with this?” I asked.
“I’m already signed up and everything. I ship next week. That’s why I’m here, Val. I want you to go with me. Whaddaya say?”
I was quiet for a long moment, as our waitress brought us our check. “You know, last night at work I got bitched out by an employee at the facility. She showed up at the south gate at about zero-two-hundred and wanted a temporary badge. The south gate doesn’t open until zero-six. So instead of going to the front gate, she sat there and bitched out the dispatcher on the phone until he sent me down there. Then she bitched me out until I issued her the temporary badge.”
“That’s bullshit,” Tailor said. “You should’ve told her to go to the main gate or sit there all night.”
“I can’t. We’re always getting nasty-grams in the e-mail from the Branch Office, reminding us that serving the client is the number one priority, that we’re there to make things better for them, blah blah blah,” I said, waving my arm theatrically. “Basically, if I enforce the rules I’m supposed to enforce, people complain and I get in trouble. If I don’t enforce them, people complain and I get in trouble.”
“Why don’t you look for a new job?”
“Like I said, it’s hard to get jobs with my skill-set. Normal jobs, anyway. I mean, what am I going to do, sell cars? Flip burgers? And I don’t have anything else going on. I don’t really have any friends here. I don’t have a girlfriend. I mean, I guess I could go out to bars or whatever and try to pick women up, but what am I going to say? Hey, baby, I know I’m emotionally damaged and unstable, and I spent the last five years shooting people for money, and now I’m a security guard and everything, but why don’t you overlook all that and come have sex with me in my crappy little apartment?”
Tailor let out a raucous laugh. “Then come back to work, Val. To hell with it.”
“Yeah . . . yeah. I mean, why not? I can’t possibly hate my life any more than I do now. Screw it, let’s do this. It’ll be good to work with you again.”
“You sure, Val?”
“I’m sure. Hey, what did Skunky say when you called him?”
“He wasn’t interested.” Tailor shrugged. “Says he’s got his own thing going on or something.”
“I’m glad he’s doing better than me. Come on, take me home. I’ve got some arrangements I need to make.” Tailor grinned and stuck his fist across the table. I made a fist with my left hand and bumped it against his.
Sitting down, I studied Gordon for a moment. He was in his late thirties or early forties, with a slick haircut and an expensive suit. He smiled with perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth, and observed me with piercing blue eyes. I immediately distrusted this man. He was slick, but my gut told me he was a snake. I tried to ignore it and listened to what he had to say.
“I trust Mr. Tailor has filled you in on the job opportunity I can offer you?” he asked, folding his hands on the desk in front of him.
“Uh, yes,” I said, trying to quell my unease. “He didn’t have a lot of details himself, but he told me about the pay. Twenty-five thousand dollars a month?”
“Yes!” he said, beaming. “Tax exempt, of course.”
“How . . . how is that possible?” I asked. “The tax law says that—”
Gordon interrupted me with an obnoxious little chuckle. “Mr. Valentine, I’m sure you have a lot of questions. I’m afraid that there are a lot of things I simply can’t tell you unless you sign. All I’m at liberty to say is that you won’t have to worry about paying any taxes. We’ll take care of the IRS documentation and filing for you. You’ll keep every cent of what you earn.”
“Who are you people?” I asked flatly, my eyes narrowing. “What’s this all about? I can tell that this isn’t your office,” I said, moving my arm to indicate the small storefront we were sitting in. “You probably rented this place out a week ago.”
Gordon sat back in his chair and studied me with a knowing grin on his face. “Mr. Tailor was right about you,” he said. “You’re very sharp.” He then pulled a large manila envelope out of his desk drawer. He opened it and began to read to me. “Your real name is Constantine Michael Valentine, yet you somehow managed to get Constantine left off of your military ID.” My mouth fell open, but I didn’t say anything. I hadn’t heard anyone say my real first name in years. “You served a four-year term of enlistment in the United States Air Force, including a seven-month combat deployment to Afghanistan. You were involved in an incident there, and while you were discharged honorably you have a reenlistment code of RE-3. They asked you not to come back.”
“Okay, so you were able to pull my DD214,” I said. “Are you with the government?”
Gordon set the papers down before speaking. “Something like that. I’m afraid I really can’t say much more at this time. Ever since Mr. Tailor indicated that you might be interested in the job I’m offering, we’ve been doing a very thorough background check on you. I know that you went from being a career contractor with Vanguard Strategic Solutions International to working as a night-shift security guard for a local defense contractor. Your annual income is about one quarter of what it was last year, and that doesn’t include the generous operational bonuses or hazard pay that Vanguard was famous for.”
“So?”
“So, Mr. Valentine, your friend Mr. Tailor told me that you’re better than this. And you know what? I agree. I’ve studied your entire dossier, going back to when you were in high school. I know what happened to your mother, and I can only imagine the effect that had on you.”
“Mr. Willis,” I said coldly, “You have no idea the effect that had on me.”
“Ah, I see,” he said, his voice softening. “I apologize, Mr. Valentine. I didn’t mean to bring up bad blood. All I was trying to say is that I think what I’m offering is perfect for you.”
I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose between two fingers as I did so. “Mr. Willis, what exactly are you offering me?”
“Straight to the point.” He beamed. “I like that. You wouldn’t believe how many guys we get through here that get intimidated when we pull out their file. I’m not going to lie to you,” he said, leaning in closer. “This job is going to be dangerous. You’ll have to be able to deploy right away.”
“I see. That shouldn’t be a problem. How dangerous are we talking here?”
“As I’m sure you’ve guessed,” Gordon said, “absolute discretion is required. Look at the world situation right now, Mr. Valentine; war in Mexico, war in the Middle East, war in Southeast Asia and Africa, more in-fighting in Russia, and an uneasy cease-fire in China with a thousand-mile-long DMZ along the Yangtze River. The world is spiraling into chaos and our country’s conventional military and intelligence assets just aren’t enough to deal with it all.”
“I’ve been shot at in half the places you just listed, Mr. Willis,” I said. “I’m well aware of the geopolitical situation.”
“I’m sure you are, Mr. Valentine. Since joining Vanguard you’ve been on—” he trailed off as he checked my file— “five major deployments overseas. —nearly five years of your life fighting other peoples’ wars. I’m offering you a chance to serve your country again. There’s a critical situation developing, and we need the best people available to manage it before it gets out of hand.”
“Don’t you have the CIA and Special Forces for that?” I asked. Something about this whole thing stank. The money was too good, and the facts were too few.
“As you can imagine, they’re stretched thin as is,” Gordon replied.
“I can’t imagine you’re having trouble recruiting people with the money you’re offering.”
“You wouldn’t think so, but many of our candidates have the same professional paranoia as you, Mr. Valentine. Due to the nature of the situation, I’m simply unable to disclose much more than I’ve told you before you sign. Many otherwise promising candidates have balked at the lack of information.”
I chewed on that for a moment. It was disquieting to be sure, but I had a feeling there was more to it than that. “I see. Am I to assume that this will be a combat operation?”
“If all goes well,” Gordon said, “the combat will be minimal. We’re trying something new in our area of operations. You’ll be trained in mission-specific skills above and beyond door-kicking and trigger-pulling. As I said, the utmost discretion is required. I’m also required to inform you that while you’re away, you’ll only have minimal contact with loved ones back home. We regret this, but security is necessary until the operation is completed.”
“What kind of time frame are we looking at here?” I asked.
“Hopefully, we’ll have everyone home by Christmas. Now, I’m sure you’ve heard that before, so I’m not going to mince words. The contract is for an undetermined period of time not to exceed three years. You’re ours until the mission is over, basically. Obviously, at the pay rate we’re offering, it’s in our best interest to accomplish the mission as soon as possible.” Gordon let out a convincing chuckle at his own joke.
“Tailor told me he got a signing bonus.”
“Ah, yes!” Gordon said, retrieving another manila envelope from his desk. He opened it and placed a piece of paper in front of me. It was a standard government direct-deposit form. “If you’ll fill this out,” he said, “we should have that in your bank account in three to five business days.”
“And . . . you’re sure there won’t be any problems with the IRS? This is all going to my regular checking account with the Las Vegas Federal Credit Union and I’m not going to have the tax man breathing down my neck?”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Valentine,” Gordon said, grinning. “We’re bigger than the tax man.” That sounded more ominous than promising. I realized then that the big guy, Anders, was still standing in the corner behind Gordon and hadn’t said a word the entire time. He observed me with a bored look on his face, but I didn’t doubt that he’d made a plan to kill me the moment I walked in the door. These guys undoubtedly knew that I had a concealed-firearm permit, but they hadn’t said anything about it.
“Who, exactly, is we?” I asked, looking over the contract Gordon had pushed in front of me. It was full of vague legalese and only referred to Gordon’s organization as the party of the first part.
Gordon grinned. “I’m afraid you’ll have to sign to get filled in on all of that, Mr. Valentine,” he said and set an ornate pen down in front of me. “All I can say until then is that you’ll be serving the best interests of the United States and will be protecting your country from enemies foreign and domestic.”
I picked up the silver pen. It had XII, the Roman numeral for the number twelve, engraved on it. I wondered what it meant. I took a deep breath and signed the document. Gordon smiled.
“I guess I’ll have to call my boss and tell him I’m not coming in Monday,” I said.
“Don’t worry about that,” Gordon answered. “We’ll take care of everything. You can take the direct-deposit form with you if you don’t have your bank routing number available right now. Within forty-eight hours, you should receive a packet with everything you need to know. You’ll be deploying within two weeks.”
“Deploying where?” I asked, handing him back his pen.
“Everything will be in the packet,” he said. “Until then, take some time to get your affairs in order. You’ll likely be out of the United States for an extended period of time.” Gordon stuck his hand out. I hesitated, then took it. He had an excessively firm handshake. “Welcome aboard,” he said and stood up. I gathered my papers and stood up as well. “You did the right thing.”
“I hope so,” I said, taking my papers and turning to leave.
“Mr. Valentine?” Anders, the big guy, said as I opened the door. I turned and looked back at him. “If you fail to arrive at the deployment location at the appropriate time, we will come get you. It’ll be best if you’re punctual.”
“I get it,” I said and closed the door behind me. What the hell did I just do?
There were three sections of Zubara City (Ash Shamal, Umm Shamal, and Al Khor). Each was a narrow sliver of land extending into the Persian Gulf for a couple of miles. Half a million people were packed on those three little peninsulas, mostly Sunni, some Shiite, a mess of imported workers, and I was spending my day in the poor, dangerous one, Ash Shamal.
Nobody used the country’s official name, or the abbreviation CGEZ. The Americans or Europeans who ended up here usually called it the Zoob. The rest of the world just referred to the tiny country as Zubara.
I got to the entrance of the club fifteen minutes early so I could survey the area. This neighborhood was one of the oldest in Ash Shamal, but there was much new construction underway. It was also one of the more traditional. It was interesting to note the fundamentalist graffiti that was popping up in many of the alleys, and even more interesting was that the local authorities hadn’t bothered to cover it up. Either there was too much of it to keep up with, the official government types didn’t bother to come into this neighborhood, or the cops actually agreed with the message. Either way, it was a grim omen.
Zubara was a relatively modern state, dragged kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century by the current monarch. Bordered by Qatar and Saudi Arabia, the tiny nation wasn’t nearly as rich as its neighbors but was relatively clean, organized, and, by Arab standards, efficient. Zubara was one of the jewels of the Persian Gulf, but that appeared to be changing with the current power struggle, and my specialty was to capitalize on the inevitable chaos that would result.
I had spent my entire adult life in various third-world countries. I’d seen revolutions, famines, wars, and the utter collapse of societies. I made my living on the fringe of mankind. I didn’t know what was going to happen here yet, but I knew something was coming.
Zubara would be just another job, just a little more difficult than normal, or so I tried to convince myself. It had been six months since I had been drafted for this job. Six months since Eddie had brutally murdered one of my crew just to let me know how serious he was. Half a year of preparation and groundwork to pull off an impossible mission. There was a bitter taste in my mouth as I prepared for this meeting.
I walked around the block to scope out the back entrance, just in case. There was some construction going on across the street, but the workers all looked like the normal Indonesians and Filipinos that did all the grunt labor in this country. I saw no indications of a trap. Making my way back to the front, I leaned against the corner of a building and watched the club. The man I was supposed to be meeting would probably be running late, like pretty much everything in this part of the world. I couldn’t spot anyone else surveying the place, so it was either safe or they were really good.
Waiting gave me time to think, which was unfortunate, because right now thinking about what I was doing just made me angrier. This job sucked. It was suicide, and I had been forced into it against my will. It was going to take months to accomplish, but once this gig was completed, I was going to devote my life to finding the man who put me in this situation. I vowed that I was going to go on a killing spree that would become the stuff of legend.
My thoughts of murder were interrupted when a black Bentley parked in front of the club. The luxury car didn’t seem out of place on the same street as a vendor selling live chickens, but that was the nature of the Middle East. The driver exited and held open the back door for his charge. The man that stepped out was in his forties, wearing a brown suit, white shirt, and no tie. This was pretty fashionable apparel in the region and was what all the cool terrorists were wearing.
He was early. Amazing. The driver stayed with the vehicle. I waited a few extra minutes, watching for anything out of the ordinary before I followed him into the club. The interior was dark and cooled by rows of ceiling fans. Inside, the social club was far nicer than its drab outside appearance suggested. It was relatively crowded by middle-aged men smoking hookahs, playing chess, and bitching about local politics.
The server acknowledged me as I entered, but I waved him off as I spotted the man I was looking for sitting at a table in the back. The server retreated deferentially.
The man saw me approaching and nodded once. I pulled up a chair and sat. “Lorenzo,” he said before taking a sip of his pungent tea. “I didn’t recognize you.”
“That’s the general idea,” I responded. Say what you will about the man-dresses, they were actually pretty comfy and enabled me to conceal a few weapons. Even still, they do make you look like a big stupid marshmallow, and you can hardly run in one. I’d taken a few days to brush up my Arabic and perfect the local accent. I’d grown my beard out, and my natural features enabled me to pass for a native Zubaran rather easily. After all, I had a knack for blending in wherever I went. “Good to see you again, Jalal.”
Jalal Hosani smiled. “No, it is not good, I am afraid. You are a wanted man in this country, if I recall correctly.” His English was perfect. It should be, since he’d attended Oxford, paid for by his friends in the Qatari royal family.
“Actually, no. You’re thinking of Syria, and the UAE . . . oh, and I think the Saudi courts want one of my hands. This is my first time in lovely Zubara. It’s kind of nice, except that whole pending revolution thing. So, what brought you here?”
“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.