by Peter Nealen
“Why, thank you, John,” she said with another smile, watching him over the lip of the cup as she took a sip. “I have to admit, this place is a lot like what I pictured, the first time I met you. Very…rustic.”
“What are you doing here, Ms. Dalca?” Brannigan asked bluntly.
“There’s no need to be so formal, John,” she said.
“Oh, I think there is,” he replied flatly. “Answer the question.”
She took another sip of coffee and dropped some of the seductive charm from her manner, becoming more businesslike. “I’m here to put your mind at ease about the Transnistria operation,” she said. “My friend Guildenhall said you were not sold.”
“Putting my mind at ease about going into a post-Soviet ‘frozen conflict’ after an arms dealer is going to be a pretty good trick,” he said. “Insert and extract being only the worst parts.”
“You don’t need to worry about any of that,” she said. She motioned toward the packet. “The initial contacts are all in there. I’ve arranged for a way in and a way out.” She smiled, but it wasn’t an expression calculated to titillate. It was simple, ironic amusement. “I’m Romanian, originally. I have contacts all over Eastern Europe. Some of them came from my father. With very few exceptions, there is almost nowhere in Europe or the Americas where I can’t go…or get someone in and out of.”
“Who was your father?” Brannigan asked.
“You wouldn’t know his name,” she said. Was that a hint of brittleness in her tone? “He was a gangster and a brute. Oh, he could be charming; he seduced many women and many more politicians and captains of industry. And he built an underground empire that I was able to ‘inherit’ when he died.”
Brannigan studied her carefully as she spoke. For once, it seemed, a little bit of the curtain had flicked aside. She hadn’t been looking at him, and her eyes had been far away. He wondered just how much violence and treachery had been involved in the coming of Erika Dalca into her “inheritance.”
Of course, that’s assuming that it’s all true, and not another game she’s playing. She weirded him out, and he didn’t know if he could trust anything she said. Sure, she’d gotten him and the Blackhearts to the Tourmaline-Delta platform, and then managed to facilitate their extract from the Yucatan Peninsula. But he knew she was also some kind of underworld kingpin, and as such, he trusted her about as far as he could throw her. He was sure she had gained some advantage from her dealings with them.
He broke the brief silence. “I’m going to need a lot more than vague reassurances that ‘everything is taken care of,’” he said. “If you want me to even consider this job, I need details.”
She looked at him with another little smile of satisfaction, as if she’d been proven right about something. It was, he had to admit, hard to look her in the eyes. They were glinting pools of green luminescence, and a man could easily get lost if he wasn’t careful. Which he was sure was something she was well aware of and often used to her advantage.
“There is a man named Anatoly Gorev, living in Chisinau,” she said. “He is a smuggler and a small-time facilitator. He regularly moves traffic across the Dniester River, and has arrangements with most of the Transnistrian authorities at the border crossings. He can get you over the bridge into Ribnitza, and then back out to Chisinau when the job is finished. I have a contact in Chisinau who will provide him with all the funds for the necessary bribes.
“Gorev also has a contact in Transnistria, named Agripin Ilyukhin,” she continued. “Ilyukhin is a supply officer for a Transnistrian Army post in the north of the country, and can get you all of the weapons, ammunition, and equipment you will need. It will be mostly older Soviet stuff, but I’m sure that professionals such as yourselves can make do with it.”
“And if these contacts prove to be unreliable?” Brannigan asked quietly. “Then what?”
“Then I have a satellite phone that you can call directly from anywhere,” she said. Her voice turned icy cold. “Trust me, John. None of these men want to cross me. They know better than that.”
I’m sure. He didn’t especially find it reassuring.
He leaned his elbows on the table and met her gaze levelly. “One more question,” he said. “What do you get out of this?”
“Does it matter?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “You and your friends will have access to Codreanu’s information. Why not accept the favor for what it is?”
“Because in my experience, gift horses tend to be booby-trapped,” Brannigan said. She blinked a little at the mixed metaphor, and sat back in her chair, studying him for a moment.
She leaned forward again, matching his stance with her elbows on the tabletop. “Look, John,” she said, “I know what you think of me. As hard as you’ve tried to keep your expression controlled and your manners at the fore, I see you watching me like I’m some kind of poisonous snake.
“But even someone like me can still want to do some good, sometimes. And whoever pulled off those attacks earlier this year…they are as much a threat to me and my operations as they are to you.” She straightened. “I may have my skeletons in my closet, John, but I’ve never done business with terrorists or deliberately profited off the deaths of innocent people. Call this my way of trying to sleep a little better at night.”
He just studied her, silently, through narrowed eyes. For once, Dalca seemed genuinely uncomfortable under his scrutiny. It was as if she had strayed into territory where she didn’t know quite how to manipulate the situation or the conversation. And the longer his silence stretched out, the more uncomfortable she seemed.
Finally, he said, “I’ll go over it with the boys. We’ll see what they have to say.” He knew that if there was a chance of getting information that would let them go after the mysterious terrorists who had blown up the Tourmaline-Delta platform, they’d probably jump at it. Hell, he was having to pull back a little, himself. He wanted those bastards’ heads on a plate. But it was his job to look at the task critically and see where it could go wrong—if it was even workable at all—before he plunged into it.
She nodded stiffly, then lifted the coffee to her lips again, looking around the cabin. A hint of wistfulness crossed her face, even as she looked back at him over the cup. She seemed to have regained some of her poise. “I have to admit, this place is wonderful, John,” she said, the throaty warmth of her voice leaving the stark business of planning an invasion of a disputed territory to snatch an arms dealer behind. “How do you ever leave?”
“I manage,” was all he said. I doubt you’d understand if I told you how empty this place feels sometimes. I built it for Rebecca, and she never got to spend even one night in it.
She studied him again for a moment, then sighed, as if giving up on an idea. If it was to try to ingratiate yourself with me through your little charms, good call, lady. “Is there anything else I can tell you to help your decision?” she asked.
“If there are significant details missing from that packet that Guildenhall gave me,” he said, “tell me now. Later is going to be too late.”
She shook her head. “It is as complete as my people could make it,” she said. “My organization has had no direct dealings with Codreanu, mind you.” He wasn’t entirely sure he believed her; she was extremely glib about characterizing herself as a “good” underworld facilitator. “So, some of the details have had to be worked out from sources other than my people. But the logistics are all in place; it just needs you and your men.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” he said coldly. He’d already lost two men in the last year. She blinked again, and looked a little less certain for a moment, as if it was dawning on her just how dangerous Brannigan and his team of professional soldiers could really be.
***
Their discussion of the operation seemed to be at an end. She finished the coffee and tried to make some more small talk, but Brannigan wasn’t feeling chatty. He could feel her eyes on him, almost hear the wheels turning in her head as she observed
and calculated. But she kept her tone light, and finally, when an invitation to stay was not forthcoming, she took her coat back and said goodbye.
Brannigan watched her car make its way slowly down the driveway, until it was out of sight. Then he started packing. At the very least, he had a meeting to set up.
Chapter 4
Carlo Santelli stared down at the paperwork on the table. This was big. This was bigger than he was ready for.
If he was being honest, he would have had to admit that he wasn’t really seeing the papers themselves. He was staring into space, somewhere about an inch on the other side of the table.
“It’s not that big a deal, honey,” Melissa said.
He looked up at her. Melissa Santelli was only a few years younger than he was, but he looked at least a decade older. A twenty-four-year career in the Marine Corps had not allowed him to keep what youth he’d had, and he’d always been stout, pugnacious, and ugly. His hair was going gray, where it was still growing.
Three missions as a mercenary hadn’t conspired to make him any younger, either.
But it had been those mercenary paychecks that had led him to this point. He looked back down at the papers.
The Santellis had never been rich; his father had been a Vietnam vet and a construction worker. Carlo had saved up enough to live comfortably in his retirement, but apartments in Boston were expensive. It hadn’t just been boredom and dissatisfaction that had led him to Khadarkh with Brannigan.
But now he was looking at actually buying a house, something his father had never dreamed of, and it was quite a step.
Of course, the house wasn’t in Boston itself. That would have been far too expensive, even on the considerable war chest he’d managed to amass between Khadarkh, Burma, and the Gulf of Mexico. No, this was in Pembroke. Still not cheap, compared to other parts of the country, but better than in the city.
It was going to mean buying a car, too. He hadn’t owned a car since retiring. It just wasn’t practical for his needs in the city. Everything was going to be different.
Carlo Santelli was a combat veteran and a mercenary. He’d charged in where angels fear to tread many times, putting life and limb at hazard in dangerous places where bullets and bombs could have extinguished his life in an eyeblink. But looking at this kind of an adjustment, not to mention the expense, was making him balk.
Melissa reached across the table and took his thick, calloused hand. “It’s okay, honey,” she said quietly. “We can do this. We have the funds. And it’ll be better when the little one comes.”
He looked over at her and swallowed. He hadn’t been ready when she’d announced that she was pregnant, either. It was raising all sorts of questions about the future that he wasn’t ready for.
Carlo was a man of habit. Sure, those habits were often geared toward surviving fluid, violent situations in distant places, but he was used to that. Domesticity had had him climbing the walls shortly after he’d retired, and only Brannigan’s mercenary work had saved his sanity. But he hadn’t had these kinds of commitments then. Having a kid wasn’t something he’d been expecting, though in hindsight, he could kick himself for that particular oversight.
What do you think sleeping with your wife usually leads to, idiot?
Well into his forties, Carlo Santelli was having to finally face the fact that he was going to have to grow up. And it scared him. Not only because he might not be able to go running after adventure with a rifle anymore, but because he was going to have to eventually tell Brannigan and the boys that he couldn’t go anymore. He wasn’t sure which possibility scared him more.
He’d always thought of himself as hard-headed and practical. And within the limits of his profession, he was.
Remember all those other obnoxious Sergeants Major, who insisted that their Marines shouldn’t get out, because they’d be lost on the outside? Who knew that was you?
He actually started when the phone rang. Calm down, dummy. Melissa was watching him, her eyebrows raised a little, a smile that combined affection and worry on her face. He remembered how worried he’d been just before Khadarkh. He’d worried that she’d been getting tired of him, that their marriage wasn’t going anywhere. The Blackhearts had seemingly changed that, but now he was facing arrangements that would eventually mean he’d have to leave them. He didn’t know what to think. So he scrambled for the phone, and barely managed to stifle a sigh of relief when he saw it was Brannigan.
“Talk to me, John,” he said, without missing the flicker of worry in Melissa’s eyes. His overseas adventures, that he never told her about except in the most general terms, might have helped them appreciate each other more, but that didn’t mean Melissa was necessarily happy about having him gone.
“We’ve got a job offer, Carlo,” Brannigan said. Santelli’s eyes narrowed a little as the cautious tone in the Colonel’s voice registered. Brannigan wasn’t sold. Granted, any jobs the Blackhearts got offered were going to be by necessity a little sketchy and extremely hazardous; nobody thought about hiring mercs for offensive missions otherwise. Brannigan had been wary about Van Zandt’s offer for the Burma mission, too. But this sounded different. “Usual place. I’ll call Roger. Let’s get the boys together and go over it.”
“Will do,” Santelli replied. “Have we got a timeframe?”
“Nothing set in stone, but it won’t pay to dawdle if we do take the job,” was the answer. “The sooner we make the decision, the better.”
Santelli paused. Something was bothering his old CO; that much was obvious. Santelli knew that he was no great shakes at subtlety, or accurately reading people over the phone, but he ventured a probe. “Anything in particular I should know?”
“Not over the phone,” was all Brannigan said. Carlo pressed his lips together. So, it’s like that. Damn. What kind of can of worms has the Colonel found this time?
“All right,” he said briskly. “I’ll get things wrapped up here and get out that way as soon as I can. Should be there tomorrow.” He could feel Melissa’s eyes on him, and he avoided looking back at her just yet.
“Good to go. See you then, Carlo.” With that, Brannigan ended the call.
He put the phone down and took a deep breath. Melissa was still watching him, a look in her eyes like she half expected him to bolt. Which he was half tempted to do.
Don’t be a chump. She’s counting on you, and we agreed. And you gave your word that we’d close today. Quit being a child and sign the damned papers.
Picking up the pen, he scrawled his nearly-illegible signature on the first page of the packet. He’d sign away nearly half a million dollars before he went west to see if there was more to be made with a gun in distant places.
***
“No, no, no!” George Jenkins exclaimed. The student, a younger guy who looked about twelve to Sam Childress from where he stood near the range shed watching, lowered his carbine and looked confused. “Who taught you to shoot like that? Come on, let me show you…”
“Is he doing it again?” John Wade asked, as he stepped up next to Childress. Wade and Childress were of about the same height, but even after a year of hard training, Wade still had nearly twenty pounds on the younger man.
Childress was always going to be gawky-looking, no matter how much muscle he put on. With a long neck, long arms and legs, and a jutting Adam’s apple and beak of a nose, he just looked awkward. His flyaway black hair never seemed to want to stay in one place, either. Wade, by contrast, was broad-shouldered, lantern-jawed, with thick brown hair and steely, pale blue eyes.
“Of course he is,” Childress said wryly. “He was a SEAL, you know.” Wade snorted and spat on the ground.
Wade was, if anything, less impressed with Jenkins’ SEAL pedigree than Childress was. Wade had been a Ranger, Childress a Marine. And they’d both seen Jenkins’ performance under fire, both in Burma and on the Tourmaline-Delta platform.
The kid was protesting that the exaggerated C-clamp grip that Jenkins was insisting was th
e only proper combat shooting stance wasn’t what the other instructors had taught him. Jenkins, for his part, was only getting louder, insisting that the kid listen to him. He hadn’t trotted out his Naval Special Warfare credentials yet, but the two men watching by the range shed were sure it was only a matter of time.
“What the hell is he doing?” Roger Hancock asked. Slightly shorter than either Childress or Wade, Hancock was a few years older than either, with a lean, hatchet face and shaved head above an unremarkable, compact build.
“Doing his SEAL thing,” Wade said. “Confusing the students.”
“Son of a…” Hancock bit off the curse. “That’s three times in the last two days.” Without slowing down, he headed for the line.
“This ought to be good,” Wade said with a cold-eyed smirk. Wade had a bit of a vicious streak, and he enjoyed seeing guys like Jenkins get knocked down a peg or two. It was something that had not endeared him to some of the men he’d known in the Ranger community.
But if he’d been hoping for Hancock to go high and right on Jenkins there on the firing line, in front of the students, he was doomed to disappointment. Hancock was smoother than that; he simply interjected himself into the discussion, pointed out that Jenkins’ technique was a technique, and something the kid might want to try out, just to see if he liked it, but it was only a tool in the toolbox, after all. Jenkins fell back a little, a faintly petulant look on his youthful, clean-shaven face, but apparently knew better than to argue. He knew that Hancock could be every bit as brutal in his dressings-down as Santelli, and Santelli had a couple of years’ experience on even Hancock.
Things got smoothed out, and the kid, who looked like he could very well have been in the military but was instead spending hundreds of dollars on top of the several thousand he’d already spent on kit, to attend the course, got back to shooting. He wasn’t bad, but he wasn’t any great shakes, either. Childress and Wade had wondered just what the kid, and the several guys who showed up every class just like him, was doing there.