by Seeley James
“How many people live there?” I asked. “I counted six.”
“Many more than that. Maybe fifty or sixty.”
“Are they hiding?”
He shrugged and handed back the binoculars. On my second sweep, I saw a hut with a large open doorway and three armed men inside. Two men in black, who looked like the death camp crew, got off a motorcycle and went in. The black uniformed guys were taller, stockier, and had lighter complexions. One of them had a scarred eyebrow. I handed the binoculars back to my companion and pointed them out.
While he watched, I assembled my favorite assault rifle’s infrared laser scope and silencer. When I finished, I noticed Bujang’s open-mouth stare. I held up one of the Sabel Darts and pointed to the paper-cone tip. “A needle filled with concentrate of Inland Taipan snake venom, followed by a dose of a powerful sleeping medication. The venom causes instant flaccid paralysis lasting long enough for the sleep medication to take effect. The target sleeps for three to four hours. Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill anyone.”
His eyes searched mine. I didn’t blink until he believed me.
Sabel Darts were the subject of endless debates among the thousands of vets in the company. There were people like Tania, who would do whatever the boss told her, even if she insisted we all wear pink tutus. On the other side were people like me. I’d once surprised a Taliban platoon and sprayed lead until my mag emptied. They didn’t die. They shot back because, little known fact, most hajjis smoke crack or crystal meth to keep their courage up, just like the Nazis before them. Darts would’ve made them laugh.
But I’m not paid to make policy decisions, so I use the tools I’m given.
Mercury said, Bro, tell me you were man enough to sneak a couple mags of real bullets.
I said, It was just a charity trip. To build a school.
Mercury said, I’m so ashamed for you right now.
“There are two men from the death camp,” he said. “Eight of the Pak Uban’s men, and the Pak Uban himself.”
“What are they doing?”
“Discussing something.”
“Where are the other villagers?”
“Next village, maybe.” He pointed to a ridge beyond. “A feast, I don’t know.”
I checked it out with my thermal scope and saw a residual glow of light beyond the ridge. A bigger village with twice the population.
“OK,” I said, “you go back to the truck. If anything bad happens, get the hell out of here.”
He watched me as I slipped from tree to tree, working my way closer to the hostiles.
A hundred yards out, I dropped three men as they patrolled the empty village. Another was taking a leak when he fell. The fifth heard noises and came out to investigate. He saw me. We stared at each other for a second. He ran back to the hut’s open door.
I fired.
He fell facedown in the hut’s doorway.
Mercury said, You love stirring up trouble, don’t you, bro? Get ready, danger-junkie, cuz here come the pros. Watch for the pigs in the pen, they squeal when anyone comes near them.
Two men ran out into the dark. They separated and began a systematic search. I dropped behind a stack of wood. They had the advantage of knowing the terrain. I had the advantage of being smarter and better trained. A theoretical standoff.
Each time I found one of them in my scope, he disappeared before I could drop him. I listened for their footsteps but all I heard were the jungle’s night creatures singing and chirping to each other. Then I saw one and lit him up with an infrared laser beam, visible only in my scope, but he disappeared behind a hut before I could fire.
The two men in black left the main hut and ran across my line, distracting me. Their footsteps were easier to track. They swung behind a hut to my left and kept going. They were leaving. I liked that just fine. When I heard a motorcycle fire up and buzz away, I relaxed a little and went back to searching for the local boys.
Mercury said, Yo, am I talking to myself? Did I say watch the pigs? Can’t you feel the gravity over there?
Pigs squealed ten yards to my left but I heard a voice twenty yards to my right. I concentrated on the pigs and kept my ear open in the other direction. A heat signature came into my scope. A man crouched behind a waist-high wall. Aiming for the exposed area, I took a shot. The shape fell with a thud and the pigs grunted.
The voice on my right whispered again. An untrained soldier, fearing the worst, calling to his wingman. A dead giveaway. Duck-walking toward him, I tossed a dirt clod to my left. He stepped into view, making an easy target.
Mercury said, Friendly fire? You? Tell me you recognize that fool.
Something about the heat signature looked familiar. I listened again and heard him whisper. “Jacob?”
The damned translator. Bujang was just another special-ops-wannabe.
I had half a mind to drop the guy right there when I caught a glimpse of the other hostile aiming at my man. Quickly shifting my aim, I dropped the bad guy before he pulled his trigger.
I ran to Bujang and slapped a hand over his mouth with the meanest glare I could muster. He froze, eyes wide, and began to tremble. When he calmed a little, I let go, strode through the hut’s open door, and dropped the last guard.
The Pak Uban stood in the back of the room, staring into the barrel of my weapon. He raised his hands. I slapped plasticuffs on his wrists and pointed to a chair at the small table. Then I relaxed a little and checked for weapons, hidden doors, threats of any kind. The room was clean, had a wooden floor, a fire pit in the corner, and two beds along one wall. The second room had beds, all neatly made with heaps of clothes between them. On one mat lay a man with a bandaged groin. I winced.
I called for Bujang to join me.
On the table were stacks of 100 ringgit bills. Malaysian currency worth about thirty cents on the dollar. A quick count of one stack and an estimation of the rest gave me roughly forty thousand ringgits. Twelve thousand dollars. I scooped it into a t-shirt and slapped it into Bujang’s hands.
“Tell him it’s for Prama, um, the hotel lady,” I said.
He peered at me with confusion twisting his face. “Do you mean Pramashworisasmita?”
The hotel owner’s moniker fell from his tongue like water over Niagara.
“Yeah, her. And tell him I’ll put bullet holes in him if he doesn’t tell me what I want to know.”
Mercury said, Chop off his fingers, one knuckle at a time, bro. He’ll talk fast.
I said, No way.
Mercury said, Word, dawg. Worked every time for Marcus Crassus.
Who?
Mercury said, The general who squashed Spartacus like a bug. Now there was a Roman who knew how to get things—
We’re not going there.
My translator and the Pak Uban began a discussion that started out rough and quickly escalated. The Pak Uban tried to rip my head off with his eyes then turned back to Bujang and hissed at him. The two of them bickered for several more rounds, Bujang’s hands gesturing wildly. They stopped arguing for a moment and looked at me over their shoulders. I gave them my soldier stare: Do what I say or die. They went back to arguing vehemently in their language. Finally, they agreed to disagree. The Pak Uban didn’t look cowed, but willing to negotiate. I could live with that.
Bujang reported. “The men in black were looking for us. They paid him to find us.”
“How was he planning to do that?”
“They did not know we left Borneo.”
“So then, he wouldn’t have filed any complaints with the authorities in Sarawak or Guangzhou.” I thought for a moment. “Has he seen anyone with the blue eye disease?”
Bujang discussed things with the Pak Uban for a moment. “No. He thinks I’m crazy. There’s no such disease here.”
“Bullshit. Half a village was laid up in that clinic.”
Bujang shrugged.
“What was he supposed to do when he found us?”
“The men will come back here and double
the cash if he has our heads.”
“Does he know those guys?”
“He’s never seen them before. But he liked them.”
The smug bastard was pissing me off. “Yeah, they gave him money and didn’t cut his son’s balls off.”
“Ms. Sabel didn’t cut the man’s balls off, sir.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“She cut off his dick.” He sighed. “She said it was justice for the victims.”
My knees clamped together and I winced. I work for one twisted woman.
The Pak Uban said something and Bujang waved it off.
“Earn your keep, Bujang. What’d he say?”
“He said, you will be back—then you will be his bitch.”
CHAPTER 7
When I returned to Washington, the Major summoned me to Sabel Gardens, Alan Sabel’s sprawling estate in Potomac, Maryland. It was a big house built by a big man who had done big things. His biggest thing was adopting four-year-old Pia after her parents were murdered. It was a noble thing to do, but he’d built the palace to distance himself from his little girl’s many unanswered questions. Decorated in mahogany, marble, and furniture culled from the finest English manor houses, his overcompensation came through loud and clear.
I’d been there for the company’s annual party and pulled the coveted guard duty a couple times, but I’d never had the full tour. Agent Marty, the man in charge of estate security, took me around the grounds. He did his best to put me at ease. I’d been on a couple missions with him but this was the first time I’d seen him with a cane. His limp was noticeable. I didn’t ask and he didn’t mention it.
As we hiked the impressive grounds, and the grandeur’s intended effect of minimizing my self-worth took hold, I felt underdressed in my jeans with only a leather jacket to cover my t-shirt’s slogan: If you can’t dazzle ’em with brilliance / riddle ’em with bullets.
The Major, known as Jonelle Jackson outside the Sabel empire, approached us as we rounded one of the outbuildings. In the Army, she’d saved me from charges for assaulting an officer because she agreed he’d deserved it. Later, I’d left the Army in a storm of accusations. She found me and gave me a job that paid better than frying fish and slinging fries.
I delivered my verbal report when she joined us.
“The authorities in Sarawak refused to investigate?” The Major asked. She seemed taller than the last time I saw her. Forty-year-old women don’t grow much, so I chalked it up to her feeling more confident in her role running the company.
“They didn’t refuse,” I said, “but they didn’t look motivated. I can’t blame them. Some American comes in and says there’s a mass grave in the jungle and all he has is a before and after picture of a hole in the ground.”
“Any trace on the cars?”
“My picture was unreadable on one, the other old car was unregistered, and the newer one was rented to Dr. Chapman. He turned it in and left the country for Hong Kong.”
“And the death camp was evacuated?”
“Cleaned out. We landed the bird where the awning had been in the morning. Tire tracks all around, the hole filled in, but not a scrap of paper or trash left behind.”
Agent Marty led us across the outdoor workout area. A mountain of straw bales stood on one side of an obstacle course with tires and logs and ropes. Half a dozen young women were moving the straw bales from one mound to another in the crisp autumn air. I knew from personal experience, moving bales could be hard work or great exercise depending on your attitude.
“The Pak Uban didn’t know anybody in China?” The Major asked.
“Not that he would admit to. He didn’t even have phone service, so I tend to believe him.”
Marty led us to the soccer fields where more young women worked on soccer drills as the rising sun stabbed between the trees, turning the morning’s frost into steam that rose gently into the air.
A reporter with a video camera, logo emblazoned on the side, recorded the girls. I recognized him: Otis Blackwell, the Channel 4 reporter who saved my ass with a live broadcast not too long ago. Were it not for him, President Hunter’s jack-booted thugs would’ve dumped my body in the Chesapeake.
“Who are these people?” I asked. “I thought Ms. Sabel decided not to play on the National Team this year.”
“Meet our newest security challenge,” Marty said. “St. Muriel’s High School soccer team, Pia’s alma mater. As of this morning, fifteen teenage girls and five coaches will practice at Sabel Gardens.”
“How did that happen?”
“They tracked her down on her morning run and begged her to help them prepare for the season. So, she put them to work.”
“Met her on her run? Bro, she runs at four in the morning.”
“That’s why she agreed to help them. She said any teenagers willing to get up at that hour deserved all the help in the world. From the looks on their faces, I don’t think they were planning to start today.” Marty laughed. “Be careful what you ask for.”
“Where was Ms. Sabel running? Who was on guard duty?”
Marty grinned and slapped me on the back. “We always let her run alone because she’s up earlier than the bad guys and runs faster anyway. But the girls were waiting for her on the C & O Canal. That proves we can’t ignore the security gap any longer. And that’s why you’re here today, Jacob. You’re the only agent who can run a 10K in under forty minutes.”
“I haven’t run a 10K in six months.”
“Grab some steroids and hit the treadmill then, ’cause she does a 10K in thirty-five on a bad day.” Marty turned on his cane and headed for the car barns.
My bonus from the last mission was big enough to land me a house, a car, and a dog. Some crazy idea had come over me that I was old enough to stay home on my off-hours and trim the hedge, keep up with my cooking, maybe make furniture. Somewhere in the back of my mind was the idea of getting married and having some kids. Instead, I would be spending my off-hours nursing shin splints and a sore Achilles, the things that kept me off the track team in my one and only college year.
“Pia requested you for this detail,” the Major said. “You impressed her on your last mission.”
Hell, I’d impressed myself. It was the first mission with Ms. Sabel where I’d walked away without a bullet wound.
Marty led us down the brick apron between the car barns. “Cousin Elmer handles everything with wheels. He’s an old-fashioned chauffer, the CEO of Sabel Automotive, and these barns are his kingdom. All the exotic two-seaters are in this one, and the sedans and limos are in the other. Only the Bentley and Mercedes limos are bulletproof. When she takes a friend in a two-seater, you take a matching car.”
“Is she a good driver?”
“Jacob, you know she doesn’t do anything halfway.”
As if on cue, Ms. Sabel rounded the far end of the barn looking like a Wall Street banker in a blue suit—with an eye-catching short skirt. The designer probably meant for it to reach nearer to the knee but tall women have fashion challenges. I had no complaints watching her long legs flash in the morning sun.
Cousin Elmer backed a burnt-orange McLaren 12C Spider out of a stall, steam rising from its center-mounted tailpipes.
She waved and called out. “Perfect timing, Jacob. Hop in.”
I glanced at the Major, who motioned for me to go. I started for the car.
“Did you fill him in?” Ms. Sabel said to the Major.
“Haven’t had a chance to cover everything yet,” Marty said.
Five steps away, I spun back to the Major and Marty. “What?”
Marty said, “I’m leaving the post here. I’m moving to the marketing department.”
“Why? You’ve been in charge of Ms. Sabel’s personal security since forever.”
“Last time I caught a bullet,” he lifted his cane, “it lodged too close to my spine.”
Pia Sabel, most dangerous woman on Earth—to those who stand next to her. He’d caught that bullet trying to rescue
her from Syrian kidnappers.
“Who’s taking your place?” I said.
He smiled. The Major waved me toward the McLaren. I took that to mean my worst possible job scenario was about to happen: Tania Cooper would take Marty’s job. I would end up working for a woman who hated me but for whom I still had some serious passion. That marriage fantasy I mentioned earlier? It starred Tania.
Ms. Sabel was buckling into the driver’s seat when I approached. Cousin Elmer held the passenger door open for me.
Before I clicked my seatbelt, Ms. Sabel lit up the back tires and took it to the 8500 rpm limit in first gear. We shot through the front gates before they had fully parted and were on River Road before I dared steal a glance at her legs.
Mercury said, You just got done thinking about marrying Tania and here you are, creeping on your boss. What’s up with that, homie? Are you a professional or just another dawg?
I kicked myself and said, I’m human. But you’re right. Remind me to never sneak a peek at the boss, it’s a bad career move.
She slowed it down on the public road, flew through town, and slid into St. Muriel’s parking lot before explaining our trip.
“I’m going to tell the headmaster about taking over the soccer team. It’ll only take a minute. Then we’ll take the blood vials you found to the labs at NIH and see what’s in them.” She handed me two vials and climbed from the car. “Wait here.”
I tried to tuck the vials into the envelope-sized glove box. Not happening. So I pushed them under the seat and hopped out. “There’re only two vials here.”
She glanced back over her shoulder without breaking stride and pressed a finger to her lips, shh, with a mischievous smile.
I watched her walk. And it had only been two minutes since I swore not to check out the boss. I took a deep breath and tore my eyes away. I was on duty and acting like I was at the beach. Then I remembered—I was on duty.
“Wait.” I bounded up the stone steps. “You can’t go in a building before I’ve cleared—”