by Jim Roberts
Krieger smiled. “Like I say, I work for American government now. Trust me, this is peanut change to them.”
“I was not born yesterday, Krieger. You’re not even offering anything upfront. What makes you think I even need your money?”
The Russian’s smile grew wider. “Because of this.” Out of his pocket, the big man withdrew a single grenade. He’d pulled the pin with a single hand—not an easy task. His fingers still clutched the lever mechanism. Graves’s eyes went wide. He moved to snatch up his SPAS-12, but Krieger stopped him with a warning. “Uh uh, I wouldn’t. You should have known I would come someday to get you to repay that debt. It’s payday, Graves.”
“You goddamn sonuvabitch!”
“Two hundred-grand, no strings attached and then you go your own way. Deal?”
Graves’ scowled loudly. Krieger knew he had him where he needed him. Money always talked when it came to Marshall Graves.
At length, Graves’ posture wilted in submission. “For Chrissakes, Alexei...you’d better not fuck me on this. Deal.”
“Excellent,” Krieger said, pleased. “Come on. I’ve wasted too much time here.”
Krieger followed Graves to the door. Opening it, the gun-runner looked back. “I’m gonna need to secure this place.”
“Not necessary. You a fast runner?”
Graves’ face twisted with confusion. “Sure, why?”
Krieger popped the lever mechanism on the grenade. A tinge of excitement sparkled in his dark eyes. “Might want to get the lead out right about now.”
With that, he tossed the frag behind him where it fell into a large bucket of explosives.
“Alexei you crazy son of a bitch!”
The two men bolted up the stairs, two at a time. Bursting out the back door and into the rainy parking lot, the big Russian slammed it hard behind him a fraction of a second before the grenade went off. There was a loud rumble, then a tremendous explosion as the entire roof of the strip mall in front of them blew off. The blast knocked both men off their feet and into the soaked pavement. Fire and smoke burst up from the hideout as showers of sparks crackled into the sky from the exploding ammunition.
Dazed and knocked on his gut, Graves slowly got to his feet, watching as his arsenal went up in flames. Beside him, Krieger stood up, looking at the destruction he’d caused with an almost casual smirk across his face. The fire wouldn’t burn long, thanks to the downpour, but would probably get the authorities' attention all the same.
“I can’t believe you did that!” Graves shouted. He fished in his pocket and produced a small pistol—a Browning it looked like to Krieger—and aimed it point-blank at the big Russian. “I should fucking kill you!”
Krieger looked back at him, grinning. “You said yourself—the guns were worthless. Now you have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”
“I could have still sold it back to the government, you bastard!”
“Coulda, woulda, shoulda.” Krieger shrugged. “Two hundred-grand, Graves, no strings. How bout it? Shall we get going before Olympus gets here and knocks our heads in?”
Graves held the gun steady. For a moment, Krieger thought his bluff would fail. Finally, Graves let out an earth-shattering sigh and lowered the weapon. “I fucking curse the day I met you, Alexei. Let’s go.”
The two men jumped into the Hummer. Krieger hit the gas and hightailed it out from the strip mall, just as the sound of sirens came from the opposite entrance behind them. Right as they turned the corner, Krieger saw several Olympus Hummers and Scythia’s turn into the parking lot, coming to investigate the arson.
After they were several blocks away and he was sure no one was following them, Krieger let out a breath. “Behind seat are some sets of Centurion armor,” he said to his passenger. “Get dressed. It will not be as hard to get out of city if we are both in uniform.”
“Fine, Alexei,” Graves said, doing as he was told. “But once we’re out of the city, I’m driving.”
Krieger shrugged. “You’re the boss…oh and one more thing—”
“What?”
“Stop calling me fucking Alexei.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Capital Road outside Juba, South Sudan
April 22nd
BY THE time the Olympus forces in Juba managed to suss out the cause of the explosion at the strip mall, Krieger and his gun-runner companion were happily free of the city and on their way to the eastern district of South Sudan. The guards at the checkpoint on the southeastern section of the city had only taken a cursory glance at Krieger’s PDA before waving him by. Once they were through, Krieger overheard on the Hummer’s radio that it was believed to be a secret rebel stronghold that had caught fire.
Good, Krieger thought. Let them keep thinking that.
He’d taken quite the risk doing what he did. The big Russian knew his wild-man way of dealing with things would one day backfire, but while it still produced results, he had no intention of adopting the boring routine practiced so well by men like Callbeck and Walker. After all, why play it safe when the alternative always seemed to pan out so well in the end?
Once they were on the road heading east to the Equatoria district, he removed the Centurion helmet, glad to be free from the confining object. He looked over at his companion in the driver’s seat of the Hummer, as Graves too removed his helmet. The gun-runner stared at the road, his face blank, his dark skin an ashen color. Krieger knew what he’d done was extreme, but hey—if you play with explosives long enough, eventually you lose an arm. Taking away the man’s reason to be in Juba had secured his services more assuredly than the vague promise of a couple hundred grand.
He hadn’t been lying to the gun-runner—all senior Peacemaker members had access to a special fund set up by Colonel Walsh before his death to be used only in emergencies. It was not a bottomless pit of money, and it was there to be utilized by the Peacemaker field operatives only in extreme situations. Krieger just hoped that Brick didn’t freeze his access to it after hearing about him going AWOL.
The African rain buffeted the Hummer for hours until finally letting up as dawn approached. Most South Sudan roads were barely more than gravel trails, used more for herding cows then actual vehicles. But now, thanks to the rain, they were churned up into a mud slick, taxing even the powerful traction of the Olympus Hummer.
Krieger took the time to check their equipment. The glove compartment of the Hummer contained several pieces of standard Centurion gear, including a Sig Sauer automatic handgun, sheaves of documents—most dealing with procedures for patrols—and some rations. Reaching behind him, he checked the back. He found at least a thousand rounds of ammunition, three old HK XM8 rifles, a Kris Vector submachine gun, and several Olympus version fragmentation grenades. Krieger grunted to himself at the disappointing haul. They sure aren’t equipping these poor Centurions with the best of their arsenal, he though.
Krieger suddenly remembered something. He leaned underneath the Hummer dashboard, feeling around with his hands.
Graves looked over and frowned. “What are you doing?”
“They can track these things. If I can just find…” There was a snapping sound as Krieger yanked out a piece of hardware attached underneath the dash. “Haha! There you are!”
“The hell is that?” Graves asked, alternating looking at the device in Krieger’s hands and the dark road ahead. He’d lit a fresh joint and had already begun filling the cab with smoke.
“Olympus GPS transmitter. Quite advanced.” Looking out at the road ahead, Krieger spotted a set of headlights. Like all former British colonies, they drove on the left side in South Sudan. The Peacemaker saw that the incoming vehicle was some sort of hauler. An idea sprang to his mind. “Slow down a bit.”
Not quite understanding, Graves did as he was asked.
Rolling down the window, Krieger—as inconspicuously as possible—tossed the tracking device out the window and into the open back of the hauler. Closing the window, he dusted his hands, satisfie
d. “There! Once Olympus figures out this baby is missing, that poor fool will lead them on a chase all over the map.”
Graves snorted. “Yeah, hopefully they don’t shoot the guy when they catch up with him. I swear, Alexei—Krieger, whatever your name is—you haven’t changed since Blackwater.”
The big Russian looked hurt by the insinuation. “Huh,” he snorted, “You’re not still sore about back there in Juba?”
“Sore? You blew up two years' work, you asshole.”
“Bah!” Krieger said, waving his hand dismissively, “You looked like you needed some excitement in your life.”
“All I had to do was sit tight and wait for this fucking war to be over. Olympus can’t stay here forever.”
Krieger chuckled. “Don’t count ducks until in lines, or however phrase goes.”
“Whatever, Ale...Krieger,” Graves said, rolling his eyes. “As soon as we find this Braddock chump, the sooner I can be rid of you.”
The Russian smacked the gun-runner on the arm. “Watch what you say. You do not know him.”
“Man sounds unhinged to me,” Graves said, rubbing his arm. “From what I heard, the guy’s insane. A real cold hard killer. What’s his story?”
“What, I thought you didn’t care?”
“It’s a long ride to Hashaba. Might as well level with me.”
The Russian coughed as Graves blew out a long drag of the weed. “You going to put that out?”
“Nope.”
Krieger sighed. He took a breath, looking out into the cool African night. “Joe is more important than most people know. Olympus will do anything to find and kill him.”
“Why?”
“He is their rightful leader.”
Graves coughed. “What? The hell you say.”
“Braddock is son of man who helped found them, years ago. He is heir to the PMC’s power. With him still alive, their right to control the PMC means nothing.”
The gun-runner shook his head. “That’s crazy.”
“That is truth.”
“Look, I’ve gotta level with you,” Graves said, “we’re honestly looking for a needle in a shitstack here. Braddock is probably long gone. Why do you think he’d be anywhere near Hashaba still?”
Krieger’s voice grew even more sullen. “Because Olympus took something from him—something he cannot get back. I was there that day. I saw look in his eyes. He won’t stop until there is nothing left of Olympus. If he suspects they are planning something here, he’ll be nearby and we will find him...”
He reached down and slapped a mosquito that landed on his massive bicep.
“…or he will find us.”
* * *
THE TWO men drove well into the night, swapping driving duty after four hours. Little was said between them after that. Graves dozed fitfully in the passenger seat, leaving Krieger to maneuver the muddy roads. He loathed to admit it, but Graves had a point—finding Joe out here was going to be near-impossible without some careful deduction and an assload of luck. Still, he stuck with his hope that Joe would stay close to the heavier Olympus activity. If there was one thing Krieger had to admit about his AWOL friend, it was his ability to sniff out when that PMC was plotting something big. Once they had arrived in Hashaba, Krieger had a hunch a clue would present itself in how to find Joe.
As the early rays of the African sun began to peek over the brushland ahead of him, Krieger mulled over what he’d seen these past few days. It was glaringly obvious that the Olympus forces here—specifically the Centurions—were still in the grip of the Stream Withdrawal. The side of the PMC he’d seen in Africa was sloppy, ill-prepared, and tired.
Krieger smiled to himself.
Joe knew what he was doing. He was going to keep whittling down Olympus here and there. Make them expend resources looking for him. He’d make them pay for taking away the only thing he loved.
Krieger still cringed at the thought of having lost Jade Masters. He remembered that day in the Stream Core of the massive Olympus submarine as he watched Braddock hold her lifeless body, screaming in pain at the loss of her and his unborn child.
It was a pain Krieger could never understand.
The expression on Krieger’s face darkened with his thoughts.
He’d known for years that the road he was on was paved in death. The further he traveled, the more of it he found.
And he embraced it. It made him who he was.
In those serene moments of battle, he felt like a force of nature. Nothing could touch him.
This world, a world of war and violence, was all he ever wanted.
Momentarily invigorated, Krieger looked over at his companion. Graves—head leaning against the window as his body was jostled by the bumps in the road—was snoring loud enough to wake the Sudan lions. Krieger reached back into the cab and pulled out an object he’d found the night before. It was a small blowhorn used in urban pacification. Turning it up as loud as possible, he pressed a button on its grip. An ear-piercing honking noise blared from the device, jostling Graves out of his sleep so roughly, he bashed his head against the window.
“Jesus Christ, man!” Graves swore, holding his forehead in pain.
“Rise and shine!” Krieger said, tossing the blowhorn into the back.
Graves let out a long breath as he rubbed his temples. “Seriously, do you have any friends at all?”
“You know you’re not the first one to ask me that. I don’t get chance to make many friends these days—most people I run into want me dead.”
That statement amused Graves. “Oh, I understand that. You’ve only been back in my life for a few hours and I want you dead.”
Krieger scoffed. “Alright, wiseass, where are we?”
Graves looked outside for a moment, then at the clock on the dash. “We should be somewhere in Eastern Equatoria by now. What was the last place you passed?”
“Do you see signs anywhere around here?” Krieger asked, annoyed. “I’ve just been driving and following your directions like you said.”
“Relax, we should be about four hours out from Hashaba if my guess is right.”
Krieger reached over and turned on the radio receiver on the dash. “Wonder what our friends in Olympus are doing right now...”
After a moment fiddling with the device, the Russian managed to find an active broadband channel. There was some intermittent chatter from various Olympus intel sorts before a very worrisome broadcast came through.
“From Imperius Operations to all Sudan Olympus forces—be on the lookout for a missing Apollo, Serial number five-five-nine-dash-two. Occupants are believed to be Peacemaker terrorists. Last known location to be east of Juba. Immediate capture or termination is authorized by Lord Saladin.”
Graves looked over at Krieger. “What’s an Apollo?”
“The Olympus code-name for Hummer,” Krieger answered, grimly. He shut off the radio, not needing to hear anymore.
Graves shook his head. “I hate you, Krieger.”
“Don’t worry, they will still be searching for the GPS by the time we ditch this bitch.”
“In the meantime we’re stuck in a marked vehicle. What the hell are we going to do?”
“There is another small problem,” Krieger said, pointing at the Hummer dashboard. The fuel gauge was closing in on empty.
Graves looked over. “Damn. Is there any in the reserve tank?”
Krieger shook his head. “Used it last night.”
“There’s usually locally owned places to gas up at the rebel villages nearby,” Graves said, lighting another joint to calm his nerves. “Problem is, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t react well to an Olympus Hummer pulling up asking for a refuel.”
Krieger pointed at the smoke. “Put that out, it gives me a headache.”
Graves looked at the joint, then to Krieger, and smiled. “You’re kidding, man. You’ve probably condemned me to death by Olympus firing squad and now you’re going to pull that bad-for-my-health shi—”
&nbs
p; Krieger put a hand up to silence Graves. The gun-runner was about to ask what was wrong, then a second later saw for himself. Directly ahead, not two hundred yards away, the road ended in an obstruction, with two parked Olympus Scythia’s barricading the route ahead. Off to the right side was a village spread out across a series of hills and mounds. Beyond, a great stretch of wilderness surrounded it in a wreath of greenery. Sudanese natives ran throughout the town like ants in a flooding nest. In the early sun, Krieger could spot multiple dark shapes of Olympus Centurions marching through the populace—doing what, he couldn’t tell.
Graves swore under breath. “Goddamn it. Why do I have to be right all the time?”
“We could just go back—find another way around,” Krieger suggested.
“They’ll have seen us by now,” Graves said. “They’ll know something is up the second we turn around.” The gun-runner was turning ashen again. Krieger began to wonder if the man had a skin condition he hadn’t told him about.
“Well, I’m open to suggestions,” Krieger said.
Graves thought for a moment. “We can just try driving past them. They seem pretty busy, maybe they didn’t get that memo.”
Krieger tapped the steering wheel as he slowed the Hummer slightly. Over in the village, he could see the Centurions going from home to home, rustling the civilians from their small huts.
What the hell are they up to?
Graves noticed the look on Krieger’s face. “Don’t be getting no funny ideas, Alexei. There’s too fucking many of them.”
Krieger clenched the steering wheel. An old memory returned, this one buried even deeper. He remembered that day in Baghdad, almost a lifetime ago. He could remember the heat from the sun, burning down as his friends in Blackwater fired relentlessly at the civilians around him. He remembered the young girl, barely in her teens, clench her face as a bullet tore her jaw to pieces. He could still hear the laughter of his comrades, those men he’d thought his friends.
It was like a joke to them, to spread their hate and misery.
Everything he was now was born on that day—