“No, Señor. I cannot do that.”
Spooky drew a pistol from inside his jacket and began to screw a suppressor onto the barrel. “Are you absolutely certain? Your mother and your sisters will be very sorry to hear of your tragic death.”
Enrique stared at the gun and began to sweat. “You wouldn’t…”
“Don’t be more of a fool than you already are. Of course I will. In about thirty seconds, if you do not change your mind.”
The Colombian gasped, looking from the pistol to Spooky’s face, and then back again. “All right. I will retire. But I do not see why we must engage in this despicable trade anymore! Prices are rising for coffee and cocoa. We can make just as much money if we go legitimate.”
“The money is only a side benefit. My real targets are the populations of the anti-FC nations.”
“But why? I don’t understand!”
Spooky reversed his hands and unscrewed the suppressor, putting it into a pocket and holstering the pistol. “Because I’m so happy you’ve agreed with my suggestion, I’ll explain it to you. The more illicit drugs people use, the more lives will be wrecked and the more trouble that will make for my enemies. The trafficking corrupts their government and their police as well as their population. In desperation, many of those addicts will turn to the only thing that can save them: the Eden Plague, strengthening our cause further.” He spread his hands. “You see? It all makes perfect sense.”
“I suppose I should not have expected anything else from the man who tortured me into agreeing to work for him.”
Spooky smiled. “Glad to see your eyes are finally opening, my friend.” He put his arm around Enrique. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m going to insist that the new cartel boss treat the growers and their families better. Get them health insurance and set up a pension plan. Perhaps I’ll even found a few schools to give their children a better life. It will make everyone more loyal and more compliant. What do you think?”
“I…I…”
“I can see you’re speechless, so I’ll let you go now.” Spooky shook the man’s shoulder in mock friendliness one more time. “But don’t even think about changing your mind, unless you want your mother and sisters brought to sit in my favorite wooden chair.” He released Enrique and gave him a slight push. “Go on, go home. Say nothing. I’ll send someone tomorrow with instructions.”
After Enrique left, Spooky congratulated himself on cleverness. A smooth turnover would serve his plans best, keeping the cocaine flowing northward and the money coming south. He chuckled as he wondered what Markis would think if he ever found out his moralistic revolution was being funded by the cartels.
By the time the Unionists took power – as they surely would – they would have themselves a drug war the likes of which North America had never seen. The more they cracked down, the more the hearts and minds of the common people would turn away from them.
And as every Green Beret knows, Spooky thought, hearts and minds win the war.
My kind of war.
* * *
Skull ordered another Scotch. He didn’t really want the drink, but he also didn’t want to leave just yet. The piano player was especially good tonight and the ocean waves crashing onto the nearby Thai beach accented the notes, turning them into a symphony in moonlight.
Somehow he always found his way back to beaches. He’d grown up in Tennessee, about as far from the ocean as he could imagine, but duty with the Marines had changed his mind. Now, the rolling black water felt like home.
He sat and watched the nighttime waves as the gentle wind washed over him. It was almost as if those breezes were carrying his demons away, those might have beens and the wish I could go back again and do things differently tormenters.
It was always like this after a mission, he realized. He would go and recharge in some secluded beach community, and when it was time to leave he would know. Skull knew he would never be happy simply sitting by the ocean until he grew old, but places like this were the safe harbors after the squalls and storms of his work.
And there would be work. If nothing came along, he would eventually go looking for it. There were always private security firms looking for people with his skills. He didn’t need the money, but the principle of the matter demanded he be reimbursed.
Skull commanded healthy compensation for his services. After all, there were expenses. False IDs didn’t come cheap. Neither did good gear, good tequila, or good, discreet, professional companionship…when he allowed himself the release.
The fewer entanglements, the better.
On a whim, he ordered the best cigar available. He hadn’t smoked in years, though he remembered how much he used to like to.
The bartender prepared and lit it for him. Skull took a long slow drag and felt himself relax. The flavor and feeling were delicious and for a moment he wondered why he ever stopped. Health reasons, he supposed.
It’s strange how you forget the things you like, he thought. But never the things you dislike.
The club manager walked over to Skull with a padded envelope in his hand. “Excuse me, Señor,” he said. “Are you Alan?”
“Why?” asked Skull, his senses suddenly on alert.
The man placed the package on the bar in front of Skull. “This came a few minutes ago for you.”
Skull didn’t touch the package. “How did it arrive?”
The manager shrugged. “Just a messenger boy.” He then walked away.
Skull stared at the envelope with irritation. No one was supposed to know he was here. On the other hand, anyone who wanted to kill him probably wouldn’t do it by letter bomb or toxin. Too many things could go wrong.
What he resented was the intrusion upon his cocoon of tranquility. The destruction of his illusion of normalcy. No one here was even supposed to know his name. How could anyone have found him?
Pulling out a slim blade, he gingerly sliced the end of the envelope and looked inside by lifting its edge with the knife’s tip. After satisfying himself there was no danger, he slid the contents onto the bar. A frame came out face down, followed by a folded piece of paper. Skull then shook out the package to make sure nothing else remained.
Picking up the frame, Skull turned it over and felt the air slowly go out of him. It was a framed photograph of Zeke and him, with Cassandra in the middle. Both men had their arms around her, all smiling. It was at a beach, of course, taken many years ago, when things were much simpler. When they were all so much younger and thought they owned the world, before so much had been lost or broken.
It brought back a rush of memories, of good times with his friend.
The only real friend he’d ever had, or probably ever would.
He slowly lifted the folded piece of paper from the bar and opened it. It read simply, Thank you. Love, C.
Skull turned to gaze at the rolling waves and smiled.
THE END of Eden’s Exodus.
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Sample from
THE DEMON PLAGUES
Infection Year Ten
Alan “Skull” Denham put his eye to the sight of his venerable Barrett sniper rifle. Mexico City sprawled smoggy as ever; he could just barely see his target area. The fascist United Governments of North America hadn’t done any better than the old Mexican regime had in cleaning the place up. Annexation of Mexico and Canada by the former U.S. had proven to be the proverbial anaconda swallowing the buffalo; the process seemed inevitable, but very, very slow.
Skull was indigestion.
The cold logic of insurgency dictated that he kill as many northerners as possible and spare the locals, sowing distrust between Latinos and gringos. When he did, government cracked down, locals protested and rioted and bombed.
Skull loved it.
<
br /> This target was special: a Security Service Psycho officer, one of the tiny percentage of infected humanity that the Plague turned evil…or at least narcissistic. Most people considered the two the same.
Like many low-level Psychos in the Unionist-Party-dominated UG, this one led an SS death squad, searching out the UGNA’s enemies, criminal or political, real or imagined.
Crosshairs drifted downward to rest on the norteamericano. Skull inhaled, then let his breath out most of the way and paused naturally. His finger gently squeezed the trigger, surprising him with the sharp report. All well-aimed shots were unanticipated; that was a secret of the sniper, especially for shots like this at over eight hundred meters.
He didn’t have to see the Psycho fall, didn’t have to observe his head explode like a ripe melon. Zen-like, as soon as the bullet left the barrel he had felt the shot was good. Skull was already moving from his position before the first sirens wailed and the SS airmobile reaction team spun into the air.
He slid the weapon into the beat-up guitar case, barely large enough to contain the gun. A sombrero settled onto his head, completing his mariachi costume. With his dark eyes and deeply tanned face wrinkled from a lifetime of outdoor exposure, he became just another local musician heading to a concert. His Apache grandfather had bequeathed him the ability to tan darker than any ordinary white man, and he blended in among the South and Central Americans with ease. Down the stairs, off the roof of the building and into the slums, in two minutes he had disappeared among the bars and cantinas and squalid apartments.
Helicopters pummeled the air overhead, too late. The crowds on the dirty streets hid him, one among many, as he made his way to his dwelling.
In his tiny rented room he searched his own face, dark eyes like pits in the cracked mirror. Over fifty now, he was resigned to the aging as long as he could keep the hate alive. He nursed it like a beloved child; the killing gave his life meaning. Perhaps someday the fear of age and infirmity would tempt him to accept the emasculating Eden Plague virus that had upended his world.
But not today. Today he had filled his cup of death. Today he was whole.
Water on his face, on his hands. In the fading light coming through the cheap curtains it turned to blood, but he ignored the sight by long practice. He reached for a bottle of mescal. “Arriba, abajo, al centro y pa ´dentro,” he murmured, and then drank a slug from the neck. The traditional toast of “up, down, center and in” seemed to make the smoky liquor taste better.
Opening the guitar case, he gently removed his exquisite rifle. Before he stripped it down and cleaned it, he took out a knife and made a thin hash mark at the end of the row on the stock.
His fingertips touched the four hundred and fifty-five tiny indentations, one for each kill with the weapon. The first ninety-six had been the enemies of his country, back when he had a country, back when the United States was something to believe in. He’d killed in Somalia, Iraq, Yemen, Afghanistan and countless other places.
The rest of the marks…those were personal. Payback for his old commander Zeke, payback for hacker Vinny, payback for the innocents in the death camps and for the other millions murdered by the chickenshit jackbooted thugs of the Unionist Party and the United Governments, those that had corrupted his flag, stole his Constitution, and murdered all he held sacred.
Who needs sex, he thought, when killing is so much more satisfying.
Closing the knife, he began to lovingly service his weapon.
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* * *
Books by David VanDyke
Plague Wars series:
The Eden Plague
Reaper's Run
Skull's Shadows
Eden's Exodus
The Demon Plagues
The Reaper Plague
The Orion Plague
Cyborg Strike
Comes The Destroyer
Stellar Conquest series
A direct follow-on spinoff to Plague Wars:
First Conquest
Desolator
Tactics of Conquest
Conquest of Earth
Conquest and Empire
Star Force series
Outcast: Book 10
Exile: Book 11
California Corwin P.I. Mystery series
Loose Ends: Book 1
In A Bind: Book 2
Other Works
Unfettered
Low Justice
Click the links to find them on Amazon. For more information visit www.davidvandykeauthor.com
Books by Ryan King
Ryan King's Land of Tomorrow series:
Glimmer of Hope
Children of Wrath
Paths of Righteousness
See more of Ryan King's books at: Ryan King's Amazon Author Page
Cover by Jun Ares
Formatting by LiberWriter
Eden's Exodus (Plague Wars Series Book 3) Page 25