Dead Six 02 - Swords of Exodus

by Larry Correia

  She stayed with me. She stayed with me and it cost her life. It was raining. We were running. Gunfire was coming from every direction. I was hit in the leg and I fell. Sarah stopped and turned, coming back for me. I screamed at her to keep going, but she didn’t listen. She was hit. I crawled to her, but she was already dead. There was blood. I wanted to die with her. I was ready to die. It was my time. In that moment I felt relief, as if a great weight had been lifted from my soul. It was over.

  Somehow I could see myself, from above, like I was flying above my own body. My clothing was muddy and torn. Sarah’s body was next to mine. My arm reached out for her, but she was too far away. There was someone else then, a dark figure moving quickly, pulling me away from Sarah.

  Lorenzo. I met him again, but I couldn’t remember when or where. We fought together later, I dimly recalled. We shared something, a bond that kept our fates lashed together. Death followed us everywhere we went. It took everyone around us, but kept passing us over. If anyone deserved to die more than me, it was Lorenzo. But somehow, we both managed to survive. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. But even though I was ready to die, even though I promised Sarah I’d stay with her until the end, Lorenzo saved my life. I hated him for it.

  My body moved slightly, and I became aware of it once again. I was still immersed in the darkness, but I retained my corporeal form. I felt warmth on my back as I slowly gained awareness. I realized I was laying on my back. It was like that fleeting, lucid moment between sleeping and awake, when you can still see your dreams but know they’re not real.

  A woman was singing quietly. I couldn’t make out the words, but the voice was familiar. It was Ling. Ling was singing, not for me so much as for herself, but I remember clinging to the sound once. She was pulling me up by my vest, helping me out of a wrecked helicopter. She was standing in pale light in an empty construction site, her dark eyes impossible to read. She was standing over me when I awoke on a ship. The wind was in her hair as she sat on a rock, with the ocean crashing ashore behind her. I wonder where she is? The singing faded quickly. The images grew blurry. Her voice was gone, replaced with the hum of the machine and the sound of water going down a drain. A noise resonated somewhere in the distance, and suddenly I felt cold. I began to shiver.

  The light was blinding. It appeared suddenly, white light so bright it hurt my eyes. My face and ears burned as the mask was pulled off my head. My eyes wouldn’t focus, and I could barely move, but I could hear again.

  “Dr. Silvers! D . . . Dr. Silvers!” Neville whined. I hated the sound of his voice. “Look at these numbers!”

  “I can see them from here,” Dr. Silvers sounded tired. “Wait . . . is he conscious?”

  Neville sounded pensive. “He shouldn’t be. I don’t see . . . oh my. Yes, he’s definitely awake.”

  I tried to sit up. Neville gasped. Dr. Silvers called for the guards, and I was pushed back into the tank. Exhausted, confused, blind, and in pain, I let myself slip from consciousness. I had nothing left in me.

  A fleeting thought passed through my mind, a surge of anger so intense it startled me: I’m going to kill you all.

  You’re a natural born killer, boy.

  Chapter 4: Golden Manatee Nights

  LORENZO

  Tickville, Montana

  February 13th

  The shadow government had a nickname: Majestic. They even used it for themselves like some sort of in joke. I saw that name over and over as I pored through the information Reaper had sent me. Much of it came from the information Valentine had given to Bob the year before and it was borderline crazy town. If I hadn’t been reading leaked classified documents, I’d have assumed it was all a bunch of bullshit.

  Reaper was giddy with excitement. He still religiously listened to that late-night conspiracy theory radio show, From Sea to Shining Sea, and having me be forced to seriously entertain such things was simply awesome for him. I had to hang up on him so I could concentrate.

  Picture the government, by the people, for the people, all that crap. Picture it as a body, made up of cells that were bureaucrats and elected officials. Each cell had a job. Sometimes the cells were replaced, but the body stayed about the same, except this one just kept getting bigger and fatter. Now picture Majestic as a cancer invading the body, slowly but steadily spreading. A black shadow on an X-ray, a secret conspiracy of very powerful people, steering that body to accomplish secret goals. Ever since the Zubaran coup there had been hearings, trials, special prosecutors. Thanks to Bob’s data dump, people had been fired, and a few had even been sent to prison—and mostly pardoned—but the cancer was still there. Who were they really? Who did they work for? What were their goals?

  Beats the hell out of me. Ling, with all of the intelligence assets of the Exodus organization at her disposal, didn’t know any more than I did. I guess it didn’t really matter. I had a job to do one way or another.

  Lucky for us, my brother had managed to gather a lot of info about where Valentine was being held. It was obvious to me that Bob had help. You don’t have that long a career in Army Special Forces and then the FBI without making some contacts. He’d managed to get us the location, a list of assigned personnel, almost everything except a prisoner list. I suspected there was no prisoner list. Even bureaucrats didn’t like to make lists of people who weren’t supposed to exist.

  This particular corner of Majestic’s invisible kingdom was a secret prison and interrogation center. North Gap was a desolate little radar base dating back to the early Cold War. Now it was staffed by about two dozen people, with a cover story about it being a weather research facility for the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. Bob’s FBI file indicated that he had been reprimanded for demanding to speak to some of the people held here. Apparently they didn’t like when people rocked their boat.

  Back in Quagmire, Bob had warned me about the guys that made up this organization. Gordon Willis’ men had been the dregs of law enforcement and military service. Men too violent, unstable, amoral, or crazy to work in a normal system, but still capable and having valuable skills. The staff at the North Gap facility seemed to be cut from the same cloth. Most of them were former employees of the Bureau of Prisons or different police agencies, kicked out for various reasons. Our target tonight was no different. Roger Smoot had been a prison guard, with allegations of multiple assaults, rapes, and possibly even murders of female inmates. Yet before the official inquires had concluded, Smoot had been whisked off the radar by Majestic and given a new job.

  We had picked Smoot for two reasons. He was approximately my size and build, and in an afternoon of poking around Tickville, Montana, we had found out that he usually spent his evenings at a local dive of a bar called the Golden Manatee. What would possess anyone to name an establishment that, I can’t say. There was a yellow neon blob above the entrance that I think was supposed to be a manatee.

  Tickville was a pimple of a town which served one purpose. It gave the local oil roughnecks a place to get drunk, blow their money, and find some action. That was pretty much the basis of the economy and the Golden Manatee was the highlight of Tickville culture.

  It was snowing as we pulled into the parking lot of the Golden Manatee. Our stolen ten-year-old Ford Taurus station wagon fit in reasonably well with the beat-up pickup trucks and other crappy cars in the parking lot. Even with the heater on full blast, I was still painfully chilled to the bone. I had gotten used to a constant temperate weather for the last year, and Tickville in February isn’t close to St. Carl at any time of the year.

  We made our way inside. Ling drew the attention of every man in the place from the moment she walked in. I could tell she didn’t like being the center of attention, and was already in a foul mood when we sat at the bar.

  I tried to listen to the nearest conversations, trying to get a feel for the place. Some Department of the Interior administrator, who had probably never lived anyplace that wasn’t completely paved, had recently put five thousand me
n out of work in this area with the stroke of a pen, killing drilling on federal lands in order to protect pristine wilderness, and you could feel the resulting surliness in the air. As somebody who lived his life off the grid and avoided authority, I wasn’t exactly an expert on domestic policy, but anybody who thought it was a better idea to buy their oil and give tons of money to monsters like Adar, General-turned-President Al Sabah, and the Prince instead of the folks in Tickville was a fucking imbecile.

  For the first hour we sat there, Ling kept her long coat on, and tried not to draw attention to herself. Even so, she’d been hit on or offered drinks by one knucklehead after another. Her patience was wearing thin, and I found it hilarious.

  “He’ll be here soon,” I said calmly as I swirled the straw in my five-dollar, watered-down bar Coke.

  “And if he doesn’t come tonight?” she asked. I had to struggle to hear her over the distorted country music blasting from the juke box. In one corner of the bar was a game where drunks could sock a punching bag to test their strength. It made a ridiculous amount of racket, even louder than the music.

  “Then we come back tomorrow.” I didn’t like Ling’s attitude. She thought she was in a hurry? It was my brother who needed help. If Valentine rotted in a secret jail forever, it really wouldn’t hurt my tender feelings. “Hey, look on the bright side,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “They’ve got punch cards. Ten dinners here, and you get a free basket of mozzarella sticks.”

  “As if you could make it ten times without contracting botulism . . . Look, Mr. Lorenzo, I can tell you don’t like this any more than I do.” She was trying to sound more diplomatic.

  “True. I normally prefer more time to plan. A job like this? I would probably watch the target for weeks, get to know his mannerisms, the way he talks, the way he sounds. This is going to be a challenge.”

  There was a loud crash near the jukebox. Two men had gotten into a fight over the music. The guy voting for Lynyrd Skynyrd won by knocking the other guy over, toppling a small table and some stools in the process. The bar patrons cheered and laughed. Since nobody was squirting blood, the lady running the place didn’t seem to care.

  A few minutes later, a big man shuffled up and sat at the bar next to Ling. He wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off. His face was covered in a short beard, but his head was shaved. His arms were covered in intricate tattoos, including a big one of Captain Morgan striking his famous, trademarked pose. Classy.

  “Hey, pretty lady,” the Captain said. “Buy you a beer?”

  It was all I could do to not laugh at the look of revulsion on Ling’s face, but she quickly hid it. She shook her head at him, sort of giggling, putting on the shy Asian schoolgirl bit. “No, thank you.” Giggle.

  Captain Morgan was undaunted, and it was plain to see he considered himself a smooth operator. “C’mon, baby. We don’t get too many oriental women here. Where you from?”

  “I am from China,” she said, her accent suddenly thick. “Preeze, I have drink with my friend.” She looked up at me while lacing her arm around mine, wearing a big fake grin.

  “Fine, snooty bitch,” El Capitan said, shooting me an evil look. “I’ll see you later, cocksucker.” He spat, pointing a crooked finger at me.

  I rubbed my hands across my face. “Thanks a lot,” I said to her, not looking up.

  “I apologize for that. It would complicate things if I had that zhu tou pawing over me when the target walked in,” Ling said over the sounds of “Sweet Home Alabama.” She grabbed the glass in front of her and pounded it down in one gulp. “I’m really not such a prude, Mr. Lorenzo. It’s just . . . I am often in a bad mood before a mission, because I worry about my team and have much on my mind. Now I’m worried about Valentine as well.” She signaled the bartender, who came by and poured her another shot.

  I watched the door. More people were piling in, but still no Smoot. Shen and Antoine were parked outside. For some reason I figured a 6’6” West African and Jet-freakin’-Li would stick out a bit. I was dressed like the other patrons, lots of flannel and denim, and could easily blend in with the crowd.

  “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

  Ling waited, staring at her reflection in the dirty bar mirror. She was wearing too much purple eyeliner and tacky lipstick. I had helped her with her makeup—don’t laugh, I’m a professional.—It’s not that she couldn’t do it herself, it was just that when she did it, it was tasteful. “Yes?” she asked, looking not at me, but over my shoulder, studying the crowd.

  “Level with me here. What’s the story with you and the kid? This is personal for you, isn’t it?”

  Her gaze shifted so that she was looking me in the eyes. I could tell that my question had surprised her. “I . . . I owe him my life. I’ve helped him before. I helped him escape Zubara. He was very badly injured and nearly died. I was there when he woke up and remembered that the woman he loved had died.”

  Her name was Sarah and I’d watched her die. Around her neck had been an ancient key that I’d needed, and I’d risked my life to grab it. Instead of leaving Valentine to die there with her, I’d dragged him to safety. I didn’t know if Ling knew that, but now wasn’t the time for storytelling. Besides, there was more to her story than that. My gut told me Ling had feelings for the kid. There wasn’t any point in asking about that. It didn’t matter for one thing, and she probably wouldn’t admit it for another.

  “He’s here,” Ling said, looking at the door, eyes narrowing. Standing in the doorway was our target, one Roger Smoot.

  Smoot had a hock of red hair. His face was also red from the cold, and he had the huge capillary-strewn nose of a man who drank too much. His beady eyes surveyed the crowd, looking for fun or trouble, or maybe both. A couple of regulars shouted at him from one of the pool tables, daring him to throw down some money on a game. Smoot waved back and headed their way.

  “He’s armed.” Smoot had something bulky under his jacket. “Strong side hip. Give him a minute to settle in. Don’t make this too sudden, or he’ll get suspicious. Don’t make it too easy for him.” Ling pulled off her coat and handed it to me. She ran her fingers through her hair and adjusted her top, so she looked more . . . perky. Ling really was hot, and she apparently knew how to work what she had. “Err . . . never mind. You ready?”

  “Of course. Honestly, Mr. Lorenzo, do you think this is the first time I’ve executed a honeypot? It doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Ling flashed me a warm, sultry smile that almost fooled me. She slammed down her third shot in one gulp, then slid off the bar stool with catlike grace. She stalked toward the pool tables to the sound of Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride”—I was really glad the classic rock guy had won that fight. Ling’s transformation was amazing, and every set of eyes in the room locked onto her.

  So much for blending in. I’m afraid Ling was a little too much for poor little Tickville. The only way we were going to pull this off was if Smoot was, in fact, as stupid as his file suggested he was. I watched as Ling threw down a twenty and joined the game of pool.

  Ling was good. Within fifteen minutes she was acting like she had had too much to drink, was bending over the pool table with a little too much enthusiasm, and was now Smoot’s best friend. Smoot seemed to be enjoying himself, and I caught him giving one of his buddies a high five behind Ling’s back. I had to admire her professionalism.

  Smoot’s file listed ten different accusations of extremely violent behavior against incarcerated women. I felt no guilt in unleashing Ling on him. After impressing Ling with his charm and mad pool skills, she returned to the bar and retrieved her coat. She was smiling, laughing, waving back at him.

  “He is revolting. We’re going to the motel,” she muttered under her breath before going back to her new special friend.

  Ling and Smoot left. A blast of winter air snaked across the bar before the door closed behind them. I waited a moment, then followed. Shen and Antoine would pick me up in front and then we’d tail
Smoot back to Ling’s place, which in this case, was a cheap motel we had picked because it was mostly empty and had a poorly lit parking lot. I had no doubt Ling could handle herself, but her men didn’t like the idea of leaving their commander alone with a rapist any longer than they had to.

  The jukebox changed to Black Sabbath. Good stuff. I hadn’t gone by the name of Ozzie during the time I worked with Switchblade for nothing.

  Evil minds that plot destruction

  Sorcerers of death’s construction

  I hummed along as I gently moved through the crowd. We had lots of work to do tonight so I was a little preoccupied. I froze when a hand landed on my shoulder.

  “Where you think you’re goin’, shitface?” It was Captain Morgan, and he was drunker and braver than when Ling had insulted his manhood by refusing his offer of a beer. “You’re friends with that oriental bitch.”

  “Hey, man, she blew me off too. Let me buy you a beer,” I turned around, all smiles. The Captain’s hand curled around the collar of my flannel shirt. “Man, I love this song. Don’t you love this song?”

  Now in darkness, world stops turning

  As the war machine keeps burning

  “You think I’m stupid? I saw you talking. Thinking she’s all too good for me? Then she leaves with that fuck head? Like he’s better than me?” He was shouting now. A couple of other guys stood behind him, obviously his friends, grinning stupidly. “And you, you little prick. I never seen you ‘round here before. Where the fuck do you get off comin’ in here and stealin’ all the pussy?”

  And here we go. Years of experience told me how this was going to turn out.

  “Didn’t Patrick Swayze beat you up in Road House?”

  The Captain’s brow scrunched in drunk confusion. “Huh?” Then in drunk anger. “Oh, you wanna dance, boy? You think you’re tough?”