by Tod Goldberg
I decided to leave that last part out. Why scare the guy?
“Fiona,” I said, “why don’t we take our friend Barry out for a delicious dinner?”
“Why don’t you take your friend Barry out for a delicious dinner, and I’ll stay here and read fashion magazines and memorize your yogurt selection.”
“I could stay here with Fiona while you run out and get food,” Barry said. Fiona shot him a look that was equal parts warning and promise. “Easy there,” Barry said. “I was just saying. I’m happy to go with Michael. If you want to make yourself comfortable, I left a warm space up there on the nice throw rug you let me sleep on.”
“I’ll pass,” Fiona said. “And please, put on some pants, Barry. The neighborhood dogs have begun to howl.”
Barry disappeared back into the darkness, which was good, since Sam walked back in from the patio then, looking far too happy. “Just talked to my guy,” he said. “I’m going to his place right now. He says he’s got some guns he doctored up for some boys who were doing prison control in Kabul a few months back.”
“Sounds perfect,” I said. “How much does he want?”
“Nothing yet,” Sam said. “I’m sure there’s a contingency. I’ll work it out.”
“Sam,” I said, “no more clients.”
“It’s not like that with this guy, don’t worry. He’s an ex-SEAL. Pride of country and all that.”
“Like Virgil?”
“Well, like Virgil, but with more bloodlust. Good guy. Lots of kills under his belt. This one time, in Latvia? I swear to God, he took out an entire city just by flossing his teeth and grunting. Anyway. I’ll meet you here in the morning. Nine?”
“Let’s do eight.”
“Eight thirty?”
“Why don’t you just show up whenever you want, Sam?”
“Perfect, Mikey. I’ll see you then.”
A few moments later, Barry came back down the stairs, looking essentially like Barry, though his hair still looked like a nest of vipers. I put my arm over his shoulder. “Barry, my friend,” I said, “I have a few things to clear with you tonight that you should be made aware of before tomorrow begins.”
“Oh, Mike, I don’t like how that sounds,” he said.
“You shouldn’t,” I said.
12
What Sam could remember about serving with Chris Alessio back in the day-they’d both been SEALS-was that he was never quite sure if the guy was a true-blooded American hero or just batshit crazy. He was the sort of guy who would rush a hill with nothing but a buck knife in his teeth, which is sort of neat in movies, but in real life is just a great way to get your tongue cut off. Never mind that if all you have is a knife, you’re literally taking a knife into a gunfight, and they don’t make up cliches like that without a basis in truth.
Crazy thing was, the guy never got shot. One time in Panama, Sam saw him rush into a Tupac Amaru hide-out with just a knife and flashlight, and five minutes later there were three dead rebels and ten rebel prisoners tied up in a corner, and all Chris had to show for his troubles were a torn shirt, a knife with a broken tip and, oddly, one missing shoe. They eventually found the shoe under one of the dead bodies, which is why, for a little while, other SEALS called him Kick-Ass Alessio, until it became clear Chris really just preferred to be called Chris. And when a guy that batshit crazy tells you what he’d like to be called, well, Sam figured you heeded that warning. Why piss the guy off, you know?
Now, though, Chris Alessio operated a sprawling paintball complex called Battle: World out past Tamiami, where the city began to give way to the Everglades. A few years back, this area was just farmland and marsh, but Alessio had turned it into a theme park of sorts. For the price of admission, you and your buddies could have paintball wars in Vietnam, Tikrit, Kabul, Germany, Normandy and even the Philippines. All the major wars, except for the Civil War, were represented, probably on account of Alessio’s deep well of patriotism. Or maybe because no one really wanted to kill other Americans anymore. It was too much fun killing some foreign entity… or at least your buddy as some foreign entity, anyway.
When Sam finally found the business office-the park had been closed for a few hours by the time he’d arrived-Alessio was sitting behind a desk of dark maple, but instead of being covered with papers, it was covered with paintball guns. It was a bit like walking into some militia headquarters. In fact, the last time they’d done any kind of mission together, Sam remembered Chris rather marveling at the nice office setup a Somali warlord had. It was that moment when Sam knew Chris wasn’t going to reenlist like the rest of the team. Once you start noticing furniture, it’s game over.
“That’s quite an array you have there,” Sam said.
“I’m just doing some cleanup,” he said. “I had a group of HP printer techs out here today. Talk about guys with anger-management issues. It was like watching us take on those Russian commandos in Belarus.”
“I’m not sure I remember that,” Sam said.
“You might have sat that one out,” he said. “That might have been a freelance job, actually, now that I think about it. It was after Yeltsin made nice, so I’m thinking it might not have been sanctioned.”
“The good old days,” Sam said.
“Anyway, these guys? They went after each other for hours on end today. Had to finally kick them out when they started dropping their goggles and helmets and really fucking each other up. Can’t have people’s eyes and teeth rolling around my grounds. That’s just not good for business.”
“Too much reality is a bad thing?” Sam said.
“People, it turns out, really like to shoot each other. They just don’t like to bleed or see blood.”
That made sense to Sam. All things being equal, not seeing blood for a few years would suit him just fine. Chris stood up then and came around the desk, and Sam marveled at how fit he still was. Where Sam had added a few pounds over the years-mostly water weight, he reasoned, mixed with hops-Chris looked like he could still be on active duty in the SEALS. Sure, Chris had a bit of salt and pepper in his hair these days, but who didn’t? But his waist and belly were on the same plain. Genetics. That was it. Chris Alessio must have been one of those guys who just woke up on his first day as a human physically fit and ready to fight.
“Let’s go take a look at what I got for you,” Chris said. He led Sam back out of the office and then they walked out into the park. There were still a few people milling about, cleaning up the place, raking out the paint, watering down the building facades, which made it all the more eerie, since the first portion of the paintball park was designed to look like your basic Downtown USA.
“You get a lot of guys wanna shoot up their own hometowns?” Sam asked.
“We had a team of postal workers last week who went completely agro out here.”
At the end of the block and just off the playing area was a building marked ARMORY, though unlike the other buildings on the block, it was an actual, fully enclosed building. Once Chris unlocked the door and they walked inside, Sam could see that his old friend had fully invested himself in branding. In addition to guns and helmets and gloves and other normal paintball accessories for sale, there were also ladies’ style T-shirts, coffee cups, license-plate frames, mousepads and anything else that might be enhanced by the Battle: World logo. Hell, Sam thought, Chris had spent half of his life fighting for the freedom of capitalism; he might as well get some for himself.
“Don’t bother looking at that stuff,” Chris said. Sam was admiring a rack of guns that were painted pink in honor of breast cancer. They even had one of those ribbons painted on the barrel, which was a nice touch. “I keep the test guns in the back.”
Sam tried to envision Fiona carrying a pink gun of any caliber or style and decided that part of her charm was that she could probably pull it off, at least once. Sam followed Chris past racks of shirts and hoodies, past a rack of commemorative postcards and through a set of double doors, into what ended up being the meat of t
he building-a large warehouse stacked high with merchandise on one side, and a test firing range on the other. Sam thought it was weird to have an indoor range, particularly when the entire park was made to shoot in. Or at least he thought it was weird until Chris unlocked an upright chest and began unloading paintball guns that looked heavier and more complex than one you might buy at Sportsmart.
Chris handed one to Sam. “That’s the Titan Legion Z-200 you’ve got there,” he said. “Stainless steel. Expanded barrel. Enlarged chamber. Officially, it doesn’t exist. Or not yet, anyway. They’ve had me testing it out here for a few weeks, and I’ve been adding my two cents to the designers. We’ve got it torqued up to go six-hundred-fifty feet per second without any problem, but I’ve been working to get it closer to eight hundred.”
“Wouldn’t that be lethal?”
“You’d have to be a sniper and you’d have to hit a defenseless person for it to have that effect,” Chris said. “And even then you’d have to be pretty close.”
“Wouldn’t that be the point?”
“And you’d have to want to kill him,” Chris said. He shrugged, and Sam remembered that this was a guy who used to really like killing people, until he started to notice the wider world outside his kill zone. “You’re not gonna kill someone shooting them in the foot. You aim at someone’s head, yeah, you could kill them. Most likely, you’d just put them down for a bit. Bruise their brain a bit. But if you’re coming at me to the point that I need to unload, then I’m happy to bruise your brain.”
Sam wasn’t really sure a person could bruise his brain, but he was certain that if he got hit in the head with just about anything traveling eight hundred feet per second, there was a good chance it would serve as a pretty good deterrent to whatever abhorrent behavior he was engaged in.
Chris loaded the gun and handed it back to Sam. “Shoot it,” Chris said.
There was a full human target made of ballistics gel about thirty yards away. Chris wasn’t screwing around out here. Sam took the gun and aimed it, thinking, Well, if it even breaks the skin, I’ll be surprised, and fired away. It didn’t have that same satisfying sound that a Glock might make, or an AK, but it did make a nice pop, and when the ball hit the target, there was a loud slapping sound. Sam had aimed for the midsection, hoping to hit the pubis bone, a spot that when punched tends to crumple an assailant.
Sam and Chris walked out to the target and examined the damage. There was a spatter of red paint where Sam had hit the body, and the flesh was torn open. Sam shoved his index finger inside the gap-it was about a third of an inch.
“Not a great place to get stitches,” Sam said.
Chris waved him off. “Cuts are nothing. Who cares about a flesh wound?” He went behind the dummy, and that’s when Sam saw that it was hooked up to a laptop. Chris tapped the keys a few times and up came a series of three-dimensional re-creations of the shot. “That poor bastard you just shot? You separated his pelvis.”
“Really?” Sam said.
“According to the computer model,” Chris said. “He’ll be in the hospital for a week. Probably will have a problem sitting for a long period of time for a while after that. No career in the truck-driving arts. I’ll tell you that.”
“And these are nonlethal weapons?”
“You didn’t kill the guy, did you?”
“No.”
“You put anything illegal into the gun?”
“No.”
“Then it’s nonlethal.”
Sam turned the gun over in his hand. “I conceal this,” Sam said. “Any problem with that?”
“If you conceal a water pistol, is there a problem with that?” Chris said.
Sam pondered this. “I need a dozen of these,” he said.
“I’ve got three,” Chris said.
“How much time would it take me to modify a regular marker to do this?”
“You got access to a torch?”
“Sure,” Sam said.
“About five minutes,” he said.
This was getting better and better. “Let’s say I needed some CS gas balls.”
“Let’s say.”
“You could get a person those?”
“Where’s the fight?” Chris seemed genuinely intrigued by all of this, which wasn’t a great thing. Sure, the guy could keep a secret, but the less anyone knew, the better, as ever.
“It’s a top-secret thing, Kick-Ass,” Sam said. He tossed in Chris’ old nickname just to let him know they were back on military ground. You know-Band of Brothers. All that.
“Bullshit,” Chris said. “If it was top-secret, you wouldn’t be out here buying paintball guns.”
“You remember my buddy Michael Westen?”
“Spy?”
“That’s the one.”
Chris put up a hand. “Say no more. Whatever you’re doing with him, I want no part of that. You know how many different agencies, foreign and domestic, have come to me, seeing if I’d be interested in relieving that asset?”
Sam wasn’t surprised, really. A guy like Chris Alessio would be who he’d call if he needed someone to kill a person and do it right.
“I appreciate your not taking any of those jobs,” Sam said.
“Well, I value my life,” Chris said, which was a surprise. Anytime an ex-SEAL can admit to being over-matched on anything was cause for a national holiday. “Whatever you guys are into, I’d just as soon put you in touch with someone who can get you some real guns.”
“Real guns I’ve got,” Sam said.
“Ah,” Chris said. “I see what you’ve got going on. Like Latvia? Break no laws while breaking someone’s back?”
“Right,” Sam said. He’d told Michael about the teeth flossing, but really couldn’t remember the meat of that story, though apparently it was a good one.
“Hold on,” Chris said, “I’ve got something for you.” Chris went into a storeroom and came out with a long, cylindrical box. “I got these when I was thinking about taking the park in more of a historical direction, but, you know, people just want to shoot each other. Nothing wrong with that, right?”
“Right,” Sam said.
Chris opened the box, and Sam saw what looked like, well, whips. “Whips?” Sam said.
“Florida stockwhips. Cowboys used them on cows back in the day. They’re considered farm implements. I got three boxes of them.”
Oh, Sam thought. Oh. He took one in his hand and walked over to the ballistics dummy and snapped the whip on its knee, opening up a gash at least five inches long. Oh.
“I’ll take them all,” Sam said. “What can I do in return?”
“Nothing,” Chris said, and gave Sam a wink. “Besides, I heard from our old friend Virgil that you do people some favors on occasion?”
“On occasion,” Sam said.
Chris looked around his warehouse. “Just to say, not all of this stuff was procured by means I like to talk about. Could be I might need some people I can trust one day.”
“I’m people you can trust,” Sam said.
“I’ve got five hundred paintballs filled with pepper spray,” Chris said. “Will that suit your needs?”
13
When you’re combating an insurgent force on foreign soil, like in Iraq or Afghanistan, it’s imperative that you work hand in hand with the nation that’s hosting you. In a perfect situation, you’d have trained that nation’s military force on your standard operating procedures, and there would be a great amount of mutual trust among the leaders, and the soldiers would consider each other valued assets in the fight for freedom, liberty and the greater good of whatever far-flung nation you happened to be dwelling and/or killing in. The truth, however, is that fighting on foreign land invariably means you can’t trust anyone.
“You know what I don’t understand, Mikey?” Sam said. It was just before ten thirty, and we were walking across the Honrado campus-Fiona had been instructed to arrive after Junior and his men, so she and Barry were watching us from her car across the street-
en route to Father Eduardo’s office. “Why did it take so long for the bad guys to stop wearing matching uniforms? Life was a lot easier when the people who wanted to kill you all coordinated their dress.”
“All evolution is slow,” I said.
“You’d think George Washington would have looked across the river and realized it would be a lot easier to beat the British if they just changed their clothes into something less identifiably American. Like, you know, a red coat or something.”
“There were rules for war back then, Sam,” I said. “It was much more pleasant.”
“You know the only time the Americans really got their asses handed to them on American soil? Right where we’re standing. The Seminoles opened up a can on the Americans right here in Florida. And you know how they did it? They came at them from all angles, and they weren’t wearing stupid uniforms. You’d think we would have learned something from that.”
“You might have noticed during training that we weren’t given a lot of information on key losses in American history,” I said.
“Which is why we’ve spent the last several years getting our asses handed back to us in Iraq,” Sam said. “All this time, and no one gets that you don’t have to have a uniform to kill someone.”
Sam was particularly agitated this morning. It might have been a direct result of it being morning, or it might have been related to the fact that he set fire to his favorite Tommy Bahama shirt while we were welding the paintball guns-of which we both had two pistols each at present, while Fiona was planning on making a grand entrance with her whip-or maybe he just didn’t like the idea of going into battle with a faceless opponent.
“Sam,” I said, “Father Eduardo knows who in his employ works for the Latin Emperors, or at least did. We’re not stepping into this blind.”