Jonah bounced in the open bed of a Regan-era Toyota truck. He’d been tied to a machine-gun emplacement in the tailgate, hands bound behind his back. The SUV behind him was missing its front windshield. Jonah could see the squinting mercenary within. He had a single new bandage wrapped around his head and over one eye to add to a collection of scarred-over facial wounds.
The one-eyed driver caught Jonah making eye contact and scowled back, drawing a callused finger across his throat.
Jonah briefly wondered what motherless shitbird had sold him and Klea out. He doubted it was the orange-haired village elder, his rescuer. Then again, Jonah doubted much happened among the clan of fishermen that wasn’t under the man’s direct instruction and supervision.
Still, Jonah preferred to think of his rescuer as a friend. Besides, a bullet was still a step up from a slow death by dehydration.
In the distance, Jonah caught sight of a single spec hanging in the clear blue sky. He recognized it as a Bettencorps corporate helicopter from Anconia Island, approaching from the sea. The shiny white craft hung low, rotors slicing through the oppressively hot morning air as it passed the convoy with a roar of engines and airfoil blades. Ahead now, the helicopter flared and landed behind a hill in a cloud of blinding dust and sand.
The convoy crossed the crest of the hill, winding down to a landing zone inside a dry lake bed. Wind and dust drifted by in clouds, propelled by the still-oscillating helicopter blades. Four bodyguards spilled from the helicopters and set up a perimeter. The heavily armed men ushered the convoy into the lake bed, waving in one vehicle at a time.
The one-eyed mercenary got out of his truck to cut Jonah’s hands free. Jonah tried to stretch his arms, but the mercenary yanked him off the back of the truck and shoved him up against the side. A second, baby-faced soldier searched him again for hidden weapons while the other kept watch. The men zip tied Jonah’s hands behind his back again and forced him to kneel in front of a small motor pool. The collected vehicles appeared for the most part to be of the same drab, rusting collection, but one truck stuck out in particular. Jonah recognized it as a high-performance Ford Raptor, a pickup with bulked-up wheels and suspension, massive engine, designed for the rigors of desert racing.
The zip-ties hurt; they dug into his wrists as the two mercenaries lifted him to his feet and led him to a canvas tent on the far side of the lake bed. They walked him past the center of the group, past fuel tanks, ammunition, medical supplies and finally three late-model Toyota Land Cruisers. This was no ordinary mobilization; this was a staging area for a large contingent of private soldiers. Somebody in the region—be it a pirate compound or terrorist cell—was about to have a very bad day.
One-Eye and Babyface pushed Jonah into the tent, and back onto his knees. The colonel stood behind a folding standing desk, typing on a ruggedized laptop. He was dressed in the same stinking blood-flecked armor he wore in the village the previous night. The colonel grabbed Jonah by his shirt, towering over him. The man wound his fist back, almost to his right ear, closing his eyes with a look of intense, nearly sexual pleasure on his face.
At least we got straight to the point, thought Jonah.
Behind Jonah, the main entrance to the tent rustled with the sound of two men entering.
“Really, Colonel Westmoreland?” came a droll, almost bored voice as a handsome, tall, and very tanned man stepped behind the colonel and clapped a single, friendly hand on the armored back of the still-scowling mercenary.
It took Jonah a moment to recognize Charles Bettencourt. The CEO wore an obnoxious desert-chic outfit, white Egyptian-cotton dress shirt open two buttons down, and a pair of khaki dungarees with tan leather boots. It was as if everything he knew about the desert came from a glossy fashion editorial.
“Nice shirt,” said Jonah. “Louis Vuitton?”
“Hugo Boss,” said Bettencourt dismissively. “Nobody wears Vuitton anymore.”
“Hate to break it to you,” said Jonah. “But the real high-fashion out here is an oversize T-shirt from last years’ losing Superbowl team.”
Bettencourt chuckled, if for no other reason to assure Jonah that the insult landed without effect. The front tent flap rustled and another figure stepped out from behind Jonah, a smaller, glasses-wearing man in an expensive suit wholly inappropriate for the setting. The man—an accountant or a lawyer, maybe?—moved with the sort of nervous energy of someone clearly uncomfortable with military operations and prisoners. He walked around Jonah with a smartphone in hand, taking pictures of Jonah’s face from every angle.
“Somebody didn’t get the memo about the dress code,” said Jonah, nodding towards the lawyer’s expensive suit.
“He was born wearing it,” said the colonel, smirking.
“It’s definitely Jonah Blackwell,” said the lawyer, ignoring the jibes at his expense. “Computer says 94.7% match.”
Jonah found himself wondering about the five-point-three percent discrepancy. He supposed there were any number of violent face-mashings that could have accounted for the mismatch.
“Jonah … Blackwell …” Bettencourt said, considering him. At first, Jonah registered a little surprise that the CEO knew his name. He supposed it would have been easy enough to pull his face from the security cameras around the Anconia docks and run it through any number of facial identification algorithms.
“Now what?” asked Jonah.
“Now what? Good place to start, because that would largely be up to you,” said Bettencourt, cocking his head. “Jonah—buddy—I don’t even know where to begin. The Somali rumor mill is spinning off its axis. Word is that the local pirates think you’re some kind of Navy Seal or some shit. I am genuinely fucking impressed. You come here on some half-assed salvage mission on a hijacked yacht. The next thing I know, my submarine is missing and the entire goddamn crew presumed dead. Fucking incredible. Just to keep matters interesting, you and your friends don’t just leave like anybody in their right mind would, you turn around and hit my closest allies in the region. From all accounts, you seriously fucked their shit up. Half of the locals have got it in their heads that you’re the guy that killed bin Laden, like you’re some kind of a one-man Rambo wrecking ball. They want your oversized nutsack on the end of a rusty machete, my friend.”
“We’re more of a wrecking crew,” explained Jonah with sarcastic earnestness.
“That you are indeed. So what’s next? You’re going to break your zip ties, knock out the guards, grab a couple of machine guns and take on my whole army?”
“Sure, but I’d settle for some granola bars and a thirty-minute head start,” suggested Jonah with a smirk. “At least it’d be sporting.”
“Bear with me,” said Bettencourt, ignoring Jonah’s sarcasm. “I’m making a larger point here. You know what made me such a good hedge fund manager back when I actually thought that was a challenge?”
“Cocaine and a lack of accountability?” asked Jonah, determined to needle the executive.
“No … emotional … attachment.” Bettencourt sounded out each word as if it were the gospel itself. Behind him, the lawyer nodded in sycophantic agreement as his boss resumed his ridiculous, self-serving speech.
“If you’re bleeding money,” continued Bettencourt. “You stop the bleeding. And you, my friend, are bleeding the fuck out of me. So here’s the deal. I want my goddamn submarine back. She was extraordinarily difficult to obtain. The general I bought it from was recently shot for treason, so I’m not likely to get another. How you and your crew of amateurs even know how to operate it is beyond me. Seriously, what do you even plan on doing with it once this is all over?”
“Good question,” mused Jonah. “Maybe offer deep sea tours of Anconia Island’s submerged ruins?”
“Don’t be passé,” said Bettencourt, an air of disappointment in his voice. “Revenge is an outdated concept. Former adversaries are often well-suited collaborators. I want you to think about how much chaos you’ve caused over the last couple weeks, and with z
ero support. What did you have at your disposal, some Middle Eastern doctor and his simpleton cousin? A Texas farm girl? Am I missing anybody?”
Bettencourt sighed and broke eye contact with Jonah for a moment while the captive remained silent.
“You’re a startup, Jonah Blackwell,” continued the CEO. “A startup with incredible potential. But you’re green and you’ve got no backing. Without a grounded partner, guys like you spin right out of orbit and never make anything of themselves. You know what we could do with you if I gave you a couple of hard-ass blood-and-guts mercs and some walking-around money? Jesus Christ, it’d be fucking beautiful. You could go on happily fucking shit up—and get paid to boot. Why are we even at odds? For Christ’s sake, I don’t even know what I did to offend you.”
You tried to kill me, thought Jonah. And goddamn near succeeded.
“He wants to eat a bullet,” interjected Westmoreland. “Look at him—he doesn’t want your fucking money.”
Ignoring his subordinate, Bettencourt continued his pitch. “Hell,” said the CEO, “I could use your help now. Believe me, this whole production isn’t for your benefit. You’ve been a short-term problem, sure, but I’ve got a long-term problem that is in serious, overdue need of some attention. You ever hear of the pirate Dalmar Abdi?”
Jonah shook his head.
“That’s probably a good thing. He’s a pain in my ass.”
“And he’s fucking dead,” added the colonel. “If he thinks he can park his operations outside of our tactical range, he is sorely fucking mistaken.”
“So what do you say?” said Bettencourt. “How about we bring this messiness to a close, gunslinger?”
“What about Klea?” blurted out Jonah. He kicked himself for the obvious question. Shit, if they weren’t looking for her before, they sure as hell would be now.
Bettencourt frowned, looking from Jonah to Westmoreland and then back to Jonah. He suddenly broke out in a massive smile.
“Oh shit,” said Bettencourt, laughing out loud. “You mean that MIT girl, the pirate hostage? This is too perfect! I should have seen it coming. You’ve been fucking each other. That is … that is just too good. I guess you had that whole white knight, damsel in distress thing going on. So what about her? First things first, let’s get her home to her parents. They’ve been begging me to find her for years.”
Jonah forced himself to impassively stare forward, refusing to flinch. “I can be persuaded to let bygones be bygones,” he lied. “And there’s no need for Klea or her family to know anything. Given the circumstances, she just might hold her dead fiancé and best friends against you.”
“Forgive me if I don’t immediately trust your intentions,” said Bettencourt with a thin smile. “So I’m going to need an act of good faith. I’m done dicking around—I want the Scorpion back. And you’re going to help me get it.”
“How?” asked Jonah.
“Let’s get you in touch with your … what did you call them? That’s right, your wrecking crew,” said Bettencourt. The CEO motioned for his lawyer to approach. The lawyer set a small bag on the folding desk and drew out a complex hand-held radio. It looked like one of the old-school brick cell phones, but with a long, looping antenna.
“Satellite phone,” explained the lawyer. “We’ve already got the Scorpion dialed in. If the submarine is within three thousand miles, they’ll get the transmission.”
“So we’re doing this?” asked Bettencourt, slapping a hand on Jonah’s shoulder.
“You see another way out of this for me?” asked Jonah. “Not the toughest decision I’ve made recently.”
“I imagine not,” admitted Bettencourt. “Let’s get this call done; we’ll work out the details later. Medical, dental, 401k, all that jazz.”
“Can’t thumb the company employee manual with my fuckin’ hands tied,” joked Jonah, nudging his zip-tied wrists toward Westmoreland. “You mind?”
“Not happening,” said the colonel, crossing his arms.
“We have a deficit of trust to overcome,” said Bettencourt. “But Jonah—believe me when I say this phone call is the first step towards a beautiful friendship.”
“Just bring the phone over here,” said Jonah.
The lawyer stepped forward, pressing a green button on the interface as he held the phone to the captive’s face. It clicked and the line went live. Jonah listened but didn’t hear any sound from the other end. Bettencourt motioned for him to start talking.
“This is Jonah Blackwell,” he said. “Is anyone there?”
The silence on the other end of the phone turned into a shuffling sound, then was replaced by a voice on the other end.
“Jonah!” exclaimed Dr. Nassiri, his aristocratic accent unmistakable despite the crackling interference. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere! Are you safe?”
Shit, thought Jonah. The Scorpion should have been long gone. He hadn’t expected the doctor to stick around, not after he got what he came for. A dead line or a fleeing submarine would have left him with some time to bluff—the doctor’s newfound loyalty had manifested itself at a highly inconvenient time.
“You’re looking for me?” said Jonah, incredulous. “You’re still in the area?”
“Of course we’re still in the area—” began Dr. Nassiri.
Jonah cut him off before he could continue.
“Are you kidding me?” shouted Jonah. “Get the fuck out, fucking now, run!”
Too slow, the lawyer yanked the phone away from Jonah, but the damage was already done. The line went dead.
“Now that was really annoying,” shouted Bettencourt, pinching the bridge over the top of his nose.
“I almost respect him,” Westmoreland said with a laugh as he unfolded his arms. “His friends wouldn’t have lived through the recapture of our asset.”
“They still won’t,” mused Bettencourt. “This is more of a shame than a setback; it really is. We’ve recently received some supplies from some … associates. Anti-submarine warfare detection equipment and munitions, to be exact. Sonar, depth charges, acoustic torpedoes, fun stuff. We’ll get her back or put her on the bottom trying. Colonel Westmoreland—we’re done here.”
With that, Charles sat at the folding desk and flipped up the laptop screen, blocking his view of his prisoner. Jonah no longer mattered to him, any utility he might have had now expended.
Colonel Westmoreland grinned as he reached for Jonah with his two beefsteak hands. He motioned for One-Eye and Babyface to assist him.
“Take this fucking nuisance behind a sand berm,” Westmoreland ordered. “If you put less than a magazine into him each, don’t bother coming back. The fucking hyenas that find his body will be picking lead out of their teeth for days.”
The two men nodded. One-Eye grabbed Jonah, dragging him out of the tent and towards a long wall of sand.
They’ll sing songs of my deeds for a thousand years, laughed Jonah to himself. But now there were no more jokes, no more schemes. Just him, the two mercenaries, a few steps over a sand berm, and a bullet to the skull. A shallow grave in a shit part of the world—an inevitability when one stopped to think about it. Pleading for his life would have been embarrassing, the supposed job offer reeked of bullshit. At least he could pretend Klea and Alexis and Dr. Nassiri and his mother made their way home, long as their odds still remained.
Jonah briefly wondered what Klea would think of him now. She’d probably still think he was an asshole.
“Can I at least bum a smoke?” asked Jonah as Babyface shoved him over the top of the sand berm at the edge of the dry lakebed.
Babyface responded by kicking Jonah’s legs out from underneath him. Jonah crashed face-first into the sand, tumbling to the base of the berm and out of the sight of the camp.
“Stupid question,” mumbled Jonah, pulling his knees up to his chin as he sat at the bottom of the hill shaking sand out of his hair and ears. “Nobody smokes anymore.”
Hell, Jonah didn’t even smoke, never did and never
wanted to. He just didn’t want the ride to end, wanted any excuse to hang on to life for a few moments longer.
“Stick of gum maybe?” asked Jonah, wincing as he rose to his feet. “I’d go for pretty much anything but Big League Chew.”
Babyface sneered as he drew back the butt of his assault rifle for a vicious blow.
ZZZZZZZip.
Jonah braced for the impact, but instead watched in total surprise as the back of the man’s head erupted in a puff of pink mist. Babyface toppled backwards to the sand, eyes wide and unseeing, both front teeth missing where a sniper’s bullet had passed into his open mouth and through his skull.
Jonah sprang forward towards One-Eye, propelled by fear and rage and hate and adrenaline, slamming the second man to the ground with a shoulder tackle. Hands still ziptied behind his back, he flipped around and slipped the plastic binding around One-Eye’s throat. Jonah squeezed the back of the man’s head against his tailbone as he fought and kicked, slapping his hands at Jonah’s feet.
Eyes darting for the source of the sniper’s bullet, Jonah strangled the mercenary until he felt the windpipe collapse. For good measure, he snapped One-Eye’s head to the side, enjoying the sickening sound of the cervical column breaking.
There it was—the glint of a sniper’s scope, a hundred and fifty yards distant under the shade of a scrubby tree on top of a small hill. The sniper had picked his spot well; it gave him total oversight of the entire military encampment.
Hands still behind his back, Jonah fished a sheathed Ka-Bar knife out of One-eye’s vest and sawed through his zip-ties. They released with a snap, and Jonah closed his eyes and sighed as he rubbed his wrists, blood flowing back into his fingers. He felt comfortable, relaxed even, like he could briefly enjoy a moment of contemplation as his unknown guardian angel kept watch. The mercenaries probably wouldn’t be back to check on the missing men, at least not for a while. The single shot had been well silenced, no cause for alarm.
The Wrecking Crew Page 24