Dead Six

by Larry Correia; Mike Kupari

  “All of them?” he asked, opening his machine. He sounded eager. I didn’t normally just turn him loose like that. It was kind of scary.

  “Use your imagination.” There were two police cars directly behind us on the narrow street. “Carl, you want a hand losing these guys?” I shouted.

  “If you don’t mind me doing all the work!”

  That sounded like a yes. I pulled up the rug in the back and opened a secret compartment, took out the stashed carbine, turned on the Aimpoint, and pulled back the charging handle. One thing I liked about this particular type of Toyota van was that you could open the back window. The muzzle cleared the window as I took a sight picture. It was difficult with the swaying of the shocks, but this wasn’t rocket science.

  Unlike Western police agencies that relied on communication, tire spikes, and road blocks, Zubaran cops hung their guns out the windows and randomly started shooting, which was a whole lot more dangerous to the neighborhood than it was to the people they were pursuing. I was doing the populace a favor. I pumped half a dozen rounds through the radiator of the first car before the cop panicked and jerked the wheel to the side, spinning out of control. The second car T-boned them.

  I rolled the window up and sank to the floor. Reaper was clicking away like mad, destroying thousands of man-hours’ worth of Zubara’s communications programming, Carl was driving like a Formula One champion, and Jill was just watching me with this indecipherable look on her face, probably thinking about how, for the first time in her life, she’d just shot somebody, and it had saved a life. My life.

  It had been a long afternoon. And it had all been for nothing.

  “Control, this is Nightcrawler, we’ve got a situation.” I recognized that voice, even distorted over an unfamiliar radio. He sounded like he was in pain.

  “Go ahead, Nightcrawler,” said an unfamiliar woman’s voice. “Are you alright?” I could sense a note of personal concern slipping through the professionalism.

  “Where’s that coming from?” I asked quickly.

  Carl took one hand off the wheel long enough to hold up a small radio. “It fell off the one I knocked out.” He risked a look back at me. “Told you I do all the work around here.”

  “I’m okay. Xbox is hurt. I’ve lost the cops and I’m heading to the safe house.”

  “Nightcrawler, what’s Xbox’s status?” the girl asked.

  “I don’t know.” He sounded worried. They weren’t just teammates. They were friends. Nightcrawler . . . so that was the name of the guy I had to kill. What a stupid call sign. “Xbox took a bad hit to the head. Some asshole hit him with a shovel!”

  “Where’d you find a shovel anyway?” I shouted.

  Carl shrugged. “I passed some construction guys digging up pipes. You know, knock one cold, to interrogate. Seemed like a smart idea at the time.” Good thing that the shovel was the official martial arts weapon of the Portuguese. It came from all of that dairy farming and hitting cows they had in their genes or something.

  We were now listening in to Dead Six’s encrypted communications. This was huge. “Carl, have I told you yet today that I love you?”

  The next voice that came on was older, gruff. He had the air of command. “This is Big Boss. Nightcrawler, was the target neutralized?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you sure, son?”

  “He was dead before he hit the floor, sir. The guy he was meeting with got away. I don’t know who the hell he was. He looked like a local, but he didn’t fight like a local. He was good. Really good, sir. That girl that Bureaucrat put the BOLO on was there, too. I almost had her, but she escaped. She’s working with the shooter. Called him Lorenzo.”

  There was a pause. “Understood, Nightcrawler. Did you notice anything else about this man? Any way to identify him?”

  “He was average looking, could’ve been Arab, could’ve been Mexican. I couldn’t really tell. He did carry some kind of high-cap 1911. Xbox tried to take him prisoner, but that kind of backfired on him. Are the others okay?”

  “Shafter and Anarchangel are on their way to the safe house. Zubaran communications are going wild. People saw you. You screwed up out there, son. I want a full briefing as soon as you get back. Bureaucrat will be mad as hell.”

  “Reaper, can you track this?” I asked hopefully.

  “I can try. Give me a second, though,” he responded. He was right. Eluding pursuit was more important. “I’m routing every cop in the city back to the Hasa Market where we’re holed up in a hostage standoff.” The boy was creative when you gave him some leeway. “We’ve got a room full of school kids and a sack of anthrax!”

  “Don’t overdo it,” I warned.

  The radio crackled one last time. “Nightcrawler out.”

  You just wait.

  The stolen radio sat in the middle of the computer table, volume cranked all the way up. Reaper had removed the back plate and attached a few mysterious wires to various things and was tapping away on his computer, looking at waves, graphs full of quickly scrolling numbers, and other things far beyond my meager comprehension. He’d already made sure that the radio didn’t have any sort of tracking device that could lead back to us. He was in the zone. I had pulled up a chair and was sitting there, pad of paper and pen in hand, scribbling furious notes each time someone from Dead Six spoke.

  It had taken forever to get home. After being routed in the wrong direction, the police had actually caught on that they were being screwed with. Then Reaper had introduced a ferocious virus into their system, crashing the entire Zubaran security forces’communication network. We had parked the van in a ditch a few miles away and then walked home.

  Jill, apparently not sure what else to do, was sitting across from me, nervously fiddling. The one called Nightcrawler—or Val, as Jill had said the Southerner had called him—had roughed her up pretty good, but she seemed okay to me. I’d been too engrossed with the radio on the walk home to talk to her. Carl had checked Jill’s minor injures, then had grabbed a beer, flopped onto the couch, and was watching TV. The selections in this part of the world were out of date and he was watching the end of a poorly dubbed episode of Three’s Company. He ripped the Velcro on his vest and tossed it on the floor, absently rubbing the bruise on his back.

  Dead Six’s communications were thoroughly connected. Within ten minutes of Reaper’s virus attack, they had informed all of their operators that the security force’s comms were disrupted and to take advantage of that if they needed to. It pissed me off that some of our work might somehow benefit these jerk-offs.

  “Any luck?” I asked.

  “I can’t get a fix on the transmissions. This encryption is intense,” Reaper muttered. “Whoever set this network up is good, really good.”

  “You’re better,” I stated. “Find them.”

  “It doesn’t work like that,” he said. “It’s all about the math. If we hadn’t found this unit already open, I wouldn’t ever have cracked it. Even then, I can’t access any of the other channels. I can’t triangulate location because they’re bouncing these things off everything. Their crypto guy’s got mad skills.”

  I scowled. Reaper was usually unbearably cocky about this kind of stuff. I didn’t like him sounding humble. That couldn’t be good. Shaking my head, I went back to the chatter. This was the operational channel of the day, and Dead Six was apparently a busy bunch. I had noted every call sign used or referred to, and they had mentioned eight different individuals so far. I had no idea if that was all of them or just a fraction.

  I got the impression that this channel was for the operators in Zubara, but from the dialog I could tell that this was bigger, and there were other active channels, and probably command channels beyond that. Big Boss was the operational commander. He answered to somebody called Bureaucrat, who apparently had a sidekick called Drago, but neither one of those had spoken yet.

  There were two other operations being conducted today in the Zoob. Unfortunately they all spoke in vague
generalities about their locations, like “we’re on the street,” or “by the mosque,” or “we’re waiting in the parking garage.” No names, just random call signs. Nothing I could use to track them. The people they were either murdering or spying on were simply referred to as the targets, never by name.

  “Nightcrawler, this is Control.” It was the girl from earlier. Her voice was young, American. Her tone told me that she was close to this Nightcrawler. “Big Boss wants an update on Xbox’s status.”

  The voice that came back sounded tired. “He’s got a concussion. I think he’ll be okay. He’s pretty screwed up, though, kind of . . . like punch-drunk stupid or something.” His accent was from the northern Midwest, Michigan, or maybe Wisconsin. It wasn’t thick, though. He’d probably traveled. There was another voice in the background. I recognized the accent. “Yes, I am talking about you, asshole. . . . No sign of traumatic brain injury. Um, I think. It’s hard to tell with him. He’s awake, anyway.”

  It sounded like the Southerner laughed and then said “Tell Sarah Ah said hi,” or something like that. He sounded like he was from East Tennessee, and not from the rich side of town. I quickly scribbled “Sarah?” after the note for Control.

  “How are you doing?” she asked. That was real concern. I was right. There was some emotion there.

  “I’m fine. Had a close one today, but I’m fine,” Nightcrawler answered slowly. The kid didn’t just sound physically tired, but weary, burned out. Good. From what I’d heard in the last little while, their operational tempo was brutal. They were being driven hard, and hopefully that meant they would slip up soon.

  “What happened?” Control asked.

  “It was that girl. The one Bureaucrat wanted so bad. I don’t know. I just . . . she caught me off guard.” I glanced over at Jill and gave her a big thumbs-up. It would have been better if she had shot him in the face, but she was new at this and wouldn’t have thought of a vest. Jill shrugged. Nightcrawler continued. “Then there was that other guy, the one with the tricked-out 1911. The girl called him Lorenzo. He’s good. He, I don’t know, fell off the roof of this mosque, landed on our truck, and started shooting.”

  “He fell off the roof? He kept shooting after that?”

  “It wasn’t that high. I mean, I fell off the roof of the barn once when I was a kid. I ended up in the emergency room, though.”

  “I didn’t fall,” I said to the others. “I meant to do that.”

  “Don’t worry,” Control said. “We’ll find him. I need you to be careful out there.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  Damn right you’re fine. You didn’t report my sack of money, either, you piece of shit. “They’re sloppy on the radio,” I said.

  “You’re just annoyed,” Jill said.

  Control came back. “They want to debrief you right away. Big Boss is sending a car to pick you up. I’ll . . . I’ll see you soon.” She was trying to be professional, but was . . . she was in love with him. Holy crap, this gets better and better.

  Nightcrawler came right back. “I’ll—wait a second. What?” There was some commotion in the background. “I don’t have your radio. . . . What do you . . . Son of a bitch! Control, Xbox’s radio is missing. Repeat, his radio is gone.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Brief pause. “Yes. It’s missing.”

  “No!” I shouted as I leapt from my chair. “Damn it, no!”

  “Hang on.” Sarah, or whatever her name was, went right into full-blown damage control. “Attention on the net. ComSec breach. I say again, ComSec breach. Emergency protocol in force, Zulu One. I repeat, Zulu One.”

  Then the radio went to static.

  They’d changed to a different encrypted channel. “Reaper!”

  “They’re gone,” he replied.

  “Not good enough! Find them,” I bellowed.

  “I’m trying, but this stuff is hard.”

  Gone!

  A bubble of rage uncorked from my soul, rumbled to the top, and erupted like a festering boil. All this work, all the killing, all the effort, all for nothing.

  I just lost it.

  With an incoherent roar, I picked up my chair and hurled it into the kitchen, shattering it against the far wall. “This Nightcrawler asshole has screwed me three times now! Three times!” I slammed my fist through the nearby Sheetrock, scattering tacked-up photos of the Zubaran underworld like confetti. “Falah, Adar, and now Hosani! And I even kind of liked Hosani! Worthless asshole cock-sucking son of a bitch!”

  Jill and Reaper recoiled as I stomped past. “Every step of the way, every part of this suicide mission, complicated because of that piece of shit. Damn it! Not only does he have my box—he’s got my money! And I’ve got—” I kicked a hole through the kitchen door. “Nothing! It isn’t enough for him to ruin my life, but no, I get to make him rich, too. I swear I’m going to gut him like a fish. I’m going to pull his eyes out and skull-fuck him to death! I’ll tear his throat out with my teeth!”

  Carl, having seen a few of my outbursts over the years, calmly turned up the TV volume and sipped his beer.

  The neighbors started banging on the wall, demanding quiet. My first inclination was to pull my gun and shoot them through the wall. If they wanted loud, I’d show them loud. But I just stood there, breathing hard, chest heaving, veins popping out in my neck, left eye spasmodically twitching, fists clenched so hard that I was shaking. Big Eddie was going to murder everyone, and all because I couldn’t catch Dead Six.

  So what the hell do I do now?

  “Are you done throwing your sissy tantrum?” Carl asked over the sounds of Walker, Texas Ranger speaking in Arabic. “Or should I go get more furniture for you to break?”

  Deflated, back to the wall, I sank slowly to the floor. “I’m out of ideas.”

  Reaper had instinctively moved his body to protect his precious computer equipment from my fury. He’d rather me toss him across the room than one of those hard drives. “I can keep trying,” he assured me. The kid wasn’t used to me not having all the answers. “There’s got to be a way. You always figure out something.”

  I shook my head. “We need to start thinking about how we can protect our families. How can we get all of them out of Big Eddie’s reach?” But I knew that was futile before the words even left my mouth. He had us by the short hairs, and there was nothing we could do. “Jill, you did your part. I’ll get you out of the country. I’ve got resources, friends. You—”

  “Lorenzo!” Jill snapped. “You’re not out of options yet.”

  I laughed, and it wasn’t a happy noise. If only she knew. Up until a few hours ago, she had been my final option. But somehow things had changed. I stood up. “You don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” I said.

  Jill’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Yes, I do.” Her voice was barely a whisper, but somehow that got everyone’s attention more than my ranting. “We all heard what they said. This Bureaucrat wants me dead, and I’ll bet you money that’s Gordon. You can still use me to get to them. I know you’ve already thought of that.”

  That perked Carl’s interest, and he turned down the TV to listen to my response.

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Yes, you would. I’m not stupid, Lorenzo. That’s why you’ve kept me around. I figured that out in the last few days. I could see it in your eyes. You didn’t like it, but I was insurance.”

  “I wouldn’t do that now.” That time I said it with more force.

  And she knew I was telling the truth. “What changed?”

  I didn’t have an answer. “Nothing.”

  But she wasn’t going to be deterred. “There’s no such thing as nothing.”

  Reaper shook his head. “No way, man. Bullshit. Lorenzo wouldn’t sell you out. That’s . . .” He turned to me, scowling. “No way.”

  I looked Reaper square in the eyes. “I was going to do what I had to do. This isn’t about me. This is about your mom, and Carl’s family, and a bunch
of little kids I’ve never even met, and for Train. I know what Eddie can do. I’ve seen it. What would you do if you were in my place?”

  He looked around hesitantly. “I don’t know.”

  I turned back to Jill. “But I’m not selling anybody to Dead Six.”

  Jill smiled. “So, you do have a heart.”

  It was really tense in that apartment right then. “Look, sorry about . . .” I waved my throbbing hand at the new holes in the wall. “Whatever. Just leave me alone. I’ll . . . we’ll think of something in the morning.” I went to my room and closed the door, utterly defeated.

  She didn’t bother to knock.

  I was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the folder of family photos in the dim light, absently spinning that blood-stained .44 Magnum cartridge between my fingers, and I looked up to see Jill’s silhouette in the doorway, hands on her hips. “Carl wanted me to tell you that he and Reaper went to pick up the spare car.” Closing the folder, I set it aside. “What’s that?” she asked.

  Sighing, I responded. “This? This is a forty-four Magnum round. It came from the man that shot me today. And these,” I said, gesturing at the photos, “are a bunch of innocent people who are going to be hurt because of what I am.”

  She waited. “Well . . . what are you?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know anymore.”

  “I do,” Jill said. She came inside and softly closed the door behind her. There was a sudden energy in the room. “I know exactly what you are.”

  I recognized the look that she was giving me. I’d seduced more women than I could count, but it wasn’t like they knew me. I couldn’t do this. Not with her. This wasn’t right. I stood. “Listen, I—”

  “You’re a thief, and a liar, and an all-around jerk,” she said with this mischievous little smile. “You’re this just horrendous asshole that takes advantage of everybody around him, and uses people whenever it’s convenient. And you’re so short. I don’t know what the hell I’m thinking.”

  That was unexpected. “Me, either.”

  “But . . .” Jill was closer now. She stopped, so close that I could just barely feel the soft curves of her body against me. It was electric. It had been a long time. “You’re also the man that saved my life.”