“Maybe he has them by the short-and-curlies too,” Charles suggested.
“Okay,” Prince said, returning from his solo walk through the glade. He glanced at his scanpad, then nodded. “Right. These are the four plants we need to collect specimens of.” He showed them his scans of a small white flower, a blue leafed plant, a bright yellow berry, and a small bush that looked like it had been splattered with blood.
The men split up to find and gather the target plants.
“Do you think he skims from everyone here?” Roo asked, straightening and looking across the glade at the other two groups.
Booker shrugged. “Probably.”
The Aussie gave a low whistle. “He’s a prick, but you have to admire the man’s business savvy. I’m telling you, we could do the same thing.”
Charles accidentally ripped a plant out of the earth, roots and all. He looked at it, realized it was the wrong variety, and threw it over his shoulder. “Wouldn’t you feel bad taking advantage of other vets like that?”
“No. Not really. I mean, I wouldn’t take such a high fee. It’s fucking insane. But the wanker does have the right idea.”
“A real knight in shining armor, aren’t you?” Booker grumbled.
“This isn’t rescuing birds,” Roo said. “I’m just trying to make a comfortable living.”
“Hey, look at this one,” Charles said.
He was pointing to a small flower with blue and red alternating petals on a bright, almost too-green stem. A few tiny drops of something blue beaded on the petals.
“Pretty flower, but is that what we’re looking for?” Booker asked.
“That’s a white flower with blue leaves. There’s another. Oh, and another.”
“Hey, Prince,” Booker yelled. “Come look at this.”
Their fearless leader had left the others to do the gathering, but he got up off the branch he’d been sitting on and wandered over.
“Is this something you want?” the American asked, leaning over and putting his fingers under the flower to tilt it so the other man could see.
“Stop!” he shouted, his eyes growing huge. “Don’t pull that plant!”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Just release it slowly,” Prince told him.
Charles frowned, but he complied.
“If you didn’t disturb the roots, maybe we’ll catch a lucky break.”.
“What do you mean?” Booker asked before a thrumming growl sounded from the jungle around the glade.
The men paused in their gathering. One of the orange creatures that had attacked Booker, Roo, and Charles on their first mission crept into the glade, crouching and slinking forward.
The American rolled his shoulders, widened his stance, raised his shotgun, and fired. The shot was clean, and the creature thrashed on the ground, roaring in anger. He stepped up and gave it the coup de grâce.
“Why were you all excited?” Booker asked Prince as the creature shuddered and went still.
“I should have told you. I forgot you were newbies. That, my friends, is a Pita. A good plant. Worth a lot,” he said, his eyes flickering with avarice.
“If it’s so valuable, then why call us off? You want it for yourself?” Roo asked.
“Oh, I’d love to take it back, it and all its little buddies,” he responded. “But I also want to get back alive.”
“What do you mean?” Booker asked.
“What I mean is that if you pull one of those out, all the creatures of the Zoo erupt and want our heads. We don’t have enough men here to survive that. No, if we want Pitas, we need to be smart. Even when all we want to do is harvest the flowers, we have to come in heavy.”
“We’ve got nine of us. We’re not heavy enough?”
“Not even close.” The Nigerian held his hand up for silence. He listened for half a minute, then pointed to the dead creature and added, “That thing might have been a coincidence. You didn’t actually pick the flower and the plant itself hasn’t been disturbed. But I think that’s our cue, gents. Let’s wrap things up and head back. We have a deadline, and I for one don’t want to spend the night out here again.”
The samples case was small enough to fit into the leader’s rucksack. He zipped it, then looked at the men, who stood loosely fanned around him. The Zoo vibrated with growling and rustling as creatures closed in on the humans. With a greedy smile, the man turned away from the glade and took off at a jog back the way they had come.
As they jogged back, the jungle around them hummed with menace. Booker kept catching glimpses of a swarm of something flying above their heads, just above the canopy. Creatures seen and unseen plagued them as they ran.
The Angolans ran out of ammunition halfway back to the gate, resorting to knives and machetes. Each group fought as separate teams instead of increasing their effectiveness by joining forces.
The creature that looked like a giant mouse they had also encountered previously emerged, but this time, there was a pack of them flowing around the men’s ankles, biting and snapping as they went.
The three teammates peppered the smaller creatures with their weapons until the path was littered with their bodies. It might seem like overkill, but no one was taking any chances.
After each attack, Prince grew more anxious, putting on speed until they were practically running through the jungle. The creatures crashed around them, some darting into the path. The bright orange mutants from before kept darting out to attack them. It seemed they were trekking through their territory and they wanted the humans out.
When a few locusts decided to join the party, Yin and Yang dispatched them quickly and cleanly with their hand weapons, not wasting any rounds as they did so.
The sun was on its way down, and still they ran, Prince urging them on. The jungle began to thin as they approached the wall, the noise of the creatures stalking them dimming and then falling away. Warning growls and calls raised the hairs on the backs of their necks when they hit the wall. Their leader took a moment to get his bearings, then turned left. He was correct in determining their position—within twenty minutes, they arrived at the gate and entered the camp, safe from the Zoo’s inhabitants.
They barely had time to catch their breath when two dusty SUVs pulled up. Men in safari chic and dark sunglasses walked up to the Nigerian. Armed guards fanned out behind each of them.
He withdrew the sample case from his bag. The men huddled together and he seemed to be describing the samples as the potential buyers listened.
Charles watched the exchange with curiosity. At first, he thought the men were together, but based on their body language, it seemed they were rivals. By the quick hand gestures occasionally made, he soon realized they were haggling over the samples the man had produced.
“But you promised me them!” one of the men said, his voice carrying to the waiting crew.
Prince gave him a placating shrug and handed the sample case over to the other man. The man who bought the case snapped his fingers, and one of his guards stepped forward and produced a briefcase, handing it to the Nigerian. He opened it and looked at its contents with a greedy smile before he shook the man’s hand, the deal done.
The two buyers returned to their shiny SUVs, one bouncing along with glee, the other slumped in defeat.
“He freelanced this one,” Charles muttered.
“What was that?” Booker asked.
“Prince really was running a spec op. He’s put chum in the water, and now, there’ll be a higher demand for what we helped him find,” he explained.
“The devious fucker. So, he gets all the credit and the money, huh?” Roo said.
He shrugged.
Prince returned to the men and they gathered around him, a large smile on his face, the briefcase tight in his grip. “Ready for your earnings?” He passed thick wads of cash around, rubber-banded and crisp.
“There’ll be more where that’s coming from, boys. Be ready,” he said, then walked away, whistling as he went.
>
Booker counted the cash and gave a low whistle. “Fuck me, there’s nearly eighty-grand here.”
Roo snatched the money from him and counted it himself. “Holy shit.” He looked at the other men, and Charles could practically see the money signs in his eyes.
The American looked at the sky. If Prince came through with more jobs and paydays as large as this one, even with the finder’s fee, they could probably come close to being set for life in three months or less.
Chapter Eight
The Harvesters Camp
“Why’s it always so bleddy hot?” Booker grumbled, wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief he pulled from one of his pockets.
“It’s the desert, you idiot,” Roo replied.
“Is that a handkerchief?” Charles asked at the same time.
He ignored them both. Why couldn’t he be in a place with a nice balmy temperature, rain, cloud cover, and Internet? Why were things never in a convenient spot? It was always some desert, rainforest, or icy tundra. Alien gardens seemed to have the same obnoxious-to-be-in places feel as most ops. He missed the Internet. The broadband in the Sahara sucked, and they didn’t have the means to upgrade themselves quite yet. He was itching to game, looking for something to occupy his mind between missions. If he wasn’t destroying an enemy in real life, the next best thing was slaying a virtual one.
The team sat outside the converted cargo container. They were waiting for Prince to show up and tell them there was a job, but he hadn’t come all morning.
“Right. I’m going to have a geek around,” Booker said. He ran his finger under his nose with a sniff. “I’ll meet you two at the Wateringhole.” It had taken a few days for them to realize that le bar was only a description and it actually had a name. There were almost as many bars in the camp as there were armories.
He walked away. Roo flipped off his retreating back, just because his hands had nothing better to do.
Charles watched as a group of men walked past. He took in their gear lazily. It was all standard as far as he could tell. This group seemed more serious than some of the others. Their weapons were chosen for close-combat, perfect for Zoo firefights. Although they had something he hadn’t seen before.
He stood and approached the men, who had stopped to speak to someone.
“’Scuse me,” he said. They turned to look at him, their gazes guarded. He smiled and they seemed to relax some.
“What can we do for you?” one of them asked.
“I was just wondering what that was,” he said, indicating the contraption the largest of the men was holding. Twin gray cylinders were strapped to his back, a rubber tube draped down and connected to a long metal pipe. At the base of the pipe, where the tube attached, was a small crank and a lever. Electrical tape wrapped around the pipe a few inches from the lever and crank, another chunk of metal wrapped in electrical tape protruding to create a grip. The pipe was tipped with a cage-like device, the metal blackened.
The man smiled, turned away from the group, raised the pipe, and pressed the lever. There was a sound almost like a cough and then a roar of blue and white flame shot from the end. The man stopped pressing the lever and the flames cut off before they could reach their full potential.
Charles’ gaze raked over the machine again. He’d seen plenty of flamethrowers, but he’d never seen a homemade one that packed as much of a punch.
“How far?” he asked.
The man shrugged. “About twenty-five yards. Gets the job done. Zoo critters hate fire.”
“Where’d you get it?”
Roo came and stood beside Charles, watching the exchange.
The man with the flamethrower shrugged again. “Maybe I got it around, maybe I made it.”
The American eyed the jerry-rigged flamethrower. He rolled his shoulders, then cracked his neck. Roo watched as he practically salivated over it. He tried to elbow his teammate to get him to tone down the desire that was clearly reflected in his gaze.
The stranger also noted his envy. He shifted the weapon toward him.
He reached for it and the man pulled back, making a show of inspecting the ignition system.
“I could always sell this to you,” he said.
Charles took a step forward. “How much?”
The man smiled. Roo could see the wheels of his mind working as he calculated the cost of raw materials and multiplied it by Charles’ want.
“Sixty thousand.”
Charles blinked and the Aussie swore.
“You’re taking a piss, mate. That POS isn’t worth sixty grand,” Roo said. He clapped his friend on the shoulder and dragged him away.
“Sixty grand my ass. Who the fuck does he think he is?” he muttered as he pulled Charles toward the bar.
“Do you think Booker would go for it?” the American asked.
“That penny-pinching asshole? Nope.”
Charles grunted and rolled his shoulders.
Roo rolled his eyes. “I’m tellin’ ya, mate. He won’t say yes. Plus, you’ve gotta stop with that terrible tell of yours.”
“What?”
“Every time you’re over-excited or gearing up to kick some ass, you roll your shoulders. It’s fuckin’ annoying sometimes, you know that?”
His companion sighed. “Let’s just go get that drink.”
The Wateringhole was busier than usual. The pent-up energy swelled and made the already small space feel smaller. Men of action did not take well to downtime.
“At least we aren’t the only ones waiting around for a job,” Roo said. He spied a few men playing poker and shuffled over to join them.
Charles ordered a PBR and watched his teammate have his ass handed to him. Petty cash almost gone, he finally abandoned the idea of playing poker.
“Play you at pool?” he asked, nudging the brooding man into action.
The American followed him to the pool table. The velvet was scarred and splashed with beer and other, darker, unrecognizable stains.
Roo shook his head. “What a shame.” He racked up and let the other man break.
The Aussie kept up a steady stream of conversation while they played, not caring that Charles merely grunted in reply. He kept talking even after his opponent stopped grunting.
“The wife…er, I mean, the ex. She was quite the bird, you know? Great body. Funny, too. Fourteen, right pocket.”
Roo missed.
He stepped aside and glared as Charles sank three more balls. Roo was beginning to suspect that the other player was taking it easy on him.
The American leaned against his pool cue and watched him miss another shot. The man glared at the pool table, a splotchy red rising up his neck.
“This is a good job to have,” he continued. “I can save up enough to send my daughter to a good uni. The wife doesn’t expect me to pay for it, but fuck that. ʼCourse she has a long ways to go, but still.”
“You two playing snooker without me?” Booker asked, strolling in. He paused casually at the edge of the table and watched Charles finish the game quickly. Roo glowered.
“No, pool. Any bites?” the Aussie asked.
He shook his head. “Zilch.”
Charles racked up and looked expectantly at Booker, who grabbed a pool cue and made a big show of inspecting it to make sure it was straight. The American smirked and Roo rolled his eyes.
“So, Booker,” Charles started, taking the first shot.
He glanced up and narrowed his eyes at his opponent. “What is it?”
“Saw something today. A flamethrower. I think we should get one.”
The Aussie leaned against the pool table. Booker shoved him out of the way. “How much?”
He took his shot and sank two balls at once. Roo whistled.
Booker looked at Charles again when he hadn’t replied. “How much?”
“Sixty.”
He missed his shot. “Re’th kyjywegh hwi.”
“Whatever that was, it sounded like a no,” Roo said, finishing his bee
r.
“You’re fucking joking, Charles,” the Brit said.
Charles shrugged. “It would be a useful tool. Zoo creatures hate fire. Remember the Willie Pete grenades on our first mission? Just think how much easier life would be with it.”
“No,” Booker said.
“It’s a good investment.”
“Not that good an investment, Charles. Move on.”
“What’d I say?” Roo asked.
The American glared at him. He looked like he wanted to argue more but then relaxed and took his next shot.
Booker won on his next turn, but he stopped the other man from racking up again. “Let’s eat something first, then I can continue beating your ass at snooker.”
“Pool, not snooker,” Charles said.
The food in the Wateringhole did the job of providing enough nutrients to prevent collapse. It might’ve tasted like shit, but it was reasonably priced when compared to other, better establishments, and it hadn’t poisoned any of them so far. Booker ordered a Cornish pasty while Roo and Charles ordered burgers. All came packaged and were heated in the microwave behind the bar. The American and Australian argued with almost religious fervor whether an authentic burger had beetroot mixed in with the beef, exactly like they had every time they’d ordered one so far.
It didn’t take long to scarf their lunch, and Charles and Booker went back to playing pool. Roo watched. He wasn’t as good as either of them and hated losing. He looked around absently, wondering if he could start a bar fight because anything would be better than the boredom of watching his two companions play, but the rest of the bar’s occupants seemed relaxed or uninterested. Roo abandoned the idea of starting a fight, for now.
“There’s nothing to do around here,” he complained.
“You must’ve been a nightmare as a child,” Booker grumbled, beating Charles for the second time in a row.
“There you are!” Prince’s voice boomed across the bar as he burst in. “Why the hell don’t you have a working phone? I’m not always going to go searching for you.”
Reprobates (The Bohica Chronicles Book 1) Page 8