“BOHICA,” Charles said.
“Oh, that’s bleddy good,” Booker said with a laugh.
“BOHICA?” Roo asked. “What the bleddy hell does that mean?”
“Bend Over Here It Comes Again,” his teammates said in unison.
Roo laughed, then asked, “Does that mean were giving or we’re taking it?”
Charles shrugged and said, “We’re pitching, I guess.”
“Bohica Warriors, Inc. I like it.”
Prince arrived at the container as the sun was beginning to set. He was back in his white jeans and multi-colored vest. His bodyguard detail looked like they’d stepped from a Hollywood set. Charles found himself wondering if they really were just props, mounds of fake muscle from hours at the gym with nothing to back up the threat they were supposed to impose. Prince grinned at the three lounging men.
“I’ve got another mission,” he said.
The three stood.
“We’re going to pass on this one,” Booker said.
The Nigerian frowned. “And why’s that?”
“We’re starting our own company.”
Prince gave them a rueful smile and shook his head. “Thought you guys were smarter than the usual lot, but guess I was wrong.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Roo demanded.
“Everyone wants to start their own company. Everyone wants to call the shots,” he responded. “Remember how I told you people in the Zoo only look out for themselves? At least, when they start their own companies, people are thinking they’re looking out for themselves. It’s all an illusion. But, by all means, go ahead, start your own company. I’ll even let you continue staying here for another week.”
“Generous of you,” Booker said, his voice edged with sarcasm.
Prince laughed. “That’s me. The soul of generosity. But don’t worry, you’ll be back. They all come back.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Roo said.
“Well, gents, good luck, I suppose. Just know”—he paused, staring intently at each man—“when you come back, my rate will be forty percent.”
“Good thing we won’t be coming back then,” the Aussie countered.
The Nigerian laughed. “You of all people should know, everything comes back.”
“Why me of all people?” he asked on a growl. He bared his teeth, which only made the man laugh harder.
“You know, the boomerang.”
Roo rolled his eyes.
“Well,” Prince said, rising, “I’ll leave you three to go off and start your own company. Just remember, it’s forty percent when you come back.”
“We aren’t going to pay you forty,” Booker said.
“We aren’t coming back,” Roo said at the same time.
The other man simply smiled. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“I sleep like a baby,” Charles said.
“I’m sure you do, big guy,” Prince said, laughing. “Well, I’ll see you around.”
Chapter Eleven
Wateringhole, The Harvesters Camp
Booker needed to register their company. He wasn’t sure where they’d do that, so he sought out the helpful, if not overly greedy, Dan.
“Going solo, huh?” the man said. He took a gulp of Guinness, swishing it around his mouth before swallowing. It was eight in the morning.
“We know enough of how this whole circus works, and what we don’t know we’ll be able to figure out,” the Brit said.
Dan took a bite of his burger, the yolk of the soft-fried egg he’d added to it dribbling down his chin. Booker wanted to gag.
“Tired of paying ol’ Achoo, huh?”
He didn’t bother answering.
“All right. Registering is easy. No problem. You can register at any of the three government liaisons. I’d choose the French, if I were you. You already got your individual registrations from them. Same building—just go around to the back this time. You could try the Indians at their camp, I guess. A little bit cheaper, but they want too much paperwork. All in triplicate, too. They kept that from back in the days when they were part of your empire. The French aren’t quite so bad, but even they’ve got lots of paperwork, all the signing and initialing bullshit. You should be used to that, though. Circumlocution office and all that,” Dan said.
“You read Dickens?” Booker said, looking at him in a new light.
Dan narrowed his eyes. “Do I not look like I’d read Charles Dickens?”
He pressed his lips together.
“Oh, and don’t forget to bring enough to pay the registration fee,” he added.
“How much is the fee?”
Dan shrugged. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“The day. The clerk. Take your pick. Today’s a Tuesday, so your bet is pretty good at getting Hamish. You just don’t want to go when Leonard is working. He has a real inflated idea of himself and the registration office.”
“Thanks again, Dan.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Booker left the bar to make his way back to the Registre, the same building where they’d first gotten their personal passes for the Zoo. It was a faintly yellow building, like the color of real churned butter but faded in the beating sun. He made his way to the back as Dan had instructed. Men lazed around, all waiting for something.
After a brief look, the men ignored him. He was about to ask the nearest of them which of the two unmarked doors he needed when one swung open and a hulk of a man stepped out, produced a thick cigar, and lit it. He let it dangle from the left side of his mouth while he tucked the Zippo in the breast pocket of his khaki shirt. He blew a slow stream of smoke from the right side of his mouth while puffing in the cigar from the other side in a way that had Booker almost mesmerized. He’d never seen anything quite like it.
The man caught him staring. A gnarled eyebrow, a white scar slashing it in half, raised. “You lookin’ for something?” he challenged.
“Just needing to register,” the Brit said, stepping past the man.
He grunted. “Now’s not a good time.”
Booker stopped with his hand on the top of the door. “It’s not?”
“Nope.”
“And why isn’t it a good time?” He let his gaze wander around the building. The men who had been waiting around seemed to be taking an interest in the exchange.
The stranger took another long pull of his cigar, the ash clinging desperately to the tip, and Booker wondered if he’d knock it off or let it fall onto the front of his shirt. “’Cause the clerk is preoccupied.”
Booker glanced through the doorway and into the dusty darkness. He could see a solid maple desk and two stacks of paper on each corner, each stack teetering precariously on the edges. Two large rubber stamps were in the center of the desk, along with a nameplate that just said Registration.
The Brit pushed fully into the single-roomed building. There wasn’t anyone there. He went back outside and said as much to the man with the cigar.
“No shit, Sherlock. What did I just tell you?”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
He grunted and enjoyed another drag.
“You must be new,” a woman’s voice announced.
Booker turned to see a tall woman standing at the corner of the building. She hadn’t been there when he’d walked up, he knew that for certain. He would’ve remembered her. She had dark eyes sparkling with intelligence and a hint of ruthlessness. She was tall, easily as tall as he was, and she carried herself with a lethal grace. He imagined she could be used as a model for the mythological Amazonian warriors. Her long hair was woven into thick braids and wound on the top of her head like coiling snakes.
“And you are?” he asked. He hadn’t meant to sound so hostile and knew he should probably be charming, but something about the woman was making his gut scream a warning.
She prowled forward and the hair on the back of Booker’s neck stood up. She walked past him and into the building. He stared at th
e doors as they swung shut.
The man snuffed his cigar out against the wall, adding to a dozen or so burn marks, evidence of his habit. “Seems the clerk’s not preoccupied anymore.” He ducked into the building.
The Brit followed him in.
The woman had settled herself behind the desk and was delicately picking up a piece of paper from the pile on her left, glancing at it, stamping it savagely, then moving it to the pile on the right. The man who had been smoking outside stood immovable behind her.
“What can I help you with?” she asked, grinning at Booker.
“I’ve come here to register my company,” he said.
She pursed her lips. “Right. Sure. Well, you’ve come to the right place.” She reached out and straightened the nameplate.
“Great,” he said. “What paperwork do I need to sign to do that?”
The woman opened a drawer of the desk and handed him a sheaf of papers. “Fill that out. Bring it back and I’ll see if we can get you registered. Oh, and don’t forget the fee.”
“What’s the fee?”
“Seventy-five on a good day,” she said and his mouth went dry. “Fortunately for you, this is a very good day. So, I’ll bend the rules and accept fifty.”
Booker said nothing as he took the papers from her and went back outside. He knew there was no way the fee would actually be that high. The woman must make a fortune on a daily basis with people coming to register. But he also knew he didn’t have a choice if they wanted to run their company the right way from the start. He started filling out the paperwork near the door but soon had to move away, the rhythmic thumping of the stamp grating on his nerves.
The paperwork was ridiculous—almost as ridiculous as the fee the clerk was charging. Most of the questions were nonsensical like someone had Googled legal jargon and then jumbled it together and added a question mark to the end. He slogged through it.
While Booker filled out the paperwork, several other men went into the registration office, some with their paperwork already filled out and others to get theirs. Everyone seemed on edge and as perplexed by the stack of papers as he was. And through it all, the woman’s stamp kept up a steady pace.
Many of the men who returned their paperwork came out with more documents, it seemed, and all with frustration rolling off them.
Booker was initialing the final page when there was a commotion from inside the building. He looked up in time to see the cigar man dragging another out by the scruff of his neck. The woman’s laughter floated from the building, grating and mocking, as the man being dragged away screamed curses at her.
The Brit straightened the papers and walked confidently into the building.
She glanced up and smiled at him. “You finished already?”
He handed it over.
“I hope he didn’t give you too much trouble, Ernst,” she said as the cigar man returned.
Ernst grunted in reply and resumed his post behind her. There was blood on his shirt now, but Booker knew it wasn’t the guard’s.
Booker watched as the woman shuffled through the papers, barely glancing at anything. She got to the last page, straightened them, and then placed them down carefully.
“You soldier types are all the same, aren’t you? Think you can muscle your way into the Zoo and show up all the civilian assholes who think they’re hot shit. You’re all idiots if you ask me. But no one ever does.” She reached for one of the stamps, then withdrew her hand and looked back at Booker. Her gazed raked over him, calculating and searching for weaknesses.
“How many in your company?” she asked.
He knew it was in the paperwork and it confirmed for him that she didn’t give a damn about what was written there. “Three.”
She smirked at Booker. Then she leaned back in her chair, tilting it, and propped her booted feet on the desk. Her head almost brushed Ernst’s stomach. He didn’t move and simply stared dully at Booker.
“And you’re confident…uh, Bohica Warriors, Inc. will be successful?”
The Brit nodded. He figured the best way to win with this woman was with silence. She was looking for a fight and for speeches of greatness and promises of glory. He wasn’t going to give it to her.
She frowned at him, then snapped into a sitting position, the sound of her boots and the chair landing on the wood floor echoing sharply in the empty room. She grabbed a stamp and slammed it onto the last page of the documents he had handed her. She rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a tablet. Her fingers worked over the screen for several minutes and then, faintly, he thought he heard the sound of a printer buzzing to life.
The clerk snapped her fingers and Ernst disappeared out the door. She stared at Booker and he stared back.
The man soon returned with another piece of paper. The clerk didn’t break eye contact as she signed it, stamped it, then shuffled it under the paperwork. She passed the stack to the Brit.
“Congratulations,” she said dryly, “you’ve been approved.”
Booker had been gone for a long time—so long that his teammates had retreated into the relative coolness of the converted shipping container. Roo was taking a nap. Charles was whittling a chunk of wood. It was beginning to take the tentative shape of a dog.
In the short time they’d been at the Zoo, they’d realized there was nothing to do between missions.
“It’s done,” the Brit said as he strolled into the container.
Roo snorted in his sleep and woke himself up. “What?”
Booker handed the stack of papers to Charles, who leafed through them. “So, we’re officially official,” the American said.
He nodded. “Even got us registered for an electronic payment method, so we’re prepared for both hard cash and a wire.”
The Australian looked through the papers next. His face lit up with a shit-eating grin. “Now to start really raking in the cash.”
Booker stretched out on his cot. “There’s the potential to make millions. We could create our own line of Zoo specialized gear. Sell it to the military.”
“Which military?” Charles asked.
He grinned. “All of them.”
“We could run highly specialized training courses,” Roo said.
“Think people would go for training with a side of death?” Charles asked, also stretching out on his cot.
“Why the hell not?”
“The insurance would be a nightmare,” Booker pointed out.
Roo shrugged. “Fuck that. We’d be making enough it wouldn’t matter.”
The three contemplated this.
“We could get into civilian sportswear. You know how jodies like to pretend they’re big strong military men,” Charles said.
“Like watches and shit?” the Aussie asked.
He nodded. “Watches. Clothing. Shoes. Maybe even weapons.”
“That’s a good idea, Charles,” Booker interjected. “You put the words special ops and military on there and people eat that shit up.”
“I’m going to get a vacation home for when we aren’t running training camps,” Roo said. “I’ll put it up in the mountains. In some tiny town. Somewhere in Austria, or Germany. Hell, maybe I’ll buy the whole fucking village and then Air BnB half of it and make a killing that way, too.”
“Never pegged you for the real estate mogul type,” Booker remarked.
He shrugged.
“I’ll upgrade all the electronics in my house. I’ll get better bandwidth for my Internet. Get one of those fancy gaming chairs. Or maybe a whole theater full of them. Maybe I’ll get into WoW tournaments. Start my own team and get them to the world championships,” the Brit continued.
“Nerd alert.” Roo snorted.
The Brit shrugged. “That’s the best you got, twatwaffle?”
“Twatwaffle?” he sputtered and his teammates laughed.
“What about you, Charles?” Booker asked.
“Maybe I’ll buy a football team.”
“Why would you want an American footb
all team?” Roo asked.
“Used to play. People will tell you baseball is America’s game, but we all know it’s football. Or maybe I’ll fund research for concussions and sports injuries. Make the game safer so future generations can enjoy it.”
“Hell, with the amount of money we’re going to be making, why not do both?” Booker asked.
“I’m going to have a fleet of jet-black Teslas,” the Australian said. “No, wait. Lamborghinis. Or Hummers. Or all of them.”
“No big plans to save the planet?” Booker asked teasingly.
The Aussie waved a hand. “Eh, I’ll leave the tree-hugging to you British pansies.”
Their plans spiraled higher to include Booker getting geneticists to artificially create dinosaurs Jurassic Park-style, Roo owning an island where topless waitresses served him scotch on the rocks all day, and Charles setting up a theater on the moon that could broadcast galactic musicals back to earth. They were only half-joking.
They talked themselves out of ideas, and Booker decided to check to see if there were any proper jobs, leaving his teammates to clean their gear.
He arrived at the building in time to see the few remaining team reps snagging the last of the jobs. It rankled a little that he hadn’t been able to be at Franco’s sooner, but the paperwork had been an ordeal that had taken longer than he’d bargained for. He watched as Franco started smoking a cigarette and talking to one of the guards.
“Think you’ll get anything else today?” Booker asked.
“You register a company?” Franco asked.
He nodded and showed him the paperwork.
Franco nodded. “Great. Come back tomorrow. Today is an off day. You can just tell it’s going to be slow, you know? Your best bet will be tomorrow morning. Come early.”
The Brit hung around for a while longer until the man finished two cigarettes and then disappeared into the building. He waited to see if he would return, but almost an hour went by and Franco never came back out. He decided to throw in the towel for the day and be there first thing the next morning.
Reprobates (The Bohica Chronicles Book 1) Page 11