THE CONTRACTOR

by R. SAINT HILAIRE

  Some of the residents were in traditional clothing, but most dressed in their best imitation of western clothing. It was poor here—dirt poor. I mean, the people seemed happy, though. That is, until we showed up.

  We all knew there was simply no way that our presence wasn’t going to cause a stir. We just didn’t know precisely how that would play out. But we definitely saw someone making an impromptu call on his cell phone. I suppose he could have been talking to his wife who was asking him to bring home some goat’s milk and flatbread when he was done getting lung cancer and planning the death of the infidels, but I bet dollars to dicks he was calling guys with guns.

  Hello friends with guns…yeah, it’s Zoran…there’s a truck full of American Contractors with a shitload of guns that just rolled into town. Is that cool, or do we need to kill them all?

  I mean, it was probably something like that.

  It wasn’t long before the predicted mob of extremely bored local men took the opportunity to put some excitement in their day and blocked the road ahead of us, AKs sitting in the crooks of their arms, muzzles pointed at the sky. Cigarettes dangling from their mouths, two men moved forward, their left hands splayed in the universal sign of “stop.”

  There were many snaps and clicks in our vehicles as everyone readied for the shit to hit.

  “No worries here, guys,” Dave said confidently. “We knew we would have to pay for this shortcut.”

  Did he mean pay like the shooting kind of pay or the money kind of pay? His opening of the cash pouch he had tucked inside his vest told us it was the latter. Whew. Still a sticky situation, one for which we were overprepared. But cash was passed, and we moved on without incident.

  I know you were hoping for another bad-assed firefight in a sleepy little town in Iran, but sometimes it’s run and gun, sometimes is cash and go. Don’t worry—my life is never that easy. If I were you, I would be one-hundred-percent sure that bullets were headed my way anytime now.

  Merlin leaned toward Rusty. “So was this little detour necessary?”

  “Yeah—we needed to take a shortcut to get ahead of the trucks. Erik is waiting out there to start World War Three, and we need to get to him before the trucks do.”

  Merlin asked, visibly conscious not to use any gesticulations, “So you do actually know where Erik is, right?”

  Rusty angled Bessy around a small herd of sheep that were crossing the road near the edge of the village. “Did I not already fucking tell you we know where he is?”

  I just leaned over the back seat and whispered to Merlin, “This is a good time to take a swig of shut-the-fuck-up juice.”

  After several turns down alleyways that I was sure Bessy would not fit through, then a bit of kidney-stone-breaking off-roading, we turned back onto the highway. Rusty did not look both ways nor check his side and rear-view mirrors. Both of the big guys looked at their watches, then at each other. Both nodded. Guess we were going to be on time for the party.

  Once again, driving at just enough above the speed limit to make Michael Schumacher piss his pants, we roared down the highway.

  I don’t know if it was minutes or hours, but Rusty—without using his blinker, may I add—took the exit into Makhim like the Parabolica at Monza. We quickly went from asphalt to gravel road. Our speed let those who were in or near the streets know to back the fuck up. Within a few minutes, we were out of the residential zone and following a dirt road alongside a wide wadi.

  As we slowed, the dust began to settle behind us; I could see we were not being followed. Rusty pulled off the road and down into the wadi.

  During the rains this must have been the path of strong rivers because the wadi was very wide. I would say a hundred yards or more. It felt exposed, even after we had pulled up behind a rocky outcrop covered with scrub brush.

  Nobody moved. We were waiting for some instruction from the DSS boys. Rusty and Dave again looked at their watches.

  “We’ve got a little humpin to do, gents,” Dave stated emphatically. Now, did he mean the “damn-that-feels-good humpin”? Or did he mean the “this-fucking-sucks humpin”?

  It was the latter.

  I unhooked the SAW from its truck mount, then pulled the 9mm from the wheel well mount and tucked it in my vest holster. Magazines in. Ammo belt around the neck. Everyone else was clickin’ and snappin’ everything to everything, trying to carry what they needed in the most comfortable way for the upcoming most uncomfortable hike.

  The men chosen to illegally transport nuclear materials across international borders are typically not nuclear physicists, or college-educated, or high-school-educated, or really that smart at all. They do it for the cash. Not a lot of thought about it. They drive, don’t ask questions, shoot if attacked, and get paid in cash. That’s why they didn’t question the detour at Makhin. They probably hadn’t completely known where they were going in the first place anyway. They were just told to go in a certain direction and await further communications. The official-looking Iranian soldiers waving the trucks off the D300 must have been their next set of instructions. Dumb fucks.

  Erik, the Special Forces, and the embedded Israeli officers were all waiting for those trucks.

  The SF had taken position in the low hills that surrounded the wadi further into the valley. They had set up ambush positions, as well as vehicles prepared to cut off the trucks before they rushed the drivers and took the contraband.

  Erik had positioned himself high on one side of the ravine. It was the best place for taking the few shots necessary to get the whole circus started—not to mention the best seat in the house to watch the show. Erik went over the plan in his head:

  The SF Vehicles intercept the trucks.

  The drivers realize they are fucked and try to outrun them. They can’t.

  The SF vehicles slow the trucks down.

  The drivers fire on the SF vehicles. The SF Soldiers fire on the drivers. Drivers lose.

  An SF Soldier fires an AT4 at the wheels of the last truck.

  SF and Israelis move in.

  I take out each Israeli officer with my Savage .308 in the midst of the mayhem.

  People lose their shit—except for the ones who knew that was supposed to happen.

  SF scans for radiation—and find it. Readings and photos are taken.

  I radio the right people that materials have been found—and where, exactly.

  If all goes as planned—somewhere in the distance, the blades of a Blackhawk will be heard battering the air.

  The whole circus gets blown to bits.

  Lucky number 13—I get all kinds of cash loaded into various accounts and go find an island somewhere to drink rum and ogle the bikinis.

  Humping equipment sure does get the blood pumping.

  Sweat starts to roll down the back of the neck.

  It wasn’t Baghdad hot, but the sun was strong even though the air was dry. This was one of those places where temperatures in the valley could be thirty to forty degrees warmer than in the surrounding mountains. The sun could burn you during the day, only for you to get frostbite at night.

  Just another stop on the suck train.

  The boys and I scrambled up a small hillside on the western side of the wadi. Below was a natural choke point—the obvious place where Erik and team were to enact their plan of subterfuge. Dave and Rusty took prone positions behind a small outcropping of rock and scanned the valley with their binoculars. First, they focused on the road which led back to Makhin; then, they refocused on the hillside on the opposite side of the wadi. It was clear that they knew what was about to happen.

  There was a click on the comms.

  “Gents, shit’s about to get real.”

  Rusty actually sounded a bit nervous. That’s not good.

  I could have been more patient, but that just isn’t me.

  “Can you download a little G2 here? Or at least tell me where to aim?”

  Rusty squawked back: “Gents, two truck will be coming in from the left. We’ve got S
F in the low hills straight across from us. Look right—see that dark outcrop about a hundred yards up from the wadi? That’s where Erik is.”

  I smiled. “Damn, you guys DO know shit!”

  Merlin clicked in.

  “Jim says…,” speaking in third-person to emphasize his real name, “…that Jim wants to frag Erik himself for putting Jim’s fucking feet in a fucking bucket and fucking electrocuting Jim for effect!”

  “Nice,” I whispered.

  Dave piped in: “Here’s the deal. We are here to disrupt things, fuck up Erik’s plan, and get out. When SF ambushes, we lay down suppressive fire, keeping them off the trucks until the trucks can didi-mao outta here.”

  “And Erik?” I asked in a low NPR voice.

  “We didn’t come all this way to leave Erik—that motherfucker is toast,” Big Dave said slowly.

  Okay, so that’s all cool and shit, but he’s the only person who knows what the hell happened to my wife. I can’t wander all over Turkey looking for her, although I would. I need to know what he knows. Once I have that, Jim can cut off his fucking ginger head, but fragging Erik right off the bat is NOT in my best interest…

  That was gonna piss off Merlin. The gears in my head started turning. I needed a plan.

  But my planning did a General Patton and took a sudden turn off the road as the nuke trucks came roaring into view, dust billowing behind them.

  “It’s on!” Dave’s voice cracked loudly in all of our ears.

  Everyone tracked the trucks through his scope or at the end of his hard sight.

  “Watch for movement at twelve o’clock.”

  Two pickup trucks emerged from behind a berm and began to race toward the nuke trucks. That was our signal.

  The clank, clank, clank of rounds being fired and expended shells hitting the rocks around us was truly a delightful sound. The butt of the SAW pounding my shoulder like a horny SEAL on Whore Island was exhilarating. In…the…shit!

  It took a second or two for the rounds to reach the pickups. You knew they had arrived when the SF drivers suddenly began moving erratically, bobbing and weaving their way towards the nuke trucks. It wasn’t more than another two or three seconds before rounds started to hit the hardscape around us.

  I know it doesn’t make any sense that men get wood in situations like this, but I genuinely believe that I saw each and every man on site rise a few inches off the ground as we all sent hot lead across the valley floor, and as our confused compadres sent just as much back.

  It was working.

  After a few attempts to approach the nuke trucks, the pickups had to circle back and take cover. One of the nuke drivers saw his chance and floored it. It was at that moment when we all saw the flash and puff of smoke—the telltale sign of a shoulder-fired anti-tank round, probably an AT4. Boom! The round hit the engine compartment of the first truck.

  Dave yelled into the mic: “Move field of fire to that firing position!”

  I tapped Merlin. We both rolled left so that—

  Who the fuck?

  Okay, let me wind the clock back about ten minutes. Remember the part when Dave and Rusty were scanning the valley for the nuke trucks and for the SF fools? And remember how they directed our eyes toward the large, dark outcropping where Erik had allegedly been hiding?

  Well, we weren’t the only ones who had been scanning the valley. I have no idea why I hadn’t thought of it before. I guess since we were the uninvited guests in the situation, I thought nobody would be looking for us.

  You know what that shit is? That, my friends, is being too fucking long out of the Teams. That shit is SOP. If you are looking, they are looking. If they can be seen, you can be seen.

  Dumbass! Your skills are rusty. You’re getting too old for this shit! Stupid mistake…

  And one that was about to hurt like a motherfucker.

  You see, Erik had scanned that valley, too. And to his left, several hundred yards away, he had seen the reflection of a binocular lens. Just a small glint of light that lasted a fraction of a second. But Erik’s well-trained brain had known exactly what it was. Experience had taught him the hard way what that flash of light meant: he was looking at someone who was looking at him.

  Erik knew all the people he had invited to this party and where they were supposed to be. So someone had crashed his party, and he was one unhappy host. At first he thought he could ignore it and stick to the plan—that’s what he had wanted to do, at least, until the party-crashers started shooting and completely messing up said plan. Erik’s brain had been forced to pivot immediately, knowing Wallenda had just fallen off the tightrope at this three-ring circus.

  The only chance Erik had to rescue any part of this—and thus protect his paychecks—was to stop the shooters. He thought of firing on their position, but he knew that trained killers weren’t going to forgo their mission over a few sniper rounds. He was going to have to take care of this personally.

  Okay, now back to the future…

  Erik! Here! Now! Shit!

  Crack!

  Pain. My calf burned.

  My calf? Really?

  You shot me in the fucking calf?

  Turns out my calf hadn’t been the target, but just as Erik was about to pull the trigger and put a large hole in the back of my head, my good buddy Jim conjured some Merlin magic.

  Jim had magically turned his prone-roll left into a double-leg takedown, laying Erik out hard on ground. Somehow, through the whizzing bullets, squawking in my earpiece, searing pain in my leg, and cloud of dust from Erik hitting the hardscape, I was able to see Jim’s legs cartwheel through the air—landing him in the perfect side position to control Erik’s pistol.

  My rifle was in an awkward position halfway under me, so I reached into my vest and pulled out the 9. My brain quickly assessed the grappling situation in front of me and began to hone-in on the target, blurring out the rest. But the grappling was fast; I couldn’t get a clean shot. I contemplated shooting through a non-lethal part of Merlin to hit Erik but reconsidered, understanding that there was a low probability of success and that, even if successful, I would be taking shit from Jim for years.

  I scrambled to my knees and could see Jim wrenching at Erik’s arm in a classic Ude Garami, trying to get him to release his handgun. Erik had been in that spot about a million times before, and this wasn’t a hand-to-hand combat class—this was the real life-and-death deal. He wasn’t gonna give up that pistol, even if Jim broke his arm.

  I tried to get to my feet and was instantly reminded why that was a dumb idea as a round cracked into a rock right next to me, and my calf screamed. Oops—forgot there was another fight going on—not just this personal one...

  I hit the dirt. I tucked my 9 back into my vest holster, grabbed onto Erik’s legs, and dragged myself up his torso. At that moment, Erik forced Jim’s right arm over his head, effectively disassembling the figure-four armlock Jim had been wrestling with. Erik began turning to his side to escape, so I started beating him on the side of his head with hammer-fist blows.

  For a millisecond I wished this had all looked cooler. I wished I could have taken his back and choked him out, or that Jim could have transitioned to a mount, broken Erik’s arm, and then beaten him in the face with his own pistol. But alas, real-life fights are never that cool; they are just a friggin’ mess.

  This was definitely a mess, but it had worked—Jim was able to wrench the pistol from Erik’s hand. I had kneeled on his rifle sling, pinning him to the ground. Jim racked another round into the chamber of the recently-liberated firearm and took nearly point-blank aim at Erik’s head.

  Jim had a totally fiendish look on his face. It was a look I had never seen on him. Shit, even I was scared. I knew he was relishing the moment of Erik’s death and was going to pull that trigger—something that I desperately wanted to see but could not (yet) let happen. I still needed to know where my wife was.

  And so the move that will forever live in infamy unfolded.

  I slap
ped the back of Jim’s hand to move the gun out of the line of fire of Erik’s head. I then grabbed Jim’s wrist, wrapped my left arm over his bicep, and began to torque his elbow with an Ude Tori. Jim knew that if I had bothered, I wouldn’t let go until his arm snapped.

  It all happened very fast: he dropped the gun, Erik scrambled for it, both Jim and I dove on Erik’s arm. I was closest to Erik’s head, so I used my right arm to grab his jacket collar and applied a LOT of pressure to his throat. Erik groaned and gurgled.

  “What the fuck, Nick?!” Jim snapped, still struggling to hold Erik down.

  I mean, I understood why those exact words were coming from Jim, but I didn’t answer and instead remained focused on the task at hand. I would apologize later.

  “My wife!” I grunted at Erik. “Where the fuck is my wife?!” The size of Erik’s eyes and the start of petechial hemorrhaging told me that he couldn’t answer unless I relieved some of the pressure on his throat.

  Erik and I had fought many times in the training hall. Most of the time it was somewhat-friendly competition. But we were both warriors who loved to fight and hated to lose. So sometimes it wasn’t so friendly. We had both seen each other’s fight faces. They were scary. They showed that we either meant business or were completely losing our cool. The business face was more concentrated, eyes slightly squinted, determination showing, mouth closed, lips taught.

  The losing-your-cool face was different.

  Eyes wide and wild, mouth open, brow raised and furrowed, body bladed and poised to drop some holy hell on your opponent. The whole attitude shifts from “What do I have to do to win?” to “I give literally no fucks whether I live or die right now.”

  That was the look Erik saw on my face.