Dead Six

“Downtown,” Colonel Hunter explained, facing us at last. “You boys are ready. I’m shipping the four of you off to one of our safe houses in the city.”

“Al Khor,” Sarah said. “It’s the upper class of the three peninsulas of Zubara City. It’s where most of the government ministries are and where most of the Westerners live. It’ll be easier for you to blend in there, but you will operate throughout the city.”

“So, we’re the last ones to leave, and we’re getting an easy assignment,” Tailor said. “Did we screw up somehow, sir?”

“You’re the last team to leave, Mr. Tailor, but you’ll probably get the first mission. I’ve actually been impressed with you boys, so I’m assigning you all to the same chalk.”

“Just the four of us, sir?” Wheeler asked.

“You’ll be fine,” Hunter replied. “Mr. Tailor, you’re in charge of this chalk.”

“Yes, sir!” Tailor answered crisply. I groaned. Tailor kicked me in the shin under the desk.

“From your records, I know that Mr. Tailor has the most combat experience of you four,” Hunter said. “Mr. Valentine, you’re second-in-command.”

“But, sir,” Wheeler protested, “I mean, no offense to Valentine, but Hudson and I have been through a lot. We did two tours in Afghanistan together.”

“I know that, Mr. Wheeler. However, Mr. Valentine has seen combat in Afghanistan, Africa, Bosnia, China, Central America, and Mexico. I didn’t make the chain-of-command decision lightly. Do not question me, ginger.”

Tailor snickered.

“Holy shit, Val,” Wheeler said, looking over at me. I just shrugged.

“Moving along,” Hunter said, “your first target is this man.” Sarah pressed a few keys on the laptop. An image of a young Gulf Arab man, probably no older than me, appeared on the screen. He was wearing the traditional thobe and headdress. He had a baby face, with a thin mustache and a neatly trimmed beard on his chin. “His name is Abdul bin Muhammad Al Falah. He’s a young up-and-comer in the Zubaran terrorist network. He’s used his family’s money and political connections to try to make a name for himself.”

“He looks like a kid, Colonel,” Tailor said.

“He’s twenty-six,” Hunter replied. “He’s also, by all accounts, just a spoiled rich man’s son. Our intelligence assets believe this is all a game for young Mr. Al Falah. And he’s not been directly involved in any terrorist operations so far.”

“So why is he important?” Hudson asked.

“He has connections. They’re grooming him to be a player when he gets older. Your first assignment, gentlemen, is to locate and capture Mr. Al Falah.”

“Capture, sir?” I asked.

“The junior Al Falah knows people,” Sarah said, still sitting in front of her computer. “He’ll be a very useful intelligence asset. He’s relatively young and inexperienced, too, so it should be easier to extract information from him.” Her voice was colder than usual as she spoke.

“Miss McAllister is right,” Hunter said. “We need him alive, for the time being. You will interrogate him.”

“Are we supposed to make him talk?” Wheeler sounded nervous with the idea. “Aren’t there, like, rules about that now?”

Hunter scowled. “Rules? Does extracting information from this young man make you uncomfortable, Mr. Wheeler?” He didn’t wait for a response. “You’re not in the army anymore. This young man has been helping recruit the assholes who’ve been blowing up your old compatriots. I don’t want rules, gentlemen, I want results.”

“So, how are we supposed to find him?” Tailor asked.

“Our intelligence assets are working on that, Mr. Tailor,” Hunter replied. “You’ll be assigned to observe him yourself, and you’ll be given a list of places he frequents. He’s not a difficult man to track, and he has no reason to suspect he’s in any danger here. Zubara has been a safe haven for terrorists for years. This should be an easy one.”

“I’ll be assisting during operations,” Sarah said, taking over from Hunter, “as a sort of dispatcher. I’ll be in radio contact with the other operational teams. I can update you on intelligence, give you instructions, and assist in translating if you need it. You’ve all been assigned radio call signs. Wheeler, yours is Ginger.”

“Hey!” Wheeler protested. Tailor broke out in a laugh.

Sarah ignored our adolescent humor. “Hudson, you’re Shafter.”

“So the black man gets to be Shafter, huh?” Hudson growled. “Hell, why not Dolemite? Or how ’bout Black Dynamite?” The room immediately fell silent. Sarah looked at Colonel Hunter, not knowing what to say. Hudson could only maintain his indignant expression for so long before he started laughing. “Lord, girl, where did you come up with these?”

“They’re randomly chosen by computer,” Sarah insisted.

“Bullshit!” Wheeler snorted. Hudson slapped the desk and let out a raucous laugh.

“Gentlemen,” Hunter warned, frowning. Kill joy.

Sarah continued. “Tailor, your call sign is Xbox.”

“Xbox?” Tailor asked, sounding laughably butt-hurt. “Seriously?” Wheeler folded his arms across his chest and gave Tailor a look of smug satisfaction. I chuckled.

“And Valentine, your call sign is Nightcrawler.”

“Nightcrawler?” I repeated. “How did you come up with that?”

Hunter finally cracked a smile. “You should’ve heard some of the ones she came up with for the other boys. Mr. Walker’s call sign is Lilac.”

“I thought you said they were randomly chosen by computer?”

Sarah tried as hard as she could to look innocent. “They are! Why would you think otherwise?” She flashed me a little smile and winked. Tailor, noticing, kicked me under the desk again.

VALENTINE

Ash Shamal District

March 11

1900

“This is Ginger. I’ve got eyes on the target,” Wheeler said over the radio.

“Roger that,” Tailor responded, his voice very hushed in my earpiece. “I see him, too. He just passed my position.”

“Ginger, Control,” Sarah said over the radio, her voice very professional. “Do you have a positive ID on the target?” It was very important that we had the right guy, after all.

“Uh . . . stand by.” Wheeler and Hudson were both in our van, which was parked farther down the darkened alley to the south. To the north was the target building. It was a small building, only one story, constructed out of stucco and brick like most of the older buildings in the city. It looked out of place, though, surrounded by several huge, new, corrugated-steel warehouses. On the south side of the target building was a bright amber light. The rest of the alley was dark. Previously, our intelligence assets had made sure the other nearby street lights were out of commission, vandalized with a pellet gun.

“Control, Shafter,” Hudson said. “I’ve got a positive ID on our target. He’s got three others with him.” The van had an impressive assortment of gadgets and equipment, including state-of-the-art night vision and thermal optics.

“Copy that, Shafter,” Sarah said, ice in her voice. “You are cleared to engage. Capture the target. Kill the others. Control out.”

It was on. Shrouded in darkness, I peeked around the corner, looking north, up the narrow alley. Abdul bin Muhammad Al Falah and three compatriots slowly made their way toward me, talking loudly in the darkness. Al Falah and one skinny man were dressed in traditional Arab thobes, dark ones because it was