Dead Six

“For information on Dead Six, Lorenzo just agreed to fork over half a million bucks,” Carl explained. “Lorenzo has always sucked at negotiation.”

Jill seemed absolutely stunned. “Where in the world are you going to come up with that kind of money? That’s insane!”

Reaper came back into the room with a backpack and a big silly grin on his face. He dropped it in the middle of the table with a theatrical grunt. Carl, temporarily inconvenienced, was forced to move his beer out of the way. “I’ll have to pull some out and recount it,” Reaper said as he unzipped it. This particular bag was mostly U.K. pounds, neatly stacked 100 pound notes, fifty per stack, rubber-banded together. There were at least fifty stacks in this particular bag that we had smuggled into the country. Reaper pulled one out and flipped through it. “I’ll have to check today’s exchange rate first.”

Zubara had been a British protectorate, and they still had a lot of influence here. So we’d smuggled in mostly pounds. We also had a mess of euros, dollars, and a giant pile of local riyals.

Jill made a whistling noise as she opened the bag wider. “The movies always make it look so much bigger. . . . How’d you get all this?”

I’d been stealing professionally for years from everybody from Al Qaeda to FARC, from the Yakuza to the Russian Mob, and I was about the best in the world. My exploits were the stuff of legend. I was worth a lot more than Jill could easily comprehend. I wasn’t even really sure how much I had stashed in various encrypted accounts around the world dating back to my days working for Big Eddie. Personally, I was easily worth millions. I could have given up this lifestyle years ago, but then again it had never been about the cash. It had been about the challenge.

“I told you assholes always have more money,” I answered with a smirk.

Chapter 12:

Broken Arrow

VALENTINE

Location unknown

April 21

0700

Nine of us sat in the back of a V-22 Osprey, wondering where in the hell we were going. Well, eight of us were wondering. The ninth, Anders, seemed like he knew what was going on, but he wouldn’t tell us anything. We’d been suddenly roused from bed and rushed to the desert, where we’d been picked up by the Osprey.

Anders wasn’t really part of Dead Six. He answered only to Gordon and seemingly came and went as he pleased. I’d heard that he’d helped on a few missions, and he had a ruthless reputation. He never spoke to anyone else, and his background was a complete mystery. Holbrook was former Navy and said that he’d spotted a SEAL trident tattoo on Anders’ forearm. Other than that, we knew nothing about the guy.

Tailor and Hudson were with me, as was Singer’s entire chalk. Also with us was a new guy, a heavy-set dude with a buzzcut. His name was Byrne, and he was Wheeler’s replacement. Like me, he was former Air Force. We’d heard that new guys were showing up here and there to augment our losses. Obviously, those rumors were true.

Singer had been around since day one, and he was a solid team leader. Tall, lanky, and possessed of a sick sense of humor, Singer had probably the best track record of any of the chalk leaders, a fact which drove Tailor insane. With him were Holbrook, Cromwell, and Mitchell, all good guys.

We were roused out of bed in the middle of the night and were driven out into the desert again. Instead of the stealth helicopter they’d flown us around in before, I was surprised to be picked up by the awkward-looking tiltrotor aircraft.

We’d been in the air for over an hour. No one talked; it was too loud in the back of the aircraft. We were all wearing earplugs, and most of my teammates had fallen asleep. The tiltrotor’s cramped cabin was illuminated by red overhead lights. Anders sat toward the rear, away from the rest of us, and was carefully studying something on a PDA.

We were all fully kitted up in battle rattle, too. My Mk 17 rifle was slung across my chest, with the muzzle hanging between my knees. My vest was covered with magazines, grenades, and other ridiculously heavy crap. We’d even been given fancy new A-TACS camouflage fatigues to wear.

Pulling my hat down over my eyes, I tilted my head back and tried to fall asleep. I figured the Osprey would either have to land or refuel sooner or later, and maybe then Anders would tell us what was going on. Until then, I was going to rack out for a while.

I don’t know how long I’d been asleep when Anders kicked me, but it couldn’t have been very long. Startled, I sat up, pulling my hat off my head. Anders had strolled, hunched over, down the cabin and roused all of us. He turned around at the front of the cabin, sat in one of the chairs, and addressed us as a group.

“Listen up!” he said, raising his voice over the dull roar of the engines. “This mission is the highest priority operation we’ve received. You men make up the best teams Dead Six has, and that’s why you were selected for this operation. You need to understand that everything you’re about to hear is need-to-know only. Do not discuss this operation with anyone. Not your friends, not the other chalks, not the admin pogues, no one! Am I making myself clear enough? If there’s an OPSEC breach on this, I’m going to fuck your world up. Understood?”

We all nodded haltingly. None of us liked being threatened by this douche bag.

Anders continued unfazed, holding up the PDA so we could see the screen. We leaned in to try to make out the small picture he was showing us. “Your objective is this. This is the warhead to a Russian RT-2PM Topol ICBM. It has a yield of five-hundred and fifty kilotons.”

Anders pushed a button on his PDA, then held it up again, showing us a new picture. “This is what the physics package of the warhead looks like if it is removed from the reentry vehicle. This part is where the nuclear reaction takes place and is all that is required to produce a yield. As you can see, this part is small enough to fit in the trunk of a small car.” The eight of us looked at each other. “I think you can see where this is going,” Anders said dispassionately. “This particular warhead, so far as we know, was removed from its missile and was to be destroyed in accordance with the START treaty. It disappeared years ago and has never been accounted for. At this moment, the warhead is on a truck, headed for a remote airfield in Yemen. From there, we expect it to be flown covertly to Zubara and delivered to General Al Sabah. For obvious reasons, we’re not going to allow this to happen. We’re flying nap-of-the-Earth right now. We’ll arrive at the target site just before dawn and intercept the warhead before that plane takes off. Our mission is to secure the warhead and eliminate anyone involved in the delivery. We will take no prisoners. Any questions?”

We had none. “Good,” Anders said. “Each chalk will operate as a fire-team. The plane will be waiting on the ground when we get there. Tailor, take your chalk and secure the aircraft. Singer, take your chalk and secure the truck. It’s probably escorted, and there could be heavy resistance. Be aware that the situation can change at any