We watched as the second Osprey dusted off. Anders’s mysterious strike force had arrived a few minutes before and secured the package, all while keeping a suspicious eye on us. Thankfully, Anders went with them. Holbrook and Cromwell were both still dazed. Hudson and Byrne were helping them onto the aircraft ahead of us. I was supporting the still-limping Tailor. In the distance we could see dust from approaching Yemeni reinforcements. They were still a ways off.
“Hey, Val. Remember back in Vegas when I said you were a killer?”
“What about it?” I grunted as I helped him along.
“Well, you ain’t in the same league as Anders. That fucker
“Tailor, can you see where this thing is going?”
“Yeah, I can,” he replied. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Tailor’s hands were shaking.
“The money isn’t looking so good anymore.”
He had talked me into this, and he knew it, but it wasn’t in Tailor’s nature to admit making a mistake. “Not really.”
“We need to make a Plan B, bro.”
“You think so?”
“I think so. I think we might need to disappear in a hurry. They obviously think we’re expendable. Have you checked your bank account?”
“No, why?”
“I can’t access mine from the computers at the fort.”
“You think they’re not paying us?”
“I’ve heard the others talking. Nobody can check their accounts. Hunter said he’d ask Gordon about it. Remember what Hawk said?”
“If we’re dead they don’t have to pay us. Son of a bitch,” Tailor said tiredly. “I think you’re right. I think we might need to ditch these guys. This is Mexico all over again.”
“Got any ideas?” I asked as I helped him up the ramp.
“Not really.”
“I might.”
VALENTINE
Al Khor District
April 22
2100
It was a typically warm and dry night as Tailor and I made our way down the sidewalk, trying not to draw attention to ourselves. Al Khor had the most Westerners of any of the Zoob’s three urban districts. A few weeks prior, it wouldn’t have been unusual to see quite a few Brits and Europeans out and about.
Things had gone downhill since then, and now Westerners were abandoning the city. A string of car bombings and other attacks kept most Westerners indoors at night. The streets of the city were still jam-packed with traffic, and the sidewalks were only a little less crowded, but you could feel the tension in the air as the tiny little nation held its breath.
Project Heartbreaker was at the same time wildly successful and a miserable failure. We did indeed have the terrorists on the run here. Several of our chalks were sitting at safe houses, idle, because there wasn’t much to do. We were literally running out of targets. To that end we’d begun casting the net wider, expanding operations into neighboring Qatar and the United Arab Emirates.
According to our intelligence contacts, including those ostensibly working for the Emir, the terrorists were scared shitless. Horror stories about the men who leave the Ace of Spades had spread as far as Afghanistan and Indonesia. The local press had picked up on it here and there, too, but the Zubaran government had, for the most part, quashed that before it became an issue. Dead Six had become the Bogeyman that terrorists looked under their filthy beds for.
At the same time, the Confederated Gulf Emirate of Zubara was slowly tearing itself apart. The fear and chaos we’d caused was intended to be inflicted only upon the terrorists, but it had quickly spread to the wider community. General Al Sabah was now positioning himself to be the new Iron Man of the Arabian Gulf, and had half the Zubaran Army on his side. The emir was on shakier ground than ever. It seemed very likely that the emir’s regime would fall, not to Islamic Fundamentalist fanatics as originally feared but to a militant opportunist who wanted to become a world power broker overnight.
The entire situation was a confusing mess that threatened to send the region spiraling into chaos. On top of it, we’d paid a steep price for our questionable success. Almost one-third of our personnel had been killed in action at this point.
I was terrified of what would happen to Sarah if we stayed in the Zoob. So Tailor and I had talked it over for a long time. I then talked to Sarah, while Tailor talked to Hudson, and that was as far as the talking went. There were others I liked, others I’d have liked to bring in, but I couldn’t trust anyone else. We were getting out.
That was easier said than done, of course. I could, I suppose, have just gone to the airport, whipped out my passport, and tried to buy a plane ticket, but that would’ve created questions. In any case, I was sure Gordon’s people had mechanisms in place to catch us if we tried to run. So we’d have to be clever.
I’m not really that clever. I’m not the guy that comes up with cool tricks or brilliant plans. Neither is Tailor, regardless of what he might tell you. But you don’t have to be clever if you have clever friends.
Tailor stood watch while I entered a phone booth outside an Internet cafe. Zubara still had pay phones aplenty, unlike the United States. Foreign workers fresh from South Asia didn’t have cell phones that worked in the country, so they often made use of the pay phones until they got situated. I had a cell phone myself, of course, but it was issued by Dead Six, and I wasn’t about to use it for this.
I pulled from my pocket a wrinkled piece of paper. Scrawled on the paper, in my own handwriting, was a long telephone number. Using a prepaid international calling card that I’d bought with cash, I dialed and waited. It took several seconds to connect, then began to ring.
Ling answered the phone on the second ring, sounding a little sleepy. I had no idea what time it was where she was. For that matter, I had no idea where she was.
“Um, hello?” I said awkwardly, hoping like hell she wasn’t pissed that I’d ignored her e-mails.
“Who is this?” Ling asked firmly.
“It’s Valentine. Remember Mexico?”
Ling was quiet for a second. “Michael Valentine? This is a surprise.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“It’s three o’ clock in the bloody morning here,” Ling said, not actually sounding irritated. “Of course you woke me. Are you calling to take me up on my offer?”
“Actually . . . I need your help.”
“Is that so? What sort of help?”
“I’m in kind of a bad spot here, and I need to get out of it.”
“Where are you?”
“The Middle East.”
“It would help if you were more specific, Mr. Valentine.”
“I’m in the Confederated Gulf Emirate of Zubara.”
Ling paused for a moment. “Oh. Oh, I see. Yes, I can see where you might be in some trouble then. How did you come to be there?”
“That’s a long story.”
“Can I safely assume that you’ve been getting into trouble there, or perhaps causing trouble yourself?”
“That’d be a safe assumption,” I said, nervously looking around. Tailor gave me a thumbs up through the glass.
“Very well,” Ling said. “What sort of help do you need, then?”
“I need to get out of here,” I said flatly. “As soon as possible. Normal methods of transportation aren’t
