“Nothing nastier than a beer drunk,” Chaz said. He sniffed the air.
“When did she leave?” Dwayne said.
“A month,” Renzi said and slouched back, resting the can on his knee.
“You got this fucked up in a month?” Chaz said.
“We have a job,” Dwayne said. “Short-term, with a big payday. You could get them back.”
“Had a job,” Renzi said with a snort. “Had a lot of jobs. Got pissed on or pissed off. Whatever you got goin’, I’d just shit all over it.”
“I need you for the one thing you do right,” Dwayne said. “Blowing shit up.”
“Forget it,” Renzi said. “Nothing you say is gonna get me off this couch. Nothing you do is gonna get me out of this house. I’m past whatever it is you want me for. I’m used up. I’m tired. Find someone else.”
The fight was a short one. Renzi was too long drunk and too long tired. They tossed him into the back of the rental and drove away from the sad little split-level.
“Wish we threw him in the shower first,” Chaz said and rolled down the windows.
Renzi’s head hurt in a new way. A couple of new ways. The old hangover pain behind his eyes and on top of his head was there. But his right cheek was sore, too. The inside of his mouth was cut. And his left ear hurt.
“Drink this, Ricky.” Dwayne was offering a glass tinkling with ice.
Renzi sat up. He was in a broad swivel chair covered in plush leather. He accepted the tumbler and looked around. He was in a long narrow room with upholstered walls, a paneled bar and a big screen TV with a golf game on it. He took a sip. It was ice water.
“Drink it,” Dwayne said. “It’ll clear your ears.”
“Ears?”
“You’re on a plane, dumbass,” Chaz said and switched the TV to a poker show.
“We’re going to Nevada,” Dwayne explained. “That’s where the job is.”
“You guys steal this jet?” Renzi asked.
“Belongs to our client,” Dwayne said. “We still don’t know who that is. But they’ve paid all our expenses and a solid advance against a ten million dollar payout. Tax-free cash. The job is a week, maybe. Most of that is prep time. The actual mission is one or two days tops, and it’s domestic.”
“Something legal?” Renzi said. “You guys don’t expect me to blow a safe or like that?”
“Nothing illegal,” Dwayne said. “But it’s a corporate secret. No talking about it after.”
“Like Tikrit,” Renzi said. “Just like that,” Chaz said.
“Is Hammond in on it?” Renzi said.
“No,” Dwayne said. “This is my deal. I don’t even know where in the world Hammond is.”
“I hear he’s back in the States,” Renzi said. “I heard that, too,” Chaz said.
“Hammond’s not part of this,” Dwayne cut in. “It’s not his kind of play.”
“Okay, I’ll come along and look it over.” Renzi sat back.
“Like you have a choice,” Chaz said.
“Hey.” Renzi gestured toward the bar with his glass. “Any chance I can get a little drink?”
“No way,” Dwayne said. “You have forty-eight hours to straighten your ass up before I let you anywhere near det cord and Semtex.”
5
The Rundown
The following morning, the four men gathered in the largest Q-hut, which would serve as an operations center for the mission. The biggest room within was soundproofed and windowless and held computer workstations with big flat-screen monitors. These monitors swam with a screensaver image of rolling surf.
“Everything must be done to reduce your impact on the environment,” Dr. Tauber said. “Your clothing, body armor, and footwear are made from chemical-free paper and vegetable-based materials so they decompose rapidly.”
“This some Al Gore bullshit?” Renzi said. “That means no smokes either, Ricky,” Chaz said.
Dwayne stepped in. “Think of it more like a covert necessity. We have to get in and get out, and no one can ever know we were there. Ever. If something goes wrong and we don’t get back, there can’t be any evidence we were there. Imagine someone digging around in the desert, and they find a hundred-thousand-year-old Swiss Army knife where it has no business being. It may seem like a long time ago, but the doc tells me that you’d be surprised at the stuff that survives to be found.”
“So we pick up our brass,” Jimbo said.
“No brass,” Dwayne said. He reached into one of the large steel equipment crates that were stacked along one wall. “We’ll be armed with these.”
Dwayne held up an ugly black rifle about two feet in length, a bullpup design with a heavy box magazine mounted near the rear of the weapon. The three ex-Rangers studied it with something like hunger. Whatever this new piece was, it was these weapons that would help them stand up to any threat they met. It would be the difference between dying and getting back alive. He tossed the rifle to Jimbo.
“We have ten of these. They fire a .30 caliber rocket round propelled by a mix of two chemicals ignited electrically from a battery worn on our belts. Twenty-round magazines. The rounds are frangible and made of compressed organic matter. Hard enough to penetrate any living target but composed of materials that will degrade—break down—over time. The frame is steel and ceramic and will biodegrade within a thousand years.”
“Who built these?” Jimbo said.
“I used Vinnie Barnes in Tulsa,” Dwayne said. “He’s expensive, but he’s good. They’re based off a design of his he’s been working on for a while. And he doesn’t ask questions or kiss and tell.”
“You tried one of these on a range, Dwayne?” Jimbo inspected the rifle.
“It’s accurate enough within fifty yards, and jamming is minimal,” Dwayne said. “It’s lots quieter than any piece we’re used to.
