Dead Six (35 page)

“Anything interesting?”

“They’ve got a Robert DeNiro five-pack. I’m watching the windows on the mosque. If I was gonna snipe you, that’s where I’d be.”

That was comforting.

“Lots of traffic, but nothing suspicious,” Reaper said. He and Jill were parked about a block away to the south.

I noted a man standing near one of the fish stands. Skinny guy, wearing Ray-Bans, he was making good use of the crowd to cover himself but was obviously watching the people clustered around the fountain, waiting for something. He had the look of a local, so that was probably one of Hosani’s men.

My phone buzzed. The text was short.

Walk north. Go to the first warehouse.

So the exchange wasn’t going to be in public. The thin man saw me looking at my phone, right on schedule, so now he knew who I was. I bent down, as if to tie my shoe, but primarily so he couldn’t see me speak. “Got the message. Moving north to the first warehouse. I’ve got at least one guy watching me. Stay low.” I adjusted the backpack and started pushing through the crowd in the direction of the docks.

VALENTINE

Umm Shamal District

May 3

1555

Hasa Market was a sprawling, confusing maze of tiny shops, stands, and carts that emanated out from an old fountain in the square. To the north were a trio of warehouses on the pier. Tailor parked our Land Cruiser between a mosque and a small schoolhouse on the west side of the square.

Hudson and Byrne were supposed to park their vehicle on the opposite side of the square. As much as we could, we always took two vehicles on a mission. It gave us a backup option should we not be able to make it to our own vehicle. Also, we figured that with all of the chaos we were about to cause in Hasa Market, we’d have less chance of getting snagged by the cops if we split up.

The situation still sucked. Four of us were going into an unknown building against an unknown number of opponents. Because we had to go through a crowded marketplace in the middle of the afternoon to get to that building, we could only bring weapons that we could conceal, i.e., handguns. Going into a gunfight with nothing but a handgun is stupid and should be avoided if at all possible.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t possible. Hunter had suggested that we use compact assault rifles, concealed in backpacks, that we could drop if we needed to disappear into the crowd. Gordon Willis had overruled him on that one, apparently. He said it caused an unacceptable risk of getting made.

It seemed the risk of us getting our asses shot off trying to go into a gunfight with nothing but pistols didn’t bother him. By that point I’d had more than my fill of Gordon Willis. But there was nothing we could do except carry on with the mission and try not to get killed.

Tailor and I made our way through the cluttered mess of Hasa Market, doing our best not to be noticed. We were both wearing khaki cargo pants, dark T-shirts to conceal body armor underneath, sunglasses, and untucked shirts to hide our sidearms. We looked undeniably American, but even with the recent chaos, no one seemed to pay us any mind.

The market stunk of fresh fish, and squawking seagulls filled the air. The rows of booths, carts, and shacks weren’t laid out in any discernible order. They were gaudily decorated with what looked like Christmas lights, loudspeakers playing music, and signs in six languages. Most of the shoppers at Hasa Market weren’t Zubaran citizens, or even Arabs. Most were imported labor from India, South Asia, and the Philippines.

The market sold more than just fish. Goods of every variety could be bought, from bootleg DVDs to clothes to medicine of dubious medical value imported from Asia. As Tailor and I made our way past various stands, the vendors would blurt sales offers out at us in broken English, telling us they had a great deal that was perfect for our needs.

“Lo siento, no hablo Inglés,” is all we’d say in return. Tailor and I both spoke Spanish fairly well and had decided that with this many witnesses around, we’d avoid speaking to each other in English if at all possible. Half the world spoke English, including people in the Middle East. You’d be a lot harder pressed to find a Middle Easterner that spoke Spanish.

I did have to speak English into my radio, so I squeezed the transmit button and spoke softly. “Control, Nightcrawler, target building in sight.” Tailor and I studied the warehouse though the crowd, trying to discern the best way in.

“
Control copies
,” Sarah replied. Hearing her voice in my ear comforted me in a strange way. “
You are cleared to engage. Be careful
.”

LORENZO

The noise of the market was muted here by the thick walls of the surrounding buildings. The skinny guy was still following discreetly. I had to cross a narrow street, and, glancing both ways, I saw no vehicles other than parked delivery trucks. It was late enough in the afternoon that all the day’s deliveries had been made. It smelled like fish.

There was a man, wearing a nice suit, waiting for me at the side door of the first warehouse. “Mr. Lorenzo,” he said in rough English. “I need search you before come in.”

“Tell Hosani to kiss my ass. If he’s got a problem, me and my big bag of money will just go home.”

The guard nodded. “He said you say something like that. I just want make sure you right man.” He opened the door into darkness.

The interior of the warehouse was dark and cool. Crates were stacked up in neat rows. The roll-up door at the rear of the building was open, and a few small fishing boats were tied there, as well as one nice fifty-footer.

I spotted Hosani in the shadows under the catwalk by the glowing ash of his cigarette. There were a couple other men standing toward the back of the warehouse, and, from the sound, at least one pacing the metal catwalk above. If he wanted to take me out, I was well and truly screwed.

“Hey, Jalal. You didn’t need to bring your whole gang,” I said with forced joviality, mostly so Carl would hear and know that there were a lot of men with guns here.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Jalal said. “This is how everyone in my line of work has to travel now, in groups, and in secret. I’m only doing this as a favor, and then I’m getting on that boat”—he waved his cigarette toward the back of the warehouse—“and going someplace safe.”

“I thought this was good for business.”

He adjusted his coat as he put his lighter away, exposing the butt of a compact pistol. Hosani sold guns, but I’d never seen him actually use one. He really was nervous. Earlier I had thought Dead Six was unprofessional because of their lack of subtlety, but now I could see the logic behind it. Their targets were
terrified
of them.

“These Americans who leave the playing cards, they’re only part of the reason I’m leaving. This Dead Six, as you called it, is part of something bigger. I do not think they even realize who they are really working for.” He trailed off with a wry smile. as they say, why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free? My appreciation?”

“Of course.” I tossed him the backpack. He unzipped it and glanced inside, rifling quickly through the stacks of British currency. “You can count it. I won’t be offended.”

“I don’t feel like sticking around any longer than I have to,” he responded as he zipped the bag back up and put it over his shoulder. “I’ve got to warn you, Lorenzo. I don’t know what Big Eddie’s commissioned you to do, but it isn’t worth going after these people.”

“That’s not an option.”

VALENTINE

We paused for a moment, allowing our eyes to adjust to the darkness. We were in the warehouse. I slid my sunglasses up onto my head and pressed onward. The small side door we’d come through led into the main room of the warehouse, but it was stacked from floor to ceiling with racks and shelves full of boxes. Voices could be heard echoing through the building, but we couldn’t see anyone.

We crouched down and quietly weaved our way through the maze of racks and crates. The roll-up door at the north end of the warehouse was open to the docks, flooding the center of the floor in brilliant daylight. Above that door was a metal catwalk. There was someone up there. We’d have to take him out before Hudson and Byrne came in, otherwise he’d be above and behind them as they entered from the other side of the building.

I came to a spot where I could see the main floor through a narrow gap between two crates on the shelf in front of me. Tailor had his 1911 Operator drawn and watched my back as I tried to ID my target.

There were at least four more men in the building aside from the man on the catwalk. Two of them were standing off to the side, in the shadows, probably more bodyguards. The other two men were more interesting.

One of them was a fit-looking man wearing a soccer jersey and jeans. He had on sunglasses and had a scruffy, unshaven face, so I couldn’t get a good look at him. A backpack was slung over his shoulder.

The other man was facing away from me. He wore a dark suit and had a lit cigarette in his hand. I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying over the noises of the city and the harbor, but he was discussing something with the man in the soccer jersey. He paced as he talked, and turned around so I could see his face. There was no doubt about it. It was Jalal Hosani. I looked over at Tailor and nodded. Through hand signals, I told Tailor I was going to shoot Hosani from our current position. Hosani was only about fifty feet away, I could make the shot easily. Tailor told me he’d cover the catwalk.

I aimed my revolver through the gap in the crates, placing the tritium front sight on Jalal Hosani’s chest. I wasn’t going to attempt a head shot at this range. If he was wearing a vest, the impact of a fat .44 hollow point would still probably break some ribs. Hudson and Byrne would be in the building before he could get away.

Hosani turned away to face the man in the soccer jersey. I adjusted my sight picture and aimed in between his shoulder blades as Jersey Guy tossed him a backpack. Hosani opened the bag and rifled through it. My finger moved to the trigger. I exhaled.

LORENZO

Jalal took a long drag off of his cigarette and shook his head as he exhaled. “Very well, my friend. It’s your funeral, as they say. For my part, I—” Jalal’s white shirt exploded in a spray of red, and a sledgehammer weight collided with my chest.

Jalal’s blood was on my face, in my eyes, and I could taste it in my mouth. He collapsed into me, clawing at my shirt, but he was already dead and didn’t even know it yet. I stumbled and fell, taking us both to the concrete. The bullet that had torn through his torso was stuck in my vest, and waves of pain radiated out from the bruised tissue underneath.

There was more shooting. Muzzle flashes back and forth across the warehouse as Hosani’s guards went down, one after the other. There was a scream from above, and the man on the catwalk flipped over the edge and landed a few yards away, bones audibly cracking on impact.

It was the shooter from Adar’s video, the tall one with the .44. He was moving smoothly down the aisle of crates. He had this calm look on his face, just kind of concentrating, like he was reading an interesting book or something. I shoved the twitching corpse off and jerked my pistol out. I didn’t have a shot. He caught the movement and ducked down as I started cranking off rounds. My bullets flung splinters from the surrounding boxes as I scrambled to my feet. I kept firing, forcing him to keep his head down as I moved.

I flinched as a bullet impacted a support beam right next to me. There were multiple shooters. Jerking my head in the direction of the shot, I saw the shorter man from the Adar video vaulting over a railing. He disappeared between the crates. Now I had at least two of them hunting me.

I slid to my knees behind a crate. “Carl! Dead Six is here!” I instantly dropped the mag, stuffed the partially expended one in my pocket, and slammed a new one home. Pain radiated through my chest with every breath, and that was even after the bullet had zipped through Hosani. That wasn’t a pistol, that was a cannon.

There was movement in the sunlight at the open dock door as someone else swept inside.
I have to get out of here.
There was a door to the side, offices or something. I leapt to my feet and sprinted through the doorway. It was a hallway, several doors branching off in each direction.
Shit.
Speeding right to the last door, I discovered it was locked. I took a step back and kicked it open, flinging it open with a bang. It was just a janitor’s closet. No windows. No exit. The shooters were moving up behind me. I was trapped.

VALENTINE

Wooden crates splintered and fragmented above me as I ducked behind a crate and hoped that its contents were substantial enough to stop handgun fire. The man in the soccer jersey had spotted me.

I reloaded, punching my revolver’s ejector rod and twisting a new speed loader into the cylinder. I then squeezed my radio’s transmit button. “Xbox, I’m pinned down! Get this guy off me!”

“
I’m on it!
” Tailor replied. Seconds later more gunshots echoed through the warehouse as Tailor opened up with his .45. “
You can move!
”

“Roger! Moving!” I replied, coming to my feet again. I snaked through the maze of crates and shelves, revolver held out in front of me in both hands as I moved.

“
Xbox, Shafter, we’re entering now!
” Hudson said over the radio. Tailor acknowledged him, and I wondered what in the hell had taken Hudson so long. I realized then that it had only been a minute since I’d fired the first shot.

“I’ve lost that shooter!” Tailor snarled, frustration obvious in his voice. In less than a minute we’d wiped out all of Hosani’s guards except one. It kind of pissed me off, too.

I cleared the maze of crates and found myself in the open area in the middle of the warehouse. Jalal Hosani’s corpse lay splayed out on the floor in a large pool of blood, a ragged hole between his shoulder blades.

“Careful,” Tailor warned as Hudson and Byrne approached. “We still got one shooter out there, the guy in the jersey.”

“Which way did he go?” I asked, kicking Hosani’s corpse to make sure he was dead. He was. I dropped an Ace of Spades onto his back.