Gregg Hurwitz - Minutes to Burn

"What are you doing?" Rex yelled after him.

The men turned to face Tank, smacking their hands together to rid them of dust. One of them pulled a makeshift blade from the back of his trousers. When Tank was about fifteen yards away from the men, Cameron caught up to him, blocking him with her body.

The men howled with laughter, doubling over, clearly amused by the sight of an enormous man being restrained by a woman. One of the men imitated Cameron, standing with his hands on his hips and adding in high-pitched nagging for good measure.

Tank glared at Cameron, the first time he'd ever looked at her angrily. Anyone else he might have struck. "You're not gonna let this go, are you?" she said, her voice eerily calm.

Tank moved to step around her. Cameron pulled her Sig Sauer from the band of her pants and he stopped dead in his tracks.

She raised the pistol at the dog, took careful aim, and delivered a bul-let to its skull. The crack of the gunshot echoed up the empty street. The dog stopped whimpering. The men were silent.

"This is not our objective," Cameron said, her voice tight. She turned, grabbed Rex around one biceps, and proceeded up the street.

"Someone's gotta shut that baby up," Savage muttered. He lay on his back on the bed, playing with his knife, the hefty Death Wind. With a formidable six-inch blade of D2 steel and three-sixteenths-inch stock, it was an impressive killing tool. But it was also beautiful, at least to him. Eight ounces, an eleven-inch stretch from butt to tip. Black Micarta han-dle, tapered tang, no teeth to detract from the line of its edge. It was smooth on the way in, sliding through flesh like water. Of all his weapons, the Death Wind was his favorite. There was a rawness to killing with a knife, something lost in the pull of a trigger. The ultimate stealth tool. He'd even anodized the blade so it wouldn't glint.

Savage sheathed the knife and glanced over at the others. Derek traced the lines of discoloration on the glass, his forehead pressed to the window. Justin looked at Derek, then shot Szabla a look, his eyebrows drawn together in concern. She leaned back against one of the twin beds, kicking her legs out in front of her, and shrugged. Tucker sat Indian-style on the carpet, pretending he wasn't eyeing the minibar.

Savage tuned out the baby next door, who squealed on like a stuck pig. Five high-demand shooters holed up in a hotel on a field trip-the room reeked of bad mood. Boredom and restlessness usually led to trouble when there were Navy SEALs involved.

The baby finally quieted, and Savage could make out the mother's cooing voice.

Tucker grabbed the ashtray from the night stand and arranged two books of matches in it to form a miniature pyre. He moved back to his former position, sitting cross-legged on the carpet, and using his thumb, flicked matches at the ashtray. The first two missed and burned out on the cheap carpet, but the third hit and the ashtray ignited, sending up a three-inch flame that flared briefly before dying. Justin cleared the ash-tray unceremoniously, like a father taking an unsafe toy away from his child.

"Explosives," Szabla said. "The game the whole family can play."

"I thought that was incest," Justin said.

Tucker pulled another matchbook out of his sleeve. With a snap of his fingers, he spun the book around and laid a single match across the friction strip. Flicking his thumb, he lit the match, holding the flame before his eyes. He watched its familiar dance. Probably lost in thoughts of spoons and needles, C4 and trip wires.

Savage knew the type well-loved having their hands in the plastics, being able to assemble what they could from wires and det cord and boosters. It was like assembling death. Like opening up Pandora's box and tinkering around inside. They got off on it all-the rigging, the det-onating, the blasts so bright you'd think you saw the eyes of God.

"You always been a breacher?" Savage asked.

Tucker nodded slightly, his eyes on the small flame. "Started when I was twelve, you could say. Firecrackers in mailboxes, bottle rockets in pipes, cherry bombs down toilets. Useful skills growing up in and out of boys' homes." He whisked a finger through the flame and back, then licked the black residue. "First night in my third home, an 'older brother' beat me unconscious with a sockful of quarters. Next day, I rigged his shoe, blew off half his big toe." His smile sprang up quick and goofy. "No one fucked with me after."

Derek slid his fingers down the pane to the sill, streaking the glass. Still spaced out.

"You all a remnant of a platoon?" Savage asked.

Szabla nodded. "Mostly. Me, Cam, Derek, and Tucker were platoon buddies in THREE off and on for four, five years. Justin and I have bud-died before, but he and Tank came up mostly on Team EIGHT. Dick for action, but pretty Danish girls." She jerked her head in Justin's direction. "Ain't that right, sunshine?"

"Beats desert and diaperheads."

"What does? Shit detail teaching Norwegians how to rig C4?" She snorted. "At least we got world ops, not endless scrimmaging."

The match burned down to Tucker's fingers, and Tucker threw it on the floor. He stuck a finger in his mouth, then pressed it on the glowing match head. It sizzled out, sticking to his finger when he raised it.

Savage pulled out a pack of cigarettes from one of his front pockets.

"You mind?" Tucker asked, gesturing to the pack with his eyes.

"No," Savage replied. "Not at all." He lit the cigarette and enjoyed a long drag, shooting the smoke out the side of his mouth. "Why don't you go back to watching that minibar, son? You're outta matches."

"Fuckin' prick," Tucker muttered, bending over to tighten the laces on his boots.

Savage leaned up a bit from his recline on the bed. "What did you say?"

"I said, 'Fucking prick,'" Tucker answered, enunciating clearly. "Park your attitude somewhere else. Things have changed just a touch since Vietnam."

Savage laughed, then his eyes went cold. "What the fuck do you know about Vietnam?"

"Not much," Szabla said. "Heard it was some fucked-up shit."

"You heard right," Savage said. He grinned, the glint in his eyes matching the cherry of the cigarette. He glanced at Szabla. "How old are you, princess?"

"Twenty-six."

Savage shook his head, making a humming noise. "We were out of there before you were even born."

"You're old," Tucker said.

"I'm experienced."

Justin glanced over at Derek, as if unsure of what to make of him. He looked back at the others. "Look, why don't we-"

"Experienced at what?" Tucker snarled. "Slaughtering villagers? Raping women?"

"What are you, boy? A fuckin' dove?"

"No, I was just trained with a military code of ethics. Some of the shit you guys pulled…"Tucker's voice trailed off with disgust.

Savage nodded calmly. "I seen some things," he said, as if agreeing. He raised his cigarette, lodged in the fork of his fingers, and pointed it at the track marks on Tucker's arms. "Bet you have, too."

Tucker sprang to his feet, but Savage leaned forward quickly on the bed, yanking his knife from his ankle sheath and setting his feet on the ground. He flipped the knife once, caught it by the handle, and smiled. Tucker stared at him a while then looked down, almost shyly, and walked out of the room. Over at the window, Derek still didn't move.

"You lay the fuck off," Justin said to Savage.

"You know what they say." Savage leaned back on the ripped pillow. "If you play with fire…"

Justin stood and began to change into civies. "We need to get the fuck out of here."

"Where the hell are we gonna eat?" Szabla said. "Anyone speak Spanish?"

"I only know three words," Savage said. "Casa de putas."

"What's that mean?"

Savage smiled. "Look it up."