Grant Blackwood - Dead or Alive

They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Ding said, “So we make a courtesy call on Jack?”

“We kinda sorta gotta, Domingo.”

“I hear you. Hell, Jack Junior’s out of school now, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. Not sure what he’s doing, though.”

“Some rich-kid job, I bet. Stocks and bonds, money shit, I bet.”

“Well, what were you doing at that age?”

“Learning how to handle a dead drop from you, down at The Farm, and studying nights at George Mason University. Sleepwalking, mostly.”

“But you got your master’s, as I recall. Lot more than I ever got.”

“Yeah. I got a piece of paper that says I’m smart. You left dead bodies all over the world.” Fortunately, it was virtually impossible to bug an airliner’s cabin.

“Call it foreign-policy laboratory work,” Clark suggested, checking the first-class menu. At least British Airways pretended to serve decent food, though why airlines didn’t just stock up on Big Macs and fries still mystified him. Or maybe a Domino’s pizza. All the money they’d save-but the McDonald’s in the UK just didn’t seem to have the right beef. In Italy it was even worse. But their national dish was veal Milanese, and that had a Big Mac beat. “You worried?”

“About having a job? Not really. I can always make real money consulting. You know, the two of us could start up a company, executive security or like that, and really clean up. I’d do the planning, and you’d do the actual protection. You know, just stand there and stare at people in that special ‘don’t fuck with me’ way you do.”

“Too old for that, Domingo.”

“Ain’t nobody dumb enough to kick an old lion in the ass, John. I’m too short to scare bad guys away.”

“Bullshit. I wouldn’t mess with you for the fun of it.”

Chavez had rarely received that magnitude of compliment. He was overly sensitive about his diminutive height-his wife was an inch taller-but it had its tactical value. Over the years, several people had underestimated him and then come within his reach. Not professionals. Those could read his eyes and see the danger that lay behind them. When he bothered to turn the lights on. It rarely came to that, though one street tough in east London had gotten impolite outside a pub. He’d been awakened later with a pint of beer and a playing card tucked in his pocket. It was the queen of clubs, but the back of the card had been a glossy black. Such instances were rare. England remained a civilized country for the most part, and Chavez never went looking for trouble. He’d learned that lesson over the years. The black deck of cards was an unauthorized souvenir for the Men of Black. The newspapers had picked up on it, and Clark had come down hard on the men who carried the cards. But not that hard. There was security, and there was panache. The boys he’d left behind in Wales had both, and that, really, was okay, as long as the troops knew where the line was.

“What do you think our best job was?”

“Gotta be the amusement park. Malloy did a great job of setting your team down on the castle, and the takedown you did was damned near perfect, especially since we couldn’t rehearse it.”

“Damn, those were good troops,” Domingo agreed with a smile. “My old Ninjas didn’t even come close, and I thought they were as good as soldiers got.”

“They were, but experience counts for a lot.” Every one of the Rainbow team was at least an E-6 or equivalent, which took some years in uniform to achieve. “A lot of smarts comes along with time, and it’s not the sort of thing you get out of a book. Then we trained the hell out of them.”

“Tell me about it. If I run any more, I’ll need two new legs.”

Clark snorted. “You’re still a pup. But I’ll tell ya this: I’ve never seen a better bunch of triggers, and I’ve seen a fair share. Christ, it’s like they were born with H-and-P’s in their hands. How about it, Ding, got a personal champ?”

“Have to measure it with an O-scope and calipers. I’d take Eddie Price for brains. Weber or Johnston on a rifle, hell, there ain’t nothing to choose from. For short guns, that little Frenchie, Loiselle… He could have scared Doc Holliday out of Tombstone. But you know, all you can really do is put a bullet in the X-ring. Dead is dead. We could all do it, close or far, day or night, awake or asleep, drunk or sober.”

“Which is why we’re paid the big money.”

“Shame they’re pulling back on the reins.”

“A damned shame.”

“Why, goddamn it? I just don’t get it.”

“Because the European terrorists have gone to ground. We shut them down, Ding, and in the process worked ourselves out of a full-time job. At least they didn’t pull the plug altogether. Given the nature of politics, we’ll call that a success and ride into the sunset.”

“With a pat on the back and an attaboy.”

“You expect gratitude from democratic governments?” John asked with a slight grimace. “You poor, naive boy.”

The European Union bureaucrats had been the main reason. No European countries tolerated capital punishment anymore-what the common folk might have wanted was not considered, of course-and one such representative of the people had said aloud and repeatedly that the Rainbow team had been too ruthless. Whether or not he insisted on humane capture and medical treatment for rabid dogs had never quite been asked. The people had never disapproved of team actions in any country, but their kind and gentle bureaucrats had gotten their panties in a wad, and those faceless people had the real political power. Like every place else in the civilized world.

“You know, in Sweden it’s illegal to raise calves the efficient way. You have to give them social contact with other critters. Next you won’t be able to cut their balls off until they get laid at least once,” Chavez grumped.

“Seems reasonable to me. That way they’ll know what they’re missing.” Clark chuckled. “One less thing for the cowboys to have to do. Probably not a fun job for a man to do that to somebody else.”

“Jesus said the meek shall inherit the earth, and that’s fine with me, but it’s still nice to have cops around.”

“You hear me arguing with you? Rock your seat back and have a glass of wine and get some sleep, Domingo.”

And if some asshole tries to hijack this airplane, we’ll deal with him, Clark didn’t add.

One could always hope. One last jolt of action before going out to pasture.

SO WHAT’S COOKING?” Brian Caruso asked his cousin.

“Same stew, different day, I expect,” Jack Ryan Jr. replied.

“‘Stew’?” Dominic, the other Caruso, replied. “Don’t you mean shit?”

“Trying to be optimistic.”

All three armed with their first cups of coffee of the day, they walked down the corridor to Jack’s office. It was 8:10 a.m., about time for another day to start at The Campus.

“Any word on our friend the Emir?” Brian asked, taking a gulp of coffee.

“Nothing firsthand. He’s not stupid. He even has his e-mails relayed through a series of cutouts now, some of them through ISP accounts that open and close within hours, and even then the account financials turn out to be dead ends. The Pakistan badlands is the best current guess. Maybe next door. Maybe wherever he can buy a safe spot. Hell, at this point I’m tempted to look in our own broom closet.”

It was frustrating, Jack thought. His first adventure into field operations had been a slam dunk. Or beginner’s luck, maybe? Or fate. He’d gone to Rome as Brian and Dominic’s intel support, nothing more, and had by sheer chance spotted MoHa in the hotel. From there things had moved fast, too damned fast, and then it’d been him and MoHa in the bathroom…