Richard House - The Kills

Six weeks with a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus from Geezler.

No tax.

‘I’m not saying the money isn’t good. They get kids direct from high school, promise them three, four times as much as the military, then whisk them out, and what for? You know how many contractors have been killed this year?’ Rob stabbed out his cigarette. ‘You don’t want to know. The equipment is substandard, nothing can cope with the heat or the sand. They say they’ll provide protection; the military won’t touch the gear they use. And the place you’ll be staying — they can’t protect you, whatever they say. Security is a joke. I tell you this for free. If you go, stay clear of the military. Have nothing to do with them, they’re leaving, they don’t care what happens next. It’s only HOSCO that won’t admit it’s over. Avoid Iraqis whenever possible. Don’t go there to make friends. Get in. Get out. Better still, get a job managing food services, or something so remote no one knows you’re there. Have nothing to do with guns or any kind of munitions. At the moment Amrah City’s nice and quiet, but it won’t last long. All this talk of rebuilding? They’ve poured millions into reconstruction, to satisfy agreements that no longer stand. It’s about taking one more bite out of that apple before they dump the barrel. Nothing is being done right. The whole thing’s failed. The idea that they can rebuild a dying city right at the edge of the desert is a dumb idea cooked up in Washington where they don’t know anything about Amrah or the Arab mentality. Fact is, no one can control the districts, they think they have one place settled, and then the next day they’re right back where they started.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘You signed, didn’t you. I know it. You haven’t said a word.’

In the air, still, that sense of space. Rem held up his glass and closed his eyes.

Fifty thousand dollars, in hand, plus wages, no tax, every cent he earned. Money for his business. Money for their debt. Money for Cathy’s medical. Plenty of money.

* * *

He called Geezler. Read from his notes, and broke the day down, hour by hour. He repeated Rob’s concerns verbatim. Allowed himself a little joke when speaking about Steve, but had to admit, in the final analysis, that the man didn’t seem to know his subject.

‘There was pressure,’ he said, ‘and it was confusing. I’ve had an easier time buying a car. They come across as desperate.’

Geezler became most interested when Rem began to talk about the contracts. ‘They follow a script,’ he admitted, ‘how did it sound?’

‘Unclear. They could stick to the information. Give a few hard facts. Even with the contract it just was hard to follow.’

‘You’ve done a good job. I’d like to use you more. I really would.’

‘Would you offer more than fifty?’

‘You’re considering this?’

‘More than fifty?’

‘Fifty is my discretionary limit. But you’re considering this?’

‘I can’t say I’m not tempted.’

‘I’m guessing that you’ve already decided.’

* * *

The men from Unit 409 were called to a meeting. One of HOSCO’s division directors, a man from Hampton Roads, Virginia, intended to visit Amrah and wanted to meet one of the teams in situ. He’d spend an hour at the compound, inspect the site, and most likely be accompanied by a photographer. Rem sat next to Santo and wondered what, actually, was the reason for the visit.

‘This isn’t to honour us,’ Santo shook his head, ‘this is PR. You’ve seen the news? The protection. The vehicles. The body armour. It’s all sub-substandard. Might as well be wearing targets. He’s here because of Fatboy getting shot through one of their shitty vests. Some lawyer smelling trouble has made them do this.’

Rem sat back, Fatboy’s notebook in his hand.

‘What are you doing with that?’

‘You’ve seen this before?’

Santo looked Rem in the eye. ‘Depends.’

‘On what?’ Rem scoffed, this was absurd. He’d either seen it or he hadn’t.

‘I’ve seen it.’

‘The names?’

Santo gave a shrug as a yes.

‘You’ve seen the names?’ Rem opened the notebook on his lap. ‘Then you know what all these crosses are about?’

Santo took the book. ‘Fatboy was keeping a slate.’

‘Betting? I don’t follow. On what?’

‘On who was going to get hit. Fifty per contractor. One hundred if they worked internal with military or security. Two hundred if they worked over the line. Hit. Maim. Kill. There’s hit, which is just hit, nothing more, maybe something superficial, anything that heals or is non-essential. Accident or deliberate, doesn’t matter. Loss of anything smaller than a hand, fingers as such, ear, nose, anything they can reconstruct classifies as a hit. Then maim, pretty obvious, no? Non-replaceable damage, loss of limb, use of limbs, sight, dick, you name it. Then there’s kill. Kill speaks for itself. See, he marked the odds with crosses.’ Santo flicked through the book. ‘It’s a shame about what happened, because it was just getting started. I mean it’s been going for a while, but it was just getting properly started. These guys,’ he pointed out the names on the first page, ‘they’re small. They never go out. Waste of time. This place would have to take a direct hit to get money on them. The big money is on these guys. You pay two hundred to start, because they’re more exposed. Anyone working over the line is more vulnerable, so naturally you pay more. See here: Pakosta, Watts, Chimeno, these are the prime candidates. They work in transport, security, and comms. They go out every day.’

‘You knew about this?’

‘Sure. I knew about it.’

‘So these crosses?’

‘That means the first bid was two hundred. Every bet after that would have gone up by fifty.’

Disappointed in Fatboy, Rem didn’t want to push. ‘How do you know about this?’

‘It was mostly the military. Was. They were the people who started it. The MODS were betting on which contractor would go first. It worked in two ways, if someone was killed, you’d get the whole pot. Half if they were medevaced out. The slate was wiped clean with every hit. Fatboy took the basic idea and turned it into an art. He had this notion that if you bet on a string of kills, four or five in a sequence, you’d be solid.’

‘Meaning?’

‘We’re talking a lot of money here.’

‘How much?’

‘Pick a number. That book isn’t even old. This was Fatboy’s scholarship fund.’

‘Did anyone get hit?’

‘Plenty.’ Santo scanned through the pages, then opened the book at a page where the names had been scratched out, then another, then another. ‘See. And here.’

‘And how did you know about this?’

‘Rem,’ Santo hit his chest in mock grief, ‘man, everybody knows about this. I knew about it, and I’m on the list. I worked at one of the FOBs before this, and I knew about it then. Hernandez, right there, that’s me.’

‘Why aren’t I included? We do the same work?’

Santo folded his arms. ‘He wouldn’t accept a bet on you. Wouldn’t hear of it.’

Rem looked to the book: Hernandez, Samuels, Clark, Watts, Pakosta, Chimeno.

* * *

Cathy didn’t understand, and had a look about her like she wasn’t ready to make the effort. What was this? The whole thing? Geezler? What kind of a name was that anyway? What kind of scheme? Was this a hoax?

Rem tried his best to explain. It was good money. That’s what it was. Money for those medical bills for a start. Money to help pay their debts. Money they couldn’t hope to make otherwise.

Cathy looked at him, astounded. ‘My God. You’ve made up your mind haven’t you? You’re going?’