“Yeah, right, furball,” Gavin said. “What do zombies taste like?”
“Zombies taste like chicken.” Rafe paused and considered. “Maybe a little rubbery.”
“An assault won’t be easy,” Sanders warned. “This is a hardened target. Internal defenses. A hostile work force that doubles as a security apparatus. Our mission is essentially a decapitation strike. Neutralize Jeremiah Hansen first, and then defeat the zombie horde in detail. Once the command and control is degraded, we’ll find the zombies no longer able to act in concert. We roll up the flanks and incinerate the facility.”
“Possibility of collateral damage?” Sarge still leaned against the wall, arms folded, with his black and red eyes locked on Sanders.
“High. Our Rules of Engagement give us restricted operating parameters. We go in with weapons tight. Check your targets. This is a built-up commercial and light-industrial environment, which means there will be civvies. So keep sharp.” He clicked forward a couple of slides to a satellite photo of the plant. “I’ll be working to set up a training regimen to master our assault tactics.”
For once my people stayed professional enough not to groan at the extra work. Strangely unexpected. Most of the time I had to herd Gavin, Rafe and Hanzo around as if they were two years old and needed naps. “I assume we’ll be drawing up an assault plan?” I asked. “Together, I mean.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Rafe nudge Gavin and grin, but I ignored them. My people, unruly as they could be, were not going to get hurt on this mission due to someone else’s half-assed, Sir Douglas Haig-esque frontal assault strategy à la the Battle of the Somme. So Sanders had damn well better include me in the mission planning.
“I have several options I’d be happy to review with you in detail,” he said carefully, and then addressed the group again. “First phase will be training and planning. When both Captain Walker and I feel the Zero Dogs are prepared, we’ll recon in force. Information gained at that time will determine our final assault.”
Sarge spoke up. “Clearly there’s no time crunch if we have opportunity to train.”
“Not completely accurate, Sergeant. Because available assets are low, DHS decided to use Special Forces to bring in a private contractor force to accomplish this objective. Under ideal circumstances it would be handled immediately. However, while the long-term implications of zombie creep are grave—”
Gavin snorted.
“—Necromancer Hansen seems to be focused on the economic advantages of his RCT labor force instead of initiating widespread havoc. The necromancer’s approach, should it remain consistent, gives us a small window for training, therefore increasing our predicted success ratio. So, in answer to your question, it
is
important. It’s National Security level, let there be no doubt.”
“It’s important enough for them to pay us well,” I said. “End of the day, that’s why we’re all here. So I suggest we keep it frosty, keep it sharp, get some rest and hit the ground tomorrow with our boots on and big girl panties duct-taped in place.
Capiche
?”
Nods all around. Even from my troublemakers. Joy. “Good. I’ll see you all tomorrow. Bright and early.” I looked at Stefan. “We’ll set up a specific regimen for you. One you can work on at night.” He nodded, bowed, faded back into the shadows and vanished. Vampires. Always with the showy, showy.
Everyone got up and wandered off in different directions, some toward the kitchen, the rest headed off to their rooms. Sarge and I waited until the last of them filed out.
I meant to talk with Sarge, but as soon as I started toward him, Captain Sanders called out to me. “Captain Walker, I’d like a moment. In private.”
My heart rate sped up, the undersides of my armpits grew damp, but I fought back against my reaction, whatever had triggered it, fight, flight or fuck response. Flesh was stupid, a stupid pleasure/pain box plugged into a part of the brain more reptilian than anything else. I could hold the line against hormones, pheromones, electrolytes and dopamine. No slave to emotion and response was I. And something told me I wouldn’t like what Jake Sanders had to say, anyway.
“Let’s talk outside then.” I glanced at Sarge. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
I led Captain Sanders down the corridor past the huge Tuscany-style kitchen and out the glass doors that opened onto our decking. Our deck looked out on the training grounds behind the house and the distant, dark shape of the V22 parked on the landing pad. A tall line of evergreen trees formed a barrier beyond the last set of bunkers and the half-demolished group of out buildings we used for urban-assault training. The air smelled of pine needles, and a warm, gentle breeze brought the distant sound of traffic from West Burnside Street.
We walked across the deck with me in the lead, my footsteps heavy, resounding. He followed at a distance, moving with the quiet grace of a phantom cat. When I came to the porch rail, I turned to face him down.
He stood a half dozen feet away, his hands shoved in the pockets of his fatigues. He stared out over the training ground, brow furrowed, clenching his jaw. For a moment part of me admired his profile. Hard jawline. The short military haircut that looked as if the killer from the
Friday the 13th
movies had attacked his hair with a weed whacker…
He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “I’m killing this mission.”
My heart did a
Titanic
and sank all the way into my guts. I swallowed and my throat made a clicking noise, but I couldn’t seem to speak. Then the fire streamed through my veins. “You don’t have that authority. My client is Mr. Harker and Homeland Security. You’re just along for the ride, pal.”
He leaned toward me. “I damn well
do
have that authority. If I don’t like what I see, I yank the plug. Somebody else does the job.”
“Why the hell would you do that? You haven’t even seen us in action yet.”
“I did, remember? I saw you tangle with those idiot terrorist dark elves and burn down the building.”
Shit. In my ire, I’d forgotten. “That guy was a suicide bomber. Not our fault the place exploded.”
Captain Sanders didn’t answer.
My fists clenched. “You really don’t think we can fucking do this? You think we’re a bunch of civvies with guns, don’t you?”
He shrugged. “A step up maybe. Militia stuff.”
“Well, fuck you, John Wayne.”
He scowled. “I’ve never in my life seen such a sorry bunch of soldiers—mercs,
condottieri
, whatever. That can be traced directly back to you.”
“You waltz in here and criticize my command? You’ve got some shiny brass balls.”
“What command?” he asked. “I don’t see any command. I see a team flailing around in need of leadership. That briefing was the worst, most disjointed, most
interrupted
briefing I’ve ever given, constantly usurped by a bunch of bickering adolescents. How do you people even function in the field?”
“This isn’t the lock-step army. These people are warriors first, not soldiers first. You don’t have the first clue about it.”
“I think I do. The clue tells me the Zero Dogs have no discipline. And that goes straight to the top.”
I flushed cold, and then burned hot again. The air around me started to grow warmer. “You bastard. You fumble one little briefing with a bunch of free-thinking mercs and now you’re crying like a bitch. If DHS dumps us, it’ll be because of your whiny ass, not any lack of skill on our part.”
“I don’t see anything here.” He shook his head and glanced away. When he looked back at me, his eyes flashed, as if my people personally offended him. “The place is a pigsty. No order. No discipline. Barely any command structure, and what’s there doesn’t work—”
“If you keep insulting my leadership abilities, there’s going to be one serious goddamn problem in about two seconds.”
He shrugged again. “If you people fight in the field like you behaved at my briefing, then I’m surprised any of you’ve managed to stay alive this long. Guess God loves fools, drunks and soldiers of fortune.”
I leaned toward him, into his personal space, and glared up at him with my head cocked as if I were an instant from clamping my teeth on his throat. “Listen and listen good. We have our issues. I’ve never seen a squad that doesn’t. But on the field, when things are live and hot and it’s fucking go time, you better believe we carve up bad guy flank steak and serve it with sauce. You
understand
me? I took these guys to Mogadishu after a Xanna demon out to poison the fucking World Tree. Just on a bounty hunt. Just to help out in a part of the world that makes our sewers look like a decent hotel. In two weeks we cut that thing to shreds and shipped our client its flaming heart in a glass jar.”
He watched me. “I was briefed on your exploits.”
“Then you know when there are asses requiring boot prints, the Zero Dogs get to work wearing the steel toes. We ain’t pretty, we ain’t shiny, but we get it done.”
There. That was all I had. If he still wanted to kill our involvement, I couldn’t stop him. I hated him having so much damn power over us, and especially over me. It made my insides churn like an off-balance washing machine.
For a long moment there was only silence. He stared off at the iron fence surrounding the compound. “All right.” He waved a hand, but kept his scowl. “I’ll hold judgment. You guys aren’t quiet professionals, but we’ll see what you can do with me around.”
Outrage burned furnace-hot inside me. I simply could. Not.
Believe
. This. Man. “Maybe next time you shouldn’t goose step in here with preconceived notions of how things get done.”
“Maybe. And maybe the guy who recommended the great Captain Andrea Walker shouldn’t have put you on such a pedestal.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it again. Somebody put
me
on a pedestal? Oddly touching…and yet how dare Sanders imply, in the same goddamn breath, that I didn’t deserve to be on one?
Jake’s face softened into a smile. “Yeah. You come highly recommended—and right now that’s the only reason I’m holding off killing this mission. That and your little impassioned speech a second ago.”
My heart pounded too hard. I didn’t think I could say anything without acid and more fireworks. The silence stretched out and at the same time sharpened in intensity.
His smile slowly spread wider. “So why don’t we sit down and sketch out some training plans, come up with a forward operating scheme.” He paused. “This needs to go off perfectly.”
“This is cake.”
“That’s the spirit.” He swept a hand toward the sliding door. “After you.”
I marched back inside, trying not to let my anxiety show, although to Rafe’s nose I no doubt reeked of worry. A close call, no denying it. I’d avoided a wreck, averted losing the contract, but several other dangerous obstacles loomed on the horizon, speeding ever closer. For example, would Captain Sanders opt for a power grab and try to run this show himself? Maybe even trying it in the name of discipline or the old favorite, National Security? My people would back me, I felt a hundred percent on that, but it’d leave the mission a smoking ruin.
Sanders hadn’t been kidding. Everything about this job needed to come off perfectly, for so many reasons.
The long day finally showed signs of winding down, but I remained keyed up, my nerves still sizzling from the strategy session with Captain Sanders I’d just left—and not in a good way. Just me and him and a million pins and needles, while his words about our professionalism, about
my
leadership, smoldered in my marrow. We’d come up with some good approaches, and we’d synched on most issues, but the tension in the room had me feeling as if I’d chugged six double-shot espressos in a row.
Even though my body ached from brittle exhaustion, I knew I’d have a hell of a time falling asleep. The irony. I pressed my thumb to the scanner pad and unlocked the door to my third-floor suite. The smells of cinnamon and baked goods lingered in the air from an early morning run to the bakery, since I certainly had no time to bake while running this three-ring circus. I shut the door, leaned against it and closed my eyes. My neck and shoulder muscles felt hard and tight, and the first throb of a headache ghosted from my temples to my hairline.
The question remained. Could I trust Captain Sanders? If so, how far?
Despite the earlier hostilities, we’d managed to act professional during the planning session. I’d even decided to let drop the issue of Sanders using my first name during the briefing. But that certainly didn’t mean I trusted him or forgave the slight. Not at all. He had too much power, too much control over our future. Captain Sanders was a threat. Maybe in more ways than one.
I kicked off my boots, peeled off my socks and chucked them across the room, and scrunched my toes in the deep carpeting. The air from the vents felt blessedly cool on my skin. I lingered for a moment with my eyes still closed, working on deep breathing and imagining my stress transforming into tiny dust motes and drifting away like pollen on the wind. It helped a little, and I walked through my hall flipping on more lights, headed toward the kitchen.
So what would it be? A beer? I had a few bottles of Black Strap Stout in the fridge, but decided I wasn’t in the mood. Tonight demanded something with more fire. My bottle of Chivas lurked in the cabinet over the microwave. The scotch went down smooth and warm, spreading its heat out through my body. I took the glass with me back into the living room, glanced around, and started to pace in front of the large picture window. During daylight the window gave a great view of Mt. Hood, but now the darkness seemed to huddle against the glass. I shut the blinds to block it out.