“If she is up to something criminal, she’s not going to tell us. And, given how close she likes to play things to the vest, she might not tell us if there’s an ex, either.”
“Might not be an ex,” Jason says.
We don’t have time to explore that idea because suddenly we are hearing the thrum of a motor coming up the river. That’s odd. There’s no reason for it to be coming.
“Boat is coming a week early?” Jason frowns. “What’s going on?”
We walk down to the riverbank together. Once glance down tells us we’re in trouble. The boat is not being driven by a local. And it is not being crewed by locals. There are at least six heavily-armed men aboard, wearing tactical clothing. It’s a raiding party.
We run back to camp, where Aslin has made herself scarce. We don’t have time to find her right now, and by the looks of things she knows better than to come out.
“This has something to do with her,” Jason says, stating the obvious. Our world has revolved around Aslin from the moment we met her, chaos unfolding at an ever increasing rate. Every time we think we have a line on her, everything spins out again.
The floor of the camp rotunda comes up to reveal a cache of weapons and ammunition, all carefully wrapped in oilskins. We’re ready for any eventuality. We have to be. When you’re this far from civilization the law becomes more of a suggestion than something set in stone.
We’re prepared to defend ourselves. Aslin is still scarce, and that indicates to me she knows what’s going on here. Our instincts were correct. She comes with more than baggage. She comes with men with guns. Two sets of them. Them and us, as it turns out.
We go back down to the dock, where the boat is already making land. The invading force believes that they have the advantage, being more numerous, but our guns work as well as theirs and nobody came here wanting to be shot. We keep our barrels diagonal and down, and I greet them.
“How can we help you, gentlemen?”
No point starting with aggression. There’s plenty of that latent in this altercation already.
It’s Jason who ends up breaking the tension.
“Barry? Barry Wozniak? Is that you?”
A man on the other side of the armed line lifts his visor. “Jason?”
“Barry!” Jason repeats his name. “How the hell are you, man?”
“Oh, not bad, working the mercenary rounds, you know.”
The leader, a man with a thick Jersey accent interjects. “Where’s the bitch?”
Jason and I exchange looks. We know who he is referring to, but decorum states we don’t let armed men talk about Aslin that way.
“Who?”
“This bitch.” He holds up a piece of paper with Aslin’s face printed on it. She looks a little different. Her hair is blonde and she’s wearing a lot of makeup, but it’s definitely her.
“Who is that?” Jason asks. He plays dumb more competently than anybody would ever suspect.
“You seen her, or not?”
“No. We haven’t seen her.”
“Our intel suggests she came here.”
“We had a client booked, but she never showed. Don’t know what she looked like, but she paid a nonrefundable deposit. What’s her name? And what agency are you boys with?”
We all know this group of assholes isn’t with any agency, but plenty of them are ex-military. They don’t want to shoot us any more than we want to shoot them. We’ve all seen more than enough blood for a lifetime, is my guess.
“Aslin Reed, or Ash White,” the leader of the unit says. “And probably half a dozen different other names. She’s wanted by Luca Vitori.”
We all know what that means. The Vitori name is synonymous with organized crime, and excellent dining. I didn’t know he sent kill squads to distant nations, but mercs gotta merc. There are more actions undertaken by private armies in the world than anybody suspects.
“These guys are legit,” Barry says. “I’ve done tours with Jason, and I know Soren by reputation. They don’t want trouble.”
That’s a polite way of saying they don’t want to make trouble with us.
“So this Aslin, what’s she done? Doesn’t look like the type to normally be the target of this kind of operation.”
“None of your fuckin’ business.”
“Sorry,” I say. “Didn’t catch your name.”
“You can call me Big Dick,” he says. “Let us know if the girl shows.”
“Really? Big Dick? That name doesn’t suit you,” Jason says. “No, you’re more like an Asshole.”
Big Dick reaches for his side arm.
“Don’t.” Jason steps forward. His gun’s not raised, and nor is mine, but the tension is hitting a dangerous point. Big Dick wants to dominate the situation. He has no military training. He’s a thug with a bunch of paid mercenaries behind him, and I’d put money on it that every single one of them would rather put a bullet in him than us. Is he self-aware enough to know that? I’m guessing not.