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Waste Management

Wednesdays were the day of the week when the trash men came around. No one cared why it was Wednesday, so long as their trash was dealt with. Several groups had commented that much city money could be saved if people took out their own trash. When the motion had been made to eliminate the jobs, it had been laughed out of existence. People were lazy.

And so it was, reflected Senator Carl Kipler. Kipler was standing outside his nice suburban Cape Cod style house, smoking a cigarette thoughtfully. He knew as soon as he stepped back inside, his wife would hand him a large green bag filled with Garbage with a capital G. She always did.
Senator Kipler heard a clatter coming from up the street, followed by a low rumble. He watched a large, beat up garbage truck trawl its way down the street. He waved the driver over.
“Excuse me!” called the Senator. The driver pulled in front of Kipler. He appeared to Kipler’s eyes to be from somewhere in the Middle East. He was perhaps five foot ten and in his early thirties. A little beef would have done him no harm. Another man sat across from him, this one about six feet, same age, but a little heavier. He looked South American, perhaps from Chile or Argentina.
“Yeah, whaddya want?” lethargically drawled the driver.
“I do hate to impose, but could you be so gracious as to wait here for a second?” Kipler diplomatically asked. “My wife will have the trash shortly.”
The response was a slow shrug. “Sure.”
Kipler smiled winningly, a trick that had won him his political seat.
“Thank you ever so much.”
The passenger in the garbage truck leaned over. “Hey, aren’t you Kipler, the hotshot senator?”
Kipler nodded. “The same!”
The South American raised his eyebrows. “You’re that guy trying to shut down the big businesses?”
Kipler kicked into argument mode. “Now, I would have you know, sir, that those businesses are corrupting America’s morals-arrrGGHHHAASSssss. . .”
While the senator argued, an extremely large man popped his head and shoulders out from the back compartment of the garbage truck. He held a primitive automatic machine gun in his hands. He pulled the trigger, unleashing a lethal spray of lead into the unfortunate senator. Kipler’s scream of death faded into a hissing whisper.
And he died.
His wife heard nothing. She had been drugged by some knockout drops put in her insulin earlier. Diabetics were easy targets. In fact, no one had heard anything. No one in the entire neighborhood had heard anything. Oddly, the same knockout drops had found their way into all of the neighbors.
About twenty minutes later, a police car drove down the street on a routine patrol. They saw a garbage truck sitting on the side of the road, with two shadowy men loading in a set of full trash bags. The police car pulled over and stopped. The driver, an old cop known as Murphy, stuck his head out the window. He had been warned there might be an attempt on the local senator’s life.
“Hey, you guys!”
The men glanced up at Murphy.
“Who are you guys? What’re you doin’ round here.”
A South-American looking man stepped into the light of Murphy’s headlights. He wore the standard beat-up uniform of all trash disposal men.
“Waste Management,” was his only answer.
Murphy shrugged and waved the man out of his way. He floored the pedal, and screeched out of the neighborhood. He kept an eye to the sidewalks, hoping he might find a bit of lawbreaking to liven up the evening.

One hour later, all three trash men sat in an apartment in downtown Seattle. Now, they were attired in fine suits. The apartment was huge and well furnished, as it should be: buying it had cost almost three thousand dollars. And that was just for the room. The men owned the rest of the building too. It hadn’t come cheap.
There was a knocking on the hall door to the apartment. The shortest of the three men opened it. Out in the hall stood a tall Indian-looking man with a long black beard. He too wore a fine suit, and a purple turban adorned his head.
“Mr. Rajana,” stated the man who had opened the door.
Rajana shrugged off the crisp greeting. “No pleasantries. I have only a short time. I was told that you could provide a service for me. For money, of course.”
His accent was crisp and spoke of north India, perhaps with a tinge of higher British inflection. He could have been educated at Oxford or Eton by his manner.
The South American doubled over and laughed. “Right place, man, right place. Unless you’re looking for male prostitutes, in which case wrong number.”
He waved Rajana over to an ornate chair in front of a table. The other three men sat themselves across from him on a fine sofa. Rajana leaned over.
“So, gentlemen, tell me what it is you do, and tell me why I should hire you.”
The massive man on the couch grunted. The South American smiled and slid a folder across the table. Rajana slowly picked it up and opened it. Contained within were several official-looking documents. Dossiers for the organization sometimes referred to it as Waste Management. If it was referred to at all.

The official name of the corporation was Mephistoclese. The name came from Faust, the name of the devil who had given Dr. Faust a chance to sell his soul. The name was wrong (it was actually Mephistopheles) but none of the founders realized that. The company’s principles were simple. They consisted of money, discretion, and the occasional large explosion. The company had no motto, short of “show us the money and we’ll do it.” They specialized in illegal, often overseas, operations. No job was too big, only the payments.
The organization primarily consisted of the three men who had founded it. The dossier failed to mention them by name, but Rajana made the correct assumption that they were the three seated before him. They were considered to be the best; the fact that a couple of their previous clients thought they were dysfunctional, trigger-pumping schizos was entirely irrelevant. They always got the job done, albeit with the occasional messy complication afterwards. They were assassins, thieves, saboteurs, terrorists, freedom fighters. But above all, they were mercenaries of the highest order.

The shortest member of the group, the Middle Easterner, stood up when he thought Rajana was finished reading. He reached out and plucked the documents from the Indian’s hands.
“Perhaps some introductions are in order, Mr. Rajana?”
Rajana looked the man across from him up and down. “Yes, I do believe so.”
The man gave a taught smile. “Very well.”
He gestured to the man on his left. “This is Vladimir Krenkov, formerly a citizen of the late Soviet Union. His father was a KGB agent, Ivan Krenkov. Vladimir is our weapons expert, demolitions expert, and general muscleman. He also acquires most of the weaponry we use. He stands about two and a half meters tall and could most likely bench press your house. He doesn’t talk, since he has no tongue. When he was young he got into a fight with the local commissar, and his tongue was cut out in punishment. The other man didn’t live out the week. Vladimir is known in certain circles as ‘the tsar.’”
Rajana nodded thoughtfully. The man before him continued.
“My name is Najaf Al-Remian. I came from Palestine, or Israel if you prefer. I was an actual Palestinian; for reasons known only to my parents they converted to Judaism. They were forced to flee from the enemies they made. I stand less than two meters. I am the mastermind of the group. I deal with insertions, extractions, and cleanup detail. I am also the technical expert. Also, needless to say, I do the talking for our merry little band. I, too, have a nickname. And though I wish they wouldn’t, some people call me ‘the rabbi.’”
Najaf gestured to the last man, the South American on his right.
“This is Rico Savodell. His family comes from Columbia. Before you ask, yes, he is connected to the cartels. He is roughly two meters tall. Rico is our stealth man. He gets in and out of awkward places without being seen. It is his job to liberate items from other people’s clutches. I admit he is taller than me, but he is better at the job. He also operates as a backup gunner, alongside of Vladimir.”
Rajana stretched back in his chair. “And what do they call him?”
“They don’t call him anything. By the time anyone sees him, they’re effectively dead.”
Rico laughed. “That’s if they see anything at all. Sometimes I’m so sneaky that they walk around for an hour before they realize they’re dead.”
Najaf glared at him. “Rico is also the self-aggrandizing wiseass of the group.”
Rajana stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I have heard many stories from a business friend of mine. He says that you will do anything for money.”
Najaf’s eyebrow rose as he sat back down. “Within reason. We have toys that the US Army only dreams about. Are you going to hire us, Mr. Rajana?”
Rajana leaned in over the table. “I will place my offer before you. You will tell me how much it costs and how soon you can do it. Then I will decide whether to hire you.”
Najaf nodded just as Rico interjected, “Oh, you’ll hire us all right.” Najaf casually backhanded the man on his right. Rico winced.
“What the hell was that for?”
Najaf ignored him. “Talk, Mr. Rajana.”
“I am a major shareholder in an international corporation that deals with supplying energy. One of our major sources of income is a region in China. In one week’s time, our business there will be over. A politician named Maong Chang will be hosting a grand opening of a government-sponsored nuclear power plant. I have a threefold task for you. One, I want this plant brought down. Two, I want Chang exterminated. Three, I want Chang’s death to send a message to any other enterprising merchants or politicians. It must be an obvious situation.”
Rajana stopped talking and folded his hands in his lap.
The three men in front of him glanced at each other. Najaf appeared to make a mental calculation.
“Two hundred million. One week.”
Rajana appeared puzzled. “Excuse me?”
Najaf stood up again and stretched out his hand. “For two hundred million American dollars we will take the job. In one week’s time your problem will be solved. We’ll do it at the opening ceremony. Do we have a deal?”
Rajana stood up as well and clasped the other man’s hand, though he didn’t actually shake it. “How will the payment be carried out?”
Najaf gestured with his free hand to the gigantic Russian. Krenkov reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. He handed it to the Indian businessman, who took it with his free hand. There was an alphanumeric series written on it.
“That’s the number to a Swiss bank account. Wire half the money in advance, half after. Deal?”
Rajana met Najaf’s eyes.
“Done.”

After Rajana left, the rather stiff posture of the three men relaxed. Then Najaf backhanded Rico again.
Rico winced and grabbed his face. “Hey! Stoppit!”
The Palestinian glared at the Columbian. “I told you, no wisecracks in front of clients. I gave you your pathetic little no-nickname line. That should be enough.”
Rico threw a look at Vladimir behind Najaf’s back. The mute Russian shrugged apologetically. The Columbian rolled his eyes.
“Okay, okay, I get it. What the hell’s with you anyway? Normally you’re happy to get a job.”
Najaf spun angrily. “Stay the hell out of my head and we’ll work fine together. That’s what I said in the beginning, and that still holds true.”
Vladimir’s eyebrows rose in surprise. He made a gesture with his hands similar to firing a gun, drew a finger across his throat, and pointed at Najaf. He brought his finger up so it pointed just over the Palestinian’s head. Najaf started.
“You’re smarter than I thought, dammit,” he grunted.
Rico’s head pivoted back and forth between his partners. “What? Huh?”
Najaf waved him off. “I’ll explain later. Vladimir gets it, but needless to say he won’t be talking, excuse the pun.”
The massive Russian once more shrugged apologetically to Rico.
“How come I’m always last in the loop?” the Columbian whined.
Najaf turned his back on his partners.
“Because you’re the one with loose lips.” He suddenly laughed. “Come on, we’ve a job to plan. In twelve hours, I want to know everything about our marks. I have a sneaking suspicion some very, very, large explosions are going to be involved.”
Rico pumped a fist in the air. Vladimir gave a tight grin. Neither of them could see the fierce burning in their spokesman’s eyes, a burning that could have lit up hell itself.

Three days later, the three men assembled once again. A considerable amount of information had been purchased, and Najaf believed that he had enough. He used secure lines to call his partners, and now they met in the basement of a Chicago crack house. It may have been going down in the world from skyline apartments, but Vladimir kept the Chicago police well paid to ignore the place. It was quite clever actually; an apartment was used as a front for a drug house which was used as a front for the Mephistoclese Corporation. For a muscleman, Vladimir could be remarkably subtle at times.
Once more there was a table present. Najaf thought it was more dramatic than an online brief. The men sat around it, one on each side with Najaf’s suitcase taking up the empty seat.
Rico stretched back in his chair. “So, man, what d’you got for me?”
Vladimir nodded in agreement. Najaf gave a brief chuckle. He opened his suitcase and spread several schematics on the table. He too leaned back, a sinister grin on his face.
“Well,” he began. “This one will be a challenge. But we knew that already.”
He folded his hands on the table. Rico and Vladimir stared at him expectantly.
“For starters, we’re taking the sneakiest way into China I could find. Namely, we’re dropping ourselves in the DMZ of the Koreas and working our way through North Korea into China.”
Najaf paused taking the incredulous looks on his partners’ faces.
“Suicide? Maybe, but they certainly won’t be expecting us. Once we’re in China, there will be no problems getting to the target. We can simply stroll up. That covers insertion.
“Actually taking out the targets will be difficult. There are two platoons guarding the plant, as well as Chang’s personal guards covering him. The basic plan is this: the assault begins with a lure to distract the guards. Vladimir, this is your department. I need large amounts of gunfire and a few time bombs. Show yourself for a bit so the guards chase you. There’s a train tunnel closed for maintenance half a click north of the plant. You should be able to hole up there and unleash vast amounts of chaos.”
Vladimir gave a wicked smile. He mimed shooting a gun and then placed his hand flat on the floor. Najaf nodded.
“Yes, we’ll plant a few toys there in advance. You’ll have a field day with this one. Oh, a note: there won’t be any reinforcements coming to help them. Some idiot engineer connected all the land lines at one point, so we can blow all of their communications at once.”
Vladimir pointed a finger to the ceiling. Rico nodded.
“Yeah,” inquired the Columbian. “What about satellite transmissions?”
“That’s the first part of my job. All of their satellite communications are linked to a central computer bank which beams to the satellite. It’s a stupid way of wiring things, but hey, these are the Chinese. I’m going to sneak into the control room and plant a bug on their equipment. It will redirect the sent signals.”
“Where to?” asked Rico.
Najaf’s evil grin grew a little bit. “It will go right back to wherever it was sent from. All the guards will be crying into their walkie-talkies, and all they’ll hear back is a whiny distortion of their own voices. Childish, but freaky as all hell. Morale should go out the window.”
Vladimir gave rolling motion with his hand, the universal signal for “continue.”
“The second part of my job is straightforward. I’m going to find a nice secluded place and pick off the politician. Once that’s done, I’ll hijack a vehicle and meet Vladimir at the train tunnel. Phase one will be complete.”
Rico scowled. “Hey, whaddabout moi?”
Najaf cracked his knuckles. “Don’t worry. I’ve got stuff for you to brag about. Here’s the deal. After I’ve screwed up the communications, you’re hitting the power plant. It turns out the plant is coexistent with a nuke field; that’s a little detail that Rajana forgot to mention. An explosion is going to be really big, repeat, REALLY BIG!”
Rico’s eyes were shining. “This oughta be good.” He whispered in anticipation.
Najaf laughed at the boyish enthusiasm radiating from the Columbian. The bigger the boy, the bigger the fire to get them excited. Some things never change. Vladimir was hanging on to every word as well.
“Easy, Rico. Anyway, you’re going to slip into the power plant while Vladimir is giving the guards hell. The construction isn’t quite finished, but Chang wanted to make a splash as soon as possible. According to the research that we’ve done, and with a few well spread bribes I’ve learned that a couple of the exhaust ports aren’t shielded yet. We’re giving you one of Vladimir’s little time bombs to drop in the port, which should drop it the reaction chamber. You will then hightail it to the train tunnel, and the three of us are going to run for our, what was that phrase you used last time, Rico? Oh yes, I believe it was ‘Run for our fucking lives!’ Capishe?”
Rico and Vladimir nodded enthusiastically.
“Right.” Najaf pulled two lists out his suitcase. “Here’s what we’ll need. You know the drill. In two days we’ll meet again, this time for insertion. Bring the items on the list.”
Rico ran his eyes down the list. “Hang gliders? Last time we used those-!”
Najaf cut him off. “I know, I know. I didn’t expect to be attacked by a flock of eagles. There was no way anyone could have seen that coming. Now beat it, and get the equipment we need.”
The Russian and the Columbian got up and walked over to the basement stairs. Najaf waved a hand for Vladimir to sit back down. The massive mute returned to his chair. Rico shrugged and left the basement, closing the door firmly behind him.
Najaf pulled a second list from his suitcase, pushing it over to Vladimir. “I’m going to need some other stuff from you. Don’t let Rico see that list. This is just between you and me.” He pointed to an item on the list. “Oh, a point: make sure that the C4 packages are linked to a single detonator, not individual ones.”

Two days later, the three men were standing in the cargo bay of a US Air Force stealth bomber, each wearing an assortment of evil-looking weaponry. The bomber was flying over contested territory, namely the DMZ between North and South Korea. It wasn’t the strangest insertion that Mephistoclese had ever pulled off, but it was going to be one of the most dangerous.
Rico waved a hand at Najaf. “This better work!” He roared over the engine.
Najaf smiled wickedly. “What can go wrong? We’re going to be flying hang gliders over one of the most trigger happy countries in the world. Never mind the fact that there is no way we can pass as natives. I mean, Vladimir is the only one of us who understands either Korean or Chinese, and he obviously can’t speak them. There is absolutely nothing to worry about, is there?”
Rico groaned as he adjusted the straps on his glider. “Hijo de puta, I swear you’re enjoying this. Crazy bastard.”
Najaf’s smile grew even eviler, if that was possible. “Don’t worry, I got a local dialect translator shipped in from Manchuria. You remember John Locken, of course. He would be the man I asked for the Icelandic translations. You know, he’s the dyslexic one. We’re in good hands.”
Rico threw a glance at Vladimir, who shrugged. The Columbian spat on the bomber floor.
“Crazy, both of them.” He muttered to himself.
The cargo port on the bomber slowly began to creak open. Bright sunlight filtered in ray by ray, causing Najaf to blink and shield his eyes with an arm.
“Jump point!” He yelled, throwing himself into oblivion.
Vladimir leapt out immediately after him, his massive bulk pulling him down out of Rico’s line of vision. The Columbian cursed violently and cast himself into the air after his companions.

“See, was that so bad?” taunted Najaf. The three men were floating just over a klick away from the Chinese border. Part of the plan had been absolutely no communication up until this point.
Rico rolled his eyes. “Next time tell me when the plane’s going to go boom! I barely got off that thing before your bomb went off. Here’s an idea. If you’re going to clean up the loose ends, tell your business partners that so they don’t get the rear part of their glider burned off by the fireball!”
“Stop bitching, you only got a little singed!”
Vladimir decided to make a tactical move and firmly guided his glider between the Columbian and the Palestinian. In the event that one of them decided to attack the other as had happened in the past, his bulk would deter them. His bulk and the four throwing knives he had stashed up his sleeves.
While his partners continued harassing each other, the Russian glanced at his watch. Not that he cared about the time, but his watch had a built-in GPS system. The team was at the drop coordinates. He waved an arm at his quarreling partners. They ignored him. Vladimir gave a silent sigh and pulled a fire cracker out of his belt. His tossed it in the air, where it burst with a loud crack.
Najaf and Rico immediately sent their gliders into a series of evasive maneuvers. After a few seconds they realized that there was no real danger. They both glared at Vladimir, who pointed downwards towards the ground.
Najaf nodded. “Down we go!”
The team pushed their gliders into a triangular nose dive. The ground started approaching quite rapidly. Rico let out a whoop of joy and started barrel rolling. Najaf rolled his eyes. The ground continued to approach until . . . .
“PULL UP!” screamed Najaf.
Both he and Vladimir pulled their glider noses parallel to the ground. Rico, on the other hand, had a small problem. His rudder had been charred in the explosion of the plane. He continued to barrel roll downwards, now screaming obscenities into the air. At the last possible second, the Columbian forced his glider up. It was enough to save his neck, but not his dignity. The glider plowed a furrow through the ground, finally coming to a halt as it struck a tree. Its momentum carried the wreckage of what had been Rico’s glider up the tree. The pilot of said ex-glider found himself deposited on a leafy branch, upside down and totally disoriented.
Najaf laughed, floating along to alight gently upon the ground. “You sad bastard.”
His chortles of cruel merriment were cut short as Vladimir’s glider crashed into his. The pair rolled sideways, leaving Najaf trapped in a tangled morass of glider lines. He shot a venomous glare at the now-grinning Rico hanging in the tree before craning his head to give Vladimir the evil eye. The Russian raised his hands apologetically, gesturing that there was nothing else that he could have have done.
Najaf rolled his eyes, obviously irritated. “I know, I know, I cut off your landing path. Again. Dammit, get me out of this!”
After about twenty minutes, and with large amounts of damage to the entwined gliders, Vladimir was able to pry the Palestinian free. As Najaf brushed himself off, he watched Rico clamber halfway out of the tree. It was only halfway because the next half was spent in freefall. Rico’s skull hit the earth with an audible thunk. His partners winced as his eyes rolled back in his head.

An undetermined amount of time later, Rico woke up with a pounding headache. He took a quick around. He was lying in the back seat of what appeared to be a . . . what the hell? A three seat tractor?
“Sorry about the wheels.” Najaf’s voice came from next to Rico. “Vladimir had the same look on his face when it turned out to be the only vehicle within a klick.” He waved at the massive Russian who was driving the tractor on Rico’s other side. “How are you feeling?”
Rico sat up in his seat. He then proceeded to regret his decision as a pounding wave of pure agony flooded into his head.
“I’ve got all the pain of a hangover with none of the pleasure of getting drunk. Why the hell are you swinging a Glock around?”
Najaf idly glanced at the huge pistol loosely held in his grip. “I should probably mention that we are now in the grand state of the People’s Republic of China. I should probably also mention that there was some trouble at the border. Apparently the Chinese customs service finds seven-foot-plus Russians covered with heavy weaponry driving a tractor up from North Korea suspect. I can’t see why, myself. It seems a fairly routine occurrence.”
Rico shook his head to clear the fog. “So what happened?”
A shot rang out, and Rico felt the heat of a metallic firearm projectile, commonly known as a bullet, fly by his face. He swore in Spanish and spun around to confront a heavily armored Chinese Army Jeep, brimming with soldiers.
Najaf waved a hand in the direction of the pursuit. “About that . . . they became a little irritated when Vladimir body checked the three at the gate. I figured we would wait for you to wake up before we took them on. You owe me one.”
Rico grinned. “Got it, man.”
The Columbian reached into his back pocket and pulled out his secret weapon. Najaf gave him an odd look.
“Are you crazy? Now?”
Rico ignored his partner. He carefully aimed at the driver of the pursuing Jeep. The Jeep’s windshield was low, allowing a good shot right between the man’s eyes. Rico took a deep breath, steadied his hand, and pulled the trigger on his toy rubber band shooter.
The rubber band sped across the gap and nailed the driver square in the eye. He let out a yell of agony. Rico watched with satisfaction as the Jeep spun out of control. It started careening about the road and finally crashed into a ditch along the side. Rico laughed.
“Little chink bastards! Haha!”
Najaf rolled his eyes. “You’re always doing something with that damn toy. Why?”
Rico continued to grin. “My mother told me once if she let me play with these, I’d put somebody’s eye out. I love proving her right.”
Vladimir waved an arm forward, cutting off whatever sarcastic comment Najaf had planned. Najaf leaned forwards in his seat, staring into the distance.
“He’s right. The town’s ahead. We’ll bunk here, pull our stuff together, and start the assault tomorrow.”

The team was able to get cheap lodgings in the town. Rather, they would have been cheap, had not Vladimir been required to pay an exorbitant sum so that the owner of the establishment would keep his mouth shut. Apparently it required quite a bit of scrubbing for the owner to forget a multi-national hit team bristling with weaponry. It must be a hang-up of the Chinese.
The next day, Rico left early to “pick up a few things,” as he put it. He agreed to meet his partners at a local café, or least what passed for a local café. Najaf and Vladimir nodded after him, and promptly proceeded to the food.
After the duo had finished feeding their faces with cheap Chinese food (which was about an hour, given the massive Vladimir’s appetite), they sat back in their chairs. A silence hung briefly, and then the Russian waved a hand at his mouth.
Najaf gave a self-mocking laugh. “I know, I know, talk. You’re smarter than I give you credit for sometimes. Really.”
Vladimir pointed at his mouth more insistently. Najaf gave a deep sigh.
“Okay, okay. You guessed pretty well back in the US. The story goes something like this. The company Rajana works for is called Prometheus. They do deal in supplying energy, but they also sell arms. They try to instigate regional conflicts to make a profit. They fund several major terrorist organizations to this end. One of the big ones was Hamas, back when I was a child in Palestine. When my parents converted for reasons known only to them, Hamas started gunning for us, and we were forced to flee to the USA. At the time, Rajana was the man flooding the funds into Palestine. He found out what was planned and had my parents killed. I was smuggled out by some associates of my parents, and ended up in the United States. Now he’s back and I plan to kill him. End of story.”
Vladimir raised an eyebrow and rubbed his fingers together in the universal sign for money. The Palestinian in front of him threw back his head and laughed hysterically.
“You thought I was in this job for the money? You’re right. I let you and Rico think we’re just cleaning up around places, but I’m just in this for the money. Or I was, at least. Now I’ve actually got an angle. I didn’t expect to ever run into Rajana again, but since I have he’s going down.”
Vladimir looked as if he had another question, but he suddenly stared over Najaf’s shoulder and his jaw dropped. Najaf spun, putting a hand on his Glock, stopping once he saw it was Rico. But . . .
“Holy shit! What the hell?”
Rico was approaching the table with a partner. His partner in crime appeared to be about five feet and slender. Makeup and rouge were splashed across their face, and they wore a Japanese style kimono and high heels.
Najaf’s jaw followed the same path as Vladimir’s.
“Dammit, Rico, what’s this?”
Rico gave a wicked smile.
“It’s part of the Rico Savodell genius disguise. I’m working my way into the crowd, right? It adds to the excuse to have a nice young woman hanging onto my arm. This way I can pretend to be a wealthy Columbian businessman. With an ‘escort.’ Like it?”
Vladimir was silently laughing so hard that his bulk was making the table shake. Najaf used all of his dignity to pick his jaw up off the ground. He braced the table against the Russian’s merriment and glared at Rico.
“And that is going in the Najaf Al-Remien Book of Total Idiocy! Moron!”
Rico looked at his purchased escort, puzzled, then back at Najaf. It obviously wasn’t the reaction he had expected.
“Care to explain, man? No entiendo.”
“Of course you don’t understand. Look, they have a profession around here. I can’t remember the official Chinese term for it, but it translates into ‘ladyboy.’” The Palestinian pointed at the escort. “What you have there is a prepubescent boy cross-dressing for your satisfaction. Got it now?”
Rico’s jaw now dropped, for him in horror. He grabbed his companion by both shoulders and kicked them between the legs. His escort doubled over in pain. Rico’s eyes widened.
“Fuck!”
The Columbian seized the boy around the waist and hoisted the writhing escort over his shoulder. Vladimir and Najaf watched as their partner sprinted into a nearby alley. There was a brief chatter of Chinese and a loud smacking sound, followed by silence. Rico returned alone, brushing his hands off. He glared fiercely at the staring natives, who understood to return to their coffee without any comment.
Najaf gestured for his partner to sit down at the table. Rico pulled a chair away from a nearby table and slouched into it. His eyes met Vladimir’s, who quickly ceased his laughing. Najaf reached into his pocket. He removed three miniscule headsets and placed them on the table, two in front of his partners and one in front of himself.
“These are radio headsets, obviously. They’re the same type we used in Vietnam-” The Palestinian pointed a finger at Rico. “-and yes, I know, they’re the same ones that electrocuted Vladimir, you don’t have to say it. I had a talk with the manufacturer and we won’t be running into that problem anymore.”
Vladimir, who had been holding his breath since the equipment had been placed on the table, let out his breath. Rico chuckled weakly.
“Communications problem solved. Let’s blow this joint to little tiny pieces.”
As one, the team stretched out a hand and picked up the headsets in front of them.

“Archon, in position, calling check,” Najaf whispered into his mike.
He was crouched over a mess of wires within a Chinese military barracks. Namely, he was in the barracks directly outside of a certain nuclear power plant that was scheduled for demolition, though only three men knew the method. He also happened to be under the floor, in the communications wiring.
“Repeat, Archon calling check,” he repeated while attaching a small plastic device to a white wire he exposed from the tangle.
There was a brief hiss over the headset. “Sparrow, in position, waiting for all hell to break loose,” responded Rico’s voice.
There was a brief silence, and Najaf sighed. “Goliath, you can just snap your fingers, okay?”
Something that sounded like a small explosion rang over the headset. Najaf winced as he tried to regain some hearing in his left ear. He recovered it just in time to hear Rico cursing.
“Dammit, Vladimir, these things are sensitive! You don’t need to put your fingers right next to the mike! Bastard!”
Najaf rolled his eyes. “No names. Repeat, no names. Keep radio silence from here on out, except for emergencies and/or reports. Archon out.”
He heard Rico muttering briefly before the all-too familiar buzz of dead air took over. He reached a hand back into the tangle of wires, replacing the wires in their previous positions. He pushed a hand up, popping a set of floorboards. He levered himself up onto the floor and replaced the floorboards over his tampering.
Najaf grabbed an unconscious guard and dragged him over his entry point, straining a little under the guard’s weight. Dammit, I swear the nerve gas adds a kilo, he thought to himself. He dropped the guard, and pulled out a small grey cylinder with a button on the top.
“Goliath, your party,” the Palestinian whispered into the headset. Then he pushed the button and heard the distant rumble that meant the land line juncture had just been blown to hell.

Vladimir heard the message and grinned to himself. A party it would be. He was sitting in the driver’s seat of a stolen Chinese Army Jeep. He floored the pedal and sped in the direction of the power plant.

Rico waited. He was positioned on the roof of the plant. A rip line setup would slingshot him into the main building via a window. Only the Chinese would build windows into a supposedly secure facility. All he had to do was wait for Vladimir to lure enough guards away so he could sneak ten feet without being caught.
He slid the night vision goggles over his face and pulled out his sneaking knife. Rico had a knife for every occasion. He had one for sneaking, one for open combat, one for throwing, one for dueling, one for beef, one for steak . . . . He lost his train of thought as he watched Vladimir’s most dramatic entrance on a hapless guard patrol.

Vladimir’s plan was simple: deal as much damage as possible on the first strike, call as much attention to himself as possible, and then run like hell for the train tunnel. Simple was definitely best in the mute Russian’s mind.
The guards shouldn’t have been caught by surprise so easily, but they were slightly distracted by the drug that Vladimir had arranged to “accidentally” slip into their rations. Stomach cramps were perhaps not the most romantic spy maneuver, but they were damn effective. Vladimir brought his Jeep roaring over a steep hill at ninety kilometers an hour, caught some air, and landed right in the middle of the patrol. Four men were crushed beneath the spinning wheels as he impacted the ground.
Vladimir slammed on the brakes, putting the Jeep into a fishtailing maneuver that eliminated five more men. When the vehicle finally screeched to a halt (turning another to a pancake in the process), Vladimir threw himself into the back of the Jeep, with several retaliatory bullets narrowly missing him. He crouched down behind the slight cover the Jeep doors provided his gargantuan bulk. He heard the rolling patter of bullets on the reinforced doors.
There was a slight pause as the soldiers were forced to reload their weapons. Vladimir took advantage of their distraction and let loose an inhuman roar that would have done King Kong proud. He swung himself up with an Anton Kalashnikov, Nineteen Forty-seven Model (commonly known as an AK 47) in each hand and proceeded to unleash a veritable maelstrom of destruction upon the unfortunate Chinese. He kept the spraydown up for about a minute, at which point he heard his guns give the famous click which signifies “no ammo.”
The Russian dived back into the driver’s seat, still using the Jeep’s doors for some degree of protection. He listened as the few remaining soldiers approached the Jeep, guns most likely aimed right over his head. His knee hit a small ovular object. He grabbed it and lobbed it out of the Jeep, aiming where he suspected the soldiers were grouped. He heard a scream in Chinese. The closest translation he could think of was “Shit, grenade!” There was a loud explosion, then silence.
Vladimir waited for two minutes and then gingerly popped his head over the rim of the Jeep. The only soldiers left were in absolutely no condition to fight, what with the whole missing limbs problem.
A shout caught his attention. Looking over behind his back, Vladimir’s eye was attracted by the fifteen or sixteen transport trucks brimming with troops coming from the plant barracks. If he could see them, they could see him. The huge Russian grinned evilly. He grabbed the wheel of his vehicle and once more floored the pedal, peeling out (or at least peeling out as best he could in an Army Jeep) in the direction of the train tunnel.

Rico’s eyebrows were so far up they were past his hairline. Vladimir never ceased to amaze when it came to causing ungodly amounts of spectacular damage. Of course, that’s why he was part of Mephistoclese in the first place.
There was a crackle over the headset.
“Archon, in secondary position.”
Rico smiled. Soon it would be his turn to cause vast amounts of damage. Five bucks said that Vladimir had never blown a nuclear facility. He just had to wait for Najaf to whack Chang.

Najaf was positioned in a rear guard tower. He held a sniper rifle to his eye and was staring down the barrel through the scope. He kept the crosshairs firmly fixed on a podium erected in front of the plant.
“Repeat, Archon, in secondary position.”
The setup for this ceremony was incredibly overblown in Najaf’s less-than-humble opinion. There had to be at least four hundred people here, not including personnel. Reporters were everywhere, which was surprising, since this was Communist China with all of its censored news. A plethora of Chinese dignitaries had been invited. In less than a minute, Chang was due to start his opening speech. Najaf was faced with several moral quandaries. Should he shoot Chang immediately, or wait for a few minutes into the speech for dramatic effect? Should he make the funeral open or closed casket? Heart shot or head shot? Decisions, decisions . . . .
Najaf’s concern for morality was interrupted by a blow to the side of his head. He was knocked on his side, with the rifle skittering across the floor. Najaf looked up at his assailant, a large Chinese man in military uniform with a star tattoo over one eye. Najaf rolled his eyes and flipped to his feet nimbly. Najaf, as all Mephistoclese, was trained to at least some degree in martial arts. The Palestinian lunged forward, aiming a chop at his opponent’s neck, coupled with a sideways kick to his knee. To Najaf’s very great surprise, he found his attack foiled by the Chinese man with a series of blocks and kicks. Najaf landed face first in the opposite direction he had attacked in. The Chinese soldier had very neatly spun him around and tripped him. Najaf slowly picked himself up and looked at his opponent.
“Shit.”
The soldier was holding what appeared to be a Sig Sauer aimed at Najaf’s head. The Palestinian sighed and slowly raised his hands.
“Dammit, I have to meet the one Chinese guy who actually knows karate. Sparrow!” he muttered into the headset, using Rico’s code name. “You’ve got the translator. How do I say ‘I surrender’ in Chinese?”

On the roof, Rico pulled out his PDA. Loaded into the device’s copious memory banks was the translator Najaf acquired. Rico quickly scrolled through the tiny little script running across the screen. There, that’s the one he wanted.
Rico pulled the headset mike a little closer. “Archon, say Wai au ang. Over.”

Najaf kept both his hands over his head.
“Wai au ang.”
The Chinese soldier’s reaction would have been entertaining under other circumstances. His jaw totally surrendered to gravity, and his face turned bright pink. He took a step closer to Najaf and started a babble of Chinese that Najaf didn’t understand.
“Sorry, didn’t catch that? Something about a militant gerbil and your mother being a walrus? Run that by me again.”
Najaf immediately regretted his mouthing off as the soldier punched him in the stomach. The Palestinian groaned and doubled over in pain.
“Wai au ang, you bastard! Wai au ang!”
His only response from the soldier was an elbow to the head. Najaf swore under his breath.

Rico stared at the translator, puzzled. That didn’t sound right. Rico didn’t know much Chinese, but he would swear to having heard that term in another context. Who had Najaf gotten the translator from? Oh right, it was from John Locken, the dyslexic scholar from Manchuria. Wait a minute, the dyslexic . . . .
Fuck!

“Wai au ang!” he tried one last time.
At this point the soldier was beat red in the face. In his anger, he moved a hair too close to his captive. Najaf delivered an uppercut to the soldier’s jaw and snatched the pistol out of his hand. The Palestinian pointed it at the soldier’s forehead, pausing. Then he very suddenly and abruptly pulled the trigger. The soldier slumped to the ground, somewhat dead. Najaf took a deep breath of relief.
There was a crackle over the headset.
“Archon, scratch that! Mistranslation, repeat, mistranslation!”
“Don’t bother, Sparrow, it’s been dealt with. What the hell was I saying?”
There was a pregnant pause.
“Well, I forgot Locken was dyslexic, and read the other side of the screen . . . .”
“Sparrow, tell me what I was saying.”
Najaf laced his voice with menace. He heard Rico gulp over the headset.
“Well, it means, uh, well . . . ‘Wai au ang’ means ‘I love you.’”
Najaf’s eyes widened. “Shit, no wonder he tried to beat me down.”

Vladimir heard the entire conversation, and was laughing so hard he could barely focus on the road in front of him. His attention was regained by a chatter of gunfire that flew past his left ear. He ducked down and started swerving the stolen Jeep around.
The Russian reached back and unhooked a cord. The cord was attached to two more cables, each one of which ran to his AK’s respective triggers. Popping the cable caused the guns to start swinging around. Vladimir flipped off the safeties, and the weapons provided a barrage against the pursuing Chinese, who were far too close for comfort.
However, the barrage was only a cover. While the guns spat death, Vladimir used the distraction to load his backup weapon. Driving one handed, he lifted the gigantic rocket launcher, pointed it backwards over his shoulder, and pulled the trigger. There was a roar, and Vladimir heard the impact of a heat-seeking Stinger missile making personal contact with an Army Jeep. He turned around just in time to watch three other Jeeps, hit by debris, crash into each other. The Russian turned back to the road and saw the train tunnel quickly approaching. He activated a proximity mine and threw it behind him. Things would heat up quickly now.

Rico straightened his night vision goggles, grabbed the rip line, and threw himself forward. He flew straight, swung around a pole, and crashed through a fifth floor window. The guard pacing past the window had no time to call an alarm. All he saw was a pair of black boots impacting with his face and everything else became black. Rico nodded at a job well done, and walked off down the long hallway.

Najaf pulled the trigger.
The bullet flew silently from the sniper rifle. For four hundred feet it flew. It flashed dead center through Chang’s forehead. The bullet continued its trajectory until it halted in a bodyguard’s arm. Najaf wasn’t quite sure why he liked sniping in that style. Maybe it was because the wound always seemed to look like the brand of Cain. It was strangely poetic.
Chaos erupted below. Several reporters had gotten the assassination on camera. Dignitaries were panicking. The crowd surged in every direction it could, a roiling, tangled mass. Security forces tried to contain the crowd to no avail.
Najaf smiled grimly to himself, and then went looking for a vehicle to steal.

Vladimir was in his element. In the sense that he was unleashing incomparable degrees of violence against a horde of enemies, not in the sense that he was holed up in a train tunnel, outnumbered by about fifty to one. Let them come. Let them fall. Next!
The remaining troop transports were blockading one end of the tunnel. A squad of four or five men had been sent to take him from the back. Vladimir had heard their assault being ended by a previously planted trip mine. The soldiers had assumed that was all he had and tried to flank him again. The second squad encountered the rest of the mines he had planted, and they were no longer a problem. The Chinese didn’t try that plan again.
Of course, the Russian wasn’t doing perfectly. The tunnel was narrow, with no space other than the track itself. So here he lay on his stomach, a machine gun in his hands, spraying down the trucks. Behind the trucks, the Chinese soldiers took the occasional potshot they could, but generally they just tried to avoid getting shot. The tunnel was unlit, so they didn’t know exactly where he was. But they could guess.
An explosion rang far too close. A grenade, thrown by a soldier, was almost lucky enough. Another one landed right next to Vladimir’s head. The Russian grabbed it and hurled it back at the trucks. It exploded before it could make contact, but it must have rattled the soldiers.
Click.
It wasn’t Vladimir’s day for ammo supplies. His bandolier was out of machine gun bullets. An awkward silence rang out for a brief period. The Chinese realized what had happened. Within a minute, Vladimir watched the soldiers charge out en masse, screaming battle cries as they sprinted for the tunnel. He pulled another weapon off his back and waited.
The Chinese didn’t realize that in the dark tunnel, they wouldn’t be able to tell friend from foe. A commanding officer should have been smart enough to realize that, but the ranking officers were no longer an issue. The fact that four of them were dead, and that the other three were currently unconscious due to a well thrown concussion grenade, meant that they were effectively out of the picture.
Vladimir waited as the soldiers fumbled about the dark. When he judged that they were generally surrounding him, he let lose. He leapt to his feet and squeezed the trigger on his flamethrower. He spun around in small circles, causing three hundred and sixty degrees of a fiery inferno straight out of hell. Flames danced, flickering through the ranks of Chinese. The soldiers turned their screaming charge into a screaming retreat, and fled back behind the cover of their trucks.
Vladimir watched with satisfaction. Suddenly he heard a step behind him and spun, intending to unleash a blistering maelstrom of death. His flame thrower sparked, but no fire emitted from the nozzle. He felt something wet around his feet. It was propellant. Some one had cut the tube from the flamethrower to the propellant tank.
Vladimir swore silently in Russian as he felt a piece of cold metal placed against his back. A soldier had stayed behind. There was a babble of Chinese, ordering the massive mercenary to lay down his weaponry. Vladimir sighed and dropped the flame thrower, which made a clatter as it hit the train tracks.
A shot rang through the tunnel. Vladimir’s trained ears recognized the sound of a pistol, not a Chinese rifle. The metal presence at his back abruptly vanished. He heard the sound of the soldier’s corpse hitting the floor. A hand clapped Vladimir on the shoulder.
“You owe me one.”
It was Najaf, with a pair of infrared goggles and his Glock in his hand. Vladimir gave a grin the Palestinian couldn’t see.

Rico found the exhaust port without any major problems. There were the three or four guards he had sucker punched, but they were peacefully snoozing where the security cameras couldn’t see them
The real problems began now. The exhaust port was supposed to be uncovered due to time constraints. Unfortunately, Najaf had been wrong. The security team had indeed shielded the port from any bombing attempts Rico might make. A meshwork of thick steel bars covered the port, and Rico didn’t think he had enough time to use an acetylene torch to cut through. There were probably more grids set lower in the pipe. He was at a loss.
“This is Sparrow,” he whispered over the headset. “Archon, what’s plan B? You better have one.”

Najaf listened thoughtfully as Rico explained the situation.
“Damn these fully operational battle stations,” he muttered to himself.
“Repeat?” asked Rico over the headset, confused.
“Nothing, Sparrow, don’t worry about it. Okay, I think there should be a control panel two floors down off of the west passage. Get in there and there should be a green button on the right-hand side. Push it, and then check in again.”
Then Najaf heard a most unwelcome sound. It was the sound of a train whistle, on a train speeding at a hundred and fifty kilometers an hour down the tracks to the tunnel.
“Actually, Sparrow, I think Goliath and I might be out of touch for a while. Ah, shit.”

Rico’s brow creased in puzzlement. He shrugged and made his way to the elevator. He waited for the door to open and when it did he rolled a large metal ball inside. He paused for a second and heard a crackle as the EMP pulse knocked out the security camera. He strode into the elevator and pushed the button for the third floor.

Najaf reacted quickly. He pulled two pairs of gloves and two pairs of shoes out of his side cargo pockets. He poked Vladimir.
“Here, put these on, NOW!”
The train was coming closer and closer. The rumble was making itself felt throughout the tunnel. Vladimir gave Najaf an odd look that was lost in the dark, but rapidly donned the clothing. Both felt heavy and had to be strapped to his arms and legs with tight metal straps.
“Get against the wall!”
The partners flattened themselves against the wall.
“Throw a flash-bang.”
Vladimir pulled another concussive grenade out of his pocket and handed it to Najaf. The Palestinian hurled it at the Chinese. The partners covered their ears as the grenade exploded with blinding flash of light and deafening sound wave. The Chinese were totally stunned.
Less than thirty seconds later, the train came roaring through the tunnel, leaving them with barely half an inch of space. Najaf tugged at Vladimir’s arm.
“Jump at the train on three! One, two, motherfucking THREE!”
Vladimir didn’t like the idea, but jumped in perfect timing with Najaf at the train. He hit the train and had the breath knocked out of his lungs. To the Russian’s surprise, his body didn’t slip off and become splintered beneath the train. He grabbed a rail near an entrance. Vladimir blinked twice, and then realized his wrists and feet were almost attached to the train. They must have some kind of strong magnet within. Oh, right. Najaf had mentioned he had acquired some kind of magnetic space suit a few weeks ago. As long as he kept a grip on the rail, he should be fine.
The Chinese soldiers outside the tunnel were nowhere near as lucky. They had positioned their trucks right on the tracks outside the tunnel, and they themselves were currently collapsed against them entirely befuddled. The train hit the trucks at over a hundred and forty kilometers an hour. The trucks went flying, smashing through the remaining fourscore of soldiers. The Chinese were too stunned to react and were demolished in an instant.
Vladimir looked over and saw Najaf holding on to the opposite rail for dear life. The Palestinian was obviously trying to say something, but the wind was forcing his words back down his throat. Vladimir smirked and hung on for the ride.

Rico found two guards positioned outside the control room. Two chops to the neck dealt with them just fine. He pushed his way into the room. Unfortunately, he didn’t see the laser that was stretched across the floor. His foot broke the red line, and a klaxon screeched on the wall.
“Fucking shit! Esos hijos de putas!”
Power to room was cut. Rico was left standing in a pitch black room. Luckily, he was still wearing his goggles. He strode over to the control panel and ran his visor-clad gaze along the control board. Green button, green button . . . dammit, they’re all green in night vision!
There was a noise of running feet. Rico pushed the biggest button he saw, and then spun to confront the four guards with flashlights who burst into the room. He gave an evil grin, and went for their necks.

Najaf flipped himself into the train. Very slowly, he pushed his way to the engine room. The engineer turned and squawked something in Chinese. Najaf shot him twice in the chest. As the body crashed to the car floor, Najaf grabbed the emergency break and pulled. There was a screeching noise as the wheels strained against their restraints. Slowly, the train began to lose momentum. After a five minute period, the speeding vehicle came to a grinding halt.
Najaf hopped off the train. He was immediately confronted by an Army Jeep filled with patrol soldiers. All of which had their guns trained on a certain Palestinian.
“Dammit!” cursed Najaf.
His swearing was cut off by the roar of a rocket being fired. The missile struck the Jeep dead center, sending and its occupants up in a bright conflagration. Najaf did a one-eighty to see Vladimir holding the smoking rocket launcher. The Russian held up one finger, then brought it down.
“Yes, your last one, I get it. Debt paid.”

Rico finished up with the now-exsanguinated guards. He picked up one of their flashlights and shone it on the control, trying to figure out which button he had actually pushed. One of them was obviously depressed. Wait was that . . . oh no. Shit.
“Archon!” Rico called over the headset. “Problem.”
“What’s the deal, Sparrow?” rang Najaf’s voice.
“Archon, the wrong button has been pushed. Night vision goggles make them all seem green. Repeat, wrong button.”
“Which one did you hit?”
“This is gonna sound dramatically cliché, but it’s a big red button in the middle of the panel. . . .”
There was a pregnant pause.
“FUCK!” screamed Najaf. “Rico, GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE!! Meet us at the north guard tower. On the double!”
Rico gulped and ran for it.

Ten minutes later, the team was reunited in an American Lexus stolen from a fleeing diplomat. Vladimir (who barely fit) was flooring the pedal, and Rico was fidgeting in the backseat. Najaf was riding shotgun, counting to himself. The effect was rather disconcerting.
Rico snapped. “What the hell is going on? What’d I do?”
Najaf glared at his partner. “The red button you hit increases the coolant level drastically. It’s only supposed to be used in the event of an emergency. In this case it’s just overflow. As we speak, a gigantic hydrogen bubble is building up, increasing the pressure within the reaction chamber. The only possible response is for the staff to pull the coolant out. Unfortunately, when that happens they’ll have a runaway reaction. In a nuclear power plant. Next to a warhead factory. Think about it.”
Rico’s face nearly drained of color. “Vladimir, can this thing go any faster?”

Half an hour later, Najaf told Vladimir to pull over. The massive Russian slammed the brakes and pulled over to the side of the road. Najaf got out of the car and stood facing the direction of the plant. Vladimir and Rico followed his lead.
As they watched, a tremendous roar blasted through the air. In the distance a gigantic dust cloud mushroomed over their heads. The ground shook beneath the team’s feet. The cloud hung in space, a testament of fury and destruction dedicated to inter-corporate espionage.
“Hell,” breathed Rico softly.
Vladimir nodded his agreement. Najaf said nothing, made no gesture, just kept staring at the tempest they had created.

Two days later, the executives of Mephistoclese sat around yet another table. This time they were laying low in the back room of a Boston club, the Tempest. One of the more dingy clubs in the Combat Zone, it was one of Rico’s favorite covers. Although the odds were that was probably due to the live girls more than anything else. Trust a Columbian.
The aforementioned Columbian was stretched out in a recliner, feet up on the table. He idly picked his teeth with a toothpick. Vladimir was engaged in his usual manner of recreation; namely, he was doing a number of door pulls that would make a martial artist jealous. Najaf was hunched over the table, persistently drumming his fingers against the wood table.
A beat-up television was thrown in the corner. It was currently on, flashing images of the day’s news. One rather prominent story involved the Chinese government. Apparently there was an opening of a nuclear power plant planned a few days earlier. At the ceremony, something had gone wrong. The entire region had fallen out of communication and something had happened to cause the reactor to blow. A new dimension had been added to the story when a reporter, dead from radiation exposure, had been found in her truck. Her camera had also been damaged, but enough film remained for authorities to discover a shot of Maong Chang, a popular politician, being assassinated. Events remained a mystery, but were currently under investigation.
Rico laughed. “Fifteen million fuckups and it all still works out perfectly. I mean, it’s absolutely freakin’ perfect. All the Chinese have is an image Chang’s brains being blown out, and the plant and factory go up with a mushroom cloud. And we got a Lexus out of it!”
Vladimir let go of the doorframe and hit the floor with a thunk. Najaf debated snapping at him when the Palestinian’s cell phone rang. Both his partners turned to him. He cursed briefly, and pulled the clamshell phone out of his jacket. He flipped it open and put it to his ear.
There was a pause before an accented voice spoke on the other end. “Mr. Al-Remien, I presume?”
Najaf smiled grimly. “Mr. Rajana.”
“Ah, yes. You recognize my voice.” Pause. “Mr. Al-Remien, we have a problem. You want your second payment of one hundred million dollars? Your company account refuses to accept our transactions.”
Vladimir and Rico were wildly gesturing for Najaf to explain what was going on, though in Rico’s case ‘flailing’ was probably a better word. Najaf delivered an insulting Italian gesture and continued his conversation.
“No issue, Mr. Rajana. Your corporation owns several foreign offices, I believe. Not all of them are in use. Perhaps we can agree to one of them. In fact, I might have one of them in mind.”
There was a soft chuckle over the connection.
“Very good. I can bring the payment in twenties, all one hundred million of it. Where, in fact, do you want to meet? I’m quite curious.”
Najaf started tapping on the table again. “In Eastern Europe, there’s a little used import house. It’s the one that used to be all ears, if you know what I mean.”
Rico turned to Vladimir, as Eastern Europe was supposed to be the Russian’s area of expertise. His only answer was a befuddled shrug.
“Ah,” said Rajana. “You refer to the former KGB listening post in Czechoslovakia. That sounds quite good to me. When shall we meet?”
“Forty-eight hours, it better be there.”
Najaf snapped shut the phone, disconnecting the Indian at the other end. Rico leapt onto his feet impatiently.
“Well? What the hell did Rajana want? What’s up?”
Najaf rolled his eyes. “Payment issues. I forgot to update the Swiss account so he could access it again. I’m going to Geneva to deal with that.”
The lie came easy to a mercenary who had made it this far by lying his way through the world. Najaf waved briefly to his partners, stood up, and walked towards the front room. He opened the door and cheap music floated into the back room. He half turned.
“Well, I have a plane to catch. Good night.”
Then he paced out the door and closed it behind him. Vladimir and Rico exchanged worried glances. Najaf never said good night to the team. Never. He considered it too pleasant for a “load of bastards who screw up half the time.” Something was definitely up and it them uneasy, because neither knew what to expect.

Czechoslovakia was a damn cold place, Najaf reflected as he stepped off the plane in Prague. He was cutting it close. He had to be at the office complex in less than three hours.
At the airport he rented a car for the drive. The agent must have been surprised to have a customer pay in cash, but in the Eastern Bloc few questions were asked when the issue of money came up. Fiscal resources were scarce. Najaf drove to a nice hotel and paid for a room. He used the room to change from his windbreaker and sneakers into a black jumpsuit and black boots. He swung a tan trenchcoat over himself to prevent appearing flagrantly prepared for a killing. He checked the magazine in his Glock and slipped it into his shoulder holster.
Najaf turned and looked himself in the mirror. Twenty years come to this. His hair was starting to show signs of grey, despite his only being thirty-five years of age or so. Stress lines were subtle, but definitely present. A lifetime of either anger or indifference had left him unequipped to deal with the choice before him.
The Palestinian gave a deep sigh; it wasn’t a sigh of chagrin, for once, but a sigh of resignation. Than he did an about face and walked out his door, down the hotel stairs, and out into the chill Prague air.

Rajana was waiting in the office. The Indian had men planted throughout the building. Funny thing, thought the former arms dealer, that Al-Remien hadn’t recognized him. As soon as Rajana had walked into the Seattle apartment, he had known who the Palestinian was. Rajana hated leaving a job unfinished, even if it was almost three decades late. Al-Remien would die tonight, for two reasons. One, the traitorous family line would finally be ended. Two, Rajana would be able to walk away with a free hundred million dollars American. The Indian stroked the Beretta in his pocket.
“Rajana!”
Ah, the fly was in the parlor. Najaf purposefully strode through the doorway into the central corridor. Rajana bowed mockingly, aware of the Palestinian’s eyes on the two Japanese mercenaries flanking the Indian.
“Mr. Al-Remien. It is a pleasure to see you again. This will hopefully be our last meeting.”
Najaf laughed, which confused Rajana. The Palestinian pulled a small cylindrical object out of his trenchcoat pocket. Rajana glanced at it and froze.
Najaf’s face showed a demonic grin. “Shut up, you bastard. We both know what’s up. Your only trump card was your guess that I wouldn’t sacrifice myself to bring you down. Wrong! I’ve gone this far on pure indifference. Now that I actually have something to fight for, I find I quite enjoy it. It’s a pity I’ll only get to do it once.”
Rajana took a step back, fear flickering across his features. “I have men covering this entire building with orders not to let you out alive. You are a fool.”
Najaf shook his head. “Weren’t you just listening? I don’t give a damn.”
Saying such, he pushed the button on the detonator in his hand.

A wave of explosions rippled through every conceivable nook and cranny except for the hallway that Najaf and Rajana stood in. The Indian and his men were thrown to the floor by the shaking of the building. Najaf only maintained his stance by sheer force of will. Debris rained throughout the corridor.
“How do you like that, Rajana? Previously planted C4 always does the job. I feel sorry for your men, though.”
The Indian and his soldiers tried forcing themselves to their feet. Najaf simply watched them stand up. The Indian finally pulled himself up along a corridor wall, turban askew over his eyes.
“Kill him!”
The Japanese mercenaries leveled their rifles at Najaf. The Palestinian pulled off his trenchcoat and threw it at them. The coat caught the air and fanned out. The mercenaries unleashed a spraydown that was halted by the Kevlar reinforced clothing. While they were distracted with that, Najaf made his move. He threw himself at the Japanese on the left. Two swift chops to the neck left the hired gun lying on the floor, futilely trying to draw breath through a crushed windpipe. Najaf darted past Rajana and delivered a spinning kick to the other mercenary that swept his legs out from under him.
Suddenly Najaf froze. A small metal object was at the back of his head. Rajana had pulled out his hidden Beretta and was holding it to the Palestinian’s head. The remaining mercenary unsteadily got to feet and stood ten feet back, rifle covering Najaf.
“Brave words for a dead man,” hissed Rajana in his captive’s ear.
“Najaf!”
A new voice rang through the damaged corridor. On the other side of the doorway, a human torso swung down from above. Rico flipped out two Derringers from his sleeves, and fired, upside down, at Rajana. The Indian cursed as a bullet hit him in mid-calf. He fell to his knees, and the second bullet blasted off his purple turban.
The Japanese mercenary ran to the doorway, rifle aimed upwards. He didn’t see the gigantic hands that seized his ankles until it was too late. He was pulled off his feet for the second time in as many minutes as Vladimir jerked his opponent behind the frame. A loud thunk heralded the Russian bashing his foe into a wall.
Najaf smiled despite his natural inclination.
“Rico, you bastard, what the hell are you doing up there?”
The Columbian swung back down from the behind the doorway’s frame.
“I’m using those damn moonboots you and Vladimir had on the train. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Of course, I can’t get down now. Dammit!”
Vladimir reached up his hands and pulled on Rico’s arms, nearly dislocating the Columbian’s shoulders. There was a metallic popping noise, and Rico landed sprawled on the floor. The huge Russian patted his disoriented partner on the back.
Najaf shook his head and turned around. He whipped out his Glock from his belt and aimed squarely between the kneeling Rajana’s eyes. The defeated Indian met his enemy’s gaze with a smoldering fire behind his stare. Najaf held the muzzle for a few seconds. Then he chuckled, flipped the gun around, and smashed the hilt between Rajana’s brows. Rajana collapsed sideways, unconscious.
Najaf turned back to his partners. “You both just put a whole lot of good lines to waste. Well, let’s blow this joint, shall we?”

The team made it four long blocks without breaking the silence. Finally, Najaf felt compelled to say something.
“Okay, how the hell did you find me?”
Vladimir stared pointedly at Rico, who raised his hands apologetically.
“Sorry, man,” stammered the Columbian. “Well, back when you asked Vladimir to get extra stuff, I got suspicious that you were cutting me out. So I bugged all your stuff. Suit, phone, rooms: I put a tap on all of them. I used a computer to access the one on your phone and figured out what you agreed to with Rajana. I got Vladimir to hack old KGB files and got the address. Piece of cake.”
Najaf shook his head. “Dammit, you bugged my . . . hell. I don’t understand you sometimes, Rico, I really don’t. I treat you like a bitch nine days out of ten, and the tenth day is when I need something from you. Why the hell do you care?”
The Palestinian’s total confusion was obvious on his face. Rico clapped his partner on the back.
“Hey, man, we can’t leave a member of the team in the lurch. Besides, I need some one to deal with the planning aspect. Vladimir’s smart and all, but the communication is shit. Tongueless men can’t express complexities well.”
Najaf met Rico’s eyes, staring, lost. Then some measure of comprehension flowed into his features.
“So, basically, Rico, what you’re saying is that you can’t leave me to die because I’m one of the team and you owe me something for that.”
Rico glanced over to Vladimir, who gently nodded.
“Yeah, pretty much,” he shrugged in response.
Najaf lifted a hand, outstretched, to Rico. The Columbian smiled widely and reached out to clasp his partner’s hand. His fingers seized empty air as Najaf rapidly retracted his palm and smacked Rico across the back of the head.
“Idiot, do you know how fucking sappy that sounds? Snap out of it!”
Vladimir gave a subtle grin, hidden from the other two men. The old Najaf was back in all his sarcastic glory.
The team continued walking for another two blacks. Rico, used to far warmer climates, was freely shivering. Vladimir cared nothing for the temperature, having seen worse in his native Siberia. Najaf, as always, gave no indication that he felt his nose would fall off any second. Another silence prevailed. Rico was responsible for breaking it this time.
“Hey, Najaf, why’d you leave Rajana alive? Seems a bit out of character, that.”
The Palestinian stopped walking with a puzzled expression upon his features. He reached for his belt. His fingers ran past his Glock, to another tool.
“Really? I forgot?”
Najaf pulled out the detonator and pushed the button. Rico and Vladimir spun on their toes as an explosion roared behind them. The team watched as a crimson gout spurted up from the office complex, enveloping it. As they stood there, several more fiery blossoms sprouted from the doomed building, leaving it a blazing inferno. Vladimir turned an inquisitive look to Najaf.
The Palestinian shrugged. “You must have wondered what I wanted half a kilo of Semtex for. That’s what. Now, did any job offers arrive in the last forty-eight hours?”
Rico grinned. “Yeah, there was a rebel in Tibet looking for some firepower . . . .”
And so the three partners continued, discussing business as they walked towards the hotel. The members of Mephistoclese left the scene of the crime slowly; walking against a backdrop consisted of a twisting column of flame straight out of hell itself.

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