Free Minutes to Burn by Gregg Hurwitz Page B

mouth tight. “He was just trying to help you with your things. Trying to get a tip.”
    “He wants a tip?” Szabla said, pointing at the box. “How about: Don’t touch my fucking ordnance. I don’t give a shit where we are. These are M-4s.”
    “There are different rules down here.”
    “No,” Szabla said, stabbing a finger in Rex’s face. “There are different rules here. When we get to the science shit, you can run the science shit, but for now, keep your mouth shut and your ass out of my way.”
    “Next time, before you kick,” Rex said, picking up his bag, “try ‘no gracias.’”
    “Sorry,” Szabla said. “I only speak French.”
    “Then try ‘non, merci.’”
    Derek walked through the doors with Tucker and the private at his side just as a chiva pulled up to the curb. The private pointed at the open bus with its thatched roof. He took one look at Derek’s expression and shrugged apologetically. “We’re overbooked on military vehicles, and the UN takes priority.”
    They loaded the gear and sat on the edges of the chiva, M-4s lazing outward on cocked arms, pointing at the open sky. The weapons were high-speed versions of M-16s, shooting 5.56 rounds, thirty rounds per magazine. Most of the squad had tricked them out with flashlights, scopes, and other trinkets.
    Savage glanced down at the M-4, much smaller than the M-60 to which he was accustomed. “Fuckin’ pea shooter,” he grumbled.
    “I wouldn’t complain,” Derek said. “It’s a step up from a shiv.”
    The city was gray and run-down, and the driver drove a mad winding path through blocks filled with warehouses and shabby buildings. It took Cameron a few moments to realize that the meandering path was actually strategic; the driver was seeking out the streets that were still intact. The amount of construction under way was astounding. Everywhere she looked, Cameron noticed building crews, orange cones, yellow cranes, and trucks. The hot smell of asphalt made the pollution all the more oppressive.
    A little boy made a gun with his hand and pointed it at the chiva. Savage lowered his gun jokingly, aiming it at the boy, and Derek slapped it to the side.
    Rex was trying not to appear nervous around the weapons. He sat beside Cameron, his feet up on the split plastic seat in front of them. “Lovely, isn’t it?” he asked. “Two and a half million people living on con-verted mangrove swamp.”
    The driver turned a hard right, barely avoiding a large divot, and sud-denly they were on a street filled with high-rises. Vendors pushed carts, and bicyclists flew by on both sides of the chiva, so close Cameron was amazed they didn’t nick the bumpers. They turned up a street that ran along the west bank of the Guayas, and Cameron craned her head, checking out the different military outfits overseeing construction and running vehicle checkpoints. A platoon of iwias, Ecuadorian specialty troops, gathered by the river’s bank. Farther along, a UN tank was stopped beside a large statue of two men shaking hands, the white and sky-blue flag rippling against the backdrop of the river. A number of French soldiers sat around the tank, legs dangling over the sides, eating sandwiches and drinking Coke from bottles. The tall, chain-link fence of the cordon loomed ahead.
    A major stepped forward as they slowed at the checkpoint. He exam-ined Derek’s military ID, tilting it to check the holograms. “Mitchell, huh?” he said. “Team reserves?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Nice ride.”
    Derek took a moment before answering. “Thank you, sir.”
    The major bobbed his head, the faintest beginning of a smirk cross-ing his lips. “Got a call this morning regarding your mission.” He pulled off his soft, blue beret and ran a hand up the back of his bristling gray hair. He tapped the end of Derek’s M-4 and Derek lowered it. “No weapons out past checkpoint. We have the city center secure.” He glanced at the squad in the chiva. “Last thing we need is a