Free Dead Six by Larry Correia, Mike Kupari

with a slight limp.
    “You boys want a beer?”
    “Uh, no thanks.” I hate beer.
    “We’re driving,” Tailor said. “Got any Dr. Pepper?”
    Hawk turned around, closing the refrigerator door. He had in his left hand one large can of beer, and in his right hand two cans of Dr. Pepper. “I bought a case after Val called me,” he answered, sitting down. “So, boys, why don’t you tell me what’s going on? Tailor, I haven’t heard from you in a year. Val here hasn’t e-mailed me in a couple of months. Then all of a sudden I get a call, asking me if I can store his stuff. So what’s going on?”
    “We’re not supposed to talk about it,” Tailor said. “It’s a job. We’re going to be gone for a long time, probably over a year.”
    “A job with who?” Hawk asked, sipping his beer.
    “We’re . . . not really sure,” I said. Hawk set his beer down and raised his eyebrows. “I mean, I think it’s the government. It’s all very hush-hush.”
    “How’s the pay?” Hawk asked.
    “Insane,” Tailor responded.
    “We’re not supposed to talk about it,” I said, echoing Tailor’s words.
    “Don’t give me that bullshit, boy,” Hawk said. “You know I ain’t gonna go calling the newspaper or anything.”
    “Does Quagmire even have a newspaper?” Tailor asked.
    “Sure as hell does. The Quagmire Sentinel. Yesterday’s front-page headline was about the truckload of chickens that overturned on the highway outside of town. There were chickens everywhere. Now, do you have any idea where they’re sending you?”
    “All they’d tell us was that it was someplace where the US doesn’t have any ongoing operations,” Tailor said. “So I’m guessing somewhere in the Middle East, probably.”
    “Or somewhere in Africa,” I suggested.
    “Christ, I hope not,” Tailor said. “I don’t want to go back to Africa.”
    “Me, either,” I said. “But that’s the thing, Hawk. They won’t tell us anything. They just had us sign a three-year contract.”
    “Kid, are you telling me you signed a contract when you had no idea who you’re working for or where you’re going? Why would you do that?”
    “Twenty-five large every month,” I said. “They’ve already dropped a twenty-K signing bonus into my checking account.”
    “Damn,” Hawk said. “That’s good money. Hell, I haven’t made that kind of money since Decker and I retook that diamond mine from the rebels. We got paid in cut stones. I still have some of ’em in the safe downstairs. Anyway . . . boys, are you sure about this?”
    “No, I’m not,” I said honestly. “But . . . Hawk, I tried living the regular life. I had a normal job and everything.”
    “You hated it, didn’t you?” Hawk asked, studying me.
    I hesitated briefly. “Yeah. I hated it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. After Mexico . . . Christ, Hawk, most of my friends are dead now. How could I want to go back to that life? What’s wrong with me?”
    “Goddamn it, Val, we’ve been over this,” Tailor said angrily.
    Hawk interrupted him. “Hold on, Tailor. Val, we all go through this eventually. You get over it, and you go on to the next job. You miss that life because it’s all you’ve done. You miss the money, the excitement, the shooting. It’s normal. Anyway, you’re good at it. I’ve never seen anyone run a six-gun like you. The first time I handed you a .357 you shot like you’d been born with it in your hand. Why do you think I talked Decker into hiring you? I saw what you did in Afghanistan. You cleaned out that Hajji nest like a pro, and practically by yourself.”
    “I got kicked out of the Air Force for that,” I said.
    “Forget ’em,” Hawk responded. “The bureaucrats that run the military these days don’t know talent when they see it.”
    “I know. Honestly? I don’t feel bad about wanting to go back. I feel bad that I don’t feel bad about wanting to go back.”
    “No point in trying to be something you’re not, Val,” Tailor