Free Dead Six by Larry Correia, Mike Kupari Page A

said. “That’s why I called you for this. I figured you wanted to go back as much as I did.”
    “Tailor’s right,” Hawk stated, a hard gleam in his eye. “You’re a natural-born killer , boy, and you always will be. You’re guaranteed to be miserable until you accept that.”
    “It’s a good thing Tailor called,” I said. “I was about to accept Ling’s offer and join Exodus.”
    “I knew it!” Tailor exclaimed. “Hawk, will you talk some sense into him?”
    “Kid, Exodus is bad news. Now, I know they helped you get out of there after things went to shit in Mexico, but that’s probably only because you saved that Oriental girl’s life. They’re dangerous.”
    “So were we ,” I said.
    “But we were professionals,” Hawk replied. “They’re true believers. That’s a different kind of dangerous. Better to stay away from it.”
    “I don’t have the best feeling about this gig, either,” I said.
    “You don’t have to go.”
    “I already signed the contract.”
    “So? If you need to disappear, we can make that happen. It’ll be a huge pain in my ass, but it’s doable. I’ve done it before for other folks.”
    “No. I don’t want to go on the run.”
    “The money’s too good to walk away from,” Tailor said.
    “No kidding,” I concurred, cracking a smile. “I’ll be living large when I get back.”
    “Well, let’s get to unloading your stuff, then,” Hawk said, setting his empty beer can on the table.

    As darkness fell, Tailor, Hawk, and I sat on the front porch, watching one of the most beautiful desert sunsets I’d ever seen. Hawk leaned back in his chair, sipping a beer. Tailor and I sat next to him, studying the shades of red and purple that filled the sky as the sun slowly sank beneath the mountains. Real moments of peace are hard to come by in life, and no one wanted to ruin it by talking.
    The sun slowly disappeared, and the stars were increasingly visible overhead. It was cold out, and our breath smoldered in the chilly air. Hawk looked over at Tailor and me. “Now you listen, boys,” he said, taking another sip of his beer. “A long time ago, I was on a job that paid too good to be true, too. More than twenty years ago now, I think. It was before we went legit and founded Vanguard. It was just Switchblade back then.”
    “What happened?” I asked.
    “We were straight-up mercenaries. We worked for just about anyone that had the cash to pay us, and we didn’t ask questions. We always got the job done, too. We spent most of our time in Africa. Business was good. Until this time we got in over our heads. We . . .” Hawk hesitated. “We basically overthrew the democratically elected government of Zembala.”
    “Where’s that?” I asked.
    “It doesn’t exist anymore,” Hawk replied. “It’s called the Central African People’s Republic now. The government of Zembala was corrupt, teetering on collapse. They had tribal conflict, religious conflict, and the Cubans screwing around there, too.”
    “Fucking Cubans,” Tailor and I said simultaneously.
    “We had been paid to protect the president of Zembala. He was a real piece of work, let me tell ya. He was a lying, whoring drunk, and the validity of the election results were questionable. Anyway, he was hoarding the cash from the state-run diamond mines, trying to fund his army to keep the Commies from overthrowing him. We protected him. He didn’t trust anyone from his own country. Too much tribal bullshit. We didn’t have a dog in that race, so he trusted us. But we got a better offer.” Hawk paused for a moment. “The Montalban Exchange, some big international firm, offered us a lot of money to kill the president.”
    “That didn’t work out, did it?” Tailor asked.
    “Christ Almighty, it was bad,” Hawk said, finishing his beer and crushing the can in his hand. “Decker went for it. We killed the president. That was easy. It got complicated after that. We left the capital for Sweothi City,