Free A Flock of Ill Omens by Hart Johnson

minus a month, they'd been at St. Charles Place. Matt pulled out his phone to look the damn thing up, because he'd never remember all the properties. Two years ago was twenty-four months, and there were twenty-eight properties. That left him at Reading Railroad at two-hundred dollars if it was exactly two years, which it probably wasn't. He tried Reading200 first, with and without capitalization, but had no luck, so he jumped back to Baltic60.
    It caused the door to buzz and he edged it open, taking out his weapon as he did.
    There was no noise, so he pushed in further, flipping on the lights. The place looked like a haz-mat lab. Somebody here must have managed to get word to someone official that everyone was sick and dying and they'd called in the pros to come test what it was and clean up the place. Everything that had been here the last time he had was gone, replaced by a sterile table with lab equipment and a notebook.
    Matt scanned the room continuously, but when he reached the table, he thumbed the book to see what it could tell him. It listed the various hazards that might have made the crew so sick. All negative. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved that nobody had poisoned them, or more concerned that they hadn't figured out what the hell this was. It had wiped out two full teams of mercenaries without a trace. There was nothing more he could learn here, since they'd been so thorough in cleaning the place out, so he decided to try to find his friend. There was always a chance he'd survived.
    Brian Craig was nowhere to be found, but at least he didn't seem to be dead in his apartment. Matt broke in to make sure—no sign of him. He could hold out a little hope. Not a lot, though. It seemed the life expectancy in his field was running low.
    Having given up on Brian, Matt tried to call his brother next, first by landline, then cell, and finally with the satellite phone he'd left with him. He cursed Paxton's lack of cable while he waited. He had no way of knowing if any of this was even going on in Atlanta where Teddy was. In all likelihood, Teddy was passed out somewhere and would get back to him. If not, he'd gather the supplies he needed and drive up there himself. But first he wanted to check out Camp Blanding. It was the only way to know if this was about mercenary targets, or fighting men more broadly.
     
    He was getting tired of driving this same stretch of 10W, and driving to Camp Blanding gave Matt flashbacks. When he'd been discharged from the Army he'd been sort of lost for a while, not sure what to do with his life. He'd debated joining the National Guard, something he could do at the same camp where he'd done his initial Army training. He wanted to just keep his hands in the action. Then he discovered he could make good money as a mercenary. He was too shell-shocked and damaged to have a wife and family—he was no Dwayne Paxton. So why not keep doing the work, but for more money?
    He was an adventure junkie, a thrill-seeker, and a one-night stand. It wasn't that he didn't want a woman in his life, but nobody deserved to be strapped to his baggage, least of all somebody he actually cared about.
    Matt pulled off of 10 toward Camp Blanding and stopped for a sandwich. If the last few days were any indication, he was probably going to lose his appetite shortly, and it was better to have been fortified beforehand.
    The base was quiet on approach. Too quiet, considering what could be seen from the road was a museum normally open to the public. It was closed. He parked in front of it anyway, walking around to give the base a closer look. He would have expected drills or companies or vehicles—something moving around out there, but there was nothing. Nobody on the lake. Nobody in the sky. Nobody to stop him from poking around, though he shouted to make himself known as he went—better not to surprise anybody who might be armed.
    Finally a man came out of the back of a garage with a wrench in his hand. “Can I