Free Resurrecting Midnight by Eric Jerome Dickey Page A

front of the city bus. An empty bus weighed twelve tons, but this bus was close to being full. The bus ran over his broken and mashed-up body before coming to a dragging stop. Gun in one hand, fifteen-pound briefcase in the other, Medianoche stood there, winded, wet, lower back aching, angry, staring down at the scene.
    The man from Uruguay had chosen to kill himself rather than face his employers.
    “Medianoche.”
    He let the package go, let it fall at his feet as he jerked around, gun drawn, rain thumping his hat, prepared to shoot into the shadows.
    Señorita Raven was one landing up, gun in her hand, aimed at him.
    His gun was aimed at her.
    He snapped, “Stand down, soldier.”
    “Stop pointing your weapon at me, unless you plan on using it.”
    “Stand the fuck down.”
    “If I wanted to shoot you, I wouldn’t have called your goddamn name.”
    “Last time. Stand the fuck down.”
    Señorita Raven had come from above him, not from down below.
    In his head he was in the middle of a countdown, finger squeezing the trigger.
    Three.
    Two.
    Señorita Raven lowered her weapon.
    Medianoche did the same, kept it at his side, ready.
    Señorita Raven. So uncontrollable. Her own woman. Hardheaded.
    Down below. People walked by the scene. Few stopped. No one screamed.
    Medianoche adjusted his eye patch again, adjusted his fedora, then adjusted his long coat. There was a sharp pain in his lower back. He knew his muscles would stiffen up by sunrise. That pain. The sign of aging. Of a slow-moving end. Twenty years ago he could bench three times his weight with no aftermath. There was nothing nice about aging. Nothing nice at all. And nothing that could be done to prevent it. Nothing stopped the march of time.
    Jaws tight, he headed up the metal stairway as Señorita Raven headed down.
    Señorita Raven asked, “Sir, you okay, sir?”
    His scowl remained on her frown.
    Medianoche grunted. “I’m fine, soldier.”
    “You were frozen. I thought you had been hit and were making peace with your maker.”
    “I wasn’t frozen. I don’t freeze.”
    Medianoche’s knees popped when he squatted and picked up the black briefcase. He ignored the popping, looked at the package. Made sure it was the one they were after, that it somehow hadn’t been swapped, hadn’t been compromised. Something wasn’t right, but it was the briefcase in question. This simple black briefcase was worth a man’s life.
    This was part of the key to the fortune that had brought out the evil in many.
    Señorita Raven asked, “Package secure?”
    He ignored her, positioned himself to keep her in his periphery. “Where is the team?”
    “They have the other two men from Uruguay.”
    “Injuries to our team?”
    “None that I know of.”
    “Good.”
    “I understand that what’s inside is worth millions. Maybe close to a billion.”
    “That’s not our concern.”
    “Lots of casualties. Made me wonder what’s inside.”
    “Not our fucking business, soldier.”
    “I heard it was connected to the missing stimulus package money from the Bush admin.”
    “I don’t care about rumors, soldier.”
    “A lot of that money vanished; some say it was tucked away, spread out over several accounts, and this is the key to consolidating those funds and cashing in on that lottery ticket.”
    Medianoche thought about gunning down Señorita Raven.
    He grunted. “Might take a thumbprint to open the package.”
    “Whose thumb?”
    “Maybe the Presidente de la Nación de Argentina .”
    “ Cristina Fernández de Kirchner?”
    “She is the president.” He grunted. “She is the woman who runs the country. What’s your point?”
    “Is part of the mission to extract her fingers, sir? Do we have a plan to break into La Casa Rosada, the Residencia Presidencial de Olivos, and cut off the president’s fingers?”
    “We have to cut off her hand.”
    “We take her hand?”
    “ Soldier. At ease.”
    “Oh. Sarcasm. My bad.”
    “More than likely, the men from