Free Resurrecting Midnight by Eric Jerome Dickey Page B

Uruguay know the key to opening the package.”
    Señorita Raven said, “We’re not supposed to open it, sir.”
    “That’s my point. And if we had the key, not our fucking business, comprende ?”
    “ Sí , comprendo . I’m not that kind of soldier, sir.”
    “So whether it’s worth a billion U.S. or two pesos in South America, it’s not our concern.”
    “I doubt if anybody would go through all of this for two pesos. That’s sixty cents, U.S.”
    What was inside the briefcase had cost more than a few dozen men, and just as many women, their lives over the last few months. And now a family man had lost his mind and gone kamikaze from the top of a building, committed suicide over whatever was inside. He had seen many men kill themselves with guns and cyanide to protect secrets. That was nothing new.
    Curiosity rose up inside him, something that rarely happened.
    I understand that what’s inside is worth millions. Maybe close to a billion .
    The package was locked. What looked plain and black, upon closer inspection, wasn’t plain after all. It was a high-tech number. Solid material. A thumbprint was needed to open the case. Might’ve even had a sensor that would make the briefcase explode if compromised.
    He stood, looked at Señorita Raven, then glanced at the path the man from Uruguay had taken. Thirteen floors below, traffic was at a standstill. The bus rested on top of the dead man.
    There was a rumble.
    He looked to the sky. A helicopter was coming in. It paused over the roof. A light shone down. Medianoche began firing. Señorita Raven followed his lead. His first shot killed the spotlight. The chopper fled, took off as fast as it had come. Now he knew where the man from Uruguay was running. A helicopter had come in, like a rescue chopper in Vietnam.
    A rescue chopper, not a chopper carrying more warriors.
    The man from Uruguay had lied down to his last breath. Had been loyal to the end.
    Medianoche headed back down the metal stairway, his coat flapping in the wind, his hand holding his fedora on his head as he moved with quickness, blending with the storm, Señorita Raven behind him as they reunited with The Beast and Señor Rodríguez.
    They were in the hallway. A hallway filled with the scent of war.
    The remaining men from Uruguay were tied to chairs.
    The Beast was in front of them.
    The Uruguayans cried, were in too much pain to scream.
    The Beast held an axe in one hand. The kind used by firemen. One of the men from Uruguay was covered in blood. His foot was three feet away from his body, cut off above the toes.
    The soldiers stood and watched The Beast show how he had earned his moniker.
    A man who despised the Geneva Conventions.
    War should have no rules. Wars were about winning.
    The Beast walked toward the remaining Uruguayan, gun in one hand, dragging the axe by its handle, letting the noise of the bloody metal blade meeting tile terrify the final man.
    The Beast smiled. “Talk, and I will not kill you. That is my promise.”
    The final man began talking. He told of a hacker in La Boca. A hacker who had broken into Hopkins’s system and had information. Told how to get in contact with the hacker. He told The Beast the code to say to initiate business.
    The information was about a hacker who worked for an American who used a name he could not pronounce.
    But he could spell the name.
    “Siete . . . César . . . Ana . . . María . . . Zulema.”
    Those words represented the letters S-C-A-M-Z .
    The Beast said, “Scamz?”
    The man nodded a dozen times, his dialect Uruguayan, unable to pronounce that word.
    The Beast asked, “Is that an organization? What do those letters stand for?”
    The Uruguayan cried out that was the word he heard, said that was all he knew as he looked toward his bloodied friend, blood draining as he lived in a misery worse than death. The Beast walked over to the suffering Uruguayan. Raised the axe high. Brought it down.
    The Beast walked away. He nodded at Señor