Free Devils in Exile by Chuck Hogan Page B

class. Only problem? Feet of fucking clay.”
    “I’d rather stay and take a beating than retreat. Turns out that ain’t good for judges’ cards, or a long-term career.”
    Glade uncapped all four nips, sliding them around the island.Royce watched everyone drink together. “Now we’ve got trust. We’ve got a foundation. We sealed the deal with a crime. Better than a contract inked in blood. Maven—you’re one of us now.”
    Glade said, “Soldiers of fortune.”
    “You got something on us,” said Carlito, swallowing, “and we got something on you.”
    Royce said, “It’s the doctrine of mutually assured destruction. The best possible basis for a secure and honest partnership.”
    Termino nodded and opened the suitcase lid on the cash. “Nobody pushes the button on anyone else without everyone going ka-plooey .”
    M AVEN DID NOT FEEL THE VODKA BURN UNTIL HE WAS IN THE POOL -table room with Glade and Carlito. Royce and Termino remained behind in the kitchen to handle the split. The bluster and the buddy talk was easy to fall back into, caught up in the crosscurrent of a waning adrenaline charge and his burgeoning buzz. The cold beer warmed Maven’s tongue magically, and he had questions, lots of them.
    He learned that, whether he rented or owned it, the building belonged to Royce. Neither of the other two had any idea how he had made his wad in the first place.
    Maven learned that they had not been at this long. “Not long enough” was Carlito’s answer, as he banked the eight ball into a corner pocket.
    Maven learned that the hotel jump was maybe 5 percent of the total effort expended on this job. Most of it was van surveillance and telephone traps.
    He learned that Royce was the one who put them on the Venezuelan. They did not know how he originated the information, nor did they care.
    “When Royce found me,” said Glade, “I was detailing cars in a mall parking garage. Pocketing fucking nickels and dimes foundunder the seat cushions. I’m out running this half-triathlon to get my ass back into fighting shape, and this guy comes up to me on the last leg, running beside me, gets me talking. Half out of breath, we’re shooting the shit like we’re at a cocktail party or something. And he lays all this broad shit out on me, smart stuff, where I’m at, where I’m going.”
    “Yeah,” said Maven. “Exactly.”
    “Fearless leader, you know?” said Glade. “So I don’t ask.”
    Carlito nudged Maven, looking down the short hallway into the kitchen, Royce and Termino stacking cash on the kitchen island. “Mad money, dude. It’s sick.”
    Glade said, “Royce takes a double share off the top, and all I know about that is, he earns it, for sure.”
    Maven sank a ball, then attempted a touch shot and missed completely. “What about Termino?”
    Carlito said, “He’s older. An acquired taste, but tough as fuck.”
    Glade said, “He and Royce served together in Germany.” He paused to chalk up. “What about you? Royce said Special Forces.”
    “Yeah,” Maven allowed.
    “Where’d you get dirty over there?”
    “All over,” said Maven. “Mostly north of Baghdad. Samarra.”
    “I was in Samarra,” said Carlito. “Late ’04. Samarra, Fallujah. Every fucking resistance base. Just my good luck.”
    Glade said, “You did the job.”
    “Yeah, I did the fucking job.” Carlito smacked the cue ball down into a cluster of solids and stripes, not aiming anywhere in particular, just breaking them up as hard as he could. “And what fun we had. That was the asshole of all assholes.” Carlito straightened and said to Maven, with a thumb toward Glade, “Milkshake here still believes in the war.”
    “Fuck, yeah, I do. I didn’t waste five years of my prime for nothing. Maven here stands with me, don’t you, New Guy?”
    “Enough,” said Royce, coming into the room. “Fucking boring.” Termino followed with the open suitcase, setting it down on the pool table. “It’s payday, boys.”
    They