Read Online Dead Six by Larry Correia, Mike Kupari - Free Book Online

made me angrier. This job sucked. It was suicide, and I had been forced into it against my will. It was going to take months to accomplish, but once this gig was completed, I was going to devote my life to finding the man who put me in this situation. I vowed that I was going to go on a killing spree that would become the stuff of legend.
    My thoughts of murder were interrupted when a black Bentley parked in front of the club. The luxury car didn’t seem out of place on the same street as a vendor selling live chickens, but that was the nature of the Middle East. The driver exited and held open the back door for his charge. The man that stepped out was in his forties, wearing a brown suit, white shirt, and no tie. This was pretty fashionable apparel in the region and was what all the cool terrorists were wearing.
    He was early. Amazing. The driver stayed with the vehicle. I waited a few extra minutes, watching for anything out of the ordinary before I followed him into the club. The interior was dark and cooled by rows of ceiling fans. Inside, the social club was far nicer than its drab outside appearance suggested. It was relatively crowded by middle-aged men smoking hookahs, playing chess, and bitching about local politics.
    The server acknowledged me as I entered, but I waved him off as I spotted the man I was looking for sitting at a table in the back. The server retreated deferentially.
    The man saw me approaching and nodded once. I pulled up a chair and sat. “Lorenzo,” he said before taking a sip of his pungent tea. “I didn’t recognize you.”
    “That’s the general idea,” I responded. Say what you will about the man-dresses, they were actually pretty comfy and enabled me to conceal a few weapons. Even still, they do make you look like a big stupid marshmallow, and you can hardly run in one. I’d taken a few days to brush up my Arabic and perfect the local accent. I’d grown my beard out, and my natural features enabled me to pass for a native Zubaran rather easily. After all, I had a knack for blending in wherever I went. “Good to see you again, Jalal.”
    Jalal Hosani smiled. “No, it is not good, I am afraid. You are a wanted man in this country, if I recall correctly.” His English was perfect. It should be, since he’d attended Oxford, paid for by his friends in the Qatari royal family.
    “Actually, no. You’re thinking of Syria, and the UAE . . . oh, and I think the Saudi courts want one of my hands. This is my first time in lovely Zubara. It’s kind of nice, except that whole pending revolution thing. So, what brought you here?”
    “Business grew difficult in Baghdad,” he said with a casual wave of his hand, as if a couple hundred thousand American troops interrupting his illicit arms dealing was a minor inconvenience. Jalal pulled a silver cigarette case from his suit. He offered me one. I shook my head. “Still the health nut, I see.”
    I only smoked when the cover required it. “Cardiovascular fitness comes in handy in my line of work.”
    “About that.” Jalal lit his cigarette and took a long drag. “What is your work this time?” He waited for me to respond, and when I didn’t, he continued. “I see . . . Usually your work involves the involuntary transfer of wealth and countless murders. I can safely assume this will be the same?”
    “But of course,” I replied as I pulled a fat envelope from my man-dress and passed it over. “As usual, you don’t want the details. I was never here.”
    Jalal raised his eyebrows as he flipped through the stack of money. He looked around the room as he shoved the money into his coat. “That is a considerable sum,” he said. “A considerable sum indeed. You do realize, however, that there are men hiding in this country who are with organizations you have stolen from. In fact, I know that one very dangerous man happens to frequent this very club on occasion. I could just keep the money, say who you are, and—”
    I cut him off. “I