The Shack: Ladykiller

It was my turn to smile. "I have a pretty full refrigerator and I make great omelets. Or you could try the house specialty, spicy breakfast noodles."

More certain, she finished buckling herself in, reached over and touched my leg. "I have to try the noodles."

***

I had to ask, "Why me?" I shifted to look into her eyes. I would be perfectly happy doing that all day. In fact, waking up with her had felt natural.

She shrugged, blue eyes sparkling. "Why not? I know you've looked in a mirror a few times. You could have had just about any woman in the squad. I bet Garcia and Carmichael would have come here together. A guy that looks like you do has probably done that a few times."

I shrugged. "Guilty as charged. But that turns into work faster than you think." Even three girls a couple of times, though I certainly wasn't going to tell her that.

She shook her head grinning ruefully. "I knew it. So instead you choose a fat middle-age woman, with stretch marks and bad skin."

I reached over and squeezed her bare hip gently. "You're not fat and you're more beautiful than you think." I traced the curve of her hip with the tip of my fingers watching goose bumps rise in their wake. "I read somewhere that the most primal attractive thing about a woman is the waist-hip ratio. It's supposedly about 70%." I cocked my head, examining her hip. "And I think you are just about exactly perfect on that."

She gave a throaty chuckle, letting her head fall back onto the pillow. "Damn, you really are good. You almost have me convinced you'd rather have me here than a twenty-year-old."

"I really do. Besides, what the hell would I talk about with a twenty-year-old anyway?"

Anne shrugged. "I don't know."

"Neither do I. Probably some movie I've never seen, or a singer I don't even want to hear. But you never answered my question. Why me? If you are going to start going out again, why start with me?"

She let a long slow breath out. "Don't take this the wrong way, but... you're safe."

"You're casting aspersions on my reputation as a wolf. I've never been called safe before."

Her smile broadened. "I guess not. But that 'Bad Boy' stuff is why you're safe. That whole lean muscle and dark Italian thing you've got going on. You look like you just stepped off the cover of a very steamy romance novel. You're so smooth you make oiled glass look like sandpaper and you just ooze sex." She gave a very self-satisfied smirk. "And you live up to truth in advertising there."

I know I looked as confused as I felt. "I'm Greek, not Italian. But how does any of that translate to 'safe'?"

"I'm not explaining this really well and I don't want to be..." She sighed. "Look, every woman wants to try that Bad Boy fantasy, and God knows you do it just right. You probably even have a motorcycle, don't you?"

It was my turn to laugh. "Two, a Harley Davidson Softail Heritage and a Yamaha, for off-road."

"Like I said, perfect. But... I don't feel like there's an emotional risk here. You might as well carry a sign that says 'Warning: Commitment Issues.' I don't have to worry about introducing you to my daughter, or worry about if our schedules will work, or whether or not you would freak out if I decided to have another child."

That left me a little unsettled, maybe just a little unhappy. Even though it was pretty much true and I knew it. Though it felt a bit like she might not even be convinced. Before I could decide how I felt, she hooked one long leg over my hip and used it to pull herself up against me. "I was thinking of a late breakfast today."

It had become very obvious that when she'd said, "I haven't exactly had an active social life," she'd really meant she hadn't had sex in three years. She seemed intent on making up for lost time.

When we finally did get around to breakfast, it was actually closer to lunch time.

I spent the rest of the day taking her on a tour of the wineries in the area. She insisted we take the Harley, borrowed one of my black T-shirts, and left her bra on my dresser.

*****

I was just finishing fixing breakfast noodles at her request, late Sunday morning, when Anne came down from fixing her hair. The only thing she was wearing, other than a slightly smug look, was the dress shirt she'd rescued from Carmichael. Unbuttoned of course.

We sat eating the noodles for a while, strangely comfortable, even in silence.

Anne finally finished the last bite and pushed her plate away. "Even better than yesterday, I can see why that's the house specialty. I could get used to these."

"A tradition from a unit I was in."

"I knew it. One of 'those guys,' huh?"

"Those guys?" I really knew what she meant, of course.

"Normally a guy would say 'the 82^nd' or '2^nd Armored.' Maybe 'The Regiment,' if they were a Ranger. '5^th Group' or "my team" if they were SF."

"I was a sniper with the Regiment for a while." I was actually in the Regiment for five years before I found a white-haired wicked jester of man sitting on the hood of my car when I came in from my run one day.

She smiled. "But you went all the way over to the dark side, didn't you? Bob and I had some friends we came up with who went in that direction. They were Delta and you don't feel like them, but you sure as hell were something. I knew it when you took the squad down Friday."

I held my hand up helplessly, but she just smiled. "Don't worry about it. I'm not asking for answers. I'm just working through my Bad Boy fantasy."

I shook my head. "So, what do we need to do to complete your fantasy anyway?"

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Let's see. Expensive steak dinner. Check. Ridiculous sexy car. Check. Days and nights of sex. Check. Romantic motorcycle tour of the wineries. Check. More sex. Check. Exotic meals fixed by you. Check." She acted like she was ticking a tally sheet. "We still have 'one last round of sex.' And my Walk of Shame in front of my whole unit."

"I can get you back in the hotel without anyone knowing..."

"Nuh uh." She cut me off. "That's part of the fantasy. The girls have a barbeque set up for five o'clock in the hotel courtyard, and you get to drop me off five minutes late, right the hell in front of all of them. They invested some effort in this and they expect results. I have to have witnesses that I've been bad."

I laughed. "Do you need an affidavit?"

"Noooo..." She grinned wickedly, toying with the buttons on the dress shirt. "But would you be willing to sacrifice a shirt to the cause?"

*****

We took one long last ride on the Harley, picking up a couple of bottles of wine for her to take to the barbeque. When I finally and regretfully dropped her off with a last very warm kiss, she was wearing my shirt, untucked, over her jeans. It looked decidedly more like a strut than a walk of shame to me. The hoots and catcalls from her team didn't seem to embarrass her at all. She turned and shot me a victorious smile and a wink as I pulled out of the parking lot.

It was pretty much everything we both expected, but for some reason, it just didn't seem like it was what I wanted at all.

She'd very deliberately left her bra hanging on the headboard of my bed.

Empty. I realized I wasn't looking forward to an empty dinner table and empty bed. More specifically, I realized I was picturing a specific person in both those places. One I barely knew. One who was getting on a plane to Iraq in two days.

Maybe I needed a distraction. I decided to go see Kimmi and find out what the offer was.

*****

Arlington, Virginia

The redhead eyed me as I walked into her office, then smiled, a little crookedly as if she was laughing at a joke only she understood. "Uncle Tony!"

"Hey, Kimmi. How's everything going?"

She rolled her eyes at the "Kimmi," but she knew better than to waste her breath arguing with me over it. I'd babysat her so Kurt and Katie could have nights out together, and she'd always be "Kimmi" to me. "Busy. No rest for the wicked."

"You'll never rest then." That was more or less certain. Not only was Kimmi a full-fledged lawyer now, she ran part of K2 Executive Services, her parents' security firm. Specializing in small discreet high-end contracts.

She nodded. "Mom and Dad are doing fine. I saw Pogo a few weeks ago and he says everyone is doing great." She paused. "I talked to Danni and I think she and Derek are planning on another kid. It's a wonder Danni can even walk. She told me Derek is 'in proportion,' if you know what I mean, and he's like..."

"Whoa. Too much information, Kimmi. Remember, I used to bounce you and Danni on my knee when you were little."

"I don't think it's his knee Danni is bouncing on, but it's probably almost as big..."

"Kimmi. Stop it."

She grinned wickedly, delighted at getting under my skin. "So how's your love life there, 'Hollywood'?"

"If it was doing great, would I be here?"

"Hard to imagine you not getting any."

"It's not all about 'getting some,' you know." I immediately regretted saying that.

Kimmi's eyes widened in mock terror and she leaned over and looked out the window. "No blood running in the streets, no fire raining from the sky. It sure doesn't look like the apocalypse... maybe I misheard you."

"Very funny, smart ass."

She studied me for a minute. "Somebody got to you, didn't she?"

I shrugged. Kimmi'd known me too long to get anything past her. "Don't look too thrilled, after all, how's your love life going?

"A guy started flirting with me in the grocery store the other day."

"Aaaannnd?"

"He was old, creepy, and I tried to stab him with a carrot peeler."

"Only tried?"

"I couldn't get the packaging off quick enough. He was faster than he looked."

"Sounds like a very romantic time."

She grimaced and pulled a packet out of her desk. "Dad has a contract for police sniper refresher training in Afghanistan. Ten months, maybe twelve at the outside. Standard pay scale." She paused. "Plus."

"Plus? How many plusses??"

"One special. Your friend has to take care of the special."

So they wanted the Russian. That was never a good sign. "Who's the customer?"

"You know a Colonel named Victor Duquesne?"

"I knew a First Lieutenant by that name, a helluva long time ago. He was in Ranger Regiment, he's a good guy."

"He's in command of the 12^th Readiness Assessment Group."

"That's the new name of the old unit." The unit we all knew as "The Shack," changed names all the time.

She nodded. "He's acting for an OGA, not sure who, maybe CIA. He's undermanned so he's reaching out for support."

"That's bad. I've never heard of the Shack having a manning shortage, Howard would have never let that happen."

"Dad said it's from burnout, the operational tempo is too high in the Middle East, all the special mission units are being overtasked. A lot of them have expanded, but they're competing for overlapping skill sets from the same pool. It's getting hard to find enough talent."

"So they're contracting out? Sounds risky."

"Only to 'trusted agents' like you, who were in the Shack and are still connected. They also said to pass the word if you find any likely prospects."

"Not sure I'd do that to anyone I liked, but I'll keep an eye out. Anyways, do you have the details on the special?"

"Not yet, but if you are a 'go,' I can get them. Let me guess, you want William as spotter?"

"If he's available."

"I'll check, but he'll probably go for it. When can you leave?"

"A week if you need me there to start the training."

"Make it four weeks and I'll have William's answer. You need shipping?"

"I'll call Brooks and have Wendy take it in. Easier than that diplomatic pouch bullshit or having some Customs jackwad steal my stuff because it looks cool. I need transport to the target and out, anyway."

She shrugged. "Got it. We'll front you an extra ten grand for the shipping. That's in and out. Wendy is practically doing bulk rate for us over there; just let her know it's for one of our contracts."

"Cheaper than a family discount?"

"I think she's only billing us for handling and nicking DoD for the actual carrying charge."

"You know Wendy; happiness is getting paid twice for the same freight."

"Either way, DoD pays the freight for this." She suddenly turned grim. "You got another letter from your mother."

"You know the drill."

"Already sent it back unopened. You know this might be easier if you just talked to her."

"I can't imagine any circumstances where that will ever happen, Kimmi."

"Yeah, I know." She frowned. "I'll just keep bouncing them back to her."

"Do that. Maybe she'll get the hint."

"Does she do this to your brother?"

"Yes, but Nicco does the same thing I do, and she doesn't have the guts to write Dad."

"Yeah, I'd guess not." Kimmi knew the whole pathetic story. My Dad, Pappas Hatzidakis, had met Daphne when he went to college in America. After a whirlwind courtship, they'd married and had me. They'd decided to chase Dad's dream of commercial fishing in Croatia, and everything seemed fine. After thirteen years, with no warning at all, she'd left me, my brother and my dad, leaving only a terse three line note and her wedding ring on the kitchen table.

We'd figured it all out later. She'd been watching the expensive super-yachts cruise in and out of the harbor while Dad struggled to make ends meet running a fishing boat. She worked in a tourist gift shop, seeing the money roll through every day. The right guy with the right words came into her shop at the right time, and that was it. It was just the three of us after that.

We hadn't heard from her again until three years ago when letters started arriving at my mailbox. I saw her name on the first one, realized that she had nothing to say that I cared to hear, and returned it unopened. In short order that became a twice a month ritual for me, then for Nicco as she started sending letters to him.

Katie, Kimmi's mom, had convinced her that my "obvious commitment issues" sprung from the abandonment. But then, so did my official psych eval. Pogo had tossed it down in front of me grumbling about guys with giant brains and doctorates, working very hard to tell people what was already obvious.

Kimmi decided to change the subject. "I'll make sure William has the data on the 'plus.' Do you need contact information for Brooks?"

"That I have."

She looked over a sheaf of papers. "Everything is on the contract; the plus is listed as 'optional subject matter expert' consultation fee."

"That will work. You stay safe, okay?"

She grinned. "I have a carrot peeler in my purse, I'm good."

*****

Waco, Texas

Brooks looked at the open cases. "You're taking all of these? You know this isn't golf, right? You don't have to take a full set." His Boston accent was mostly decipherable.

I nodded. "I'm training Afghan police snipers, so I need to use the same rifles they use."

"So off the top of my head as I go through this... You have a Romanian PSL?"

"Two of them, there's another in the case below it. I've got an extender on the butt stock of that one."

"Because...?"

"They're designed for a cold climate with bulky winter clothing, fits better for me if I put an extension on it."

He shrugged and looked in the next case over. "An M16A2?"

"We could end up training some regular Afghan Army types and some of them use the A2s for their designated marksmen."

"Let's see, two M9 pistols, one M4, two AK-74s."

"The M4 is for William."

"And..." He opened the last case. "The Russian?" He glanced sideways at me, suppressing a flash of concern.

The Russian was a Dragunov SVD 63 rifle. Or least it had started out as one. I'd taken the original off of a Spetnatz sniper who had turned out to be not quite good enough to take me out first, never mind where.

Most of the upgrades to the weapon weren't visible to the naked eye, parts carefully machined and fitted, although it had been fitted with a very different scope. Along with custom ammunition, the changes had extended the effective range of the weapon, normally about 800 meters, to nearly 1500 meters. Not exactly a TAC or an M24A3, but that was what made it important.

The Russian was a legend. Across much of the Middle East and Southwest Asia, rumors of a former Russian Spetnatz sniper-turned-mercenary made the rounds regularly. A stone killer who occasionally killed for personal reasons.

Several officials were rumored to have been killed by "The Russian"; usually targets who had opposed Russian government programs or policies.

The fact that they'd usually been involved in other issues was typically ignored once it became clear that they'd been killed by the Russian. The reality was that The Russian was doing the same work, for the same people, that I always had.

Brooks frowned. "You'll need the Russian cards then?"

"The whole nine yards. Driver's license, old military service card, a Russian passport." The only things I carried when operating as the Russian. Insurance for the "customer"; if I was killed, all the enemy would have would apparently be the body of a dead Russian mercenary. "The Russian" was a "premium service" only available to very specific customers. To maintain the fiction of a Russian mercenary, there was no safety net; no Army helicopter extraction, no military quick reaction force, no US intervention at all. I'd need Wendy's network to get in and out.

The premium service, the extra risk, meant a premium payment. Kurt had set it up that way, once I became an independent contractor. The Russian was responsible for a ridiculously healthy bank account.

Brooks sighed. "I was afraid of that; we have some assets in the region, but it will be spotty at best. Nearly all of Wendy's airlift in the area is tied down with legitimate contacts for military support."

"She's going to ruin her reputation for villainy."

"We still have Asia to fall back on. Lots of skulking and skullduggery there still."

"Good, I was worried, Wendy going legit is a pretty frightening thought. I'd have to sell off all my airline stock."

He chuckled, then pulled a small cellphone and a card out of his pocket and handed it to me. "Numbers for each country in the region. Standard two-digit rotation code. Anybody dials the numbers on the card, they get regular shipping offices, completely aboveboard. Your codeword is 'Player.'" He smirked.

"Wendy's a smart ass." I stopped. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Sure, if I can."

"Can you have someone look into a woman for me, named Anne Keats. She's a First Sergeant in the Army Reserve down in Texas." I ran down what little she'd told me.

"I thought you didn't do domestic."

"It's personal, not a target package. Just someone interesting. I want to know more about her."

Brooks froze looking down at his notes. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"I'm not sure if stalking her is the best way to start a relationship. You do know that 'relationship' means you actually would see each more than one time, right?"

"I just want to know a little bit more about her. Nothing creepy."

"It's already creepy, but... just some publicly available stuff, address, relatives, job stuff, that sort of thing? Not the color of her underwear..." He paused. "You probably already know that, don't you?"

I just glowered at him.

He smirked. "Thought so. Leave it to you, Hollywood, to know a woman's favorite sexual position and bra size before you find out her last name."

"I know her last name, asshole."

"Wow, there's a first time for everything."

"Maybe that smart-ass thing Wendy has is contagious."

"This feels like the end of an era." He made a mockery of a solemn expression.

"Just get me the info."

"Where do I send it?"

"The usual online drop box, I'm headed out to see my dad and brother before I head into Afghanistan."