Major Grendilman strode through the double doors and cast his eyes around the room. Muted conversations faded out. Everyone met his eye: Packard, Narayan, Roberts, Watanabe. There were no shirkers here, no tender newbies. The pounds of scar tissue they sported attested to that.
The Major walked to podium at the front of the room. He set his tablet on the wood surface, pulled out the projector element, and powered it up.
The room remained silent. Four hard faces waited.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back. We've located another target and it's time to move."
Grendilman switched on the projector beam. The blank wall behind him lit up with an ID photo of a middle-aged man, watery blue eyes, prominent nose, slightly receding blonde hair combed back and falling to his shoulders.
"This is Roger Campbell. We've been able to trace 20 million a day to him. Given recent trafficking trends, we estimate he's responsible for at least 550 million. He's the biggest dealer we've flushed in four years."
"You should be pleased to hear that we've kept the federals and locals from squeezing his pushers. So, just like anyone still in the business, he knows we're coming for him. He just shouldn't know that we'll be knocking on his door next Tuesday."
The Major pressed a button on his tablet. The projection shifted to a satellite image of what looked like a beach estate.
"His compound is on Eleuthera. Insertion is via commercial carrier. Travel will issue the tickets, staggered over three weeks. So one of you lucky bastards gets three weeks in the Bahamas."
Mild grunts and chuckles.
"Muster is March 20th in George Town. Extraction is via VTOL..."
He noted a few raised eyebrows.
"...an indication of how important this mission is. We've got six days to hash out the tactical and submit a wish list to the quartermaster."
A side of beef packed into a T-shirt raised his hand. It was Packard.
Grendilman smiled and nodded "What is it, Pack?"
"Sir, what about collateral?"
"This is a clean mission. We leave nothing breathing. If you catch the family pet in your sweep, it gets a round. Campbell has a wife and three teenagers in the house, two sons, 13 and 17, and a daughter, 16."
Narayan, a gorgeous East Indian, raised a slender finger.
"Sir, why not use VX or an FAE?"
"In normal circumstances, we would. There are no political ramifications here. Every nation on the planet knows the consequences of harboring a known dealer. But I want our target dead, Sergeant, not pumped full of atropine he's stockpiled or cowering in a bunker. We need recorded verification of his brain's interaction with high-velocity lead. Any more questions? Good."
He snapped the projector closed.
"This room isn't secure for RF, so bring your tablets up for direct transfer. You all have a lot of reading to do."
*
Five security guards lay in pools of blood outside. Packard secured the approach to the main house. He transmitted an all-clear they snatched and recorded during their initial recon. Every five minutes, the voice of a dead man declared "clear" to the security provider's main office. Cameras and sensors dutifully recorded the synthesized loops they were fed.
The four remaining team members spilled silently into the house.
Narayan and Roberts headed upstairs. Watanabe and Grendilman started their sweeps of the ground floor.
*
The door to the master bath was locked. Someone was splashing and singing off-key in the shower. Narayan noted that it sounded like classic Madonna, "Borderline" in fact.
Narayan popped the lock and opened the door a crack. Snaking her scope through the gap, she surveyed the room. Through the fogged glass of the shower enclosure, the wife faced away from the door, scrubbing at the suds in her hair. Narayan slipped into the room, flowed up to the enclosure, gently levered the shower door open, and eased the silencer of her pistol towards the mass of shampoo foam.
"You just keep on pushing my love over the..."
*phut*, *phut**phut*
Narayan reached over the body, turned the water off, and stalked out of the room.
*
Roberts moved to the first room of her sweep, the younger son's bedroom. She paused in the dark hallway and furrowed her brow at a faint clicking. Through the open doorway, a faint glow washed the wall opposite.
A reedy, pubescent voice called out: "Smoked you again! Fuck you, spawn camper!"
She knelt down and gingerly poked her scope around the corner.
The clicking was a trackball. The kid sat at a desk, headset on. The flat panel in front of him provided the only light in the room. He was playing a first-person shooter. How ironic.
Roberts noted a convex rearview mirror tacked to the corner of the monitor. This would have to be quick then.
She stood up, leveled her H&K USP9SD, and walked into the room.
*phut*, *phut**phut*
*
Watanabe found the daughter at the center of a ring of books and papers in the living room. Wary of possible reflections in the giant flat TV hanging from the wall, he stalked around and behind the reading, scribbling girl. He brought the silencer to the base of her skull, nearly brushing her blonde ponytail.
*phut**phut**phut*
*
Grendilman stood in the kitchen. He had nearly finished his search, finding nothing. Moving to the garage entrance, he pressed a microphone against the door. The distinctive grinding of a ratchet wrench came through his headset.
"Hey Dad, I'm going to make some tea. Want some?"
"Sure."
The Major ducked aside and raised his pistol.
The boy stepped through the door, closing it behind him.
*phut*, *phut**phut*
The body collapsed, twitching gently with a fountain of blood splashing across the slate of the kitchen floor.
Grendilman eased the door open and pushed his scope through.
Blue-jeaned legs stuck out from under the hulk of a '58 Oldsmobile. The gaudy chromed beast stared out through its twin headlights. It would cost a packet to haul that old hulk from the mainland, money distilled from the pain and frustration of millions of victims.
Grendilman swung the door open and stepped down into the garage.
"That was quick. Can you hand me the 9/16ths end wrench, the short one? This mounting bolt is a bitch."
Major Grendilman waited.
"Jay? Did you hear me? What's up?"
Roger Campbell pushed out from under the car. He took a sharp breath.
*phut**phut**phut**phut**phut*
Heedless of the DNA trace, Grendilman spat on the cooling corpse. Mucus and spittle dripped through blood and brain matter.
"Fucking spammer."
Pakeha