Tool dropped the two-inch-thick folder down on the coffee table and the loud bang drew everyone's attention. He adjusted the angle of his cowboy hat and fell back onto the couch. The sooner they were confident in the mission's execution, the faster Barney could do the job and come home. "If this doesn't go to plan, you're gonna be in it for the long haul."
The target, Amil Neban, had a record miles long, and blacker than Barney's heart. If it was even half true, the team would require an armoured trojan horse. This wouldn't be like Mogadishu where they'd walked in and lain in wait for Minns, a.k.a Stonebanks, ready to shoot and flee; and in comparison to Stonebanks, Amil was a whole other kind of crazy.
He tortured his men to divide the weak from the strong, trafficked people for those who could pay, dealt arms in any country that would turn a blind eye, and shipped drugs for the cartels. There was also the laundering money for the various mobs. Somehow his neutrality had kept him alive, ensuring his continued existence amidst the constant rivalries between gangs, mobs, and cartels. Unfortunately that neutrality had now garnered him the attention of the Agency.
"You got a better plan than guns blazing?" Tool said, looking warily at Barney. That'd been all well and good with Vilain, but a different kind of approach was required now.
"I've got it covered, Tool."
For some reason, that wasn't as reassuring as it sounded.
Barney propped his feet up on the table and took another sip of his beer, cradling the ice cold brew in one hand and thumbing his phone in the other. Still no reply. Tool had faith in him alright, but the hint was there: don't fuck up, and don't get killed. They'd lost too many brothers over the years. His team was relying on him to help keep them alive, to bring them back home to their families.
Tool cracked open the file and laid out the blurry photos provided. These were the best the Agency could get: the side of someone's face, a woman exiting a vehicle with a man in a suit, and a partial license plate. Every undercover operative sent in was killed and their body dumped in the ocean. Any CCTV-enabled camera and traffic camera in a twenty mile radius of the target's location rendered useless. Whoever 'Amil Neban' was, they had mastered the art of covering their tracks.
Completing the mission in Church's two month time slot would be a feat in and of itself. They were chasing a ghost who could walk through walls and disappear underground in the time it took them to load a gun. There was no certified photo of Amil, nothing to verify their potential target was the correct one. All they had to go on was a continuing game of Chinese Whispers.
Tool glanced up, listening out for the lift's gears moving, but still it remained silent. If she'd been walking, he would've heard her footsteps. Belle'd gone inside her room two hours ago and hadn't come out since. Even he knew what that meant: private time for the lady before she came out with a hatchet and smashed down doors looking for Barney. He'd never known there was such raw hatred inside her, but he couldn't say it surprised him. Ross had refused to hire her on the spot and that'd piss anyone off who was in need of cash. "What're you gonna do for a translator?"
"Doc speaks Swazi. Gunnar speaks Russian."
Tool rolled his eyes. Ross knew what he meant. Seven men wasn't enough. The last time there'd been uneven numbers, Caesar had been shot. Even when it'd been him, Stonebanks, Barney, Doc, and Trench, they'd gone looking for a sixth member immediately. Someone to cover Trench's back so he wouldn't get shot when they weren't looking. "She needs the money."
Barney shrugged. It wasn't his problem now. He sympathised with the woman's predicament, but people who could allow themselves to fall into a hole were certainly capable of pulling themselves out. "There are other jobs."
"Call me when you two kiss and make up, huh?" Gunnar said, standing and stretching. He needed to get some fresh air. Sitting around with them complaining about the humidity and the lack of work would drive anyone nuts. Having to see Barney without his shirt and all those scars was also driving him to hurl. He didn't want to look anything like that by the time he hit sixty. "I'm gonna go meet Casey. See you at the hangar in the morning."
"I said two days, Gunnar."
Right. Barney was really going to waste a whole two days when he could get to Russia, get the job done and go home within a week. The easiest missions were never worth the fuel, so they always held out for a good payday that'd cover them for a few years longer. Living in comfort was easy once they all had sizable bank balances. Ever since the drama in Azmenistan, he'd adopted a 'me vs. the world' mentality. If no one could get past the walls Gunnar put up around himself, he wouldn't find himself ever caught between choosing his personal life or his work. "Uh-huh."
"We leaving in the morning, Barney?" Lee said. Resting in his lap, the screen flashed again and his phone vibrated. Lacy was calling for the third time in the past hour. It was probably a light bulb, or a farewell veritably late dinner. The last time she hadn't heard from him for longer than three weeks, he'd arrived home to find Lacy's new 'friend' in the space reserved for him. Christmas wasn't the jealous type, but one month? She hadn't even given him a chance to come home before moving on. Thank God that nightmare was over. Seeing Lacy with that bruise on her face had brought out a darkness he usually kept locked up and buried.
"Yeah," he said, resigning himself to a shit night's sleep. His head would pound in the morning when he was behind the wheel, but Lee could always fly. Barney sighed and looked at Tool, unable to avoid making eye contact. None of them understood how Tool could give them one look and guilt trip them into being wrapped around his finger, but it happened. When it was be either his bitch or Church's, the man he could trust won out every time. "Fine. Tell your translator that takeoff is at midday."
"And the pay?"
"Fifty." He wasn't going to pay someone he didn't know or trust their fair share until they'd proved themselves. Regardless of Tool's assurances, he wanted to know they'd finish the mission and make it home alive first before anyone got paid. Barney finished off his beer and dumped it in the trash while Gunnar wheeled his bike out and took off, followed by Lee. Hopefully everyone would have their shit sorted by midday tomorrow, himself included.
Fifty would have to do. He'd throw her ten grand from his expenses account if needed, but the stick lodged in Barney's ass was secured with superglue. Ever since Stonebanks' Christ-like resurrection and proceeding death, Barney had stopped allowing himself to trust anyone outside his already small circle of friends. He no longer went on dates, stopped picking up women at bars and bringing them back to his apartment — or Tool's shop — and Tool hadn't seen him do a proper grocery run in two months. Hell, Ross was beginning to look a little worn-out and faded, as if someone had stolen his sense of humour and was draining the life from him.
Another uneasy fifteen minutes passed mostly in awkward silence, during which Toll Road left on his bike and Caesar soon followed, leaving Doc, Yang, Tool and himself downstairs. Cheyenne came home early and crashed on Tool's bed, looking rather pissed off and tired. According to her, the manager's hands had gone wandering and found their way up her skirt, so she proceeded to politely slam his head down onto the bar and make sure he knew where his hands belonged.
"So what is the plan?" Doc said, yawning as he unrolled a sleeping bag and proceeded to lay it out on the floor. Unless he wanted to cuddle up close to Yang, he'd be sleeping on the floor with his backpack as a pillow. It was also comfier than fighting for room with someone who was all knees and elbows. Yang was short, lanky, and built for agility, not brute strength. "Well?"
"There's some philanthropy thing happening in Moscow. Church says the target should be there. If they are, snatch and grab. If not, we'll start tracking them the old fashioned way," Barney said, rubbing his jaw. Six weeks worth of stubble now lived untended on his face, leaving him looking like an old wrinkled billy goat. He'd be forced to clean up his image if they were to go to this event, with all its black tie glamour and upper-class snobbery.
If being the operative word.
x - x - x
"Philanthropy thing?"
A pair of ugg boots Cheyenne had loaned her muffled Belle's footsteps on the polished concrete floor. A lush royal purple bathrobe went down to her ankles, wrapping her in warmth and soft Egyptian cotton. It also concealed her legs and the pistol strapped to her right thigh as insurance. Isabelle clutched a bottle of 1989 Pinot Noir from Burgundy, France, in one hand, and a wine glass in the other, two fingers hooked around the stem. This was the real shit Tool bragged about owning, one of the many bottles she'd sent him over the years in an attempt to sway him from drinking only beer. "T, you mind if I —"
"You bought it, chère," Tool said, sliding across the couch. He figured she probably didn't want to put up with Sweaty McStinkpits sitting there without his shirt, or Yang's own b.o. They all needed showers, but Tool wouldn't be the first to admit they'd all become slightly lazy and comfortable in their years of being a generally men only group. "This is Yang," Tool gestured, "Barney you've already met, and Death."
"Doctor Death, thank you, or Doc for short. I don't fuck your name up, Toad," Doc said with a scoff as he tucked one arm under his head. She went straight for the empty chair Gunnar had vacated, all five eight of her in that stupid robe with a T embroidered on the left breast. Of course Tool had a fucking robe with his initial on it, the rich fucker probably had slippers too and a box of Cuban cigars tucked away somewhere so he could lounge around and pretend he was living it up. The woman avoided eye contact with all of them until after she cracked open the bottle of wine and poured herself half a glass, tucking her feet under her and leaning back on the chair. "You got a name, or are you some kind o' Cher impersonator?"
"Isabelle," she muttered, taking a sip. Alcohol wasn't her thing, but that false sense of strength it would give her for the next hour or so would be much needed. She also just wanted something to focus on other than the fear, and the knots that'd formed in her stomach over the past few hours. Sitting on the bed with a pistol in her hand, she'd visualised herself putting bullets in their heads. Wrestling a gun free from them and escaping before things became as horrible as they had. Unfortunately this was her reality. "Are they your team?"
Barney shook his head. Of course this was the team, four people was a good number for a team if this were a suicide mission. Who the fuck went after a target with three men and a woman anyway? Christ, he knew Gunnar could play stupid sometimes but at least the guy was a certified genius. Asking if three men made up a team was like asking if they preferred to be hung or killed by a firing squad. "Half of it. The rest left. We fly out at midday tomorrow."
She nodded, head drooping slightly. She'd heard the sound of the bikes leaving and figured the less numbers the better when she finally came downstairs. Numbers didn't mean much as she'd learnt in her hole, but with Tool enabling a sense of physical safety, she could begin to be herself again. Isabelle rubbed her eye then tucked her fringe out of the way, ignoring the way Doc seemed to be studying her from his position on the floor. Yang hadn't paid her any mind, one leg half-hanging off the couch and his head facing Ross. If not for him tugging his damp white shirt free of his chest, she would've thought he was asleep. None of them looked particularly intimidating, but appearances were deceiving when it came to Tool's friends.
"What's your call-sign?" Doc asked.
"Belle Morte. It's —"
"French for Beautiful Death," the four men spoke at once. Their French had to be somewhat decent, considering they all resided in New Orleans. That being said, Gunnar and Doc were still the best translators among past and present members.
"Well, you can partner with Doc," Barney said. The change of emotion on her face was obvious as she pursed her lips and looked away, leaning her head on her right hand. Putting the Death twins together would save him the hassle of splitting anyone up and disturbing the team's dynamics. Passing her onto Doc also meant he didn't have to personally babysit her. "Let me guess, you don't subscribe to teamwork?"
"I know how to work as part of a team," she said, biting back her anger. Her old team had been merely six individuals who trusted each other, no partnership bullshit or having to look after each other. Dividing a team into partners was an archaic method that nearly always got people killed in her experience. Isabelle sculled the rest of her half glass and set it down on the floor next to her chair before she stretched her feet out and tugged the robe up slightly, revealing her right leg. "I always fly solo, even on a team. Saves worrying about getting anyone killed except myself."
Yang rolled onto his back and sat up, groaning as he peeled his shirt off and dropped it over the back of the couch. Even for him, the shop was too hot. If only Tool had a pool, or proper air-conditioning in the shop itself. Upstairs would be like sitting in an ice bath, but Tool refused to waste money on the shop itself since the doors were always open. Sweat dripped off his chin and ran down Yin's chest, following the curve of his pectorals and rolling straight down his abs.
Everything was hot and sticky, or damp and foul. The sweat drying on Yang's upper arms made him itch like crazy, and the sweat from his pits only added to the faint smell of manliness that lingered in the air. Tonight would be nothing but humidity and restlessness, resulting in little sleep until he got on the air-conditioned plane. Barney had finally bought something that wasn't a complete piece of shit. "How do you cover your left?"
"I check it." If she wanted to constantly look over her shoulder, she would've kept running and tried to hide without help. She glanced at Yang when he peeled his shirt off and suppressed a laugh at the irony of the situation. If only her ex could've seen her. For all Camilla's talk about possible threesomes, or moresomes, she'd never gone through with it. She wouldn't touch Ross or Tool with a ten foot pole, knowing vaguely where Tool used to have fun, but Doc was somewhat cute, and Yang . . . well, he was a bundle of niceties. "I'm half blind, not half stupid. So who's the target?"
"Someone called Neban. Trafficker, arms dealer, master of all trades." Barney pronounced it knee-buhn, taking a guess. There was no nationality listed in the file, nor religion. It made finding him that extra bit more difficult. Church had also promised no Hague bullshit. The mission was more straightforward than Vilena: all that mattered was the target being buried six feet under, or chopped into pieces and spread over a coca plantation.
"My old boss runs weapons. If they're in the trade I've never heard of them," she said. "Maybe this Neban is trying to take over."
Of course she'd worked for a dealer. Why work as a true mercenary when you could get paid for supplying the scum of the earth with bullets and weapons? Barney buried his internal disgust, maintaining a straight face while the words 'ran weapons' played on repeat in his brain. If anything, their translator situation had suddenly become worse twofold. A mercenary he could give a little leeway to, but not someone who played the Team Neutrality card. "You worked for an arms dealer?"
She nodded. She'd never thought about trading down and working for someone else when the pay was good, and as luck would have it she'd fallen in love with the boss's daughter. Why anyone would give up such a good thing was beyond her comprehension. "First and only job."
Barney looked at Tool then back at Isabelle before he stood and walked outside, muttering about 'goddamn amateurs.' Tool had tricked him into hiring an outright baby. If she'd only ever worked for one boss, she'd get them killed the minute they stepped foot in Russia. The lack of experience alone disqualified her more than what was in her pants did. He slammed the door shut behind him and went straight for his bike, swearing black and blue under his breath as he dropped onto the seat. Lee would know what to do, or Maggie. He needed someone to talk to who wouldn't lie to his face or manipulate him.
Isabelle rolled her eye at Ross's temper tantrum and pushed the cork back into the wine bottle, making sure it was sealed again. She'd split it with Cheyenne when they got back from finding this Neban, maybe see if Tool would get an ice cream machine. "What's his problem?"
"You've worked one job, that's the problem," Yang explained, keeping his tone flat. It wasn't her fault Barney wanted people with military records a mile long. None of them could stand seeing inexperienced kids who deserved to live get killed. After Billy, Barney had become rigid when it came to picking temps.
"I trained for three years, I can cover my own back."
"Define trained," Doc said, watching her warily. She moved like someone with purpose, but three years training meant nothing in the long run. Had she ever served and seen real action like they had? "You ex-military?"
Oh for God's sake. Here it came. The 'you didn't serve so you're a newbie' speech, the usual 'you have no formal training and thus you're disqualified' bullshit she'd heard lord knows how many times over the years. Isabelle had stuck by her boss because he was the opposite of these egotistical arrogant conceited sons of bitches. His military service in Vietnam had shown him the pieces of shit humanity could produce, and so he'd picked people who had no clouded judgement or predispositions. "No." And here came the kicker that would probably show her ass the door. "I never enlisted."
Doc recoiled in disbelief and shook his head in disgust. I'm gonna be dead by Tuesday. Someone with no military service whatsoever on their team? That was as ludicrous an idea as him willingly going back to prison.
"I've been in the business longer than most," Isabelle said, crossing her arms and sliding off the chair. She stood, refusing to look at Yang or Doc. Fuck it, who needed them anyway? She'd find another job that didn't involve being kicked around just because she didn't have the right number of scars or a bunch of stupid medals. She followed in Ross's footsteps and walked outside, closing the door gently behind her. Wrapped up in the bathrobe with her hair damp and tousled, things felt as if they were almost starting to go back to normal. To the way they were before she'd been caught and locked away. "Barney," she said, trying to force a tone that would command his attention. "Hey, Ross!"
"I'm on the phone, you mind?" he said, lifting his cell away from his ear. He'd rung Lee but there was no answer, same with Maggie. Jesus, she and Tool really were like-minded in their insistence she get this job. If all she'd done was work for one arms dealer, he didn't need a walking corpse on his team. Someone like her, with so little experience, would get them killed inside of two days.
"You were in Vietnam five years before the fall of Saigon."
"Tool tell you that?" Barney looked over his shoulder, noting how she stood and crossed her arms over her chest. This was a confrontation alright, but the end results wouldn't be to her liking. Lee had failed to win that argument outside Rusty's, and Isabelle would fail to win this one.
"You took a photo of you and your buddy wearing boonie hats a few days after you two arrived. His name was Conrad Stonebanks."
Of course it was him. She'd said she formerly worked for an arms dealer. When didn't his past come back to haunt him? Would he ever be allowed to exorcise his demons without someone returning them? The look in her eye revealed she knew exactly which buttons she was trying to unsuccessfully push, but playing the Stonebanks card seemed awfully pathetic right now. If she was that desperate for work, Gunnar's girl Casey could always help her. Surely they needed translators for hookers and whores. "So you expect me to hire you because what, you were screwing my former friend?"
She scrunched her face up in revulsion. Why did men always assume that? It was possible for two people of the opposite sex to work together without being involved. "Excuse me? He was my boss. I was screwing his daughter."
Barney nearly choked, coughing and regaining his composure before she could see the shock in his eyes. Stonebanks had a kid? Some woman had spread her legs long enough to get pregnant to that manipulative money-hungry bastard? If she'd been screwing the boss's daughter, odds were he wouldn't have to deal with any conflicts of interest when it came to her and Doc, but her romantic leanings weren't the issue at hand. "And your point is?"
"I need a ticket out of this country, and you need a translator. I spent a year in Swaziland before I lost my foot. I didn't serve, but I was trained. I'm not some wannabe jarhead who'll puke at the first sign of blood," she insisted. "I'll be out of your hair soon as the job's over."
"How do I know you won't put a bullet in me the minute my back is turned?"
"Your feud with him isn't my business. He can deal with you himself."
"Then why don't you go ask him for a job?"
Her words clicked in his mind as Barney stuffed his phone in his pocket and wiped the sweat off his face with his free hand. Can deal. How could she not know he was dead? If she'd worked for him, surely she would've been in Azmenistan when it all went down. Two years wasn't enough time to forget something as major as her boss being killed. On the other hand, perhaps it was just posturing and bullshit. Tool had photo albums a-plenty of the old days, with names and dates scrawled on the back. She could've easily read them and interrogated the tattooist for details then pieced together some lie to get in the door.
"I've tried, he's not picking up his phone." She'd used one of the burners Tool kept in the drawer for situations like this. Isabelle gritted her teeth, clenching her fists and keeping her arms crossed so she wouldn't begin to reach for the pistol on her leg. Tool had said they needed a translator on short notice, but of course she wasn't good enough. She never was, until she was in their face with a gun to their head and a bullet engraved with their name.
"Then I suggest trying again, because I won't be requiring your services." Sorry, Tool. He didn't need a possibly-Stonebanks-trained brat causing dissent amongst him and his friends. Barney especially didn't need someone carrying a vendetta on his team. He'd seen the tattoo on her leg: a one-eyed girl holding the head of a raven? That was pretty symbolic in his books.
"Well, good luck on your mission," she said, almost sending the door flying off its hinges when she threw it open and walked inside. I'll be praying you get shot, asshole. Isabelle walked straight to the lift, keeping her head up and eye forward. Lips pursed so they wouldn't quiver, Ross's words continued to sink in. No job meant no cash and a low chance of survival. How long before the Agency showed up and decided to drag her back to Hell? "Thanks for the help, Tool. Looks like I'll be flying back to Paris in the morning."
A/N: Sorry this has taken so long. IRL came barrelling in and we received an eviction notice (the land is being sold), so trying to find somewhere else to live has become a nightmare. As of late January, updates will become nonexistent until life stabilises again and we have access to the internet.
I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and keep an eye out for the next one!
