Cally's War

Chapter Fifteen

Where the hell are they? Morrison was becoming more and more certain, as he avoided checking his watch for the tenth time, that they had been played. He had been in place for one hour, two and a half pints, one shot of whiskey, and two sober pills. He’d taken the first before coming in the door, and the second just now. They’d break down the alcohol in his stomach before it got to his bloodstream. Well, most of it. Ten percent did get through, but his liver could handle that.

The Wexford Pub was a little hole in the wall that served lamb stew, soda bread, and greasy fish and chips, accompanied by beer or booze as cheap as it came or as good as you could afford. From the smell, what most patrons afforded most nights was cheaper than shit.

He carefully avoided looking at the three men and two women scattered around the pub who were his, and pretended an interest in the soccer game on the ancient television mounted on one wall. Boring sport — no good fights at all. And he couldn’t even hear it over the piped music, which, as far as he could tell, was mostly ancient recordings of folk songs. It wouldn’t have been so bad if they hadn’t chosen the cheesiest and most stereotypical of the surviving renditions. If they played “Toora Loora Loora” once more he didn’t know what he’d do.

He could come up with a dozen reasons, all of them bad, why the targets hadn’t shown. Unfortunately, hard as it was to do, their go to hell plan specified waiting in place two hours past the rendezvous in case of a no show, on the theory that they had nothing better and might still get lucky.

He resisted the urge, again, to glance at his people or his watch.

Morrison hated waiting. It made the back of his neck itch.

Where the hell are they? Bobby shook the cramp out of his right hand before moving it back and snugging the rifle butt up to his shoulder again.

He devoutly hoped the other three shooters Johnny had come up with were doing the same. They’d better be. Still, they’d seemed competent enough.

It was looking more and more probable that something had spooked the targets.

Still, as long as the Fleet Strike pukes waited, they had to. His instructions were very specific. He was not to let Fleet Strike take any of the targets alive, regardless. The targets were not to escape alive, regardless. If they could somehow get one alive themselves, that was a bonus. He had a medical team standing by, but he didn’t think that bonus was going to be possible.

Damn, but this waiting was a bitch. Especially with no way to know how long the Fleet Strike pukes would wait before giving up and going home, themselves.

“Where in the hell are they?” Kevin Collins, head of Team Jason, stubbed out a cigarette in the ashtray of the taxi, looking back at his “fare” half-accusingly, as if he thought the other agent could somehow pull the overdue team out of her pocket.

“Hell if I know, and it’s not my fault!” There was a sheepish tone to her voice, though.

“Ah, hell, Martin, I know it’s not. I still think you shouldn’t be on this mission.”

“Well, you were overruled. When the word comes down I want to be on the spot getting Levon and the others out.” She pulled out a compact and touched up her lipstick nervously.

“And if it doesn’t come down?” His voice was flat.

“Then I follow orders even though it sucks. Levon would do just the same. We both know the risks and the stakes.” She wiped away a small smudge with the tip of a finger.

“You’re too close.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll deal.” She snapped the compact shut, putting it and the lipstick back in her purse.

“You’d better.” He lit another cigarette and made another turn on the circuitous route winding them around the perimeter of the objective.

George Schmidt routinely spent his time in the field as a teenage kid. That meant that when he needed to be an adult it took some very old-fashioned appearance changes.

Regardless of his distaste for elevator shoes, they were necessary. Pads high in his cheeks made him look less baby-faced. For some reason brown hair made him look a bit older than his natural blond. Careful cosmetic work gave an appearance of dark stubble that would pass even close inspection.

His ID that claimed he was in his mid-twenties was now believable.

He was running right about on time, having spent Barry’s extra hour playing holo and VR games at a local arcade. One of the things about being a perpetual kid was he not only had to know about what the current fads were for kids, he had to be able to do them. He could fake incompetence if the cover needed to be a screw-up, but competence was awful damned hard to fake.

Well, time to go. He looked around at the drab, messy efficiency apartment that was the kind of place an emancipated teen might have — right down to smelling of cheap pine air freshener and dirty socks. Definitely not the comforts of home. He flipped out the lights and left.

Twenty minutes later he was still swearing at the jack-knifed semi and cluster of ambulances and emergency vehicles. Nothing for it — he was going to be late again.