Outsourced

Prologue

Aurora, Missouri

May 11th

Camille Black stared at the electric meter, pretending to read it, while across the street her aunts, uncles and cousins cried over the flower-draped casket. Her family plot at Maple Park Cemetery was close enough to the edge that she could see the tears flowing down Aunt Ethel’s face-or at least she convinced herself that she was looking at streaks in her aunt’s makeup so that she wasn’t alone in her tears. Camille had made a fortune from the War on Terror, but she was starting to suspect she had sold her soul, damning herself to exile, a spook haunting cemeteries, reading meters and faking deliveries while she stole glances at her loved ones’ coffins. Two years ago it had been her fiancé Hunter’s homecoming from Iraq, a flag-draped casket and a Marine Corps honor guard. Today it was Granny Lusk. She turned Hunter’s engagement ring on her finger, then scribbled a number on her clipboard before moving on to the next house, all the while scanning the area. A UPS truck circled through the neighborhood-for the third time.

Across the street, the UPS truck pulled over and parked at the side of the cemetery. A maple tree with the delicate light green leaves of spring was the only thing that shielded her from the driver’s view as she studied the vehicle. It was definitely the same one that had been in the area for the past fifteen minutes, but something seemed different. For some reason the guy now had the doors closed, although it was a warm spring day. And there was something else that bothered her.

The driver now had dark wiry hair and a deep tan.

A blast of adrenaline jolted her body and her muscles tightened, hardening for battle. She was marked. He was either an old enemy or paparazzi trying to get another shot of the elusive CEO of Black Management, the only female player in the sexy shadows of private military and intelligence corporations. That novelty had already splashed her grainy image across tabloids around the world and she didn’t want to give them any more fodder, particularly at the expense of her family’s privacy.

She carried a USP Tactical pistol under her coveralls, but she knew a frontal assault would be too loud and too public and she also wanted a quiet chat with the driver. She melted to the ground. Like a sniper creeping into position, she inched herself along on her belly until she was behind a weathered barn, out of the driver’s line of sight. She looked around for options. As she accidentally trampled a flat of tomatoes awaiting planting, she could almost hear the words her father had repeated over and over again as he had trained her: Paint the picture you want him to see.

A cottage with an attached carport stood a good forty feet across an overgrown vacant lot from the barn. She peeled off her coveralls and pulled off a baseball cap, freeing the shoulder-length hair of her wig. Then she picked up a plastic flat of wilting tomato plants. As much as she wanted to dash to the carport, she paced herself, plucking dead leaves from the plants as if she gave a damn.

The inside of the carport was old-lady tidy with little more than a silver 1979 Buick LeSabre, a clothesbasket filled with canning jars and a cardboard box with bundles of tied-up newspapers inside. Whoever the occupant was, she wasn’t giving her much to work with. The only potential weapon she spotted was an ancient screwdriver with a cracked wooden handle and hand-hewn metal shaft that was pitted with rust. It was too crude to wield smoothly. She chided herself for not going inside the barn, but now had no time to double back. In the past month she had personally neutralized over a dozen Iraqi insurgents and she had felt no more than a few fleeting pangs of fear. Now she was breathing hard and her arm wouldn’t stop trembling. She closed her eyes for a second and took a long breath. When she opened them, she grabbed a mason jar and her arm stopped shaking.

Camille dumped the newspapers from the cardboard box, then wrapped an old rag around the jar for insulation. She hurried over to the hot water heater. The valve at the base didn’t want to turn, but she forced it open and filled her mug with steaming water. Perfect.

Shielding her face with the cardboard box, she ran toward the UPS truck. Its height complicated things and a street scene was out of the question. She would have to strike high so that the driver didn’t fall forward and onto the pavement. She banged on the passenger door. “Hey, so glad I caught you.”

The driver slid the door open and she threw the scalding water into his face. With her gun pointing straight up, she sprang into the truck and jabbed his chest with the hard polymer grip, her body’s inertia magnifying the blow. In the split second that he fell backwards, she aimed the weapon.

Camille saw his kick coming at her the same instant his sunglasses flew to the floor. The sight of his face made her pause for a moment, slowing her pivot. His foot struck her thigh hard.

“Stella!” he said using her old name-her real name. “Break off! It’s me. Hunter.” He put his hands on the pistol and she let him guide her aim away from his chest.

“Oh my god. Hunter?”

“It’s me, honey. Alive and missing you like hell.”

“Why?” She stared at him, stunned.

Her late fiancé, Hunter Stone, blinked hard as he moved past her to close door. Without a word, he took her in his arms. She pressed her body against his, yearning for the joy they’d once had, but she knew all too well that death had a way of changing people.

They left the funeral separately after agreeing to meet up in an hour south of town in the Mark Twain National Forest. Hunter had planned to camp for the night, but Camille insisted upon breaking into an empty fishing cabin outside of Shell Knob that she thought still belonged to her uncle Chuck. Over the years, she had learned to take advantage of creature comforts whenever the rare opportunity arose.

The cabin was perched on a bald limestone bluff over a hundred feet above wide, winding Table Rock Lake, which stretched for miles in front of them, then disappeared into the rolling hills. The sunlight sparkled on the water, diamonds bursting across the silver surface. High above it, gnarled cedars clung to the occasional patch of soil. She picked up some dry needles and rolled them between her fingers, pricking herself, then raised her hand to her nose. Nothing smelled more like home than red cedar. God, she missed the Ozarks. She was a creature of these rugged hills and deep hollows and she longed to return for good someday.

Hunter walked outside and set three shot glasses on the picnic table along with a box of matches. He filled all three, struck a match and lit the vodka in one glass.

“This is for Granny Lusk. It’s a tradition among the guys that after we’ve come home from combat, we order a shot of vodka and let it burn for those who paid the ultimate price watching our backs on the front.”

“I know,” Camille said, reaching over for his hand, trying to touch the past. “I lit one for you once.”

A huge redheaded woodpecker knocked on a nearby hickory and buzzards circled overhead. Camille and Hunter sat silently, each staring at the lake and distant hills until several ski boats roared by.

“You’re going to have to come clean with me. What was so important that made you pull a stunt like this? We were almost married, for god’s sake.” Camille looked him in the eyes, but he was staring past her. “You know I broke into the funeral home in Springfield so I could see you one last time without the damn press hounding me. Your coffin was stainless steel, welded shut. I found the paperwork. The Marines’ medical examiner claimed the explosion hadn’t left much of you and what was there, the Iraqi heat had turned into a biohazard. The casket was ordered sealed before it was allowed into the country.”

“I didn’t ever mean for you to go through that.”

“I sat there all night beside you, beside that empty tin can. I can still smell the formaldehyde.” Her jaws clenched as she fingered the engagement ring. It was starting to feel like it had been on her finger for too long, two years too long.

“I’m so sorry. You’ve got to believe me. I thought I was doing the right thing.” He reached for her hand, but she pulled it away. “Around that time, a couple of my teammate’s wives and kids had suspicious accidents. There was a lot of talk about families getting targeted. I couldn’t risk that happening to you.”

“That’s absurd. I make my living in the crosshairs and you know that. And if being with you puts me in so much danger, why in the hell did you decide to resurrect yourself now? The world suddenly became free of bad guys?” She filled the shot glasses and glanced over to the third one. The flame now had burned away half of the vodka.

“What I did was wrong. I made a mistake and I can see now that it hurt you. I’m trying to set it right and I had to break a lot of rules to slip away to come here. Besides, I couldn’t stand it any longer without you. Forgive me.”

He finally looked her in the eyes and she could tell he was telling her the truth, part of it. “You joined one of the new counterterrorism units, didn’t you?” she said.

“I’m just a cook from Springfield.”

“Don’t bullshit me. Meal service is outsourced-the cooks all work for Halliburton now and-”

“Remember that time when we stole my dad’s plane and I flew us down to the horse races in Hot Springs?” He flashed her a smile, his eyes twinkling, distracting.

“You’re not deflecting me. One of the Israelis who trained black units at Fort Bragg works for me out of Kandahar. I know the hunter-killer teams exist-5-25, 6-26, Omaha or whatever the hell they’re calling them now.”

“Stella. You know I’m a simple mud Marine-a bug eater.”

Camille studied him, but didn’t see the reaction she’d expected. “It’s not them, is it?” She swatted a mosquito. “Oh god, don’t tell me. It’s Force Zulu, isn’t it? You’re one of the Pentagon’s new secret squirrels, aren’t you?”

“Stella, don’t make me-”

“It’s Camille. Camille Black.” And it had been ever since she had won the battle with the CIA to leave the Agency overt, with it allowing her to be public about her experience in counterterrorism. But her real coup was securing permission to maintain her alias as Camille Black, a legend that was well known in military circles and one that gave her an instant boost when it came to marketing and branding her new company.

“You’ll always be Stella to me.”

“You’re a spy, aren’t you? That’s why you came to Granny’s funeral and why you couldn’t approach me at any Black Management facilities, isn’t it? You’re undercover and there are too many eyes watching Black Management. Please don’t tell me you’re spying for the Pentagon. Those guys learned their tradecraft from Get Smart-it’s a known fact.”

“You’ve done an impressive job building up your outfit, by the way.” He couldn’t look at her, but instead watched a heron fly low across the lake, its wings nearly dipping into the water. “Who would’ve ever thought my Stella would create one of the world’s largest private military corporations. You’re sure giving Blackwater and Rubicon a run for their money. Your daddy would be so proud.”

“This isn’t like the Hunter I knew. What are you hiding? Why the hell aren’t you being straightforward with me?”

He reached for the bottle to pour another round, but she pulled it away and continued speaking. “Let’s get things straight. You faked your death one week before our wedding and I’ve grieved for you ever since. It takes a lot of nerve to pop back into my life and dance around the truth. Kind of makes me want to see you dead again, so I can remember the good man I loved. Today’s a truce because of Granny. Either you come completely clean with me or tomorrow we’re at war.”

“You’re in the business. You know there are things I can’t talk about,” Hunter said, still avoiding eye contact. “Why don’t we hotwire a boat and take a ride up toward Piney? You always wanted to hike in there and find the old Jordan homestead. The chiggers shouldn’t be too bad yet.”

Camille twisted off her engagement ring. She rolled it across the table as the blue flame flickered, then died out.