Ace of Spades Chronicles : Book One by P.R.Sharp Page B

had never stolen anything in his life, and carrying that much cash through an adverse landscape with an unknown quantity of unfriendlies was, to put it mildly, asking for trouble. He shifted his crossed legged position and folded away his MRE of cauliflower cheese and tucked it into his leg pocket for later, turning to look at the Sergeant, who was peacefully asleep under the long table, cradling his M4 carbine as if it were a comfort blanket. His idea of taking the money was for the most part, logical, if unethical. Who would miss it? Who would report it missing? They were all used bills, meaning they weren't marked in any way; no dye pack; and what proof could anyone put forward for its disappearance? Xander had questioned its value, though. If the virus had taken hold in more than one county, as reported by J.H.C ; how long would it be before it reared its ugly head across an international border? It would only take one infected person on a transatlantic flight or a cross channel ferry to see to that. For all they knew, the whole planet could be infected by now. With the infrastructure of the country (or the World) crumbling under its own weight, the banking system is sure to collapse; paper money would be worthless. Zola had argued that he wasn't going to let an opportunity like this pass him by. At best, he would be one hundred and thirty grand better off; at worst, he would be rich for a day, at least in his head. Zola told Xander of a quartermaster who had ferreted away SLR rifles during the Irish troubles and sold them onto an Israeli commander contact at the back end of the seventies by the crate load. He was never convicted, but his thievery was legend. Opportunity creates wealth. Xander
    had counted that stealing army ordnance for personal gain was not the same as stumbling over a pile of cash and that's where his argument fell down. He had painted himself into a corner and the Sergeant concluded the debate by saying, once again, that his conscience was clear. Xander knew that if they were able to get away with it and didn't do anything stupid like go out on a spending spree, and if the money retained its worth after they were off mission, then maybe; maybe it was worth the risk. Of course, they had to get back to the real world first, if there was anything left.
    He straightened his legs and felt a nitrogen pocket pop in his left knee, then pulled himself back along the floor until his back was resting against one of the counters. Yates snored as Zola rolled and swapped sides. Xander’s thoughts turned to Walker's mother receiving six or seven years pays in one handy windfall; if she were alive, that is. No substitute for a dead son. A 'dead' son that they would have to deal with very shortly. How had the Major General put it? “You will be considered hostile and the appropriate action will be taken.” And how, or more to the point, when, did Walker get infected? He could be turning into a zombie right now, except they are not really zombies; they are a mutation. A walking example of Mother Nature gone mad. This was one crazy ass mission. He couldn’t believe that Zola, his peer, his superior, was more concerned with how to get away with robbery than the death of his own team member; someone for whom he was supposed to be accountable. Conflicting morals squared up to each other and took it in turn to swing left hooks and upper cuts at the conditioned and contradictory principles passed on to him by family, society and command. Thou shalt
    not steal; unless your life depends on it. Thou shalt not kill; unless you’re under orders. He needed to dwell on something else, so let his thoughts drift to a sweet 200cc KTM Duke he had had his heart set on before they were called back to duty. That's three to five grand gone right there. Bloody hell. He yawned. His watch was ending. He needed sleep, but it was fast approaching 04.43am and they would be bugging out promptly at 05.00.
    At 04.45am, Yates watch alarm woke