“Well, I’m not seeing…”
I noticed the heavies moving behind me. Suddenly, I had an epiphany. “Maybe he used my full name. Cyclone Reed.”
Abruptly, her smile returned. “Ah yes, Mr. Reed. I’m sorry about the confusion. Do you have your driver’s license with you?”
“I don’t drive. And before you ask, I don’t have any other identification either.”
The frown returned. She picked up a phone, punched in a number, and spoke softly into the receiver for a moment. Then she gave me a surprised look. “Mr. Chase will see you now.”
Slowly, almost reluctantly, the heavies drifted away. As they returned to their original positions, the woman printed out a visitor’s nametag and instructed me where to go.
I left the desk and walked through a guarded waist-high turnstile. Instantly, lights flashed and a loud buzzing noise burst into the air.
A third heavy stepped in front of me. “Sir, are you carrying any metal items?”
I looked down at my satchel and realized my gun and machete were inside of it. “Uh, yeah.”
“I’ll have to take them from you.”
“That’s not happening.”
He started to reach for me and then pulled his hand back. The heavy listened to his earpiece for a moment and then shot me a curious glance. “My mistake, sir. You’re free to go.”
I walked ahead and entered an elevator. The panel consisted of just two buttons, Up and Down. I pressed Up.
I rode the elevator for a full minute before it eased to a halt. The doors opened silently and I stepped out into a corridor. Following it, I walked through a pair of clouded glass doors and into a small reception area that had all the personality of a dentist’s office.
A middle-aged man peered up at me from behind a pair of thick glasses. He appeared to guard access to a single metal door located on the other side of his desk. “Good afternoon, Mr. Reed. Please take a seat. Mr. Chase is just finishing up an appointment.”
I noticed plenty of magazines lying about the room. Small Wars Journal . Jane’s Intelligence Review . Soldier of Fortune .
My eyes shifted to the walls, which were covered with plaques, certificates, and framed newspaper articles. I walked over to the largest of the frames. The piece, a front page article for the Washington Post, was entitled “ShadowFire: Mercenaries or Heroes?”
The accompanying photograph showed Chase standing casually in front of a compound, staring into the sky. I skimmed through the text, skipping the parts about the company’s ongoing operations in the Middle East and its efforts to enter the anti-sea piracy market. One section in particular caught my attention and I leaned in for a closer look.
When confronted with their accusations, Mr. Chase laughed heartily. “My critics like to call me a death merchant,” he said. “But the truth is I’m just a businessman with a product, no more and no less. I don’t create the demand for it. I merely provide a service that attempts to satisfy that demand with as little…”
“I won’t give an inch.”
The muffled words drifted into the reception area, breaking my concentration. I pretended to keep reading, but the burgeoning fight behind the metal door occupied my full attention.
“We don’t need this kind of publicity,” replied an unfamiliar feminine voice. “ShadowFire’s in enough hot water as it is. Just make a deal with them.”
“Not a chance. Those leeches have bled this city dry for too long. I’m not going to stand by and let them continue to rip off the taxpayers.”
The metal door flew open and a short, stocky woman strode into the reception area, clenching her fists. Moments later, Chase poked his head out of the door and flashed me a smile. “Come on in.”
I stood up and followed him into his office. The room was small and sparsely decorated. Several oil paintings hung from the walls, depicting famous battles of American history. The solid wood floor looked dull and unpolished. A desk, completely
I noticed the heavies moving behind me. Suddenly, I had an epiphany. “Maybe he used my full name. Cyclone Reed.”
Abruptly, her smile returned. “Ah yes, Mr. Reed. I’m sorry about the confusion. Do you have your driver’s license with you?”
“I don’t drive. And before you ask, I don’t have any other identification either.”
The frown returned. She picked up a phone, punched in a number, and spoke softly into the receiver for a moment. Then she gave me a surprised look. “Mr. Chase will see you now.”
Slowly, almost reluctantly, the heavies drifted away. As they returned to their original positions, the woman printed out a visitor’s nametag and instructed me where to go.
I left the desk and walked through a guarded waist-high turnstile. Instantly, lights flashed and a loud buzzing noise burst into the air.
A third heavy stepped in front of me. “Sir, are you carrying any metal items?”
I looked down at my satchel and realized my gun and machete were inside of it. “Uh, yeah.”
“I’ll have to take them from you.”
“That’s not happening.”
He started to reach for me and then pulled his hand back. The heavy listened to his earpiece for a moment and then shot me a curious glance. “My mistake, sir. You’re free to go.”
I walked ahead and entered an elevator. The panel consisted of just two buttons, Up and Down. I pressed Up.
I rode the elevator for a full minute before it eased to a halt. The doors opened silently and I stepped out into a corridor. Following it, I walked through a pair of clouded glass doors and into a small reception area that had all the personality of a dentist’s office.
A middle-aged man peered up at me from behind a pair of thick glasses. He appeared to guard access to a single metal door located on the other side of his desk. “Good afternoon, Mr. Reed. Please take a seat. Mr. Chase is just finishing up an appointment.”
I noticed plenty of magazines lying about the room. Small Wars Journal . Jane’s Intelligence Review . Soldier of Fortune .
My eyes shifted to the walls, which were covered with plaques, certificates, and framed newspaper articles. I walked over to the largest of the frames. The piece, a front page article for the Washington Post, was entitled “ShadowFire: Mercenaries or Heroes?”
The accompanying photograph showed Chase standing casually in front of a compound, staring into the sky. I skimmed through the text, skipping the parts about the company’s ongoing operations in the Middle East and its efforts to enter the anti-sea piracy market. One section in particular caught my attention and I leaned in for a closer look.
When confronted with their accusations, Mr. Chase laughed heartily. “My critics like to call me a death merchant,” he said. “But the truth is I’m just a businessman with a product, no more and no less. I don’t create the demand for it. I merely provide a service that attempts to satisfy that demand with as little…”
“I won’t give an inch.”
The muffled words drifted into the reception area, breaking my concentration. I pretended to keep reading, but the burgeoning fight behind the metal door occupied my full attention.
“We don’t need this kind of publicity,” replied an unfamiliar feminine voice. “ShadowFire’s in enough hot water as it is. Just make a deal with them.”
“Not a chance. Those leeches have bled this city dry for too long. I’m not going to stand by and let them continue to rip off the taxpayers.”
The metal door flew open and a short, stocky woman strode into the reception area, clenching her fists. Moments later, Chase poked his head out of the door and flashed me a smile. “Come on in.”
I stood up and followed him into his office. The room was small and sparsely decorated. Several oil paintings hung from the walls, depicting famous battles of American history. The solid wood floor looked dull and unpolished. A desk, completely
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