There Will Be Killing by John Hart

Mikel, and he—or, they—disappear. Personally I think it is the goddamn Russians. It stinks like them. Either way if it is one of theirs, a damned Chinaman or some psycho of our own, this cannot ever have happened. Understood?”
    â€œOf course. But strategically speaking, there are over 500,000 troops here, not to mention the contractors, the civilians. If you want this on the fast track then I at least need a ground zero to start looking on the inside and more than this so-called report. Sure, it says he’s insane, but who isn’t some kind of crazy around here?”
    â€œMaybe the shrinks who treat the crazies?” Claymore’s jowls lifted like he had just pulled an ace out of his ass. He shoved a thicker file J.D.’s way. “Take your pick.”
    J.D. ignored the file, took a sip of his tea. Nothing special. He preferred a Longjing, just as he preferred to work alone. Especially if it involved some academic eggheads he didn’t have the time to babysit. The fact they were mental specialists didn’t particularly agree with him either. They probably tried to psycho-analyze everyone they came into contact with and he didn’t want anyone snooping under his hood.
    â€œWhat if they talk while I still need them?”
    â€œThey can’t because of that oath they have to take. As for once they’ve served their purpose and are no longer required. . . .” Claymore shrugged, opened his hands. “If the good of the many has to take precedence over the good of the few that is the sacrifice all soldiers may have to make. They’re no different.”
    J.D. didn’t bother to say “understood” because such things were always understood when people were merely tools for some higher good—or not such higher good. “Anything else?”
    â€œHappy hunting.”
    â€œIt’s time to go.” The Ambassador nodded to J.D.
    J.D. tossed back the tea. He decided he didn’t like it any more than the files he picked up as they left.
    â€œI have something I would ask you to do for me personally while you’re in Nha Trang,” the Ambassador confided en route.
    Speaking in conspiratorial tones they retraced their steps in reverse. Shiny shoes then flip-flops, escorted by two pair of green combat boots, footfalls echoing down the gleaming corridor. Suit into the limousine. J.D. in black pajamas back into the jeep, where he checked his watch, tic-tic-ticking.

*

    Twelve hours later and two hundred miles swept north of Saigon, it was just getting dark in Nha Trang. Considering his present objectives in a city he knew better than the back of his neck, J.D. dressed accordingly before making his way down an alley to pass the open doorways of a long line of shacks where preparations went on for the evening ahead.
    The smells of the street vendors’ spicy offerings flavored the humid air as Vietnamese music competed with the sounds of Jimi Hendrix. The air smelled, tasted, sounded like home. At least as much of a home as he or any other Boogeyman who frightened grown men might claim.
    Stopping just outside a familiar back door, in fluent Vietnamese he respectfully greeted the elderly woman known to all as “Grandmother” sitting on the stoop, silently chewing and enjoying the betel quid stuffed in her cheek. J.D. knew the psychoactive buzz in the leaf, nut and lime substance was a comfort to her and her old body. She looked up at him, frowning. Then she saw through the cleverly done disguise: The burnt out, drug-addled GI with dirty faded Tiger fatigues and booney hat and peace signs and beads around his neck was a friend.
    Her bloody red smile and blackened teeth greeted him with a pleasurable laugh of recognition. “Ah! Ma Quý!”
    J.D. crouched down Asian style and engaged her in their typical conversation regarding the weather, her businesses along the alley; catching up on the activities in the neighborhood. A cup of tea