The Shack: Necessary Evil

Maria grimaced slightly as her curiosity fought with common sense. "I'm not asking you to hand them over."

"So what are you asking?"

"The network he was involved in is a private concern. Anything to anyone, specializing in technologies on the prohibited list. Dual-use chemical, biological, nuclear, guidance systems."

"I'm aware."

She paused, uncertain how to proceed. She hated being uncertain, I could tell.

"So. Our brothers in the three letter agencies found one of their main nodes. Instead of cutting off an arm, you could kill their operations in this hemisphere for quite a while."

That's what we'd been looking for before the unfortunate Tommy-Amber incident.

"So cut a deal with local law enforcement and roll them up."

"That's what we were trying to do when my people got kidnapped and murdered. Local law enforcement is involved. And DOJ has told me not to make waves."

"Where is it?"

"Tri-border region. Argentina, technically, if anyone cared."

The Tri-border of Brazil, Argentina and Paraguay was complicated at best -- international accusations of terrorism, drug running and other crimes were almost too numerous to track, while the local officials claimed everything was blown out of proportion.

"What are we talking about here?"

"An isolated two-acre compound, three buildings, maybe 25 mercenaries, 12 of their company men. Some working girls, maybe six or so."

I winced internally for the hookers. Just more girls who'd run out of options, didn't have choices. Doing what they had to do. Like Amber. Like me. Kindred souls.

"If you want a lesson, you want witnesses. So the girls live."

She nodded, relieved, I think, to salvage a piece of her soul. Michael handed her a small envelope to give to me. I passed it over to Trace without really looking at it. Tuxedo jackets have pockets, and my clutch, like hers, was filled with that last little bit of firepower nobody ever wanted to use.

"Everything we know about the organization and the facility is on the data stick. Along with details of everything we know about why I'm being told to stand down."

"Somebody above you dirty?"

"We don't think so. Not this time. Stupid, yes. Dirty, no. The stand-down came out of the State Department. They're trying to broker some reciprocal law-enforcement information sharing thing." She shook her head, lamenting the idiocy of bureaucrats. "Another useless deal. They just don't trust us down there."

"We earned a little bit of that over the years."

She grimaced slightly at that. FBI types all want to be heroes and don't like to see themselves as bad guys. I'm a bit more honest with myself; I prefer to think of myself as a bad guy who works for the right side. Makes it much easier to make the tough decisions. To do the things that have to be done. She didn't deny my comment though. She's realistic enough know that this is how the world works.

The US is a more than a bit "radioactive" in South America. Memories of Yankee Imperialism, some of it not as long ago as we'd like to believe, give them a pretty dark lens to view our "help" with. Besides, the reality is that even when we act with the best of intentions, we're too big, too powerful, and too damn close for comfort. Even cooperating with us on sensible issues -- like stopping chemical weapons from being traded in their own back yards - is looked on as bowing to the US.

Maria seemed to decide to accept reality for what it was. "Be that as it may, this needs dealt with. If this doesn't get a reaction, it will be open season on every FBI agent, DEA liaison, NGO worker and Embassy staff person out here. Yours too."

I considered objecting that mine had teeth, but she already knew that. It was why she was here. It made sense.

After all, I was the one that did the things that had to be done.

***

It took six weeks to set everything up. The electronic dossier Maria had provided was extremely thorough and clearly identified the one government official who needed to be convinced of the error of his ways.

Argentina hadn't had the smoothest relationship with the U.S., and at least one official was using that as an excuse to cover his lack of cooperation and to benefit from pay-outs by the organization. Using that, it didn't take long for Spooky to hunt him down and identify his vulnerabilities.

She came into my office but left the door open, I noted she had a light grey jacket and skirt suit this time.

Some of my people believe she wears the same style suits as me in a low key effort to piss me off. I know what it really means even if she's never said as much. In my mind, the day she put on one of those suits was the day she was informing me that she'd gone from being a gifted amateur and useful tool to a professional I could trust to do the hard jobs, to think on her own, and respond rather than react.

The suit didn't bother me, but Candy, my secretary, walked in behind her and leaned easily against the doorframe with her arms crossed across her chest, an almost mocking smile on her lips.

Completely unlike her. She's always, inevitably, professional to the point of rigidity.

Candy looked oddly feral. Hungry. Things I normally associate with Spooky. I hope it isn't contagious.

The Nobody Girl put a file on the desk in front of me and moved to one side, so Candy could watch. "Comisario Mayor Matias Acosta. He's the one who passed the information on the FBI agents, their whereabouts. From what we picked up on the bugs I planted, I don't think he knew they were going to be killed. Once they were, though, he blocked every real attempt to look into it. Probably to hide his own involvement."

"You question him?"

"Not yet. He has pretty good close security; they aren't good enough, but I didn't want to clue anyone in by making a mess. Probably better to do everything all at once." She let a tiny hint of a smile through, glancing back at Candy. "He's scheduled to do inspections in the Tri-Border region in three weeks. He likes to play away from home, always hits the bars after work, looking for a girl for the night. And he has a weakness for pretty black girls."

Candy's smile broadened voraciously. She'd loved Amber and Tommy and she obviously wanted a bit of revenge.

Normally, I'd have waved her off because of her personal involvement, but Candy was always professional. She'd been one of the best Swallows we'd ever had before we brought her in; her ability to lure a man or woman into bed was remarkable. Besides, if anyone can detach their personal feelings from their work, it's a Swallow.

She'd even taught Spooky some of the tricks of the trade; how to catch someone's attention without looking like you were trying to. How to get picked up in bar by the right guy so you could get into his house. Spooky occasionally used those tricks as entry options on some of her missions; ways to get into a house or a building, but she'd never be a great Swallow, not like Candy. Spooky just had trouble connecting with people.

"I assume the two of you have worked out some kind of plan." I gestured to forestall any response. "Just give me a timetable and broad brush details."

Candy straightened up. "It's in the packet."

I suppressed a smile. Glancing at the rest of the pages, it was clear they'd spent more than a little time getting this just right. "I'll let you know if I need anything else."

Spooky slipped out, and Candy closed the door behind them.

I reflected that I probably needed to keep a closer eye on those two. Just a glance at the packet was enough to tell me they're a dangerous combination.

But who would I use?

***

I nodded to the Sergeant, giving the approval to go ahead.

Of course, they're all Sergeants, most of them Staff Sergeants. Anywhere else, they'd have their own squads or platoons. Staff Sergeants are perfect for me -- they're experienced and tempered, but still mostly have the reflexes of youth. "The Sergeant" is actually a Master Sergeant. Leading only 40 men, an infantry platoon, would normally be a step down for him. Not these forty. Especially not leading them for me.

He tapped his mike. "Mockingbird Mockingbird this is Hellhound over."

A woman's voice, grim and controlled, responds. "Hellhound this is... Mockingbird." She paused for a second, not used to the name she's using for this mission. "Mockingbird on station over."

A woman, I pondered that for a second and suppressed a smile. God, we're everywhere now. A big change from the early days.

The Sergeant grinned carnivorously. "Mockingbird Mockingbird sing me a song. Over."

My Air Force Tech Sergeant, one of my CUMULOUS GREEN technical support team, watched a row of lights go red on her handheld equipment as the EA-6B Prowler somewhere above us began to "sing." She gave a silent thumbs up, nodding sharply once, her blonde ponytail almost snapping like a whip. I imagine if she were in her actual Air Force uniform all her hair would be up tightly in her cap.

Another woman. We really are everywhere. Watch out boys.

I looked down the rows of my Dobermans, crouched along the trail. They're fixated on The Sergeant rather than me -- in any other situation I'd be their primary concern, but right now they just watch him. Hyper alert, eager to start, anticipating the rush. All the earlier horseplay and minor arguments about sports or video games ended. Jokes about the two most important things in an infantryman's off-duty life dropped off to nothing.

Beer and pussy could wait til later.

If there was a later.

They're not Operators like Pogo and his merry band of sociopaths. My "boys" are Infantry. If you want a clean precision strike with minimal mess, SOCOM has the guys for that. SEALs, Delta, the Activity. But when you really, really need to make a point, nothing beats Infantry.

They kill people and break things. It's what they do. It's what they are.

The SOCOM Operators are sometimes a bit too clean, a bit too clever, and there are people that just don't understand that level of subtle. I have plenty of "subtle" of my own without them. Air Force bombs are too technical, too impersonal; like a natural disaster. People can make excuses to themselves about things like that.

Sometimes you have make a mess, and nothing beats Infantry for creative mayhem.

If they were in their dress blues, there'd be a lot of Ranger tabs and Airborne wings, some Pathfinder badges. But that's not why they're chosen. They've been pulled from the best of the light infantry out of the 82^nd, the 101^st and the 25^th Infantry Divisions, a few from other places. I've made it very much in the interest of the Infantry Branch Managers to find them for me. Finding the best is almost a religious ritual for them.

They're quick thinking and experienced. By their nature, they're wiry and almost rabidly aggressive -- the essence of light infantry. They run like gazelles and can live on a diet of mud and scorched tree bark. They lack the polish, and most of the clean edges of the Operators, but that's why I want them.

Getting them assigned to me wasn't easy, and in the end I got tired of bureaucratic bullshit and just blackmailed a few of the right people to get it done. Sometimes people need encouragement to do the right thing. And it was a good lesson learned for some of them; integrity is doing the right thing when nobody is looking. After all, it's the right thing to do. Besides, sometimes somebody really is looking.

Usually me.

On the record, they work for Army Testing and Evaluation Command, testing new versions of high tech combat weapons. We certainly do have some of those. On their redacted record, they're part of a classified personal protection detail, with specialized training. And most of the time, they do that for me. Alliteration and the typical light fighter's obvious physical resemblances have led to them being called Donna's Dobermans.

But in the end, the reason my Dobermans are here is because sometimes, when something isn't right, you have to hit it with a fucking hammer.

The Sergeant and his men ran through their comms checks -- if Mockingbird was doing her job right up there, there was one tiny notch in the barrage of white noise where their radios worked. It didn't really matter all that much, they mostly communicated with hand signals anyway.

They're not wearing their normal uniforms, of course; they're wearing Russian airborne uniforms and patrol caps. In fact, all of their equipment is either Russian or commercial European stuff. The infantry rifles are AK-74s, the sniper rifles are SV-98s and the machine gunners carry PKPs. All of them have been very carefully upgraded by the armorers at a small unmarked building over at Aberdeen Proving Grounds. Even the ammunition has been specially made.

My Dobermans' counterparts in Russia tend to wear American combat uniforms and use American equipment. It's a something of a running joke in our world. It's what passes for humor out here on the darker edge.

The Sergeant scanned them one more time and issued his customary warning, "stay focused, heads on a swivel." He looked up at me, an easy, predatory smile of anticipation on his face. "On your word, Ma'am."

I paused for a second, feeling their electric tension. "Go."

He gave a hand signal and twin lines of men uncoiled silently, moving out along the path smoothly, accelerating, then loping with deceptive speed.

The sniper teams had already slid forward to lay eyes on target. To watch for any sign, any variation that could be a problem.

I watched them disappear into the green wall along with my Air Force Tech Sergeant, then began to walk back up the path to the gravel road to wait for my ride.

Technically I should have had four of them stay with me as a protective detail, but I didn't have the heart to make any of them sit this out on babysitting duty. Besides, this wasn't going to take that long.

I listened as I walked back up to the road; it started with several single rifle shots. Definitely the snipers. Then began the odd popping sounds of assault rifles with heavier bursts from the machine guns as the main force swept into the compound. There are a couple of soft "crumping" sounds I assumed were wall breaching charges, at least if they were still following the plan. Which they almost always do.

Good Infantry prefers to make their own doorways when they can. It's much safer that way.

Once they're loose, I don't worry about them -- it's too late for that. Besides, there isn't much they can't handle.

I watched a black SUV slide up along the road, slowly coming to stop behind a couple of flashy tour buses, off the side of the road. Two men seemingly worked to change a tire on one of the buses.

Trace got out of the driver's seat of the SUV and walked around to open the passenger door for me. Like me, he listened to a last scattering of shots and checked his watch, then handed me a cold can of Coke out of a cooler.

"We should give them five more minutes."

I nodded, sipping the soda. It was about 2 degrees away from an ice cream headache.

"Any trouble?"

He smiled slightly, shaking his head. "No. Went by the numbers. He sent his security detail off when he met her."

I glanced into the back seat where a very naked man sat handcuffed and hooded between Spooky and a very self-satisfied Candy. As if there was any doubt she'd have been able to pull it off.

During the short ride down the road to the compound Candy, Spooky and Trace were quite deliberately talkative. Comisario Mayor Matias Acosta spoke English very well and I wanted him to understand. Needed him to understand. Or there would be no point to this.

Of course knowing and proving are two very different things -- that was the reason for the Russian equipment. Any evidence would point in the wrong direction. We wanted a lesson, not a diplomatic incident.

Two of my Dobermans opened the main compound gate for us just as we drove up. No doubt the sniper teams had warned them of our approach.

The firefight had lasted less than 15 minutes all told, and most of that was mop up.

Some soldiers were dragging bodies into the courtyard and heaping them in a pile. Others were bringing various items out to the Tech Sergeant for assessment -- computers, documents. Some she put to the side, some she simply tossed into a growing mound of bodies.

A small huddle of half-naked women cringed in a corner of the main compound, shielding a few small children with their own bodies, despite their own obvious terror.

The Sergeant walked over, still scanning the area reflexively.

"No casualties on our side. All targets eliminated. The one you wanted alive is in custody. I don't think he has long, though, he tried to shoot it out." He grimaced but didn't apologize. His first concern was his men. As it should be. "Civilian count is eight women and four kids. All unharmed."

There was a series of odd, soft thumps in the ground somewhere below us. He smiled slightly. "Quarter block C4 charges on time fuse, flushing them down the toilets into the septic system."

I couldn't completely suppress my own smile at that. God bless the Infantry and their propensity for thorough destruction. We were making a point.

"How much longer do you need?"

"Another ten minutes. We're burning all the vehicles except one truck." He gestured to the knot of women, who reflexively flinched. "I don't know if any of them can drive it."

"They'll figure it out." I glanced back toward the SUV.

I outlined what I needed done and turned back to the SUV to let him get back to work.

After a few minutes, I signaled Trace; he had Spooky and Candy pull our captive out of the SUV and march him over.

I nodded to Candy and she pulled the hood off.

"Mister Acosta. I trust you've had an interesting ride?"

He looked wildly around and I could see realization dawn as he understood where we were. His eyes flickered from the flames starting to lick up from the buildings to the soldiers now pouring diesel fuel on the heap of dead bodies. He stopped looking around as his gaze fixed on Spooky with horrified fascination.

"Please pay attention, Matias. I don't want to have to do this again. Do you understand?"

He pulled his stare from her and managed to focus on me. He started to say something, but I cut him off.

"These people murdered four American federal agents, with your help."

He started to shake his head and protest.

"Please let me finish, Matias. This is not a discussion. I am simply making things clear. Things you need to understand."

I glanced up and saw Trace nod sadly, then turn away and walk over to the SUV, looking away. He knew what had to be done. He even agreed that it had to. But he didn't have to watch. I didn't blame him.

But I'm the one that does what has to be done.

I moved aside and pointed so he could see the The Sergeant and one of his men holding a badly wounded, mostly unconscious man on his knees next to the pile of bodies. He had that peculiar ashen pallor of imminent death and I idly wondered if he was even going to survive long enough for this next act to play out. Not that it really mattered.

"That man, the one you made a deal with, is Aldrich Cunningham. An illegal arms trader. His net worth is about 45 million Euros. The money he paid you for the information he used to murder those agents, and the protection you provided afterwards is less than he would have spent on a suit. He has connections with governments all over Europe, and would almost certainly never end up in front of a court for what he's done. And if he ever did he could hire the best lawyers imaginable to keep him free."

I turned and walked over behind the kneeling man, and I could hear Acosta stumbling behind me, forced along by Spooky and Candy.