Thicker Than Water

ONE

I ejected the magazine and checked its contents. It was as full as it had been when I manually loaded it, round by one, forty minutes ago. Just a habit of double- and sometimes triple-checking things at times. Especially when the chips are down and you're taking risks left and right. But that was part of the job; it was all one big risk. Fortunately for us at least, the Agency didn't take shortcuts—that is, not metaphorically. Everything was by the books, no matter how chaotic things got. It just so happened that 'the books' we Talons worked by were missing pages, had a shitload of footnotes, and blotches of ink as if its own language.

Sorry, sometimes I go overload with the analogies.

Rest assured, as turbulent as my subconscious can periodically be, my actions are always acute. Succinct calculations, accurate, and just the right amount of lethality. Afterall, I'm a Talon—that's how we were recruited and trained.

"What is that, a nine?" the operative to my left scoffed. He was a Talon of nine years comparative to my fifteen, but often acted like he was more skilled. He was a burly man of Venezuelan descent, a thick accent, and an even thicker hide—whether it was his stubbornness or his sarcasm, he had a resilient personality.

"It's a .45, gringo," I rolled my eyes, calling him the slang word for 'white' in Spanish despite the reverse scenario. I'm a white boy myself, a bald 42-year-old one at that, with a chinstrap beard, mustache, some ink, and less muscles than my fellow brown-skinned Talon. My Agency cohorts often call me 'dinosaur' and 'relic,' even those older than me, because most Talons stop working in the field after the big four-O.

But we'll get to that later.

Right now I concentrate on 'business' as it were—the task at hand.

And the equipment in mine.

I slide the magazine home and rack the slide with a metallic snap, loading the first round into the chamber. The gun was now primed and ready for action. I secured it in my right hip-holster, which felt remotely awkward considering we were sitting in a modified Jeep Rubicon rip-off. At least there were neither roof nor doors, just the padded roll bars around us, like a metallic cage barely able to contain the beasts we were preparing to unleash.

The road offered a less than smooth ride. It was mostly dirt and mud, cutting through the Cambodian jungle with few turns but far too many dips.

"Sure, sure. The number might be higher but my .44 has you beat." He draws his stainless steel Taurus Raging Bull, a hefty revolver that aptly fit his big mitts and featured an overt 6-inch barrel.

"Your .44 would catch a flashlight glare from the enemy, give up your position in the night, and you'd be beat alright—beat to pieces by bats with nails in 'em or bullets if you're lucky." I said all of this in practically one breath. Then I look at him cockeyed and skeptical. "How the hell did the A even authorize that thing?"

We colloquially call the Agency by merely its first letter.

"They didn't," he whispered, as if the wheelman and 'copilot' seated in front of us could hear or care. They were Thai affiliates with the Agency, trusted enough to get us to our op point and arrange an exfil but that's it.

I rolled my eyes again. "Someday, man, someday they're gonna bust you for all that over-under shit you sneak."

He simply shrugged his brawny shoulders and waved at the air. "Nah, I'm good." He was so casual, so self-reassured.

I surmised that it's better to be paranoid than have that level of ignorant confidence.

"You and those revolvers, man, I swear." I started rambling, gazing to my right and out into the night-cloaked jungle surrounding us. The only source of light at the moment was the near-full moon above us, the faint stars in the cloudless sky, and the headlights spewing ahead of the Jeep, illuminating our path. Eventually they would cut off once we got near our destination, and the Jeep would slow to a crawl before letting us out to hike the rest of the route. I lackadaisically checked my digital wristwatch, noting the time and estimating that we still have three or four minutes before that op point was reached. I kept talking. "Thinking you're part of some new-age Alamo. Like a Venezuelan cowboy or some shit. No wonder your nickname is Spur."

He paused and squinted at me, as if I'd offended him.

And then he relaxed, saying: "It's 'cause my last name's Spurrio, you fucking pajuo."

"Right, right, sure, sure." I suppressed a chuckle.

Rubén Spurrio, a.k.a. Spur, a Talon operative you don't want to fuck with.

Unless you're me, casually shit-talking before a mission.

It is what it is—helps loosen the nerves. Gets you distracted, so you're not thinking about grander things. Things like the finest cuisine, kicking back at the beach, your family, fucking the love of your life, or in my case—

"So why they call you Oil, chamo?" Spurrio interrupted my train of thought.

Probably for the best.

"You're not that bright, are you, Spur?" I said, leaning a bit to give him a smartass look.

"Oh, uh-huh, funny guy all of a sudden."

What's really funny, wryly, was that we've been over this before. It's like after the seven ops we've worked together in the past nine years had completely run through all the shit-talking options. Damn, we really did need a clean slate to brainstorm.

However, it had been two solid years since our last op together, and four since our last two-man one, so I guess it was a little refreshing.

"What's an oil spill like, Spur?" I asked without taking my eyes off the back of the passenger's headrest. Moreover, just the top of it; I'm 6'1", clearly not cut out for this compact Jeep rip-off.

"What do you mean, what's it like?" he asked rhetorically. "It's fucking—"

And then it hit him. Either the obvious answer or him remembering this conversation from years ago. I don't recall the details, but I don't doubt that it transpired in a similar if not identical manner.

"Black water," he said slowly, wearing an obnoxious grin. "An oil spill, it's fucking blacked-out water. You're pretty smart for a tatted-up, bearded white boy."

Jacob Blackwater. Classic introduction.

I rolled my eyes.

I seemed to do that a lot around Spurrio.

Most Talons aren't this talkative, or at least not this sophomoric.

At least when shit hit the fan, Spurrio more than delivered. He held his weight and then some. If he can keep a cap on his hothead antics and chatterbox mouth he could have a big future in the Agency.

Besides, it's only his ninth year—seventh in the field—and his 36^th birthday is around the corner...

"Smart, right," I start nodding, brandishing a smirk that quickly faded. "That's what it is."

I really don't know if I'm that smart. I have my clever moments, though; some I'm more proud of than others, others I'm more guilty of than some.

"Whatever, chamo, as long as you can count and don't get our asses shot."

"Never do."

"Except that one time."

"I didn't get shot, I got grazed. It was just the shoulder. Everybody gets one."

"That's not what I meant, Mr. Seedless," he said, waving a finger at me.

Guess what I did—that's right. Rolled my fucking eyes. He's lucky that it's been four years and after the first two—months—I got over it. Well, over the notion of sterility, not the injury itself. Getting kicked in the nuts sucks, but suffering testicular trauma from the steel barrel of a shotgun used like a club by the enemy was an entirely different story. Aside from being bedridden for months after more than enough time in the hospital, I was given the news that a consequence from the injury was sterility.

Fortunately, my junk still worked at full capacity.

Full capacity.

Except I couldn't bear any kids in the future. With my wife gone from the car accident thirteen years ago, and my daughter to be thankful for, expanding the family hasn't really been on my mind. I know my girl will someday, but most fathers hate thinking about that for obvious reasons. She goes on and on how she doesn't want any, the same way my sister would rant—until she, you guessed it, ended up having three with her husband.

Good for them.

Anyway, off topic...

Thoughts like that, as I mentioned, aren't exactly prime food for the brain before tackling a mission, especially one as risky as this.

"Call me that again," I told Spurrio, "and I'll hit you so hard your blood will run black, then we'll see who's being called Oil."

Spurrio paused before laughing and clapping his hands, which wore fingerless gloves.

"That was good, not gonna lie, that was some Oscar shit."

"Isn't your brother's name Oscar? He still trying to get into the A with that shitty Luigi mustache?"

"The dude's a joke, but he's my lil' bro, so don't talk shit."

I raised my hands, palms out, as if to say I meant no harm.

A calm quietude came over us just then, and it had good timing, because four seconds later the driver killed the headlights and slowed the Jeep to a 5-mph crawl down the muddy path.

We needed neither a hand signal nor a spoken word to take action. We were Talons, afterall; the Agency's lead assets in the field.

With solemn expressions and tunnel-vision mindsets, Spurrio and I disembarked from the Jeep as it crawled. Our primary weapons occupied each of our right hands, rattling lightly in the insect-chirping night. Tactically treaded black boots alighted in the mud before smacking until silent as we jogged across a band of thick grass between the jungle treeline and the 'road.' Behind us the Jeep whipped a slow U-turn and crawled for another fifty feet before illuminating its path with headlights again and resuming its urgent speed.

Spurrio and I skidded to a halt at the edge of the treeline, turning to face the Jeep and our hopefully-trustworthy chauffeurs as their partially-lit vehicle slowly disappeared into the dark distance. Spurrio offered a casual salute before two-handing his Vektor submachine-gun and entering the jungle. I simply nodded and then tailed him, both of my bare hands on the CheyTac Intervention; it was a compact high-caliber sniper rifle, lightweight despite its power. I would be providing overwatch for Spurrio as he infiltrated the outpost we now sought on foot, occasionally using the compasses in our watches to confirm our route. The mission was fairly simple, and compared to other missions that required three-plus Talons, it was considerably low-risk—but high-value. This meant our objective was of the utmost priority, intel-based versus a neutralize-hostiles or even search-and-rescue basis, although both of those aspects still applied in their own merit.

That said—we would be neutralizing hostiles in order to secure a package, it just wouldn't be a person.

Fucking discs and micro-chips, techno-bullshit.

I might be 42 but I'm not an old man. I'm not technologically challenged, I just hate how complicated some of the business can get these days. Although, on the bright side, the Agency wouldn't have the upper hand it does now without the advancements in the tech world.

"Enclosing, northwest," Spurrio whispered as we jogged through the dense jungle. "Adjusting route. ETA?"

He was directions, I was time.

"Forty seconds."

"Hunker, slowing, watch our feet."

"Wilco." Will comply, damn right. Spurrio didn't disappoint once we're in the shit. He hunkered down a little but maintained a slow jog, decelerated even more now that we've gotten so close, and I matched his actions the same. Simultaneously we kept our eyes peeled not only for the outpost clearing but any potential tripwires or mines set up along their external perimeter.

When our earpieces emitted a little burst of static, Spurrio extended his left arm in a gesture for me to halt, which I did the instant I heard it myself. Mind you, he was leading because I accepted overwatch responsibility, and in a way earned it due to my seniority. I'm not here to kick ass and rack up my body count; that's not the type of Talon, or man, I am. When I was younger, sure. We all had our Rambo days. Spurrio is still pushing through his. No, I'm here to get the fucking job done so I can go home for some R&R that lasts me longer and longer each time.

I'm three years from 'soft-retiring' to a desk job, fifteen more and I won't have to work for the rest of my life if I so chose, while being set financially—me and my family.

So, like I said...I'm here to accomplish the mission and not go home in a body bag.

"Watch your step, but I think we're past that. See the spotlights? We're here, Oil." Spurrio tapped his earpiece, and then flipped a tiny switch on the side. I did this, too, and just like that we bypassed the enemy outpost's COM signal, which had caused the static, so that we could safely communicate with each other on our own private line.

"I need a better POV."

"Copy. This spot's too flat and dense. Following you."

"Copy." I kept my eyes on the blue-white flare of the large roof-mounted spotlights above the outpost, which was primarily one tall-rectangular building with a sweeping window on the top—third—level. Two secondary structures, small and single-story, occupied either side of it, giving it a vague cock-and-balls design. Good job, bad guys. You're already assholes.

"There—see the mound, Oil?"

"I got it. Moving up. Hold at base." I ascended a small hill in the jungle outside of the outpost clearing, off to its right side but still facing the front gate. I quickly realized that it's a massive tree that had fallen some time ago and was since weathered into the earth, covered with moss and leaves and god-knows-what-else to essentially blend with the terrain. This made it less flat than I was banking on, but doable nonetheless. So as I eventually lowered myself into a prone crawl, I heightened my posture awareness so I wouldn't fucking roll off of the peak.

Once in position, I had a pretty good line-of-sight to the outpost, with only a few surrounding trees offering some unwanted obstruction. Considering we were in the goddamn Cambodian jungle, I'd say it was a sweet spot.

"In position," I said without touching my earpiece, which sensitively picked up my whisper and relayed it to Spurrio ten feet below. Meanwhile, I finished screwing on the think sound suppressor to the muzzle of the sniper rifle.

"Copy," he acknowledged. "Quantity?"

"Hold." With the CheyTac's bipod securely elevating it above the 'ground' upon which I was prone, I uncapped the telescopic sight and put my right eye to the lens. It wasn't night-vision enabled and it didn't need to be; according to our mission intel—which included satellite images—the outpost was heavily illuminated throughout the night. Considering the methodically illegal hacking going on inside, including trespassing the Agency's servers and potentially threatening to expose identities of operatives worldwide if it wasn't shutdown within seventy-two hours...well, I'd say it had a good cause to be so well-lit. That said, they're the fucking bad guys and I'm one of those operatives; so guess who'll be getting their asses put six feet under tonight?

Not Spurrio and I, that's for goddamn sure.

"Quantity?"

"I said hold," I repeated with a bite of insistence, stifling Spurrio's impatience. Aside from my occasional lapse in thought just earlier, I was genuinely counting the number of hostiles guarding the outpost. Two if not three of them were presently in and out of my sightline, hence my pause. Finally I got back to Spurrio. "Eleven. I say again, eleven."

"Quality?"

I paused to assess. "Six INSAS, two Hawks, three MSMC."

"Fucking Hawks," Spurrio scoffed.

INSAS was a Galil-like assault rifle chambered in 5.56mm; MSMC was an Uzi rip-off carbine SMG, also 5.56; and the Hawk-197 was a semiautomatic combat shotgun, likely 12-gauge. For Spurrio, he would be engaging the enemy in close-quarters, so those shotguns would be especially hell.

"They are nearest the entrances, too."

"Of course they are."

"Want me to focus on them first?" I offer.

"Uh...let me inch closer, assess myself."

"Copy. Stay low."

"Wilco."

As Spurrio moved closer to the treeline, increasing his risk of early exposure, I tried to calculate the order in which I should eliminate certain hostiles during if not before Spurrio's infiltration.

"Any chance on an early Christmas?" Spurrio asked.

"Affirmative. Three hostiles taking a smoke break at the east entrance—two o'clock. That's about...two-hundred feet to the central building. After them...the ones by the front gate, our near noon, two of 'em. But once that pair's down, I give the others...three seconds, four max, to spot their bodies. I don't know if that's enough time for you to bypass the gate."

"If I take the east entrance instead, that's a long fucking run. Can you drop 'em as I go?"

"You know I can, but...you'll have less cushion and more attention."

"Fuckin' hell. Alright...hold." Spurrio paused to contemplate.

I eyeballed the scope some more, studying each idling hostile—quite lackadaisical patrols considering the technological acts of international terrorism they were conducting inside the building.

"Might wanna hurry up that thought, Spur," I said. "Smokers seem like they're about to kill that cig."

"Fuck. Copy. Uh...your call, dinosaur."

I rolled my eyes and then returned the one to the scope. "East entrance. Move."

"Wilco. Fire when ready." Spurrio got his feet moving. No more time to think, just to trust—in me.

I zoomed out to adjust my vantage point through the CheyTac scope and spotted him, in all black operative garb, hunkered yet jogging along the inside of the treeline toward the east entrance. The clearing was square-shaped, so he had to round the sharp corner and briefly into dense foliage where I lost sight of him.

"I got 'em in my sights. They're moving, cig is out."

"Spotlights are cycling. We got ten, maybe fifteen seconds. Hold."

"Hold!? Goddammit, Oil, take the shots or I will!"

I adjusted. "Hold." I gathered my breath and curled my right forefinger around the trigger. "Firing at will."

The first shot lined up two of the Cambodian hostiles as they strode side-by-side. The single .408-caliber CT bullet struck the nearest man in his left temple, obliterating his skull in an instant. The man to his right suffered an identical fate. Their bodies dropped limply. All under the sound of a harsh whisper—the effect of the suppressor affixed to the CheyTac's muzzle.

Half a decibel louder was the sliding of the bolt as I slid it back, ejecting the spent casing and then latching it forward, chambering a fresh cartridge. I had six more, including this one, in the detachable box magazine. I had one spare magazine on me; after that, I'd be reliant on my .45 sidearm.

I doubt I'd even go through all fourteen CheyTac rounds by the end of the night.

"Two down, Jesus C—"

I interrupted Spurrio with a subsequent shot that lobotomized the third hostile, whose face was previously misted with the blood, brain matter, and skull fragments of his comrades. He'd been paralyzed with shock for that full-Mississippi-second before I dropped him, too.

"Bull's-eye, you dangerous pajuo," Spurrio chimed as he approached the east gate with the compact blowtorch in his hand, Vektor slung. The tool ran on a fuel canister about the size of a mouse, and he'd have to be both accurate and hasty if he put it to good use. Being Spurrio, he did just that, and bypassed the fence to enter the outpost's grounds five seconds since the third hostile went down.

"Spotlights are cycling back. Hug the outhouse, stay up front. You're covered."

We, or at least I did, deduced that the small structure to the right of the main outpost building was the 'bathroom.' It was a little smaller than the other small structure to the outpost's left, which I'd guess was the barracks, where any potentially additional hostiles would be sleeping. Our intel only went so far.