Dedications and Chapter One

“Sleight of Hand”
By Randy Billett

This is for my friends; Cody, Adam, Kati, Jeff, Shawn, and Kyle who were almost exclusively the basis of the main characters. Mariah is pretty vital too.
These people are my inspiration and without them I never would have made it through my high school years. I owe more to them than they’ll ever know and more.
Another dedication belongs to Aaron “Wigger” Weaver. He was a good kid who went too soon. Everyone misses you man.

Sleight of Hand –
1. Skill in feats requiring quick and clever movements of the hands, esp. for entertainment or deception.
2. Skill in deception.

Chapter One
The fading sound of the explosion coupled with the sounds of metal fusing with metal, windshields and fiberglass side panels shattering, and tires squealing to a stop just in time to avoid death, if only for a short while permeated through the air after charges on two cars along the highway and under a limousine detonated in a display of fire, smoke, and shrapnel.
“Is that a good enough distraction for you?” One’s voice sounded in my ear through the headset.
“Yeah,” I chuckled into the mouthpiece, “I think that will do just fine. Feel free to pack up and head to the extraction point. Sayn’t and I can take care of the rest from here.”
“Alright,” He replied, “Don’t get shot too much.” Given our relationship it’s hard to tell if he’s joking or not.
I got out of my car, a Ford Focus, and walk up past a few other cars, occupied by disoriented and scared businessmen and women on their way home to their families. It’s not them I’m here for after all. I jog up to the foremost of two limousines that swerved to a stop in time to escape a similar fate as the lead car. Skipping the back seat I break the window of the front passenger door with my elbow catching the driver off guard as well as with a three-round burst from my Barreta 93R. From the back of the vehicle I could hear someone cry out in a heavy middle-eastern accent.
There’s our boy. I thought, leaving the limousine, firing four more bursts, emptying the current clip, at the limousine behind. This caused half a dozen guards, armed with 9mm pistols and Uzi’s to pour out of the car.
The delay from the shock of being fired at gave me enough time to jump over the concrete divider in the middle of the highway. Judging by the blood on some of their suits I’d hit someone. A hail of bullets flew over my head as I ducked behind the divider, reloading my Barreta. The frenzied hail of lead continued over me, stopping just as I ran crouched along the divider to reposition myself and further disorient them.
Oh, is it my turn to shoot?
I popped out from behind my cover, obviously not where they expected me to be, judging by their expressions. They were still reloading before they could react to the second burst from the Barreta. Four stood left, gawking at the black clad man who’d just taken down two of their friends. How often do you see a man in a black suit and combat vest paired with a black leather cowboy-style hat and yellow sunglasses out on the highway anyway?
As they began, now, frantically trying to reload their weapons so they could return fire I dropped another two before diving over the divider in front of the lead limousine. Just as the remaining two began firing on me. As I did this I noticed the back door was open, leaving a clear view of an empty seat.
“Sayn’t, the target is moving.” I spoke into my headset. “Do you have a visual?”
In my ear the reply sounded, “Yeah, he can sure move for a chubby guy.”
We both laughed quietly.
I holstered my Barreta and crawled under the car. Looking around I saw a set of black shoes on either side of the limo. Trying to pin me was the first smart move they’d made, although it wouldn’t save them.
With as much speed as I could I unsheathed my trench knife from its place on my left bicep and took out the right guards hamstrings. He fell with a cry and was pulled under the car before his friend could respond. I silenced him quickly with a quick slash at his throat just as the last guard realized his friend had disappeared and was getting down to look under the car I was already out and jumping onto the hood. As he spun around the .44 magnum round from my Bulldog struck him in the chest just above his heart.
Good help is hard to find these days I guess.
There was no sound of gunfire after that but from the radio, “Got him between the eyes. Let’s get going before anyone you’d hate killing shows up.”
Sure enough the sound of siren’s had appeared in the distance and was wasting no time in getting closer. Our group looked very poorly on the deaths of civilians and police. Sprinting now, I dived once more over the bullet-hole ridden concrete divider, landing into a roll and continuing to the other side of the road where a rope, hidden from view was waiting for me.
Four minutes later Sayn’t, One, and I were in a motorboat headed away from the chaotic scene of death and destruction.
“So,” One was the first to speak, “have you ever tried using something quieter Lobito?”
“Silencers would take more room and don’t holster easily.” I retorted. “You have a lot of room to talk anyway.”
“It was your idea for me to give you the diversion.” He was right.
“Alright, children,” Sayn’t said sternly, “Can this wait ‘til we’ve returned the boat and made it home?”
We both nodded and sat in silence the rest of the way to port. About a mile from port our equipment and the outfit I had worn on the bridge were stowed away in tackle boxes, Sayn’t’s rifle in an ice box, and we were changed into swimming trunks and white t-shirts. Just another group of guy friend’s out enjoying the ocean and getting some recreational fishing in.
We pulled up to the dock, and Sayn’t went to pay for the rental of the boat as One and I collected the tackle boxes and ice box. By the time Sayn’t had finished the transaction and returned to help us we were nearly done packing the large white Denali SUV. He helped us finish and we were off, on our way back to the house to relax after a days work.
A few minutes later Sayn’t’s cell phone rang. He answered it without taking his eyes of the road and, after a greeting and a few answers to the affirmative he said “See you then,” and hung up.
“That was Bob; the money’s been wired to our accounts. Apparently, the whole ordeal is on the news already.”
“It should be,” I said, “News helicopters are fast and that was at least a half hour ago.”
He laughed. “Yeah, you have a point.” Then he added, “Too bad we’re faster huh?”
We all shared a good laugh. We were damned good. And we all knew it without letting it get to our heads. We’d only been in the hired gun game for two years now, going on three. And already we had climbed to the top of the list. We even got the occasional job from the CIA, and I’m pretty sure this was one, because as I found out later no one had seen who had killed the visitor from the Middle East or his guards.
Working the government jobs was always nice, though they were rare. Not only did they make sure we were compensated but they made sure no heat was brought down on our backs. The only catch was we run any hits on US government officials by them. Typically they’d pay us double to take the original client down.
Normally though the hits are overseas. Politically motivated hits in countries in the heat of revolution and internal warfare. That’s where the money was. That’s where we went. We had a few different sets of passports and credit cards we used. We made enough money we could pay off our credit cards a few times over so it didn’t matter.
We pulled up to the house, nice compared to most of the others in the suburban neighborhood, about twenty minutes later. A house that looked simple enough from the street: A two-story house with a flower garden out front, and a cobblestone walkway and driveway. Out back there was an in-ground pool with a balcony overlooking it. The balcony belonged to the upstairs dining room. It was mainly used to entertain clients and other guests. Even mercenaries made friends though they usual worked as our contacts; some of them even from the CIA or some other government group.
We unpacked the SUV, placing the tackle boxes and ice box inside the adjoined garage, making sure the door was closed before we began unpacking their contents into their hidden compartment behind the tool lined wall panels. When we were satisfied nothing looked out of place we headed for the door.
We walked in to a rare sight: An impeccably clean house and the smell of spaghetti in the air. It looked like our newest house guest was doing their job nicely. We took our shoes off and went to the kitchen to find her at the stove stirring the sauce and meatballs into the noodles. Yes, our redheaded thief was doing just fine as a maid.
She had tried breaking in a few nights earlier during a rainstorm. Sayn’t caught her before she could make off with some of his chains and watches. Rather than killing her, he offered her a job as our maid to work for a chain or two. For obvious reasons she agreed to the offer. The next day, while scouting for the mission we’d just completed, we bought her a new wardrobe and some other necessities she’d need. Since then we’ve had homemade meals every day and a clean house.
She greeted us excitedly. As we didn’t leave the house often there was a lot of time to familiarize over the past few days and needless to say a few of us had gotten attached.
“Hey! How was work?” She said it so plainly it was as though we’d been working in an office all day.
We all replied positively. It had gone exceptionally well.
“Good, I’m sure you guys are in no mood at all after a bad day at work.” She added cheerily as she removed two loaves of garlic bread, also homemade, from the oven.
“I’ll be right back to make your plates after I get everyone else.” With that she bounded towards the stairs in her apron.
Soon she returned with Bob, Hill, and Link. It wasn’t long before each of us had a plate of spaghetti with a slice of garlic bread sitting in front of us and she herself sat down.
“So how was work for you today, Chaos?” I said after taking in a few bites of spaghetti. Chaos was what we called the girl, based on a tattoo of hers, to keep away from using real names. The rest of the group knew each other’s real names but it’d just become easier to use codenames. Real names were an extremely rare occurrence in our group.
She giggled after finishing her bite of spaghetti topped garlic bread and she replied, “Good,” then she looked over to One, waving vaguely with a fork as she spoke, "Got into a fight with your room, by the way. I think I've won, I'll see if it's still evil incarnate tomorrow morning though. Those things always seem to come back to life."
Everyone, including One, laughed. We all knew the cyclone his room was.
After dinner we all placed our empty plates in the sink. The meal was delicious as we were all sure to tell Chaos who was already rinsing the dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. She was eager to do her job, and well.
Once the dishes were clean and the kitchen was tidied up we all gathered in the upstairs dining room for a drink. We all had our individual tastes. While Bob and Hill preferred to avoid the hard liquor the rest of us had a favorite. The top three, a sort of holy trinity, were Vodka, Whiskey, and, especially since Chaos came, Rum.
I went with a celebratory White Russian cocktail, Sayn’t with his Rum and Kahlua, One settled for Whiskey on the rocks, while Chaos, inspired by my White Russian, had a similar drink with the Vodka replaced by rum and Bailey’s Irish Crème where I used milk. She dubbed her remake a White Irish Pirate. I assume she felt her life of crime brought her closer to being a pirate.
Once we’d all amassed our drinks we went out onto the balcony to sit in the lounge chairs and relax in the late afternoon sun.
None of us had died, we’d made a good deal of money, and we got to relax with friends and drinks at the end of it all. These were the times it was good in the life of a mercenary.