Blood & Tacos #1 by Johnny Shaw, Matthew Funk, Gary Phillips, Christopher Blair, Cameron Ashley Page A
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are. Then we'll liquidate them and the hostages and move out."
Parkinson looked around for a way to extinguish the burning files. He picked up a decanter of Glenfiddich ‘37, considered it, and then put it down. "Find me a way to put out this fire."
The study doors parted and Tiger Team Bravo were marched in at gunpoint. Flanked by four MPs, carrying their M-16 carbines, the team looked shaken and weary in shabby Guardsmen uniforms. Teague neither smiled or frowned to see them.
Parkinson stood astride Teague's Buddhist prayer mat, beaming.
"Well, you dumb son of a bitch," Parkinson said to Colonel Professor, who glowered back from below his skewed beret. "Got anything to say for yourself?"
Professor didn't reply. Parkinson's smile went fish-bone thin.
"You can start by telling me where those Cartel records are."
"I have only one thing to tell you," Colonel Professor said.
The smile didn't shift, but Parkinson's eyes readied some venom. It slipped into his tone. "What's that, Colonel?"
"It's time for some Bravo mojo."
Parkinson only had time to wrinkle his nose. The MPs that brought in Tiger Team were already tossing the carbines to them. In a single smooth motion, as if both teams were one, Tiger Team Bravo caught up their rifles and set them on Parkinson while their MPs drew sidearms and aimed them at Parkinson's men.
Parkinson's MPs dropped their hands from their holsters. Parkinson dropped his jaw.
"What the fuck is this?" Parkinson said.
"Fine work, Tiger Team Delta," Teague said to the MPs allied with Bravo.
From behind Banzai's left shoulder, Bear tipped the MP helmet he wore at his commander. "Our pleasure, boss. Good to be back on the right side."
"Get the greenhorns out of here," Colonel Professor ordered. At Teague's nod of agreement, the counterfeit MPs led Parkinson's men away with their white gloves raised high.
"What are you doing, you traitorous cocksucker?" General Parkinson roared at Teague, tone sour as the cigar scent staining his liver-hued lips. "Kill them all!"
He spun to find Teague holding Parkinson's own ivory-handled Colt on him. His gaze floated between his lost pistol and Teague's scowl as if deciding which was deadlier.
As Banzai shut the study doors, Tiger Team Bravo clustered around Parkison. Colonel Professor nodded at Teague.
"Captain," he said.
"Colonel," Teague replied in his coffin-groan of a voice. "I would say it was good to see you, but given the circumstances."
"Understood. Seems it's always that way, Captain."
"Yes it does, sir."
"Traitor," was all Parkinson could spit.
"This the fucker who stole my Pa?" Jasper poked the chill of his rifle barrel into Parkinson's neck.
"As if his kind hadn't already done enough to my grandparents," Banzai added, the burn of his glare showing even through the mirror shades.
"Traitors!" Parkinson bellowed. "All of you. Betraying your country."
"By surviving?" Colonel Professor held out his hand to Teague.
"By not betraying each other?" Teague filled Professor's grip with the General's Colt.
Parkinson's laugh had a disease in its cough. Stare stuck to Tiger Team Bravo like Agent Orange. "No, you fucking grunts. By not letting the war end when we told you to. By not doing as you were fucking told."
Colonel Professor put the Colt's sight on Parkinson's temple. His stare in reply, cool and heavy caliber. The Ozark wilderness outside a perfection of silence packaged in mist and memory.
"If there's one good thing we took from your war, General," Professor said, "it's each other."
Parkinson's lips split to speak. Professor saved the silence with a bullet through the general's skull.
The shot sped through both temples and out for the forest to keep. Parkinson's body shook the ash of the burning files as it fell. It sprawled stiff on the prayer mat, frozen to be forgotten on the floor above where Team Tiger Bravo's families waited to be joined.
THE END
Matthew C. Funk is an editor of
Needle Magazine
,
editor of the Genre
Parkinson looked around for a way to extinguish the burning files. He picked up a decanter of Glenfiddich ‘37, considered it, and then put it down. "Find me a way to put out this fire."
The study doors parted and Tiger Team Bravo were marched in at gunpoint. Flanked by four MPs, carrying their M-16 carbines, the team looked shaken and weary in shabby Guardsmen uniforms. Teague neither smiled or frowned to see them.
Parkinson stood astride Teague's Buddhist prayer mat, beaming.
"Well, you dumb son of a bitch," Parkinson said to Colonel Professor, who glowered back from below his skewed beret. "Got anything to say for yourself?"
Professor didn't reply. Parkinson's smile went fish-bone thin.
"You can start by telling me where those Cartel records are."
"I have only one thing to tell you," Colonel Professor said.
The smile didn't shift, but Parkinson's eyes readied some venom. It slipped into his tone. "What's that, Colonel?"
"It's time for some Bravo mojo."
Parkinson only had time to wrinkle his nose. The MPs that brought in Tiger Team were already tossing the carbines to them. In a single smooth motion, as if both teams were one, Tiger Team Bravo caught up their rifles and set them on Parkinson while their MPs drew sidearms and aimed them at Parkinson's men.
Parkinson's MPs dropped their hands from their holsters. Parkinson dropped his jaw.
"What the fuck is this?" Parkinson said.
"Fine work, Tiger Team Delta," Teague said to the MPs allied with Bravo.
From behind Banzai's left shoulder, Bear tipped the MP helmet he wore at his commander. "Our pleasure, boss. Good to be back on the right side."
"Get the greenhorns out of here," Colonel Professor ordered. At Teague's nod of agreement, the counterfeit MPs led Parkinson's men away with their white gloves raised high.
"What are you doing, you traitorous cocksucker?" General Parkinson roared at Teague, tone sour as the cigar scent staining his liver-hued lips. "Kill them all!"
He spun to find Teague holding Parkinson's own ivory-handled Colt on him. His gaze floated between his lost pistol and Teague's scowl as if deciding which was deadlier.
As Banzai shut the study doors, Tiger Team Bravo clustered around Parkison. Colonel Professor nodded at Teague.
"Captain," he said.
"Colonel," Teague replied in his coffin-groan of a voice. "I would say it was good to see you, but given the circumstances."
"Understood. Seems it's always that way, Captain."
"Yes it does, sir."
"Traitor," was all Parkinson could spit.
"This the fucker who stole my Pa?" Jasper poked the chill of his rifle barrel into Parkinson's neck.
"As if his kind hadn't already done enough to my grandparents," Banzai added, the burn of his glare showing even through the mirror shades.
"Traitors!" Parkinson bellowed. "All of you. Betraying your country."
"By surviving?" Colonel Professor held out his hand to Teague.
"By not betraying each other?" Teague filled Professor's grip with the General's Colt.
Parkinson's laugh had a disease in its cough. Stare stuck to Tiger Team Bravo like Agent Orange. "No, you fucking grunts. By not letting the war end when we told you to. By not doing as you were fucking told."
Colonel Professor put the Colt's sight on Parkinson's temple. His stare in reply, cool and heavy caliber. The Ozark wilderness outside a perfection of silence packaged in mist and memory.
"If there's one good thing we took from your war, General," Professor said, "it's each other."
Parkinson's lips split to speak. Professor saved the silence with a bullet through the general's skull.
The shot sped through both temples and out for the forest to keep. Parkinson's body shook the ash of the burning files as it fell. It sprawled stiff on the prayer mat, frozen to be forgotten on the floor above where Team Tiger Bravo's families waited to be joined.
THE END
Matthew C. Funk is an editor of
Needle Magazine
,
editor of the Genre
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