Mercenary by Lizzy Ford Page A

liked me, which was how I got away with what I often did
when dealing with him.
    “I don’t need your shit,” I replied. “Tell
me what you want. I’ve got some looting to do.”
    “For such a talented man, you have such low
ambitions.”
    “Bye, Cleon.” I hung up but didn’t put the
phone on the coffee table.
    In his circles, he was supposed to be
diplomatic, indirect and politically correct, to the point no one
was supposed to know what his true positions on anything were. I
usually had to remind him once or twice not to play those games
with me. I already knew what he was. Likewise, he understood the
depths of me.
    The phone rang again.
    “Yeah,” I said, answering it.
    “This again.” A flicker of annoyance was in
Cleon’s tone.
    “We’re past the foreplay stage, Cleon.”
    He released a slow sigh. “Half my personal
security detail was in Florida in training this weekend. An
opportunity presented itself I must take advantage of, and what
remains of my personal detail is not likely to last until dawn. The
city is a warzone. I’m not even certain who is attacking my
convoy.”
    It was then I heard the sound of a gun
report, followed by several answering shots and the accompanying
shouting of men.
    “If you are in the city and available, I
would appreciate your support,” Cleon said, ignoring the
sounds.
    I started to laugh. “You’re in the middle of
it, aren’t you?” I asked.
    “I am,” the unflappable politician
confirmed. “I may be in the need of an expedient extraction. Can
you bring your team?”
    “They’re stuck overseas. But I’m here.”
    “It might take more than you this time.”
    “Text me your location. I’ll see you in
thirty.” I hung up and tucked my phone in my pocket before
strapping on my most lightweight protective vest. It was followed
by various sheaths, ammo storage pouches, and weapons carriers. I
had mastered the combination of mobility and firepower after
several missions overseas in hostile, third world countries. I paid
an exorbitant amount of money for the bulletproof vest that weighed
a mere two pounds and was an eighth of an inch thick. Everything
else was custom made for my body, fitted in a way to ensure I could
reload a handgun in seconds and also kick someone in the head as
needed.
    When I was ready, I checked the location
Cleon had provided and then began calculating how to reach him
fast. I wouldn’t drive a car in this insanity if my life depended
on it, but a motorcycle would be agile enough to maneuver through
the chaos and carry me across the western part of the city towards
his location, somewhere around Silver Spring, just inside the
Beltway, at the border of Maryland and DC.
    Leaving my apartment, I trotted down the
stairs to the garage under the building and unchained my ride from
the post I parked it next to. I walked it up the ramp leading to
the street and paused. In the distance, first responder sirens
screamed while the monotone blare of the foul weather warning
system echoed off the cement buildings in my neighborhood.
Otherwise, it was eerily still. No one on my street was out, though
the lights in every building were on.
    I slung my leg over the seat of my ride and
didn’t bother with a helmet. The police had better things to do
than enforce the helmet law tonight.
    My bike roared to life, and I took off. The
side streets were quiet, vacant, and I began to wonder where
Cleon’s war zone was. It wasn’t until I cut through downtown DC
that I began to see the looters struggling to carry stolen goods
down the streets. The police cordoned off the memorials and
governmental buildings but hadn’t yet barricaded the shopping and
business districts – or the banks, which was where I would have
been headed if Cleon hadn’t called.
    I skirted police barricades and walked my
bike through crowds of people on the verge of killing each other to
get to the money in banks and ATMs. DC was a political city where
someone was always protesting