Swords of Exodus [Dead Six 02] by Larry Correia, Mike Kupari

folks in Tickville was a fucking imbecile.
    For the first hour we sat there, Ling kept her long coat on, and tried not to draw attention to herself. Even so, she’d been hit on or offered drinks by one knucklehead after another. Her patience was wearing thin, and I found it hilarious.
    “He’ll be here soon,” I said calmly as I swirled the straw in my five-dollar, watered-down bar Coke.
    “And if he doesn’t come tonight?” she asked. I had to struggle to hear her over the distorted country music blasting from the jukebox. In one corner of the bar was a game where drunks could sock a punching bag to test their strength. It made a ridiculous amount of racket, even louder than the music.
    “Then we come back tomorrow.” I didn’t like Ling’s attitude. She thought she was in a hurry? It was my brother who needed help. If Valentine rotted in a secret jail forever, it really wouldn’t hurt my tender feelings. “Hey, look on the bright side,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “They’ve got punch cards. Ten dinners here, and you get a free basket of mozzarella sticks.”
    “As if you could make it ten times without contracting botulism . . . Look, Mr. Lorenzo, I can tell you don’t like this any more than I do.” She was trying to sound more diplomatic.
    “True. I normally prefer more time to plan. A job like this? I would probably watch the target for weeks, get to know his mannerisms, the way he talks, the way he sounds. This is going to be a challenge.”
    There was a loud crash near the jukebox. Two men had gotten into a fight over the music. The guy voting for Lynyrd Skynyrd won by knocking the other guy over, toppling a small table and some stools in the process. The bar patrons cheered and laughed. Since nobody was squirting blood, the lady running the place didn’t seem to care.
    A few minutes later, a big man shuffled up and sat at the bar next to Ling. He wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off. His face was covered in a short beard, but his head was shaved. His arms were covered in intricate tattoos, including a big one of Captain Morgan striking his famous, trademarked pose. Classy.
    “Hey, pretty lady,” the Captain said. “Buy you a beer?”
    It was all I could do to not laugh at the look of revulsion on Ling’s face, but she quickly hid it. She shook her head at him, sort of giggling, putting on the shy Asian schoolgirl bit. “No, thank you.” Giggle.
    Captain Morgan was undaunted, and it was plain to see he considered himself a smooth operator. “C’mon, baby. We don’t get too many oriental women here. Where you from?”
    “I am from China,” she said, her accent suddenly thick. “Preeze, I have drink with my friend.” She looked up at me while lacing her arm around mine, wearing a big fake grin.
    “Fine, snooty bitch,” El Capitan said, shooting me an evil look. “I’ll see you later, cocksucker.” He spat, pointing a crooked finger at me.
    I rubbed my hands across my face. “Thanks a lot,” I said to her, not looking up.
    “I apologize for that. It would complicate things if I had that zhu tou pawing over me when the target walked in,” Ling said over the sounds of “Sweet Home Alabama.” She grabbed the glass in front of her and pounded it down in one gulp. “I’m really not such a prude, Mr. Lorenzo. It’s just . . . I am often in a bad mood before a mission, because I worry about my team and have much on my mind. Now I’m worried about Valentine as well.” She signaled the bartender, who came by and poured her another shot.
    I watched the door. More people were piling in, but still no Smoot. Shen and Antoine were parked outside. For some reason I figured a 6'6" West African and Jet-freakin’- Li would stick out a bit. I was dressed like the other patrons, lots of flannel and denim, and could easily blend in with the crowd.
    “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
    Ling waited, staring at her reflection in the dirty bar mirror. She was