Page 2

Gray added nothing, and Finnigan didn't push out of respect. He didn't need a full explanation, because he knew. Working for the americans was unpleasant, for sure, but it was just part of a larger reason. The Fortress State liked its mercenaries. Their global deployment policy was a goldmine of jobs for youngbloods: the Fortress wanted reach, and the outfits wanted payment. It was a match made in gunpowder heaven. Or so it seemed until you stopped and thought about it.

When you work with hotshot youth just off their first fix, as the Fortress often does, you tend to assume a certain mental deficiency in the conduct of your hirees. By itself this opinion is not wrong. But when it becomes a modus operandi covering all mercenary interactions, this is when problems start to rear up. The intel was flimsy. The Captain had Gray, Owl and Gabe look through the pages, photos and provided documents: they spent three hours checking it out, comparing numbers, crunching, planning.

"Didn't you have a payrolled Stratrec subscription, cap? Can't we cross-check this stuff?"

The Captain shrugged.

"Expired two months ago. If this commision goes through, I'll renew it. For now, we have to trust the commissioner."

"That's not enough data, cap. I thought we don't do blindsight jobs."

The Captain shrugged again. He was a soft, short man, with a meek smile and graying hair. He was a late fix. Nobody knew his real age, but Gray guessed they weren't far apart from each other. The Captain's first and foremost trait was a seeming respect for privacy. He never asked questions. After you've proven your competency beyond reasonable doubt you were in and nothing in your file would ever be enquired about. Not even your name, if you'd so like. The Captain, of course, expected the same in return, and took offence in any questions pertaining to his personal history.

Gray suspected it was all because the man was a sham. He looked soft, constantly smoked or drank coffee or both at the same time, spoke in a comforting voice with an obviously fake accent. At the same time, the man was beyond competent, had an unbreakable will and a devious, wicked mind. He didn't ask your name because he, somehow, always knew it. He gave you privacy because he had no reason to discomfort you with questions he already knew the answers to.

Gray once asked him how it was, serving in the CIA as a paramilitary officer. It was long evening after drinks.

The Captain laughed and treated him to a sloppily rolled cigarette.