Open Season

him. A second later, the SUV crashes through the front wall and windows. More insurgents armed with AK47s are scattered by the impact.
Leaders lead.
I trust Poso and Keefe to follow us. Throw open my door, dismount right. Carmichael dismounts left.
“Stay inside,” I tell Garcia.
Dazed by the impact, an insurgent crawls on his hands and knees. Searches the rubble for his rifle. I present my M4, shoot him in the side of the head. His skin splits around the bullet hole. Blood, bone, and chunks of meat burst from the other side.
Another man gets to one knee. Raises his rifle. I shoot him twice in the face. The bridge of his nose disappears into a black cavity. He pitches backward, sprawls in the debris.
On either side, I hear the sound of engines racing, the crash of Poso’s and Keefe’s Suburbans plowing into adjacent storefronts. Carmichael is delivering precise aimed fire. Killing insurgents struggling to extricate themselves from the rubble.
The sound of gunfire tells you a lot about the people doing the shooting. Left and right, I hear panicked AK47 fire on full auto. Answered by the deliberate crack of M4s.
The sound of AK47 fire dies away.
Double-taps from M4s. We are executing survivors.
“Actual, this is One-Niner.”
“Go ahead, One-Niner.”
“Clear, right.”
“Copy. One-Five, sitrep.”
“One-Five,” Poso acknowledges. “Clear, left.”
“Copy, One-Five.”
I look back at the road. Bandonil’s Humvee is sagging, its side blackened and scarred by the RPG explosion. The lieutenant is covering the cement truck with the fifty-caliber. His men are searching the deuce-and-a-half for insurgents who might still be alive.
Flames and greasy black smoke pour from the first and last Humvees in the column. Philippine Army troops stand helpless, unable to pull the dead from the burning vehicles. The fires are too hot. Grotesque sticks of charcoal sit in the drivers’ compartments.
Carmichael and I step back to our Suburban. The armored side panels and drive-flat tires have been riddled. The hood has been scorched and covered with muck—a rain of blood and human remains. Right in front of us—a Philippine Army soldier hit by an RPG.
Not the nicest thing for a fifteen-year-old girl to see on her way to Easter vacation.
Or smell. The copper scent of blood, the stench of guts and burned flesh.
I open the rear passenger door of the SUV. Garcia is still covering Chrissie with his body. The girl is whimpering. The executive straightens. Chrissie stares at me with frightened eyes.
Can’t think what to say. Nothing can shield the girl from this carnage.
I reach into the front cab for the thermos. Unscrew the cap, tip the ice-cold liquid down my throat. Hand the drink to Chrissie with an encouraging smile.
“You make good tea, Chrissie,” I say. “Have some.”

2 The Contract
Clark Air Base, Philippines
Monday, 0800
The Clark Marriott services travelers flying in and out of Clark International Airport and Clark Air Base. The two facilities were once Clark Field, America’s largest Air Force base outside the continental United States. When the US withdrew from the Philippines in 1991, the northern half of the facility was turned into an international airport. The southern half is an air base run by the Philippine Air Force. The US retained landing rights.
I flew into the civil airport the night before, found myself already checked into the hotel. The front desk gave me a message from Dan Mercer, founder and CEO of Long Rifle Consultants Inc.
The room smelled clean and fresh. I dropped my duffel on the carpet, stripped to my skivvies, and went straight to bed. I was to have breakfast at the hotel restaurant, bright and early. I would be met by a representative of Long Rifle.
The hotel is comfortable, air-conditioned. I step out of the elevator. Jeans, desert boots, and a loose cotton shirt. The restaurant is quiet, with a long bank of picture windows overlooking the lush fields and distant mountains of Luzon. Mount Pinatubo’s perfect cone dominates the western view.
The waiter is smartly dressed in black pants, and a white jacket with gold buttons. He has the light, milk-chocolate complexion of Malays who migrated to the Philippines two thousand years ago. “Good morning, Sir. How many?”
“Two.”
No idea who to look for. I assume they’ll know me on sight.
The waiter sweeps his arm expansively, ushers me to a table by the windows. I sit down, ask for a pot of coffee and a pitcher of orange juice. It would be rude to order breakfast before my host arrives.
My mystery host.
Dan refused to say anything more than I was to be offered a new job. Should I accept, the remaining term of my current contract would be bought out. He implied I would find the offer rewarding.
I enjoy duty in Mindanao. The local insurgents are active enough to keep my skills sharp. Plantation life is great. Not sure I want my contract bought out. Another year jogging around the plantation, sipping ice-cold pineapple juice, would suit me fine.
The coffee hits the spot. Black, with the flavor of a sweet bark. I stare out the window at Mount Pinatubo. Ten miles west, across a vast table of green fields. Long dormant, the volcano erupted in 1991. Fifteen thousand US Air Force personnel and their families were forced to evacuate.
I look past the buffet. An attractive woman is speaking to the waiter. He gestures, and she strides toward me.
Shit.
Anya Stein. Dressed in her signature black pantsuit, slim and bladed. Dress shoes with half an inch of heel, polished glossy black. Designer shades pushed onto her crown. She has Harvard Law written all over her. Not a Long Rifle rep. Stein is CIA.
“Breed,” she says. “Don’t get up.”
Stein’s hair is soft, dark brown, shoulder-length. Her complexion is as pale as a New England winter. She sits across from me.
“What are you doing here, Stein?”
The woman waves the waiter away. Pours herself a cup of coffee. “Is this good? God knows I need it.”
“It’s the best,” I tell her. “Made from coffee grown in the mountains. A species imported by the Spanish, five hundred years ago. Moroccan.”
Stein