DEAD
SIX
Larry Correia
& Mike Kupari
Books
by Larry Correia
Monster Hunter International
Monster Hunter Vendetta
Monster Hunter Alpha
The Grimnoir Chronicles
Hard Magic
Spellbound
DEAD SIX
Acknowledgements
Far more people help in the creation of a novel than just the authors. The story that would become DEAD SIX began as an online serial at www.thehighroad.org titled Welcome Back, Mr. Nightcrawler. Thank you to the good folks of THR for letting us play in their yard. We would like to thank Chris Byrne and the Gun Counter for fixing the “computer situation.” Their generosity is much appreciated. Special thanks go to Marcus Custer for his technical/tactical advice, he’s like having your own personal Jack Bauer, only without all the yelling and whispering. John Shirley helped out big time on knives as did Ogre Rettinger on information security and Jeff More on the border. Once again, Reader Force Alpha rode to the rescue with their proofing, critiques, and vast stores of useful knowledge. Thank you all.
DEAD SIX
“And by thy sword shalt thou live . . .”
Genesis 27:40
Prologue: Cold Open
VALENTINE
Sierra Vista Resort Hotel
Cancun, Quintana Roo
Southern Mexico
February 17
There was an angel standing over me when I opened my eyes. She was speaking but I could barely hear her. Every sound was muffled, as if I were underwater, except for the rapid pounding of my heart. Am I dreaming? Am I dead?
“On your feet, damn it!” the angel said as she grabbed my load-bearing vest and hauled me from my seat. My head was swimming, and every bone in my body ached. I wasn’t sure where I was at first, but reality quickly came screaming back to me. We were still in the chopper. We’d crashed. The angel was pulling me toward the door. “Can you walk? Come on.”
“Wait,” I protested, steadying myself against the hull. “The others.” I turned to where my teammates were sitting. Several of them were still strapped into their seats, but they weren’t moving. Dim light poured through a gaping hole in the hull. Smoke and dust moved in the light, but behind that there was blood everywhere. My heart dropped into my stomach. I’d worked with these men for years.
“They’re dead, bro,” Tailor said, suddenly appearing in the door frame. At least one of my friends had made it. “She’s right. We’ve got to get out of here before they start dropping mortars on us. This isn’t a good place to be.”
Still terribly disoriented, I shook my head, trying to clear it.
“You’re in shock,” the angel said, pushing me through the door of our wrecked NH-90 helicopter. “What’s your name?” she asked as we stepped onto a large, tiled surface.
“V . . . Valentine,” I stammered, squinting in the early morning sun. “Where are we?”
“In a pool,” Tailor said, moving up a steep embankment ahead of me. “Ramirez is dead. Half the team’s gone.” He dropped the magazine out of his stubby, short-barreled OSW FAL and rocked in a fresh one. “Hostiles will be on us quick. You locked and loaded?”
My head was clearing. I looked down at the DSA FAL carbine in my hands and retracted the bolt slightly. A .308 round was in the chamber. My good-luck charm, a custom Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum, was still in its holster on my left thigh. I was still alive, so it hadn’t let me down. “I’m ready,” I said, following Tailor up the incline.
Our chopper had crashed in the deep end of a huge, pear-shaped swimming pool that had been mostly drained of water. It sat at an odd angle, still smoking, the camouflage hull absolutely riddled with bullet holes. The walls of the pool’s deep end prevented the chopper from flipping over, but it was leaning to the side. There were deep gashes in the tile where the rotor had struck. The rotor had blown to pieces, and fragments were scattered everywhere.
“What happened?” I asked. The angel didn’t answer at first. I remembered then; her name was Ling, the one who hired us. She followed me up the embankment, clutching a suppressed Sig 551 assault rifle.
“We crashed,” she said after a moment, as if I didn’t know that. We cleared the top of the incline. A handful of armed people waited for us in the shallow end of the empty pool. Aside from Tailor and me, only three were dressed in the green fatigues of my company, Vanguard Strategic Solutions. I closed my eyes and tried to catch my breath. Ten of us had left on this mission. Half hadn’t made it. Goddamn it . . .
“You alright, Val?” Tailor asked. “I really need you with me, okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, kneeling down to check my gear. “Just a little rattled.” We’d crash-landed in the middle of a deserted resort complex. The city had once been covered in places like this, but now they were all abandoned. In front of us stood a cluster of white towers that must have been a luxury hotel once. About a hundred yards behind us was the beach and ocean as far as the eye could see. The place had probably been evacuated back when the fighting started. It was dirty from disuse and littered with garbage and debris. Several plumes of smoke rose in the distance. Cancun had seen better days.
Ling brushed the dust from her black body armor. “Mr. Tailor. You’re in charge now, correct? We must keep moving.” I believed she was from China, but there was no accent to her speech.
With Ramirez gone, Tailor had just been promoted to team leader. He quickly looked around, taking in our surroundings. “And where in the hell do you want to go? This part of town is covered in hostiles.” His East Tennessee twang were more pronounced with his anger.
“Somewhere that is not here. I have multiple wounded,” Ling said, nodding toward the rest of her teammates, all members of the same mysterious Exodus organization. Like her, they were heavily armed and dressed in black. They were clustered in a tight circle near the edge of the pool, waiting for instructions. In the middle of them was a teenaged girl being tended to by their medic. “We have to get her out.”
“Look, damn it,” Tailor exclaimed. “We’ll save your precious package. That was the deal.” He jerked a thumb at the young girl as he spoke. “Let me try to get help again.” Tailor squeezed the radio microphone on his vest and spoke into it. “Ocean-Four-One, this is Switchblade-Four-Alpha.”
While Tailor tried to raise the base, our team sharpshooter, Skunky, ran over to see if I was okay. He was a skinny Asian guy and was in his mid-twenties, same age as me. “Dude, you’re alive.”