“Yes!” he said, beaming. “Tax exempt, of course.”
“How . . . how is that possible?” I asked. “The tax law says that—”
Gordon interrupted me with an obnoxious little chuckle. “Mr. Valentine, I’m sure you have a lot of questions. I’m afraid that there are a lot of things I simply can’t tell you unless you sign. All I’m at liberty to say is that you won’t have to worry about paying any taxes. We’ll take care of the IRS documentation and filing for you. You’ll keep every cent of what you earn.”
“Who are you people?” I asked flatly, my eyes narrowing. “What’s this all about? I can tell that this isn’t your office,” I said, moving my arm to indicate the small storefront we were sitting in. “You probably rented this place out a week ago.”
Gordon sat back in his chair and studied me with a knowing grin on his face. “Mr. Tailor was right about you,” he said. “You’re very sharp.” He then pulled a large manila envelope out of his desk drawer. He opened it and began to read to me. “Your real name is Constantine Michael Valentine, yet you somehow managed to get Constantine left off of your military ID.” My mouth fell open, but I didn’t say anything. I hadn’t heard anyone say my real first name in years. “You served a four-year term of enlistment in the United States Air Force, including a six-month combat deployment to Afghanistan. You were involved in an incident there, and while you were discharged honorably you have a reenlistment code of RE-3. They asked you not to come back.”
“Okay, so you were able to pull my DD214,” I said. “Are you with the government?”
Gordon set the papers down before speaking. “Something like that. I’m afraid I really can’t say much more at this time. Ever since Mr. Tailor indicated that you might be interested in the job I’m offering, we’ve been doing a very thorough background check on you. I know that you went from being a career contractor with Vanguard Strategic Solutions International to working as a night-shift security guard for a local defense contractor. Your annual income is about one quarter of what it was last year, and that doesn’t include the generous operational bonuses or hazard pay that Vanguard was famous for.”
“So?”
“So, Mr. Valentine, your friend Mr. Tailor told me that you’re better than this. And you know what? I agree. I’ve studied your entire dossier, going back to when you were in high school. I know what happened to your mother, and I can only imagine the effect that had on you.”
“Mr. Willis,” I said coldly, “You have no idea the effect that had on me.”
“Ah, I see,” he said, his voice softening. “I apologize, Mr. Valentine. I didn’t mean to bring up bad blood. All I was trying to say is that I think what I’m offering is perfect for you.”
I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose between two fingers as I did so. “Mr. Willis, what exactly are you offering me?”
“Straight to the point.” He beamed. “I like that. You wouldn’t believe how many guys we get through here that get intimidated when we pull out their file. I’m not going to lie to you,” he said, leaning in closer. “This job is going to be dangerous. You’ll have to be able to deploy right away.”
“I see. That shouldn’t be a problem. How dangerous are we talking here?”
“As I’m sure you’ve guessed,” Gordon said, “absolute discretion is required. Look at the world situation right now, Mr. Valentine; war in Mexico, war in the Middle East, war in Southeast Asia and Africa, more in-fighting in Russia, and an uneasy cease-fire in China with a thousand-mile-long DMZ along the Yangtze River. The world is spiraling into chaos and our country’s conventional military and intelligence assets just aren’t enough to deal with it all.”
“I’ve been shot at in half the places you just listed, Mr. Willis,” I said. “I’m well aware of the geopolitical situation.”
“I’m sure you are, Mr. Valentine. Since joining Vanguard you’ve been on—” he trailed off as he checked my file— “five major deployments overseas. Nearly five years of your life fighting other peoples’ wars. I’m offering you a chance to serve your country again. There’s a critical situation developing, and we need the best people available to manage it before it gets out of hand.”
“Don’t you have the CIA and Special Forces for that?” I asked. Something about this whole thing stank. The money was too good, and the facts were too few.
“As you can imagine, they’re stretched thin as is,” Gordon replied.
“I can’t imagine you’re having trouble recruiting people with the money you’re offering.”
“You wouldn’t think so, but many of our candidates have the same professional paranoia as you, Mr. Valentine. Due to the nature of the situation, I’m simply unable to disclose much more than I’ve told you before you sign. Many otherwise promising candidates have balked at the lack of information.”
I chewed on that for a moment. It was disquieting, to be sure, but I had a feeling there was more to it than that. “I see. Am I to assume that this will be a combat operation?”
“If all goes well,” Gordon said, “the combat will be minimal. We’re trying something new in our area of operations. You’ll be trained in mission-specific skills above and beyond door-kicking and trigger-pulling. As I said, the utmost discretion is required. I’m also required to inform you that while you’re away, you’ll only have minimal contact with loved ones back home. We regret this, but security is necessary until the operation is completed.”
“What kind of time frame are we looking at here?” I asked.
“Hopefully, we’ll have everyone home by Christmas. Now, I’m sure you’ve heard that before, so I’m not going to mince words. The contract is for an undetermined period of time not to exceed three years. You’re ours until the mission is over, basically. Obviously, at the pay rate we’re offering, it’s in our best interest to accomplish the mission as soon as possible.” Gordon let out a convincing chuckle at his own joke.
“Tailor told me he got a signing bonus.”
“Ah, yes!” Gordon said, retrieving another manila envelope from his desk. He opened it and placed a piece of paper in front of me. It was a standard government direct-deposit form. “If you’ll fill this out,” he said, “we should have that in your bank account in three to five business days.”
“And . . . you’re sure there won’t be any problems with the IRS? This is all going to my regular checking account with the Las Vegas Federal Credit Union and I’m not going to have the tax man breathing down my neck?”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Valentine,” Gordon said, grinning. “We’re bigger than the tax man.” That sounded more ominous than promising. I realized then that the big guy, Anders, was still standing in the corner behind Gordon and hadn’t said a word the entire time. He observed me with a bored look on his face, but I didn’t doubt that he’d made a plan to kill me the moment I walked in the door. These guys undoubtedly knew that I had a concealed-firearm permit, but they hadn’t said anything about it.
“Who, exactly, is we?” I asked, looking over the contract Gordon had pushed in front of me. It was full of vague legalese and only referred to Gordon’s organization as the party of the first part.
Gordon grinned. “I’m afraid you’ll have to sign to get filled in on all of that, Mr. Valentine,” he said and set an ornate pen down in front of me. “All I can say until then is that you’ll be serving the best interests of the United States and will be protecting your country from enemies foreign and domestic.”