Dawson looked across the old Army chopper, a Stallion they called it, and marveled at the men and women he shared the cramped noisy space with.
Even at this altitude, the heat and the sun was blistering. Wind buffeted the heavy sky boat as it howled above the dense green canopy.
He hoped he wouldn’t puke.
“Want one?” Carter asked as she flipped a waxed air sickness bag at Dawson who shook his head. He was sure he didn’t want to be that guy – the over-indulged media giant who tossed his cookies in front of everyone. He’d worked hard in public and private to pump up his hardass cred before he even assembled this crew.
Carter was the only other female outside of Birdy who flew in the big noisy cage.
“I’m good. Five by five,” Dawson responded, using the military slang he hoped sounded natural to the lady merc.
“Whatev’s” Carter answered.
She turned back to her K-bar blade and slid the knife back over the sharpening stone she’d pulled from her strap-on ditty bag.
Dawson slid the barf sac over towards himself, just in case, with one quiet slide of his gorilla boot as he stood up and stretched. He knocked his head against the bulkhead as the helo banked shifted hard left as a brash klaxon fired up, alongside the red drop zone indicator.
The two other SOF’s geared up, tapping and slapping packs as they checked life lines and harnesses.
Dawson had this routine down from YouTube and knew the drill.
You checked each other’s lines and made safe with the harness before you speed dropped the hundred feet to the ground.
Ten stories in ten seconds.
Before Dawson booked the mercenaries, he’d spent six months doing the math and selling the rights to this showcase to the upstart online network, #Freedom. They wanted real-life action drama and he’d deliver.
What got more clicks that a hostage takedown in the jungle shot live from live merc body cameras?
“Cam’s good?’ Dawson yelled over the howl of the wind as they all ambled over to the door.
He’d booked the fire team from the dark web after having a bartender friend of his vet them. Terry would never do him wrong. He’d spent enough on him. Even his wife gave Terry the thumbs up. Not that her opinion mattered.
“Check me,” Carter hissed as she slapped Dawson on the shoulder hard.
“Jesus, Carter. Leave a mark much,” Dawson groused as he looked over her drop line and connector. “Good to go. Five by…”
“Five,” Carter sneered, shouldering by him to the ready position by the door.
“Drop in thirty. Stand by,” Birdy’s voice echoed through the chopper as Dawson took a deep breath and fired up his action camera.
He had pole position, first out as he took the floor. Carter and the Taco Twins (actually two Guatemalans who didn’t speak much but were jacked as shit) dropped with their AR-15’s in hand for cover.
Dawson had arranged for all of them to wear full face camouflage as well to allow for lip syncing in post production. He could make them say anything and it would give him a chance to tweak their performances.
Maybe even hire one of the cheaper Hemsworth’s for a cameo or one of the voice-over gigs?
#Freedom were going to shit themselves when they saw the Final Cut together footage.
In the near distance, two klicks out, a smoke trail lolled in the air breaking through the canopy.
As per Dawson’s instructions, another team of Brazilian theater performers were hired and promised to give an authentic ‘bandito’ experience live on camera.
The gringo heiress hostage was actually a girl he’d picked up on Melrose, a wannabe that would either end up in porn or back home in Idaho if it wasn’t for him.
He was kingshit of it all, even if his guts felt like loose change.
“Masks up, let’s rock and roll,” Dawson howled in his best badass imitation.
He’d watched ‘Predator,’ the original one – not the stupid remakes and still thought that Shane Black’s script was the tightest opener ever. It was a pity he couldn’t get the rights to Little Richard like they did in that movie. He’d probably have to go with some soundalike or a gansta rapper. Maybe a Spanish one? They’d work cheap,
Dawson smiled as he clocked the ‘Go Green’ light flashing and he leapt out into the void.
—-
The ride back was quiet.
Emilio Santiago and his cousin, Raul finished their Sat phone-call and flashed a big thumbs up to Carter.
“Four hundred large, as agreed. Mrs. D came through on proof of death. Nice job, Carter. Solid score.”
Carter sat back and thought about Dawson’s face as he turned in mid-air and dropped like a fucking rock from the chopper.
The last thing he saw-and filmed-was the three of them waving goodbye as he filmed his own death.
The widow Dawson had earned every penny as far as she was concerned. Dickhead.
Not for the last time, Carter rewound the Bluetooth video link as it showed the three camoflauged Mercs waving at Dawson as he turned and filmed the ground racing up to him at breakneck speed.
Sure enough, ten stories in ten seconds.
Shame about his line link not being attached.
“Definitely going to see some clicks,” she thought as she ran it again and laughed.
Julian Grant 