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Redhill recruited from a suite in a small office building, not a strip mall, but the furniture wasn’t boardroom expensive and the photos of people training or ‘in the field’ were familiar to anyone who’d entered a US military recruiting office. The desk was better quality, though, and the coffee didn’t smell like tarry sludge. Not that ‘Matt Jackson’ had been offered any yet.
Eliot stood in front of the desk in clean, pressed jeans, a pale blue chambray shirt over a faded tan BDU t-shirt, and neat, well-maintained combat boots. His braid twitched under his shirt collar as Eliot shifted in his otherwise careful parade rest, and he answered the raised eyebrow from the recruiter with, “I can cut my hair if you need me to, sir.”
Major Pereira had been out of the US Army longer than Eliot had, but his hair was high and tight enough for a marine, his white shirt carefully pressed, and his posture almost painfully straight-backed as he conducted the interview. “Why did you let it grow out, soldier?”
“Wore it long in the service,” Eliot said simply. “‘Lo que sea, cuándo sea, dónde sea.’ I can cut it if you need me to, sir, but right now… well, it helps me blend in.”
Pereira looked Eliot up and down, taking in the faint touches of grime on his shirt cuff, the sunburn above the collar, the dark circles under his eyes… and eased back a little. “Sleeping rough, Sgt. Jackson?”
Eliot let some gratitude into his eyes and his voice as he said, “Not the first time we’ve lived off the land, sir, or in a tent. My family needs my money more’n I do. I’m fine, and I’m combat-ready. I just hear it’s faster to get back in the field with you than through Army and… I need the first paycheck faster’n Uncle Sam will move.”
“Really.” Pereira looked him up and down and Eliot held himself to the offended, open posture he’d have used if someone said his gun wasn’t clean and ready. “What’s your vice, soldier? Not booze, from the look of you, or drugs. Women? Horses?” They weren’t far from Hot Springs; betting on the ponies at Oaklawn was a fair guess.
“I like women, sir, but I’m not stupid about it. One divorce for being deployed too much was plenty. And I don’t bet on horses; they go lame too easy. I need the money because my sister makes just too much for Medicaid, and my niece has multiple myeloma. Fighting blood cancer ain’t cheap and someone’s got to help.” He shrugged, too casual, and went on, “But if me admitting I need money sooner rather than later’s a problem, that’s fine.” He dropped out of the parade rest, letting a hint of his anger out as he said, “Thank you for your time.” He left ‘sir’ off deliberately.
“Don’t be in such a damn hurry.” The major’s hands were moving on his keyboard, eyes flicking back and forth between Eliot’s face and the data on his screen, comparing how he looked now to the actual pictures from Eliot’s service grafted into Matt Jackson’s service record. (This had better work, because even seventy-two hours would bring a Sierra Golf team looking for him if those pictures stayed in a military database.) Pereira hummed softly, a tell he should never have allowed himself to keep so long, Eliot thought, and he made a few notes as Eliot stood there, some possible violence visible in his otherwise casual stance to match the major's carelessness towards concealment.
“18 Bravo, 18 Charlie back-up, Sergeant?”
“I blow bridges and buildings almost as well as I snipe, yes, sir.” Eliot looked at him and said, precise and clipped, “So we’re clear? I need this job. I don’t need it bad enough to go up against my own. You deploy me out where I’ll have to go up against Uncle Sam, it won’t end well.”
Pereira didn’t protest that Redhill would never, he just nodded and made a note of that on his pad. “Make your goodbyes, get your pack, be back here by 17:00 if you want the job. One year deployment if you pass the FitReq tomorrow morning and your bloodwork comes back clean.” His printer hummed to life, spitting out a stack of papers. “Fill these out before you come back, and if you pass, we’ll transfer your signing bonus to whatever bank account you give us. The banks take their time transferring large sums, but if we take you, your niece’ll have her money by the time you’re on the bird heading to base housing.”
And most of that money’d be gone again two days later, Eliot knew. These fuckers were preying on the wrong folks, trusting that the SpecOps people were so fucking tired after the GWOT deployment rates, with their minimal turnaround/resupply/train and R&R ConUS time, that they couldn’t look into problems like this when their former teammates got screwed to the wall.
Most of the special operators were exactly that damn busy and worn down. Leverage, however, wasn’t.
Eliot would have taken preying on his people damn personally even if it hadn’t been Chief Mahelona’s family who got fucked six months -- and almost the family home -- ago. The chief had pulled out one of Eliot's old email addresses, calling in a favor and apologizing for needing to ask.
Hardison had been steaming within ten minutes of looking into Redhill Corp.
Eliot took the papers from Pereira and let himself straighten up, tuck the anger aside, and pull back some of the pride he’d felt years ago, first time he got through advanced training successfully and sewed on a hard-earned patch. “I can make that deadline, Major. Be back here by 17:00, easy. You need me to get that haircut?” It’d be a pain if he said yes, but it would also tell Eliot more about their up-and-coming jobs.
Pereira huffed a laugh. “I don’t tell SF stupid shit like that, sergeant. Be here, pass the tests, and we both get a signing bonus. Yours just goes to your family.” He stood up and shook Eliot’s hand, barely bothering to squeeze too hard.
Eliot tightened his own grip, face gone combat neutral for a moment, and promised, “I can pass, Major. Don’t worry about that.” He turned away from the man with the quick, swiveling pivot he’d use on an aikido mat, not a parade ground reverse, and went out the door quick and assured, man on a mission.
No one had tampered with his beat-up Corvette, at least. He looked under it anyway, from routine and because Matt Jackson had never traveled in a car he hadn't checked for a bomb. Scanned the undercarriage and hood latch, looked over the doors, noted the quick double-flash of red that meant Hardison had been watching and all was clear. He still didn’t put his earpiece in until he was two miles out of town.
“Right as usual, Sophie,” Eliot told her, doing a steady two miles over the speed limit to match what other traffic there was on the state highway. “He went right for the vulnerable spots.”
“And then didn’t look at the rest,” Sophie agreed immediately. “Nicely played, even if you did get more aggressive than I would have.”
"Had to. Vulnerable enough they'd believe I'd go for this, hard enough they'd believe I can do it, offended enough they think they can manipulate me." Eliot shrugged. "And I was a lot nicer than Matt really would have been. He'd have flayed that man."
“Hey, that option is still open,” Hardison promised over the comms. “You want to go in and look their base over, see who to get out, we can. But I’m in their systems now, Eliot. I should be able to break their accounts and most of their battle plans before your deadline. I will absolutely have it for us by the time you finish their fitness tests tomorrow.”
“I can handle this for the week to deployment,” Eliot repeated. They’d been having this disagreement for almost three days now. “We do it your way, I’m safer, but a lot of guys in the field are hung out to dry with no orders and more importantly, no funds to get home. Some of them aren't gonna deserve that, Hardison. I’ll do the week.”
“Hardison, we’re going with the longer plan.” Parker’s voice said the matter was settled. “We’re not going to screw any other victims over a second time if Redhill has gotten them once already. Eliot, you’re going to have backup. Put up with it. Mikal is on her way from the airport.”
“Fine,” Eliot grumbled, more touched than grumpy. “I’ll put up with it, if you’ll quit talking about ‘let’s go steal some mercenaries.’”
“Why?” Parker asked, sounding only faintly distracted from her plans.
“Because, Parker, some of those guys are Marines. You tell them that, they’ll offer to go steal some small islands for you, barely used. It’s a Marine thing.”
Parker barely paused, dry erase marker squeaking faintly as she made another adjustment to her plan. "Fine. But if you're not out in three days, I'm bringing in Quinn, too. He says he's passed for Australian Army before."
"So you're telling me I have three days before this goes insane." Eliot pulled off the state highway and began working back to where he'd been camping for two days. It was some lovely peace and quiet that also helped support any background check Redhill did. "All right. Fine. You're not wrong. Let's go steal the right mercenaries."
Sophie chuckled and said, "Eliot? We're going for turnabout is fair play. Let's go weaponize their vulnerabilities.”