The cab pulled to a stop, and he made his way slowly up the walk to the townhouse, bone tired. Anyone who claimed that being the public face of a (supposedly) charitable group was enjoyable were nothing but damned fools. It was rubber chicken dinners, rude lobbyists and hidebound governmental functionaries. He paused.
There was something off. He paused, and brushed his sports jacket as if to flick off some dust. That the same motion also loosened the High Standard derringer in his pocket - currently disguised as a leather wallet - wouldn't be noticeable to most people.
There were no scratches on the lockplate of the door. A professional job, then. Though that wasn't saying much for the area around DC - you couldn't toss a pebble across the sidewalk without hitting a dozen covert agents from as many different agencies. The best way to deal with an ambush was to spring it on your own terms. With that firmly in mind, he threw the door open as if he were totally oblivious, and headed for his den.
"Before I drag you in, would you like to tell me why Erik Prince, his two bodyguards and his driver were all admitted to <$local_DC_hospital> with severe chemical burns to the face and shoulders?"
"And a very good evening to you too, General Clark."
"Would you like to answer the question before or after I drag your ass in."
"I'll take 'before' for $500, Alex."
"This isn't Jepardy, boy."
Ed sank slowly into a nearby chair. "I just got back from dropping those idiots off at the ER. As for why? If someone threatened your family and stuck a gun in your face, what would YOU do, Clark?"
Clark's grim expression grew darker. "You expect me to believe that the CEO of a major international corporation threatened you?"
"Expect, no. Tell, yes. Look a little closer, and you'll find that the NA are making some dollars in the right places, General. The Buron Cav already made Prince look like a fool, and on top of that, he's hungry. He had the audacity to ORDER me to carry a message to the NA, to tell them that he was their new boss, and he'd be dropping by to audit the books, collect some 'donated' money, and examine the stockpile of weapons the NA were going to supply to Blackwater, gratis."
John Clark stared at the younger man, trying to see the truth. "And how, exactly, did he and his men end up with chemical burns? Care to explain that?"
Ed raised his hands as if in surrender, and nodded towards the heavy watch on one wrist. "Ever had dinner with a bhut jolokia pepper, General?"
Clark winced. He'd made the mistake of biting into one of those while in India. "Pepper spray?"
"Calling this stuff a pepper spray is like calling a Davey Crockett a cigarette lighter."
John sighed, and made his way to a seat across from Ed. "Care to give me the full story before I have Jack jumping down my throat for not delivering your head on a silver platter?"
Ed carefully lowered his arms, watching Clark warily. When no reaction was forthcoming, he rested his hands on his thighs.
"The ass showed up, had his bodyguards wave a bug detector around, and once his mooks assured him there were no bugs that might record anything embarrassing, Prince opened up with his 'here's an offer you can't refuse' speech. When I told him to take it and stuff it, he began to hint that family and friends could get hurt if I didn't convince the NA to make him their new leader, and one of his thugs tried to look menacing by touching his holster. That's when I let them have it with my watch."
Clark eyed it professionally. "Nice. But it doesn't look like there's enough of a charge in there to take out the three of them."
"No, but it hurt, and gave me the moment I needed to reach for the paintball pistol in the desk. Tiberius T-8 with a vertical feed magazine and loaded with pepperballs. Bhut jolokia, all of them. They each got a pepper ball to the face, and a second when they kept trying."
Clark grimaced slightly with involuntary sympathy. The bhut jolokia pepper was rated at one million Scovill units, roughly 400 times hotter than a bottle of Tabasco sauce. "I'm surprised you let them live."
"I'm trying to cut down on the dead bodies," Ed said sardonically. "Burying them in the garden is a strain on the back, and I'm not as young as I used to be."
"Funny. Not. And the driver?"
The younger man gave a grimace of his own. "I called him in to help his boss and the thugs to a hospital. He went for his piece, instead. I had to drop him, too. Their pieces are in the trunk of the limo, which I left in the hospital parking lot, from which I just returned."
"And why'd you take them yourself?"
"I was trying to keep it out of the press.
"You failed."
"Y'think?" Ed noted dryly.
"Covering this shit up is going to be a stone cold bitch. Explain to me why Washington should do it."
That got Clark a snort as his reward.
"The idiots scanned for electronic bugs, old man. Ever read William Gibson? He said 'If they expect high tech, go low. If they expect low, go high.' That's what I did. They were expecting and looking for 21st century bugs, not 19th." Ed opened a cabinet, and Clark swore softly at the sight of a fifty year old Dictaphone.
"Mechanical recording? You think that'll be admissible in court?"
"No. But it's enough to turn over to you, and make those bastards sweat. Why will you even want to use it? Well, I have a few treats for you and Jack, courtesy of my friends in the NA." Ed slid a manilla folder across the cabinet. "Take a look and enjoy."
Clark flipped through the photos, and smiled approvingly. "Lovely. Walther Arms WA 2000. One of the best sniping rifles in the world. Pity so very few were made. In .300 Winchester magnum, I take it?"
Ed nodded. "It's back into production, thanks to certain 'investers' who are funding it directly. It'll be provided to GDI forces at less than half the production cost. The rest can be considered a 'donation' to the cause of Earth's continuing freedom."
"When you really want to reach out and touch someone," snarked the spook.
"When you care enough to send the very best," finished Ed. "Check out the next couple pages."
Clark did so, and raised an eyebrow. "Semmerlings?"
"Yup. In .45 Colt and a new version in 9mm Parabellum. Because they're as small as a .25 auto - even smaller than some. But still pack enough punch to get the attention of someone even if it's wearing Inner Sphere body armor. At close range, of course."
"And you'll subsidize these as well?"
"Pilots, tankers, 'mechwarriors and any GDI personnel whose MOS requires them to serve in tight spaces yet require some final emergency backup firepower that'll knock someone on their arse."
"Nice," Clark noted reluctantly. "Anything else?"
"My 'friends' have invested in American Derringer Incorporated, Springfield Armory, and a number of other specialty armories. As soon as they can bury the files deep enough, the FP-45 and the 9mm Deer gun are going back into mass production. That probably won't be for another five years, and they won't go off-planet until the CSN-"
"For which, read Jack Ryan," interjected Clark.
"Yeah, yeah. They won't go off-planet until Jack approves. Once he does, though..." Ed paused and gave Clark a level look. "The Combine's the biggest threat to Earth. And aside from the CSN, the second biggest thorn in the side of the Combine are the Free Azami. Not that I'm implying anything, of course."
"Of course," Clark echoed blandly.
"Finally - at least for now - a classic. I think you'll like it. Check out the last pic."
Clark flipped to the end of the folder, then hmmmed happily. "De Lisle carbines? They're rarer than hen's teeth. I know some friends who'd like to get their hands on one."
"Well, now they can. New production. Along with new manufacture Welrods. Mass production models, but still up to the high standards of yore. We're updating the metalurgy and the technology, but when a design survives for decades on its own merits, you don't abandon it lightly."
"Sweet. How soon can my 'friends' get a few?"
"How soon can you make the Blackwater idiots go away?"
"What Blackwater idiots?" The grin on Clark's face was cruel.
"Большое спасибо"
"bú yòng xiè. Still got any of that Jack Daniels? I think it's time to sit down, have a drink or two, and enjoy someone else's humiliation."
