War Criminals by Gavin Smith (uplifting novels TXT) 📗

‘I used to have a gin palace moored in the marina back in New Verona,’ he told her.

She guessed that a gin palace was some kind of boat. ‘Did it ever leave its moorings?’

‘Frequently. Sometimes I wasn’t even drunk.’ He smiled. Miska guessed it was what passed for charm in his world. She took a step back, rubbed her neck with one hand and gestured for him to take the wheel with the other. He stepped forward, and just for a second looked slightly nervous and then that was gone, replaced by his normal confident smile.

Miska leaned against the side of the wheelhouse and waited.

‘I saw you talking to Special Asshole Corenbloom earlier,’ Mass said.

‘Yeah, it’s a small boat, that’ll happen, but I want you to know you’re still my favourite organised criminal from Barney Prime,’ she told him. ‘Y’know, except Uncle V.’

‘He’s a charmer, no doubt,’ Mass said and then took his eyes off the turquoise water to look at her. ‘I guess that means you see Torricone as a disorganised criminal, right?’

Miska pushed herself off the edge of the wheelhouse.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she demanded, lowering her voice.

Mass met her glare.

‘It means people are talking,’ he told her.

‘You mean people with fucking bombs in their heads?’

‘Yeah, them. How you doing on the recruitment front?’ he asked. The sudden change of subject took her by surprise.

‘What the fuck …? Look I get you’re still pissed off about T … Torricone kicking your ass—’

‘He did not—’

‘—but do you see me cutting that sanctimonious asshole any slack?’

‘That sanctimonious deserter asshole,’ Mass pointed out. Miska stared at him. ‘Things like that don’t help.’

‘Things like what?’ Miska asked. She wouldn’t have been surprised if her voice had actually lowered the water temperature.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I really don’t, Mass.’

‘Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.’ Mass sounded more frustrated than anything. She wondered if he actually thought he was doing her a favour. ‘If he comes back, chances are he’ll be killed.’

‘Another threat, Mass? Torricone, me when my “time comes”?’ It would be so easy to end this particular problem right now but she’d be killing out of anger and it probably wouldn’t do mission morale much good. ‘Anyone else you want to add to your hypothetical list?’

Mass couldn’t help himself, he glanced back at Corenbloom. Miska leaned in close to him.

‘I mean it, Mass, don’t fuck about on this one!’ she hissed.

He nodded.

‘I get it,’ he told her. Something in his tone made her think he’d seen enough of what lay ahead of them at Camp Badajoz to realise the mission was too important compared with whatever problems he’d had with Corenbloom back in the world. Miska decided she wanted to be somewhere that was away from the button man.

‘Hey,’ he said as she walked away. Somewhat reluctantly she turned back to look at him. ‘You want them to follow you then you’ve got to be the big dog, the cellblock daddy. We respect strength.’

Miska tapped the side of her head. ‘How big a dog do you want?’

Mass was already shaking his head.

‘You gotta earn that shit,’ he told her.

‘Like you, like Vido?’

‘Vido’s respected, so’s Golda, and Hemi, and presumably whoever’s in charge of the Yak at the moment – because they’ve all got influence, they’ve got soldiers. But they’re not the big dog.’

‘Who is then?’ Miska asked.

‘You created the problem when you let him mix, when you let him train with us.’

‘The Ultra?’ she asked, confused. His Nightmare Squad still kept pretty separate to the rest of the prisoners, but Mass was already shaking his head.

‘Red,’ Mass told her. ‘I wouldn’t fuck with Red, and I don’t know anyone who would.’

Miska made her way forward past the wheelhouse. It was getting dark under the canopy as night fell. Her one remaining eye amplified the sparse ambient light.

Red, the huge professional convict who had killed so many people inside that he’d earned himself a pod in solitary, was a problem. She wanted him to volunteer for active service but she and her dad were the closest thing he had left to screws, authority figures he could set himself up in opposition to. He had very publicly announced that he would not be their slave when he had been allowed to train with the rest of them. The Ultra didn’t want him in his squad because he wasn’t nearly sick enough. Besides, guys like Red murdered guys like Kaczmar, Bean and, if they could get away with it, Grig, to improve their reputation in prison. Miska certainly didn’t like Mass’s suggestion. She was pretty sure that as well-trained, augmented and experienced as she was, Red would tear her apart. Still, it was a problem for another day.

Kasmeyer was leaning against the front of the wheelhouse. His eyes were closed but Miska could see he was still awake. She knelt down next to him.

‘Kasmeyer,’ she said quietly. He opened one eye to look at her.

‘Boss?’ he asked.

Kaneda was perched on the bow of the boat, on watch. He glanced behind him towards Kasmeyer and Miska.

‘How’re you doing?’ she asked.

There were a few moments where he just looked at her. It was a stupid question, she’d never been good with the sort of easy small talk that officers were supposed to do to make their people feel better, to bolster morale.

‘I’m good,’ he told her finally. Kasmeyer was a quiet guy but, as far as she could tell, a good squad leader. He sought the path of least resistance, avoided a fight where he could, but tended to bring home the intel they needed. Miska had wondered if he was just so non-descript everyone ignored him. Miska’s only worry was that he wasn’t aggressive enough for what was to come.

‘Why’re you here?’ she all but blurted out.

Kasmeyer blinked.

‘I thought you wanted people?’

More like needed, she thought.

‘I do …’ she started.

‘You can’t figure my angle?’ he asked.

‘That obvious?’

‘Kinda understandable.’ He nodded towards Kaneda. ‘Someone’s gotta watch his ass,’ Kasmeyer said. There was something about the