“Oh, I got some uses for her.” Dirk grinned.
“Like others—” the Pole grinned back “—you will try.” He took them to the elevator, and they went to the third floor. The office at the end of the hall had “executive suite” written all over it. Stanislawski opened the door, and Bolan came face-to-face with a legend.
“Hello, men!”
Former Marine sniper David Dinatale had earned the moniker “Deadshot Dave” doing some very black operations work in Central America during the 1980s. During the 1990s, a mercenary soldiers’ magazine had done a story on him, giving him and his rifle the cover photo with the headline The Most Dangerous Man In Desert Storm. A framed copy of the cover shot hung on the wall behind him, as well as the United States Congressional Medal of Honor, pictures of him shaking hands with two presidents and a copy of his bestselling, semiautobiographical novel. Above all, in the place of honor, hung the battered Remington 700 sniper rifle with which he had done his damage and earned his accolades.
Like a lot of the world’s most dangerous men, Dinatale didn’t particularly look the part. He was a short, wiry man with sandy hair that was swiftly turning gray. He had a glowing tan and a generous smile that could sell toothpaste. Sitting in his shirtsleeves, he looked like a highly successful car salesman. However, there were certain signs of the operator about him. He sat in his leather chair with the lazy ease of a predator at rest and looked as if he could crank off a hundred push-ups without breaking a sweat. There was something very sniperlike around the eyes. He shot to his feet and stuck out his hand. “Thanks for coming around.”
“Morning, Mr. Dinatale.” Dirk stuck out his hand. “I must say this is an honor. I loved your book. It’s required reading over at Delta.”
“You keep up that kind of talk, and you’re gonna get yourself a date to the prom.”
He held out his hand to Bolan. “Cooper, is it?”
“Yes, sir, and it is an honor. You don’t get to meet a legend every day.”
“Jesus, you boys are butt-kissers!” Dinatale waggled his eyebrows. “But I like that in an employee! You taking notes there, Toe-jam, you Polack son of a bitch?”
Dobrus Stanislawski snorted.
Bolan smiled despite himself. Most snipers were quiet, introspective men. Dinatale was the exception that proved the rule, and he exuded the frat-boy charm of a lovable rogue. Bolan reminded himself that Deadshot Dave had forty confirmed kills, and those were just the ones that weren’t classified. Dinatale waved a hand at the cardboard boxes of take-out kebabs and roasted rice. A bucket of Moosehead beers on ice sat next to them. “Well, let’s tuck in and talk a little business.”
Everyone took a seat and began tearing into the cubed lamb and rice. Stanislawski took beers out of the bucket, twisted off the caps and passed them around.
“Well, now, gentlemen, I’ll tell you I’ve got a line of applicants stretched from here to Baghdad. I got Alaskan National Guardsmen who’ve never done anything but paint snow in Nome sending me love letters. The good news is this. Dirk? Delta Force says it all. I’d be a fool not to hire you. Short of Navy SEAL, you just don’t get a better résumé in this line of business.”
Dirk grabbed a fresh box of kebab. “SEALs are pussies.”
Beer nearly spewed out of Dinatale’s nose. “Well…like I said, Dirk. I’ve checked your bona fides, and save for a certain incident with a British brigadier, you’re rock solid.”
Dirk stiffened, but Dinatale dismissed the incident with a wave of his beer. “Hell, my one regret is that I’m going to go to my grave without ever having punched out a superior officer. That’s one you’ve got on me. Man! How’d that feel?”
“Well, at the expense of shooting myself in the foot?” Dirk smiled and shook his head. “Fantastic.”
Dinatale sighed in envy. “The good news is if you take the job I’m not your superior officer. I’m your boss. You don’t have to kick my ass. You can quit any time you want.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Dinatale. I like your style.”
“Thanks. So let me ask you a question.”
“What’s that, Mr. Dinatale?”
“Call me Dino—everyone does.”
“Okay, Dino, shoot.”
Dinatale’s eyes went hard as he looked at Bolan. “Who’s this civilian son of a bitch?”
Dirk didn’t bat an eye. “He’s the baddest asshole you’re likely to meet today, and you already met me, so that’s sayin’ somethin’.”
“Well, that is sweet,” Dinatale admitted, but he kept his eyes unblinkingly on Bolan. Few human beings could do the hard-stare harder than a veteran sniper. “But who are you, cowboy?”
Bolan was a veteran sniper himself, and he didn’t blink. “Short version, I’m a spook without a contract.”
Dinatale broke the staring contest with a sigh and leaned back in his chair. “You got a single reference I can check?”
“Well…I done dastardly deeds with the Diggler,” Bolan suggested hopefully.
Dinatale rolled his eyes in defeat. “I’ve heard a couple people say that recently, and I must admit it does give me something of a chubby.” The CEO of Shield turned to Dirk. “So you’re willing to vouch for this spook son of a bitch?”
“He’s the only white man I currently like, present company included, of course.”
“I’ll buy that, but for the moment. On your good word, Dirk. But he’s your responsibility. It’s like he’s on parole. Got it?”
“Trust must be earned,” Dirk agreed.
“Truer words were never spoken.” The former sniper measured the two of them. “I dig you, Diggler, and I want to dig him. I really want to.”
“Give him time.” Dirk cracked himself open another beer. “He grows on you.”
Dinatale laughed. “Well, I’ll look forward to it, then.”
Dirk put on his poker face. “Forgive my impertinence, Dino, but we don’t look forward to nothin’ till we talk cash money.”
“Fair enough. You’re ex-Delta, Dirk. ’Nough said. I’ll start you at a thousand dollars a day.”
“God…damn.”
“And since you’re holding Cooper’s parole, I’ll start him at the same and give you both a thousand up front. Deal?”
“Oh, hell, yes.”
Dinatale’s eyes were on Bolan. “Coop?”
Bolan put a little eagerness in his voice. “Oh, I’m in.”
“Good enough. We’re negotiating a job right now. You may be getting your feet wet as early as tomorrow night. Meanwhile, what are you boys carrying?”
Dirk pulled out his Model 92. “Cooper got his hands on a couple of Army Berettas, but they ain’t my first choice.”
“Well, here at Shield we have a weapons-standardization policy.”
Dirk’s face soured. Delta Force personnel were used to being allowed to carry whatever they thought they required. “You gotta be shitting me.”
“No, I’m not.” Dinatale grinned. “But it isn’t to please any bean counters back in the States or for the sake of uniformity.”
“Then what are you talking about, Dino?”
Dinatale held up a happy finger. “Did