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chest,
but with a bit of a roll of fat around his middle and a spread in his ass, like
a veteran truck driver, a played-out boxer, or an ex-artillery loader turned
couch potato. His eyes were clear, with no hint of dullness from drugs or too
much alcohol, although the flabby waist and chest said this guy downed at least
a case of beer a week. “Do you have a passport?” Cazaux asked him.
                 “Uh-uh
... Captain,” the loader said in a dark, cave-deep voice.
                 “It
will cost you one thousand dollars, in advance,” Cazaux said. He extended his
hands toward the bundles of cash held by the head loader, motioning for the man
to toss him the money.
                 “That
ain’t the deal,” the head loader said. “We split the money later.” But Cazaux
hefted the AK-47—not aiming it at them, but the threat was clear—and the loader
counted out a thousand dollars in one-hundred-American-dollar bills from the
sliced-open packet and handed it to the black man.
                 “Work
hard, and it will be returned to you with substantial interest,” Cazaux said,
holding out his hand.
                 The
black man scowled at Cazaux, clutching the cash in his big hands. “I ain’t
paying you nuthin,’ man,” he said. “You got your own damned plane, man, you can
get me in.”
                 “Just
stick the nigger in with the rest of the baggage,” one of the other loaders
suggested with a laugh.
                 A
stern glare from the Belgian mercenary silenced the loader. “You will need a
passport for some of our destinations,” Cazaux said, “and it costs a lot to get
a good document.” He shrugged. “Part of the price of doing business.”
                 The
anger rising in the black man’s chest was enough to raise the air temperature
in the hangar several degrees.
                “Trust me,” Cazaux said reassuringly.
                 The
guy finally relented, handing Cazaux the money and hopping aboard the L-600.
The others were hustling toward the side hangar door as fast as they could.
They were sure the big black guy was going to turn up dead in a very short
period of time, like as soon as he closed the hangar doors.
                 “You
are the one they called Krull?” Cazaux asked the one remaining loader.
                 “Yeah,”
the black man replied.
                 “Is
that your real name?”
                 The
man hesitated, but only for a second: “Hell no, Captain. And I’ll bet you ain’t
no captain , either.”
                 Cazaux
knew the man’s real name was Jefferson Jones, that he was just paroled from a Florida state penitentiary, serving three of seven
years for armed robbery, and that he had a common-law wife and two kids. An
arrest for dealing drugs, no conviction, and an arrest for selling guns, again
no conviction. A small-time hood, dabbling in crime and so far not
demonstrating any real aptitude for it. Cazaux’s sources described this one as
a good worker, good with a gun, more intelligent than most foot soldiers, a
quick temper when provoked but otherwise quiet. “Good answer, my friend,”
Cazaux said. “I saw your dossier.”
                 “Say
what?” Big eyes growing wide with surprise.
                 “Your
records. I know you are telling the truth. Lying to me is fatal, I assure you.”
                 “You’re
the boss,” Krull said. “I ain’t lying to you.”
                 “Very
well.” Cazaux knew that Jones had used a variety of weapons in his years as an
armed thug, and Cazaux had chosen him, whether Krull knew it or not, over all
the other hirelings as a possible recruit. “You begin work immediately. Open
those hangar doors, close them after we taxi clear, hop aboard, then close this
door like so.” Cazaux showed him how to close