and his sour melon almost immediately changed into a sweet persimmon. “Yeah,” he said with relief. “Yeah, that’s Speedy.”
Key raised his hand and opened his mouth to signal him, but Daniels quickly yanked his arm down and hissed a hush. “Naw, naw, you don’t spook Speedy,” he quietly advised. “Chill out, Joe, just follow my lead.”
His lead was right to the bar, where he secured a Jim Beam Black, a pickle, a stalk of celery, a shrimp stick, a beef stick, a boiled egg, four Spanish olives, and a tumbler glass of beer. Then he marched over to where the short, wide-shouldered, young man had sat with his back to the bar, dropped the plate and glasses in front of his face, and announced, “Your Snit, sir?”
Speedy’s head snapped up, but when he saw who had served him, he broke into a wide grin. By the time the two had finished bumping fists, chests, and even heads, Key was standing beside them.
“Speedy?” Daniels said, “this is my bud Joe Key. Joe, this is the man who can fly anything, fix anything, and knows everything.” Daniels looked at him like a prize bull. “The one they know from America to Asia as the Hispanic Mechanic.”
Key’s expression was one of sheer disbelief. “Speedy? Really?”
The man laughed. “Yeah, Corporal, no wux as our Aussie brethren say.” Key snorted, acknowledging the clear sign of a connection with Morty Daniels. “My name is actually Manuel Gonzales,” the man continued, “so guess what everybody called me from the school yard ’til now?”
“And guess what?” Daniels laughed. “He made them all eat it, until he started liking it himself.”
“Hunh.” Key took a chair after Gonzales and Daniels had settled down at the table. “I didn’t think anybody still remembered the Speedy Gonzales cartoon.”
“I don’t know about anybody else,” Gonzales said between bites of celery, “but I loved it. Yeah, it might be racist, but it was the only Mexican hero on TV we had. And was he fast! Madre de dios!”
“Nothing compared to you, Speedy,” Daniels said, turning to Key. “He could fix my chopper before I could even completely brake it.”
Gonzales took a swig of beer. “But that can’t be why you’re in this armpit of the Middle East,” he said, his voice lowering. “Your message said something about Awar?”
Key nodded. “No one in Bahrain and Djibouti could give us credible, solid, status of where he is now and what he’s doing. Morty swore you could.”
Gonzales swallowed, then nodded. “This is deep, dark stuff, guys. Sure you want it?”
Daniels nodded with proud defiance. Key was more circumspect. “We were the only ones who got out of the C5 mission to Shabhut.”
Gonzales stopped eating and drinking, then sat back. “Mierda,” he said. “Man, I’m sorry, Corporal. That’s rough.”
“We’re trying to find out what happened, and what is happening now.”
Gonzales stood on no ceremony. He leaned over the plate as Daniels and Key joined him. “Word is Awar has claimed it as his. His town. No one in or out without him allowing it.”
“He can’t cover the whole thing,” Daniels maintained, still eager for a clandestine mission.
“The hell he can’t,” Gonzales stressed. “Awar is mandamas in Yemen now.”
“Top dog,” Key translated for the sergeant.
“Got that from the inflection,” Daniels noted.
“He says ‘his town,’ that means every insurgent, extremist, fanatic, radical, terrorist, even warlord will help out stopping any infidel who tries to set foot in the place. Stopping? Shit. Eradicating. Turning that guy’s dust into dust.”
Daniels looked obstinate. “What is so important in that shitty little anthill that the brass wanted it wiped, and Awar wants it closed?”
Key leaned back, his face thoughtful. “A weapon that makes people go pop.” Then he straightened and gripped the table edge. “Looks like you’re right, Morty. We got to get in there.”
Daniels acted as if Key had announced every day would be Christmas. “So now you want to stand on the railroad tracks with me, now, huh? Good man, Joe!”
“That’s crazy!” Gonzales gaped. “What for? You’ll get killed and be no closer to whatever this weapon is.”
Key stood up, already hoping for the best and preparing for the rest. “I’m not going in for whatever this so-called weapon is, but I’ve got to see at least one of the bodies it left behind.”
He took a step toward the door, but then froze as Gonzales gripped his arm like a bear trap. He looked down at the man, who was staring up at him like a savior.
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Gonzales said.
“What?” Key demanded. “What do you mean?”
Gonzales was already heading for the door, pulling on his sand storm gear. “You said you were the only ones who got out of Shabhut, but you’re wrong,” he announced. “In truth, you may be the only ones who got out of Shabhut alive.”
Key caught up to him at the door, Daniels right behind. “What do you mean, Speedy?”
“I heard that something got out of there dead,” he announced. “And I know where it is.”
Chapter 6
One step out of the bar and the wind slapped them in the face and roared as if Daniels had called her a whore.
Key stepped back instinctively, but saw Gonzales hunker into the tempest and continue toward his pretty remarkable vehicle. It was obviously a personally modified half-track that could run on wheels, treads, or both. There was also something Key had never seen: stiff plastic and rubber flaps hanging outside each door, which allowed Gonzalez to worm inside and grab some shrouded turbans without the cab being filled with blown sand.
He pressed a headcover into each man’s arms, and made circular hand movements to indicate how they should be worn, before the sirocco-like conditions filled the orifices of Key and Daniels with silt. Then the newly minted men from the Criminal Investigative Division followed him to the vehicle and crawled into the cab—like astronauts navigating international space station airlocks. Gonzales all but dragged Daniels into the rest area behind the seats, then shoved Key into the passenger bucket, before slamming and locking the driver’s portal with a sharp twist of his wrist.
“That was a blast,” Daniels cracked.
“Comes in fast—you got to be quick around monsoon season, or they’ll still be picking grit out of your ass at your funeral,” he said by way of apology. Then he spread his hands as if presenting a birthday cake. “Welcome to the Desert Demon.”
Key knew about deserts. He was practically raised in one. He was raised in the mountains of Riverside County, California. His home was located in the town of his birth, Murrieta, on a ridge overlooking the Temecula Valley; the Mount Palomar observatory glistened atop a peak on the opposite side. Wildfires caused by cigarettes
