“Now, my friends,” he said softly, “I think we can start the bidding at one million dollars per unit. Ooooo, I see we already have some bids. Nice. I like that enthusiasm. Another bidder. And another. Very, very nice…”

CHAPTER 47

BLUE DIAMOND TRAINING CAMP

CADDO MILLS, TEXAS

Inside the building, they passed a room with an open door, and Bunny caught a brief glance of a man in what looked like the hydraulic power loader from the movie Aliens. A sturdy exoskeleton that gave the man a strange almost crustacean appearance, with enormous arms that had large pincers. Bunny lingered long enough to see the exosuit’s driver swing around and point one pincer at a wall. Bunny realized with a start that instead of actual pincers, the two prongs at the end of the arm were, in fact, gun barrels. Large bore, nearly as big as an M242 Bushmaster, but the overall barrel length was shorter. The recoil from a weapon like that would put any soldier, no matter how burly, flat on his ass; and that explained the heavy structure of the exoskeleton. It was, he realized, a short-barreled Bushmaster that could chase opponents.

The sight of it sent a chill through him. He tapped Top’s arm and got a nod. He’d seen it, too.

Saxon led them through another doorway into the main gymnasium. The room was big, with a floor painted out for basketball. The paint was faded and scuffed and mostly covered by exercise mats and racks and benches for weights, and a row of speed bags and a dozen heavy bags hung from chains. Along one wall were racks of training weapons—padded pugil sticks, throwing knives, paintball guns for nonlethal close-combat drills, training body armor, various kinds of rubber and wooden weapons, and handheld targets. About thirty men and women were training in pairs, some under an instructor’s eye, others—more advanced teams—working out on their own. Top and Bunny followed Saxon between the groups in what was clearly an attempt to impress them. And they were impressed. These were not raw boot camp greenhorns; they were seasoned fighters who knew their trade. Very fast, very dangerous.

They stopped by one square where a fight was ending. The loser was on his hands and knees, goggle-eyed and purple-faced, crawling like a geriatric away from a man who was five and a half feet tall and about four wide, with no visible neck, a bull chest, pig eyes, and a blend of navy and prison tattoos. He also had a stylized 88 over his heart.

“Sergeant Wilkes,” said Saxon. “Meet the candidates. Big one is Buck, older one is Guidry.”

Wilkes ignored Bunny and looked Top up and down. His expression was one of abject disregard. To Saxon, he said, “Old Black Joe here looks like he’s past his sell-by date.”

Top said nothing, showed nothing. Bunny couldn’t help but laugh.