The Contractor

A blue-and-white United Airlines Boeing 767-300 broke through the clouds and began its descent. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, and the fading light of dusk cast a faint golden outline around the aircraft.

Deng Shiyang rubbed his eyes and turned to look out the window.

In the west, the lead-gray sky still had a hint of orange, while the airport lights had already come on. On the grayish-brown outer wall of the terminal building, a row of large neon signs displayed the words: "Viru-Viru Santa Cruz de la Sierra" in pale blue light, standing out prominently against the night.

The landing was smooth. After the seatbelt sign turned off, Deng Shiyang unbuckled and stretched in his seat, muttering to himself in a voice only he could hear, "Hope it's a good job..."

Although there had been an attack midway, resulting in casualties among the team, the mission was finally completed safely. After leaving Iraq, Deng Shiyang spent two leisurely weeks at a hotel on the Aegean Sea in Cyprus.

Three mornings ago, he habitually logged into his work email and found a new message in the inbox. The sender was a familiar name: Harrowby.

James Harrowby was the one who had introduced Deng Shiyang to the industry. He used to be a manager at the North American branch of ArmorGroup but started his own business two years ago, founding a security consulting firm called A.F.S. in the Cayman Islands.

Deng Shiyang knew the true nature of the company. Although A.F.S. appeared to offer security consultancy services, it actually functioned as a mercenary agency dealing in "freelance" jobs. Given that Harrowby had reached out, it was highly likely there was a new assignment.

The email was simple, containing just a phone number and two words: "Shoot_job."

While contractors earned substantial income, their work was far from stable. To cut costs, private military companies employed most staff as contractors, except for a few senior managers. As a result, contractors often took positions with several different firms, allowing them to pick jobs they liked.

To distinguish between different types of work, the industry used specialized terminology. "Protect_job" referred to bodyguard-type tasks, whereas "Shoot_job" required direct involvement in combat. Though both might seem similar to outsiders, the latter was far more dangerous and paid several times more.

Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, Deng Shiyang picked up the phone and dialed the number from the email.

The call was answered after just two rings. Before he could speak, Harrowby asked, "Is that JD?"

"How did you know it was me?"

"Not many people have this number, and I can estimate the local time in Cyprus based on the time difference."

Deng Shiyang frowned but didn’t ask how Harrowby knew his whereabouts. Instead, he simply said, "Is there a job?"

"Yes, a 'Shoot job,' urgent."

"What kind?"

"It's complicated. We need to discuss it in person."

"Where?"

"South America, Bolivia."

Glancing at the beach outside the window, Deng Shiyang noncommittally replied, "Hmm."

Sensing his interest, Harrowby quickly added, "Don’t worry, I'll cover your round-trip airfare and accommodation expenses. Even if you decide not to take the job, you'll still get $2,000 as compensation for disturbing your vacation. If you decide to proceed, we’ll discuss the payment."

Propping his head on his hand, Deng Shiyang considered for about a minute before replying, "Alright, when should I go?"

"Tomorrow afternoon. Send me your address and passport number by email, and I'll arrange the tickets. My people will be waiting for you at the airport."

"Got it." Deng Shiyang responded and then hung up the phone.

Harrowby was highly efficient. In less than half a day, the plane ticket arrived at his room. The following evening, having packed, Deng Shiyang headed to Larnaca International Airport and boarded a flight to Miami, eventually reaching Santa Cruz after several connections.

After completing immigration procedures, Deng Shiyang carried a small travel bag out of the airport, scanning the crowd for someone waiting. His eyes quickly found a young man holding a cardboard sign with "Mr. Jose B. Daish" written on it.

He approached, took out his passport, and handed it to the young man.

The tan-skinned youth examined the name and photo carefully, then introduced himself in heavily accented English, "I am Mario Taran, sent by Mr. Harrowby to pick you up."

"Where is he?"

Taran respectfully replied, "Mr. Harrowby is not in Santa Cruz at the moment. But don't worry, you will meet him tomorrow." He paused before continuing, "Your accommodations have already been arranged. I will take you to the hotel now." With that, he took the luggage and led the way to a Ford Focus parked by the roadside.

As Bolivia's largest city, Santa Cruz remained bustling at night. But Deng Shiyang, exhausted from over twenty hours of flights, had no energy to appreciate the scenery. He dozed off almost immediately after getting into the car, the motion of the vehicle acting like a giant cradle, making his eyelids grow heavier...

It was unclear how much time had passed, but the bumping suddenly stopped. Groggily, Deng Shiyang felt something bump into his right shoulder.

His body instinctively reacted. He twisted his upper body, pushed away with his left hand, while his right hand reached for his lower back—where his handgun would usually be.

But he came up empty; there was nothing on his belt.

"Sir, we have arrived."

At that moment, Taran's voice reached Deng Shiyang's ears.

The Focus had stopped in front of a building with a strong Spanish colonial style. Spotlights on the ground illuminated the red bricks of the walls, making the four-story structure appear majestic. The car door was already open, and a bellboy in a brown uniform with pale yellow trim stood outside, staring at him in bewilderment.

Deng Shiyang glanced at Taran in the front seat and awkwardly explained, "Sorry, I was a bit disoriented from sleep."

Taran replied with a strange expression, "Mr. Harrowby has already booked a room for you. I will pick you up tomorrow at nine in the morning."

Feeling uneasy under the bellboy's suspicious gaze, Deng Shiyang instinctively wiped his forehead, only to realize it was covered in sweat, with his hair sticking to his damp skin. Sweating profusely in an air-conditioned car could indeed seem odd.

Without saying much, he nodded at Taran and followed the bellboy carrying his luggage into the hotel lobby.

Although he would only be staying one night in Santa Cruz, the luxurious Camino Real Hotel showed that Harrowby had spared no expense. However, jet-lagged and exhausted, Deng Shiyang had no energy to enjoy the opulence. He quickly ate a simple dinner in the restaurant, took a brief shower in his room, and then collapsed onto the bed, falling into a deep sleep.

When the sky was a pale white, Deng Shiyang woke up.

He found himself breathing heavily, drenched in sweat, with the back of his pajamas soaked and sticking uncomfortably to his skin.

He threw off the covers, sat up, and glanced at the clock on the nightstand.

It was a quarter past six. The morning sunlight streamed through the gap in the curtains, casting a thin streak of light that stretched from the carpet up the wall to the ceiling, resembling a slender question mark.

He sat for a while, waiting for his breathing to steady, then got out of bed and walked to the corner of the room. He opened the fridge, took out a bottle of mineral water, drank deeply, and exhaled a long breath.

Post-traumatic stress disorder was an occupational hazard in their line of work. Staying in high-risk areas like Iraq, filled with violence and death, brought stress beyond what most people could imagine. Over the years, he had seen many colleagues who couldn’t cope with the pressure and quit.

These were mostly former soldiers who had undergone good military training but had never been in actual combat. When they first arrived in Iraq, they were full of energy, shouting excitedly even over trivial matters, and eager to join missions.

But with each day’s exposure to death, the atmosphere gradually changed, and the initial excitement of leaving the "Green Zone" for what felt like a hiking trip slowly wore off.

Gradually, some people became withdrawn, adopting an ostrich mentality of "what you don't see doesn’t exist" when it came to the casualty numbers on iCasualties. Others distracted themselves with trivial things like "how graceful the arc of ejected shell casings looked." Some even turned to marijuana and alcohol to numb themselves or vented their stress by shooting at abandoned buildings in the wilderness.

To avoid prolonged exposure to high-stress environments, contractor contracts rarely lasted more than a year. But there were plenty who chose to terminate their contracts early, even if it meant forfeiting the pay.

Seeing that it was still early, he went into the bathroom and soaked in the hot water-filled bathtub for half an hour, washing away the sweat. Then he called room service to bring a hearty breakfast.

He ate breakfast at the small round table in the room, then sat by the window, sipping coffee as he gazed down at the pool. More guests were coming for their morning swim, including several Latin beauties in sexy bikinis, frolicking and showing off their alluring figures. He took a sip of coffee and fell into thought.

Since leaving Iraq, he had found himself becoming a bit neurotic, always unconsciously overly alert, and often waking up from dreams without being able to remember their content.

He knew this was a lingering effect of the ambush in Baghdad. His current state was not suitable for dangerous "Shootjob" tasks, but the high pay was a significant temptation. He wasn't willing to, nor had he ever thought about, giving up the comfortable life he was accustomed to, and maintaining that lifestyle required a lot of money.

Soon it was nine o'clock. Taran showed up punctually, and after settling the bill and checking out, he drove Deng Shiyang to El Trompillo Airport in the city center. At the corner of the tarmac near the hangar, a DC-3 transport plane sat, looking old enough to belong in a museum.

Taran engaged in a ten-minute-long conversation in Spanish with a dark-skinned middle-aged pilot, and Deng Shiyang was then allowed to board. Half an hour later, the plane took off, carrying him and a load of Chinese-made home appliances toward the city of Camiri in southwestern Santa Cruz.

Although it wasn’t his first time on a transport plane, this hour-long flight was truly torturous. The "Dakota" was over fifty years old and poorly maintained. The paint on the fuselage had long since peeled off, and the skin had been patched multiple times, looking like a tattered cloth covered in patches. The cargo hold, of course, had no seats, so he had to sit on the floor next to a pile of DVD players, enduring the mixed air of noise and engine exhaust while anxiously waiting for the landing.

Around noon, the plane landed at Camiri Airport, on the outskirts of the city. As soon as the plane stopped, he couldn’t wait to jump out and take deep breaths of the fresh air at the airport.

At that moment, a local man in his early thirties ran over and greeted him in heavily accented English, then led him to a Nissan Patrol parked by the runway.

Ten minutes later, the Patrol left the airport, driving south along a dirt road toward the Parapetí River. It then turned onto a forked road hidden in the woods and continued along a narrow path through the fields to a farm.

The SUV moved forward along the path, passing a harvested wheat field. The tan ground was covered with wheat stubble, resembling a vast piece of burlap spread across the fields. At the end of the road stood a white gabled house with an English countryside style, accompanied by two red-brown wooden sheds nearby, likely used for storing tools and grain.

Looking around, there were no other buildings within a 400-yard radius except for the main structures. To the southeast was the fast-flowing river, and to the north was an orchard. Two tree lines extended from the east and west sides of the orchard to the riverbank, where they merged with the riverside thickets, enclosing the farm like a tall fence.

The Patrol stopped in front of the house, and the driver led Deng Shiyang to the front door, where he rang the bell. It was just noon.

Soon, the door opened, and a slightly overweight British man in his early forties with light blond hair appeared at the entrance.

Before Deng Shiyang could speak, Harrowby reached out his hand and said, "Thank you for coming all this way."

Deng Shiyang shook his hand and asked, "What's the job?"

"You must be tired from the journey; we’ll discuss the details tonight." Harrowby didn’t answer his question. After a pause, he added, "There’s food prepared in the kitchen. Your room is on the second floor; feel free to choose any with an open door. I have some matters to attend to, so excuse me."

Watching Harrowby leave, Deng Shiyang climbed the stairs from the living room to the second floor and walked down the hallway along the balcony to the end. He finally chose a room with a window facing the river.

The room couldn’t compare to a hotel, but despite the old furniture, it was clean, and the bedding was new, giving it a simple yet comfortable feel.

He put down his luggage and then headed to the kitchen on the first floor.

The kitchen was spacious, at least 300 square feet. On the stove by the wall, a large iron pot was steaming, giving off the aroma of stewed meat. A stout woman in an apron stood with her back to the door, chopping something on the counter.

In the center of the kitchen was a long dining table, large enough to accommodate more than ten people. In the middle of the red-and-white checkered tablecloth sat a silver platter piled with sandwiches, next to a large ceramic bowl of salad, a coffee pot, and various utensils. At the table, a tall, thin man with light brown hair was hunched over, devouring his meal.

Hearing footsteps, the man looked up, revealing a rather ordinary face. His gray-blue eyes sized up Deng Shiyang, and after swallowing the sandwich in his mouth, he asked in an Irish-accented English, "Just arrived?"

Deng Shiyang glanced at him and replied, "Just arrived."

The Irishman wiped his hands with a napkin, then extended his hand, "I'm Keith. And you?"

"JD." Deng Shiyang shook his hand out of courtesy.

As if he already knew, Keith’s expression remained unchanged.

Deng Shiyang took note of it all but said nothing. He walked over to the table, picked up a small plate of salad and a sandwich, and sat down to eat on his own.