Articles: David Isenberg

‘Executive Outcomes,’ I said. The name tasted like rust. ‘Sandline. MPRI. Remember when the monsters had names? When you could point to a man in a safari jacket and say, There. That’s the mercenary.’ Continue reading →

Dale Corbin sat two feet to his left, close enough to shake hands with, close enough that neither man could pretend the other wasn’t real. That was the trouble with these panels. On paper, in the newsletters, in the trade rags, they were opposing forces, abstractions, “the critic” and “the advocate.” In the room they were just two tired men in bad suits under bad light, and one of them was about to explain, again, why the other one was wrong. Continue reading →

The neon sign outside the basement bar buzzed with a low, dying hum, cutting through the heavy Chicago rain. Inside, the air smelled of stale scotch, cheap cigars, and wet wool.
At a corner booth, secluded behind a curtain of thick tobacco smoke, three men sat around a low wooden table.
On one side sat Vance—hard-jawed, leather-jacketed, with eyes that had seen too many dusty tracks in Africa and forgotten landing strips in the jungle. Beside him was Isenberg, a thin, sharp-eyed man wearing a rumpled tweed coat, a leather notebook open in front of him, pencil hovering like a scalpel.
Across from them sat Vane. tailored suit, pristine cuffs, eyes cold and clear as frozen Lake Michigan. He moved with the effortless, disciplined poise of a former commando turned titan of industry. Continue reading →