Apex

by Ryan W. Aslesen

  “Hell no,” he answered immediately. “You know that Illuminati shit’s above my pay grade. I don’t get to party on private islands and take part in weird sexual rituals. Ask Bill Clinton about that next time you see him.”

  Max chuckled. “Noted. There’s one more thing...”

  “Then get to it, Columbo, I’m almost home.”

  “I need to get in touch with Swift Carter.”

  If not for the ambient noise of a moving car, Max would have thought the call dropped. “Why? Why do you want to get hold of him?” Marklin added after several silent seconds, “Last I heard you boys didn’t play nice together.”

  “We don’t. But unfortunately he’s the best man I know for jungle warfare.”

  Marklin breathed a heavy sigh. “He’s retired now, you know, living off the grid. You’d be better off finding someone else. I doubt he’d be interested in helping you anyway.”

  “No offense, General, but I’d rather hear him say it than you. I’m planning to offer him a substantial chunk of the senator’s money for his time.”

  More silence. Max wondered why Marklin was so hesitant to hook him up with Swift. “Well, you’re welcome to try, I suppose. He’s down in Florida someplace, can’t reach him at home and he doesn’t have a cell phone. I’ll give you the number for the bait and tackle store his wife runs. You want to talk to him, you go through her.”

  “No biggie. We’ve met before. I think she likes me.”

  “Yuck... Better you than me. But here you go.” He gave Max the phone number.

  “Thank you, sir, much obliged as always.”

  “Not a problem. Let me know when you’re going in and send me the GPS coordinates of the island in case I need to call the cavalry, which had better not happen.”

  “Understood, General.”

  “Good luck.” He terminated the call.

  So where to begin? He had perhaps a dozen contacts in his phone who might be useful, but he figured a smaller group, fire team size, would be best for an infiltration mission. He scrolled through his contacts, tried to remember who owed him and whom he owed.

  Flint Boswell, one of about three truly upstanding career Agency men he knew. Him for sure, start there.

  Boswell picked up on the third ring.

  After exchanging greetings, Max asked, “What are you up to these days?”

  “Not much,” Boswell responded in the cultured accent of a Virginia country squire. “I just got home from a fishing trip with my sons. How about you?”

  Max gave him the bare-bones facts about the mission, as well as the compensation.

  “That kind of money is awfully tempting, Max, but I must decline. I’m a consultant now, no more missions for me.”

  “Come on, Flint, don’t make me bring up Venezuela. You’d be consulting with worms right now if it weren’t for me.”

  “I knew you’d bring that up. It was a long time ago.”

  “Favors don’t expire. I need you on this one, pal, and you’re a damn fine jungle scout. Great shot too. Think of it this way: one last mission and you’ll have enough to send your boys off to college. And don’t tell me you’re not bored consulting for the DOD or whoever you’re working for.”

  Though Max knew it was inevitable, it nonetheless took a lot of convincing before Boswell finally caved in. Max told him he’d be in touch when the travel arrangements had been made.

  One.

  He needed a slam dunk after that ordeal, so he called the man most likely to accept his offer: Otto Christian, a tech expert he had first met in the Marine Corps. Max had been a young infantry lieutenant; Christian a corporal working in artillery electronics maintenance, a whiz kid who could allegedly fix anything that ran on electricity. Christian got Max’s GPS, an expensive civilian model he preferred over military issue, up and running when it took a shit on him after the warranty expired. Christian’s skill with electronics fast-tracked his promotions, sent him to college, and eventually landed him an officer’s commission. Then the CIA snatched him up and put him to work chasing Gideon Wilde’s digital signature across the globe. Max and Christian had never worked together in the field during their hunts for Wilde, as Max reminded him during the call.

  “Will I go?” Christian asked. “The question should be can you stop me from going!”

  “We’re gonna get that son of a bitch this time.”

  “And the timing couldn’t be better, Max. I just kicked my loving, lying wife to the curb two months ago. I got nothing holding me back.”

  “Except a boatload of legal fees, I’ll wager.”

  He guffawed. “It’s all worth it, buddy. I’ll see you down there.”

  That was too easy. Swift won’t be such a softball.

  A hulking brute of a man, Henry “Swift” Carter had grown up at a squalid roadside reptile zoo in Florida. At the age of fourteen he began wrestling alligators under the name Gator Hank and apparently was quite a crowd pleaser until his father drank the zoo into bankruptcy. After that he enlisted in the army, spent several years with the Green Berets, and was eventually recruited as a field operative by the CIA, where he earned his facetious moniker. Due to his massive size, he tended to move slower in the field than his comrades, though in a fight—particularly hand-to-hand—he could still strike faster than any alligator.

  Max didn’t need Marklin to remind him that he and Swift didn’t get along. They’d butted heads working a couple of counter-terrorism missions together and would have come to blows once had they not been separated by other operatives. Their rivalry resumed when Max left the CIA for a career as a private security contractor, the same field Swift had entered upon leaving the Agency several years prior. Max could only describe their relationship as complicated—friendly enemies—but hopefully Swift would be able to forgive a bit now that he’d retired.

  “Here goes nothing,” Max said to no one as he dialed.

  “Gator Hank’s Bait and Beer, Imogene speakin’.”

  “Hi, Imogene, Max Ahlgren here.”

  “Well you old son of a bitch, how are you?”

  They talked for a couple of minutes. Occasionally he had to take cover from her booming yet guttural backwoods voice by holding the phone far from his ear. He’d only met Imogene once—Swift’s childhood sweetheart, a hard-bit woman with a wart the size of a biscuit on her nose—yet for some reason he’d made a great impression on her. Too bad Swift doesn’t share her enthusiasm for my bubbly personality.

  “I need to talk to Swift. It’s pretty urgent.”

  “Well I didn’t figure you were lookin’ for a date, Max. But Hank ain’t here, he’s back at the ranch. He don’t work no more, you know.”

  “Not even for the right price?”

  She took a moment to respond. “How right is it?”

  “Half a mil?” He gave her a few basic details of the mission to pass along to Swift.

  “Hmm... I can’t promise you anything, but I’ll give him the message. I guess he’ll get back to you if he’s interested.”

  “Guess that’s about all I can hope for. Thanks, Imogene.”

  “Next time you’re in town get your handsome kisser over here for a slice of pie.”

  “Will do,” Max said, knowing full well that would never happen.

  He checked the time: 2130. He’d spent over an hour and a half cajoling and bullshitting, but even he had to schmooze sometimes to get what he needed.

  Now he got to work on logistics. He scheduled a private jet out of Richmond, Virginia, for Boswell, then over to North Carolina for Christian. Max couldn’t afford to wait on Swift’s response; plans needed to be set into motion ASAP. So he stipulated the possible need for a stop in Florida. The girl at the jet company assured him that wouldn’t be a problem.

  It rarely was.

  The clock crept on past 2200. To pass the time, Max banged out a
quick workout, doing a couple dozen sets of pushups, flutter kicks, and bodyweight squats and lunges. Afterward, he grabbed a small snack consisting of cheese and crackers from the kitchen and took a hot shower. He then cleaned his pistols, though they really didn’t need it, as he reviewed the file he’d spread over the table, mostly Heat’s pictures of the island and a few of the Senator’s son.

  Right around midnight he received a text message: Swift here fly me private outa jaxville bringin my goodies send details. A second text about a minute later read: I want good whisky and a steak on the plane none o that airline shoe leather shit see to it.

  I see nothing has changed.

  Max got back on the horn with the jet line to schedule the stop in Jacksonville and requested a prime rib dinner for all the passengers.

  Sorry, Swift, but you aren’t special.

  Though exhausted from the day’s efforts, Max didn’t feel the slightest bit drowsy. He thought of Heat out in town, talking to men on the street or in the bars. Perhaps she lay in a gutter even now, beaten, robbed, and raped. Where the fuck are you? He didn’t like it yet could do nothing about it. He took her advice and didn’t wait up.

  Sleep was a long time coming. When it finally showed, Max found himself in a bedchamber deep beneath an ancient fortress in Afghanistan, listening to the shrieks of a wailing baby grievously injured.

  9

  “She arises from the dead,” Max said as Heat walked into the living room, sleep disheveled and dressed in a short silk nightie, her eyes open barely a sliver.

  “Fuck off.” She padded into the kitchen.

  “Is that a hangover I sense? How did your working bender go? Meet any more hot cops?” He followed her into the kitchen.

  “Okay, now you can just eat shit. But thanks for making breakfast. I knew I kept you around for a reason.” She grabbed a plate, shoveled on a pile of scrambled eggs and a couple strips of bacon, and stuck them in the microwave. “What the fuck? No coffee?”

  “Sorry, don’t drink swamp water.”

  “The fuck is wrong with you?” She filled the carafe from the coffee maker. “I never met a military man who didn’t run on coffee.”

  “I’m naturally a morning person.” My dreams see to that.

  “How long have you been up?” The clock on the wall read 1015.

  “A few hours. While you were sleeping it off, some of us were working. I got hold of an old pilot buddy of mine, Duke Hodges, knew him in the CIA. These days he hires out a transport chopper down in Brazil, ferrying supplies to loggers and ranchers in the Amazon Basin. He’ll be here tomorrow. I requested that he buzz the island on his way in.”

  “If they let him get close enough.”

  “Duke’s good, and a crazy son of a bitch to boot. He might be able to get under the radar. So how did your fact-finding mission go?”

  “That we won’t know until later. But I talked to quite a few people, mostly old timers whom I figured might remember less-secretive times.”

  “So what’s the story?”

  “From the sound of things, we’re going to the Ile des Esprits, the Island of Spirits. Legend has it the place is haunted by the ghosts of the original natives, a peaceful people massacred by Portuguese explorers a few hundred years ago. Very few people have traveled there, even before the French government started chasing people out. The older folks fear the place and speak of it in awe, but I found a younger man, a charter boat captain who came to within a half mile or so while chasing a school of tuna. He got shooed away too, but not before he saw—supposedly—a couple of really big lizards sunning themselves on a beach. They took off into the jungle before he could get a good look with binoculars, but he’s sure they were a lot larger than the typical iguana.”

  “Like Komodo dragon size?”

  She chuckled. “Bigger than that... according to him.”

  “I think we can file that tale under B for bullshit. You mentioned something happening later?”

  “Oh yes.” Once again, she wore an overly pleased smirk. “I met another man last night who claims not only to have visited the island but to have lived there for a time.”

  Great, another shady asshole looking to cash in. “I hope he’s got a better story than the captain.”

  “That I couldn’t tell you. He wanted money, of course, and he wouldn’t talk to me in the bar where I met him, said he wanted to go somewhere more private. He seemed really sincere, the sort of guy ready to drop dimes because he has axes to grind, but he’s a bit on the creepy side. I told him my partner was the money man, that we could rendezvous today at a place of his choosing. We’re meeting him at one o’clock in a bar down in shitsville.”

  “How much does he want?”

  “He didn’t say, but he looked pretty poor, so I doubt he’ll ask for much. You can even do some of the talking if you want; he speaks English relatively well.”

  “You check him for tattoos and jewelry?” Max said it only half-jokingly.

  “No tattoo—he wore short sleeves—and no jewelry whatsoever.”

  “Sounds like the brotherhood is working on their concealment skills.”

  “That’s a piss-poor attitude to take, Max. You need to get some optimism flowing.”

  “All in good time... if this guy is for real. Your track record of locating informants doesn’t inspire much confidence.”

  “Would you like to wear this cup of scalding coffee?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  ***

  Auberge de Michaud, read the small sign atop a flight of narrow stone steps that descended from street level to the basement of a weathered stone building. Max figured the place had to be at least a couple hundred years old. He led the way downstairs and ducked through an archway, the door standing wide open.

  A mere glance into the cave-like barroom put him on edge—sooty stone walls, vaulted ceiling supported by thick stone pillars, shadowy niches throughout that offered plenty of hiding places. Dim sunlight fought for entry through a handful of grimy windows near the ceiling. Candles burned on the tables and along the bar, which featured no stools, merely a dull brass rail the patrons could prop a foot on while they stood and drank. Several local men in the dress of laborers were doing just that; all of them paused in their eating and drinking to gawk at Max and Heat as they entered, their looks of suspicion and hostility confirming that outsiders were not welcome here.

  The bartender, a bony fellow with stooped shoulders who might have been anywhere from thirty to sixty years old, took note of their entrance and pointed toward the rear.

  They crossed the room, skirting a puddle of standing water on the floor. Beneath the reek of stale smoke, spilled wine, and pungent Creole spices, the room stank of mildew and dampness. This guy must really be poor, drinking in a filthy wine sink like this.

  Their contact, a sinewy brown man with a short yet unkempt afro, stood and smiled perfunctorily when they arrived at his table. He bowed slightly to Heat and greeted her as Mademoiselle Keller, then turned to Max and offered his hand. Heat introduced him as Antoine Leseur, and Max as Michael Adams.

  Holy shit. One look into Leseur’s eyes and Max understood why Heat considered him creepy—they shone a luminescent green, the likes of which he’d never seen on anything other than a cat. On a better-looking person they might have been eerily attractive, but they had an unsettling effect ensconced in Leseur’s plain countenance.

  They took seats at the greasy round table and got down to business.

  “You brought the money?” Leseur asked Heat in a heavy French accent. His hand shook noticeably as he drained the last dregs of wine from a dirty water glass.

  “No, I brought it,” Max said. “How much do you want?”

  “This is highly... sensitive information. One thousand dollars.”

  Max pulled a roll of hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and peeled
off two. “We’ll start with that. Tell me something true and you’ll get the rest.”

  Leseur fidgeted; Max could hear his foot tapping the floor. Just a bit jumpy. He had good reason to be, regardless of the meeting’s outcome. The damning information he might reveal could get him in trouble with the Brotherhood of Foreseers; false information would bring down the wrath of Max.

  You’re fucked either way, pal, so just get to it.

  Leseur took the money and a few moments later said, “Yes, fine, but one more small request: my cousin keeps a rare bottle of Armagnac behind the bar...”

  “Then order a glass.”

  His yellow teeth appeared in a nervous smile. “I was hoping to purchase the bottle but...” He spread his hands palms up, imploring.

  “Just get it already.”

  Leseur nodded gratefully and thanked him, then signaled the bartender and held up three fingers.

  “My partner says you lived on the Ile des Esprits?”

  He nodded. “I did. I work there three months.”

  “Doing what?”

  He pondered a moment as he searched for the proper English words. “Construction. I work with a fencing crew.”

  “What sort of fence? Be more specific.”

  The bartender showed up and placed a dusty, uncorked green bottle on the table along with three snifters that actually looked clean. He looked down at Max and said something to him.

  “Two hundred dollars,” Heat translated.

  Max gave him two bills. “This better be the finest booze I’ve ever drank.”

  “Oui, monsieur,” said the bartender, his empty smile and bobbing head betraying that he hadn’t understood the comment. Then, sensing his intrusion, he returned to the bar.

  When Max prompted him about the fence again, Leseur said, “Chain-link, I believe.”

  “Guarding what? Was it electrified?”

  “In some places... maybe all by this time. Some portions were very high, very strong. One section was near a building under construction, but we were not allowed to visit there. Mostly we work in the jungle, clear the brush and install the fence. We live in tent town, very primitive, work sun to sun. Armed guards watch over us. They treat us like shit always.”