The Nevada Job

by Vince Milam

  THE NEVADA JOB:

  A CASE LEE NOVEL

  Book 7

  By Vince Milam

  Published internationally by Vince Milam Books

  © 2020 Vince Milam Books

  Terms and Conditions: The purchaser of this book is subject to the condition that he/she shall in no way resell it, nor any part of it, nor make copies of it to distribute freely.

  All Persons Fictitious Disclaimer: This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.

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  Other books by Vince Milam:

  The Suriname Job: A Case Lee Novel Book 1

  The New Guinea Job: A Case Lee Novel Book 2

  The Caribbean Job: A Case Lee Novel Book 3

  The Amazon Job: A Case Lee Novel Book 4

  The Hawaii Job: A Case Lee Novel Book 5

  The Orcas Island Job: A Case Lee Novel Book 6

  Acknowledgments:

  Editor—David Antrobus at BeWriteThere - bewritethere.com

  Cover Design by Rick Holland at Vision Press – myvisionpress.com.

  As always, Vicki for her love and patience. And Mimi, Linda, and Bob for their unceasing support and encouragement.

  Chapter 1

  I’d walked into the job with eyes wide open. There were no rules. Support was a continent away. Fair enough, although acceptance did not tamp down the unease factor as Chechen mercenaries blasted away at me. You might expect backup in many places around the world. Not out on the Chaco—a quarter-million square miles of lawless emptiness. On the Chaco, you were on your own.

  The Brit spook had had a hand in my decision. He’d encouraged ascending the narrow mountainous spine to assess the mining company on the other side. The MI6 agent received my enthusiastic agreement. Booze lubricated the decision process.

  “Up close, old sport,” he’d said, tipping his Grey Goose-filled glass toward the steep divide. We sat outside tiny Santa Ana’s lone plaza bar. “It’s your best bet, I’m afraid.”

  Bullets whined and slapped nearby rocks and foliage. Yeah, well, old sport, this hadn’t developed into a good bet. I squatted behind a jungle-covered boulder protected from the downhill gunfire and scrambled to assemble the rifle I’d broken down and hauled in my daypack. The cats below me weren’t a significant concern—I’d scoot through thick vegetation and escape back over the top. I doubted they’d follow. It was steep turf, and I was one man—a beat-up ex-Delta operator doing his job. If they followed, bad news for them.

  Their shots exhibited lackadaisical earmarks, avoiding a steep uphill climb after an intruder. Me. They fired in my general area through brush and trees and high grass. I’d never claim hot fire pointed my direction was benign, but so far their efforts mimicked the “spray, pray, call it a day” gunfire I’d experienced far too many times.

  Even with eyes wide open, this hot-fire encounter sat far removed from the unassuming contract language offered through my client, Global Resolutions. A Zurich, Switzerland, outfit.

  “Investigate and provide a report regarding the physical and political issues encountered by the Exponent Mining Company near Santa Ana, Bolivia, and Montello, Nevada.”

  They’d provided geographic coordinates so I could locate both mining operations. I’d never know who had contacted Global Resolutions for a contractor to investigate the situation. It could have been Exponent Mining, or a third competitor checking the landscape and opportunities, or a national government with special interests. I didn’t know and seldom cared. In return, the Zurich gnomes never revealed the contractor’s identity for their clients—in this situation Case Lee, Inc.’s lone employee and chief bottle washer.

  The rifle barrel clacked and locked into place with the weapon’s receiver while bullets continued their angry bee-buzz through nearby foliage. Assembly complete, I slapped a loaded magazine into the weapon and chambered a round. Good to go. And logged a mental note for the Global Resolutions report I’d later file. How’s this for issue number one, folks? You might get your ass shot when inspecting Exponent Mining’s competitor in Bolivia.

  The competitor—a murky outfit called KDB Mining from St. Petersburg, Russia. A consortium comprising the Russians, the Iranians, and the French. A troika for the ages. The executive manager, meaning the guy who ran the show, was Andris Simko—a secretive Hungarian billionaire who, among many other things, hated the West and its culture and its governance. A peach of a guy.

  As for Exponent Mining, they were a legit outfit from Calgary, Canada, with operations around the globe. Informational digging revealed the operations in both Nevada and Bolivia had silent partners who’d made investments in the endeavors. After running into the MI6 spook, I knew it was dollars to doughnuts the Brits were a silent partner. Which was fine—the Brits had not attempted whacking me over the years. While a damn low bar on the “they’re okay” scale, it held heavy coin in the realm of keeping Case Lee vertical and healthy.

  Exponent and KDB’s goal—rare earth metals. Electric car motors, iPhones, military jet engines, batteries, and computer hard drives require rare earth metals to function. Upon taking the job, I expanded my minimal knowledge of these elements beyond them being rare. They made up seventeen chemical elements in the earth’s crust, critical for keeping society running. Rare earth metals have unique magnetic, heat-resistant, and phosphorescent properties no other elements have. This made them nonsubstitutable materials in our technology-driven society.

  China controlled the lion’s share of mineable rare earth deposits. Their global production supplied over ninety percent of these metals. The world’s other major players were less than thrilled with this situation. Hence the scramble for new deposits through outfits such as Exponent and KDB. Word had it Exponent had made a major find in both Bolivia and Nevada. KDB, not so much.

  With the rifle locked and loaded, I scrambled uphill through thick vegetation and rock outcrops and close-packed trees. The shots from below failed to follow me. I breathed easier and focused on hand and footholds for the last several hundred yards before cresting the knife-edge ridgeline and dropping into Exponent Mining’s turf.

  A turbine engine’s far-distant whine brought a new focus. On the flat plain below, over a mile distant, sat KDB’s operational camp. They, like Exponent, had constructed a gravel-surfaced runway for fixed-wing aircraft. But KDB also had a chopper. I leaned against a rock-face fissure for stability and used the rifle’s scope. The blades of a French-made Lama, designed for hot and high-altitude operations, began their slow turn, coming up to speed. Two armed men climbed into the back seat. Great, just freakin’ great. Further ascent would expose my butt against the rock crag, which made easy pickings for someone intent on spotting me.

  I didn’t consider the situation a tight spot. The years in Delta Force and years engaged with gnarly contracts had put me in multiple life-threatening situations. The current circumstance fell more into the ass-pain category. Still, two armed mercs in a chopper headed up the mountain with ill intent. I wasn’t hankering for a fight, so I altered my escape plans. I dropped lower, back into thick foliage, and side-hilled west, farther away from my last known location. My plan—put a half-mile or so behind me and then ascend and cross over the top. The turbine engine’s whine far below hit an irritating decibel level, and another glance downhill showed liftoff. The Lama rose and made a straight shot for the area where I’d been earlier. I kept moving for another two minutes and hunkered down, stone-still, inside thick vegetation.

  The chopper passed over my previous location and performed an operation that cranked up my
concern. It flew uphill toward the rocky crest, and the pilot eased into a toe-in against a narrow rock section. The Lama’s skids pressed against the outcrop, the rear side doors opened, and the two mercenaries leapt out. Without their weight, the chopper shot skyward. The two mercs slid a dozen feet downhill, found their footing, and retrieved their slung assault rifles, ready for action. The Lama turned and headed back for the base camp. Dust and noise abated as I continued observing through my weapon’s scope. The entire maneuver from both the chopper pilot and the mercs screamed serious military training. Oh, man.

  They perched several hundred yards away, well above my elevation, in no rush. They too used their weapons’ scopes and began a methodical search of the terrain below them.

  I had a clean shot. Taking one out ensured the other would dive downhill, off the rock face, finding sanctuary in the vegetation below him. Then the long, drawn-out, deadly stalk would begin. For us both. I had zero desire to play that game, at least not today.

  My first encounter with KDB mercs had been the day before, when I’d circled the mountainous spine along a dirt track and driven toward their operations. Armed men met me. Men who held no truck with me advancing any farther, much less fulfilling my intention of entering their operational area and speaking with someone in charge. Their look, feel, and language confirmed my suspicions. Chechens. Hard core pros camped on the Chaco. And a firefight on this mountain ridge translated into a major kick of the anthill. So I remained hunkered down, hidden, and waited them out. What an ass pain.

  They scoped and searched for twenty minutes then headed downhill on full alert. I lost their track among the thick brush, which signaled they wouldn’t spot my movement either. Low and slow, I continued a westward path for a decent distance until I found a deep vertical fissure above me leading over the ridgetop. The rock face cut would hide my ascent from the two mercs. I was more than a little uncomfortable disassembling my weapon and stowing it back into the small backpack, but hand- and footholds ruled the next thirty minutes.

  Rock climbing isn’t my forte, and years of injuries and wounds took their toll as I struggled up the vertical rock slit. It made for an uncomfortable situation as I was well aware my weapon remained stowed while two nearby mercs hunted me. Just another day at the freakin’ office.

  I crested and crawled onto a narrow, flat mountaintop platform. A peek down the other side showed a much less severe vertical angle and thick vegetation near the crest. The tiny pueblo of Santa Ana and its thousand souls lay still and quiet. Several miles eastward, Exponent’s mining operations continued as heavy machinery worked, and dust clouded the area. A lone eagle rode the warm upthrust currents where dry plain met mountain.

  The smart move—crawl over the side, and haul it downhill. But I couldn’t do it. Yes, I crawled over the side. And stopped, reassembling my weapon. Slapped the loaded magazine back into place, eased my way back onto the crest’s flat spot, and searched for the enemy. It took fifteen minutes and involved no skill on my part.

  A single merc exited vegetation, climbed a large naked boulder, and scouted. He was well past the distance for a legitimate rifleshot but close enough to spot. I stood, shouldered my weapon, eyeballed him through the scope, and waited. A few minutes later, he lowered his weapon, dissatisfied, and cast a token upward glance at the ridgeline. My profile against the bright blue sky was a can’t-miss. He cocked his head, smiled, shifted his footing, and scoped me.

  I can’t put a finger on why I do such things, throwing down deadly gauntlets. But it’s inherent in my makeup. With, maybe, a pinch of arrogant surety. So be it.

  Once I had his undivided attention, I lowered the rifle and lifted my left hand, middle finger extended. He lowered his weapon, turned, dropped his fatigues, and showed me his ass.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was well on my way to Santa Ana and a cold cocktail.

  Chapter 2

  I’d received the job offer from Global Resolutions early one morning in Charlotte, North Carolina. It would be a hot day, but dawn still held the night’s cooldown on Jess’s back courtyard. The brick-wall-lined area had a New Orleans French Quarter feel, complete with potted blooming plants, a large ficus tree, and wrought-iron furniture with cushions. I sat with laptop open, legs propped on another chair, coffee mug steaming. I’d been there three days—a first for our relationship.

  The gentle shifting of coffee preparation items drifted through the open courtyard door as Jess—Jessica Rossi—rummaged about. We’d met in Hawaii and had overcome relationship-challenging road bumps. She was a former cop with the Charlotte PD and now worked as a private investigator, same as me. Well, not quite the same. She worked domestic gigs with a focus on family conflict. I worked gnarly global jobs. Still, we had a professional connection that had grown, in fits and starts, into a personal relationship.

  “Are you hungry?”

  She’d poked her head through the French doors. An overhead bird perched in the ficus tree hushed when she spoke.

  “Not now. Thanks, though.”

  She padded onto the courtyard tile wearing a light cotton robe patterned with flowers, coffee in one hand, laptop in the other, and kissed me good morning before sitting opposite me.

  “Is there anything interesting happening in the world?” she asked before blowing across the mug’s rim.

  “The usual mayhem, craziness, and overall insanity. But no nukes headed our way, so we have that going for us.”

  “We both make more than a decent living dealing with mayhem and insanity, so it’s good knowing the future is bright. I hate having to leave you later today.”

  She was Oregon-bound. A family member of a large winery had hired her.

  “Me, too. But the timing is right. I just received a job offer, which looks promising.”

  “Where?”

  “Bolivia. Mining operations in an area called the Chaco. And the same outfits have Nevada operations. Both job sites sit in the middle of nowhere.”

  I sipped coffee and captured Jess’s morning countenance. Man, she looked fine. Short bob haircut, honey-brown eyes, her robe slipping off one shoulder. She opened her laptop.

  “I’ll do a quick assessment of Bolivia’s current chaos factor. You might not even have to arsenal-up, which would make me feel better even if it makes you feel like Lady Godiva. As in naked.”

  “Oh, I imagine I’ll have a few tools with me soon after arrival.”

  She gave me a sardonic half-grin, sipped coffee, eyeballed me over the mug’s rim, and began an internet search. It was a prickly subject, best left alone. At least by me. Jess had other ideas.

  “So where do you find your big-bang tools when you land someplace?” she asked as her fingers flew across the keyboard.

  “A fixer.”

  “There’s a detailed answer. A fixer. Where might they reside in a Bolivian phone book?”

  “I’ll get the contact information from Jules.”

  “The mysterious Jules of the Clubhouse.”

  “Yep. She likes you. I think. Hard to say with Jules.”

  “You run in interesting circles, bub. So, there’s no news about a Bolivian revolution or war at the moment. You’ll have that working for you.”

  She continued her search. The overhead songbird warbled, and a small self-contained water fountain in the courtyard corner gurgled. Jess’s pronouncement sealed the deal. No war or insurrections provided a decent backdrop for a Bolivia trip. Having never been there added to its allure. My Spanish was solid, the job paid—as always—a nice chunk of change, and it had been six weeks since I’d returned from an Orcas Island engagement. An engagement I’d kept on the down-low with Jess as it had involved more than its fair share of bullets and blood.

  She took another sip, leaned over her laptop, and said, “Bolivia is South America’s poorest country.”

  “Okay.”

  “The area you’re headed for is best described as desolate. Very few towns, it says, because there is little water. There are few rivers or cr
eeks, and the water table throughout the area is saline. As in undrinkable. It sounds lovely. Check out vacation rentals while you’re down there, would you?”

  “Happy to.”

  “Bolivia once had a coastline.”

  “Once? Coasts are a hard thing to lose.”

  “Not when your Chilean neighbor decides you don’t require sea access. It happened over a hundred years ago. The Bolivians are still angry.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “How’s your coffee?”

  “Low.”

  We rose at the same time.

  “I’ll get it. Thanks, though,” I said.

  “Did you just groan standing up?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Are you falling apart on me?”

  “I’m recovering.”

  “What are you recovering from?”

  “Last night.”

  I shot her a smile, she returned a throaty chuckle, and I made a beeline for the coffeepot.

  “Once again,” she said, “you wouldn’t regret adding a dollop of thick cream and a praline syrup shot to your coffee.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Try living large, Mr. Lee. Focus on flavor and indulge yourself.”

  “Should I stir it with a ham bone as well? I do like ham.”

  Her next question floated into the kitchen.

  “For a Mr. Adventure, you aren’t very adventurous. Are you leaving your tub in Morehead City if you take this job?”

  Such an affront mandated face-to-face, so I held off replying until situated back in the courtyard with a fresh cup of joe.

  “Her name is the Ace of Spades. My home. A vessel filled to the brim with character and soul and a sensitive nature. ‘Tub’ won’t do, madam.”

  The Ace and the Ditch were home. The former was an old wooden cruiser that plied the waters of the Intracoastal Canal, or the Ditch as locals called it, from Virginia to Florida. A mobile lifestyle with evenings spent anchored in isolated sloughs under moss-draped oaks or berthed at small towns along the Ditch. The Ace could use some paint and a few minor repairs, but she was reliable and steadfast and comfortable.