The Nevada Job

by Vince Milam

  It was late afternoon when I strolled through Santa Ana. The plaza was quiet, and Chambers was nowhere in sight. I made it back to my room, took a bucket shower, and scarfed down several protein bars. A quick check for messages, and I strolled toward the plaza. I kept the pistol in the front pocket of my jeans and slung the daypack with disassembled rifle over a shoulder.

  A weird vibe permeated the place. No smiles, no polite head nods among the few residents in sight. I ordered another ice bucket, produced a fresh vodka bottle and a water bottle from the daypack, and asked the proprietor for two glasses. When she delivered the glasses, I thanked her and paid for the not-yet-arrived ice.

  “Apuro,” she said, her sun-wrinkled face grim. She turned and shuffled away. She referenced troubles or hardship. Heaven knows she’d seen both in her lifetime. But this was something immediate. Right now.

  When the ice arrived, I made a drink and waited. It wasn’t long before a pickup truck with the Exponent Mining logo on the doors pulled up and parked. Peterman and Chambers and a young mining manager got out. So did Esma Mansur. There were no smiles, no greetings.

  They sat, Chambers helped himself to the vodka, Esma ordered a fruit drink, and Peterman declined to do anything but sit hunched over and stare at the ground between his feet.

  “They killed four today,” Chambers said as he poured. “Three locals and a Canadian. They aren’t adding one each time. They are doubling the kills. I would expect eight the next time.”

  “There won’t be a next time,” Peterman said without looking up. “I’ve shut down operations.”

  Esma shot me a hard glare and said, in English, “This must stop.”

  “Sounds like it has. They won.”

  The small airplane I’d spotted earlier flew low over the village, headed west.

  “Did you fly in on that?” I asked Esma.

  “Yes. For a regular supply levels inspection. And delivery of a mechanical part my client has been waiting on,” she said, pointing overhead. “The plane is carrying the murdered Canadian back to Santa Cruz. This must stop.”

  She’d lost six countrymen and her largest client because of Simko’s savagery. She was in the denial phase, edging into anger. Seven senseless deaths over the last several days, and Exponent now waved the white flag. I saw no point hanging around and considered the long drive back to Santa Cruz the next day. Was I angry? You bet. And sat in that isolated village as the lone person who knew how to fight.

  “It’s a rather massive cock-up, I’m afraid,” Chambers said. “I despise the fact Simko and his hired thugs have pushed things to this point.”

  The other manager excused himself and wandered off. He was in shock, and dealt with it in his own way. Peterman continued staring at dirt. Esma was on fire, her body rigid. Several right-hand fingers delivered a rapid staccato beat against the tabletop. One hope remained, given Exponent wouldn’t hire their own mercs. MI6. They wouldn’t have any issues cleaning house.

  “Have you contacted your people?” I asked Chambers.

  “Yes.”

  He fiddled with his pipe, lighting it. I waited and sipped my drink.

  “You see,” he said, “this situation, viewed as a single point within a treacherous global landscape, fails to register on our list of deep concerns. I am afraid this is the unfortunate reality.”

  “What about you!” Esma said, eyes laser-pointed my direction.

  “I’m a contract investigator.”

  She continued glaring at me.

  “Look, Esma. I’m low man on the totem pole in this situation. This is an issue between Exponent and KDB. And Exponent won’t take the needed measures—sending in their own armed hires.”

  She maintained an unblinking stare.

  “Our friend across the table is next on the list,” I added. “The British get-things-done arm called MI6—represented by the guy sucking down my hooch—aren’t getting involved.”

  “I could take umbrage at such an oversimplification,” Chambers said, relighting his pipe.

  “Register a complaint with my don’t-give-a-shit department. Then there’s the Bolivian government. I could name others, but for a fact my vested-interest tank is bone-dry.”

  Esma snorted and sat back, chugging her fruit drink. Townspeople filtered into the plaza area. There was no promenade. Men gathered in tight groups; there were far fewer women, and no children. Even the dogs were absent. The townspeople filled the atmosphere with sadness, fear, uncertainty. And something else.

  Chapter 11

  Across the plaza, five men assembled wearing ragged dark-blue uniforms with red trim. They carried musical instruments—a standard acoustic guitar, an oversized deep-bodied guitar as a bass instrument, two trumpets with an aged patina, and a marching band bass drum strapped across a man’s chest. They began playing.

  “What do we have here?” Chambers asked.

  “Santa Ana’s official band,” Esma said. “The village is mourning the killing.”

  The music was unlike any I’d heard before. Military blues, perhaps. Sad, evocative music drifted through the evening air. We sat silent for several minutes, absorbing the sound and—in my case—taking a slow drift through a life with too much violence, too much death, and too much regret.

  “What’s this music called?” I asked, inexplicably affected.

  “Music from La Guerra de la Sed,” she said.

  “The War of Thirst?”

  She didn’t answer, instead pointing at the vodka bottle with questioning eyebrows. I slid it toward her, and she added a healthy dose into her fruit drink. The music continued, slow and haunting and bluesy. After a long pause, she responded.

  “The Chaco War. It was almost a hundred years ago when Bolivia fought Paraguay over territory. It was the bloodiest military conflict fought in South America during the last century. A war between two very poor countries.”

  The music took on more meaning, greater texture. A Bolivian dirge.

  “The war killed two hundred thousand soldiers and civilians on both sides. More than half died from disease, starvation, and thirst.” She shook her head. “It was horrible.”

  Then she shifted her chair and stared across the tiny plaza. Peterman’s eyes welled, the music and mourning taking their toll. Even Chambers was mesmerized. The band played for thirty minutes as the plaza crowd huddled and spoke with soft tones. It was a scene that drew everyone together, a universal binding over loss and pain and needless suffering.

  As the musicians packed their instruments, the background sound changed as vehicles rolled into town.

  “They are early,” Chambers said. “They must be especially amorous this evening.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  A wolf pack, having tasted blood, was on the prowl. I scooted the daypack with my disassembled rifle closer. Four Sherpas loaded with mercs rolled into the town square. They didn’t head for their usual destination. Instead, they began a slow plaza circle, windows down, weapons on full display.

  “Let’s not do anything unwise, Lee,” Chambers said, his voice low and flat.

  I remained silent and, while keeping my eyes on the killers’ caravan, began unzipping my daypack. Esma reached down and stopped me. Her eyes were hard, determined. She gave a slight headshake and said, “Not now.”

  I relented, and Esma squeezed my hand as it lifted. I did tug the pistol partway from my front jeans’ pocket. If it came to a fight, I wouldn’t go down easy. The villagers murmured and shifted positions as the Sherpas performed slow circles. The four vehicles separated so each occupied one side of the plaza as they rolled along, kicking up a thin dust trail.

  “I cannot believe they are doing this,” Peterman said, his face bright red.

  “Steady, crew. Steady, and let them perform their little display,” Chambers said, crossing his leg.

  The crossed-leg ankle displayed an ankle holster’s telltale leather. His fingers worked under the pants cuff, followed by the light metallic snick of a snap unf
astening. Then he rested his hand on his calf. High odds he carried a slim 9mm Walther, British made. Esma didn’t remain neutral, either. She’d lifted her well-used leather sack purse onto her lap, her right hand resting inside it. I doubted she’d pull lipstick if it hit the fan.

  An old woman, bent at the back, shuffled from the plaza’s center toward the surrounding dirt road. As she made her way, her voice lifted.

  “Devils! Devils! Burn in hell!” she called, pointing a quivering hand first at the nearest Sherpa as it rolled past and then at the one approaching.

  As the vehicle neared her, it slowed to a crawl. She hobbled closer, and her voice elevated into a scream.

  “Devils! Devils!”

  A pistol-laden hand extended from the backseat window as the Sherpa drew even with her. The next act was inevitable.

  “Burn in hell! Each of you, burn in hell!”

  The shot snapped her head back as the pistol’s massive boom washed over the plaza. The crowd, too stunned to move, stood with mouths open and eyes wide.

  “Don’t do it, Lee. They have us outnumbered and outgunned. Be smart. Leave it.”

  Chambers’s voice was matter-of-fact. I’d pulled the pistol and held it on my lap. The MI6 spook was right. I could have fired and maneuvered and made a fight of it. But they would fire back on full automatic, and more innocents—included those at my table—would be killed. I remained still, finger on the trigger.

  They continued circling for another two loops before turning and heading for the bordello. The townspeople surrounded the fallen women, some kneeling as her blood pooled in the dust and dirt, creating a burgundy halo around her head. Wails and cries and shouted anger were the moment’s language.

  I wasn’t shocked at the scene before me, and wished to hell I was. Too many similar events and too much killing had marked and marred my life experiences. And now raw brutality was once again on full display.

  “You and your other manager should leave before dawn tomorrow, Peterman. Load your pickup and head for Santa Cruz,” I said. “You, too, Esma. You can ride with me. Chambers, you’re also welcome to hitch a ride.”

  “How can we just leave?” Esma asked. “After that? Leave?”

  “I’m afraid our American friend is right,” Chambers said. “We must pick our fights in this troubled world. The situation here will become worse with each passing day.”

  “No.” Peterman, his face bright red and jaw muscles working. “No. That is enough. Enough taking it like submissive animals. No.”

  Chambers laid a hand on Peterman’s arm.

  “One can fully understand your emotions at the moment, mate. I am not immune to such desires either.”

  “We fight,” Esma said, her voice hard and filled with commitment.

  “Can you get us guns?” Peterman asked her. “Lots of guns?”

  It was a foolhardy question, one guaranteed to lead to the slaughter of anyone associated with Exponent mining. Over a dozen military-trained mercenaries with a penchant for wanton killing against people with no clue how to fight.

  “Not an option, Peterman,” I said. “Sorry. Man, I sympathize with you and understand what you’re feeling right now. But you’ll get yourself and a thousand Bolivians killed.” I leaned over the table and locked eyes with him. “That’s a fact. A stone-cold fact.”

  Several men in the plaza had lifted the old woman and carried her away. Everyone else, every single person, had drifted away.

  “Once again, I must say he is quite right,” Chambers said. “There is no shame in a strategic retreat, my friends. Live to fight another day and all that.”

  The tension at our small table ratcheted down as both our statements sank in with Peterman and Esma. It didn’t last long. Esma’s fingers began another tapping concerto against the tabletop, reaching a crescendo when she turned toward me.

  “You know how to fight.”

  “And I know when it’s haul ass time. Such as right now.”

  “Then tell us,” she said. “Show us. I can have weapons flown in tomorrow.”

  Rusty single-shot rifles and a smattering of pistols—assured suicide.

  “They’ll be back before your plane gets here. It’ll be a Wild West show tomorrow unless everyone associated with Exponent leaves, including you, Esma.”

  I turned and addressed Peterman.

  “Tell your people, stay home tomorrow. Tell them whatever is necessary so they stay safe and away from the mining site. And away from public view. Tell them to go on lockdown until this darkness passes. It’s over, bud. Head for Canada.”

  “No.” He shook his head, brow furrowed and jawline set. “Esma is right. Show us.”

  I leaned back, sighed, and rolled my head, releasing neck tension. This would pass. They, Peterman and Esma, would regain their senses before tomorrow.

  “Let’s all have a drink and calm down. Let’s lift a glass for your fallen friend and for the fallen Bolivians,” I said, casting what I hoped was an empathetic eye toward Peterman.

  The first group of villagers appeared on our right, emerging from a dusty side street. Most carried machetes and knives. Several toted hoes and shovels—the closest thing they owned resembling a weapon. The several dozen men entered the plaza area and headed toward us. As they approached, another large group appeared near us. They, too, carried machetes and rusty farm tools. And they, too, headed our way. A third group approached from the left, similarly armed. There were no voices, no sound other than the shuffle of sandaled and bare feet on the hard-packed dirt.

  They collected around us. Men who’d lived a hard, hard life. Men who’d seen their loved ones—wives, children, sisters, and brothers—succumb to brutal life on the Chaco. Unidentified disease, cuts that turned septic and killed, life spans shortened through hardship and nature. One man addressed Peterman.

  “We will not let such things happen again. It will be dark soon. We will attack them as they drink and sleep with our women. It is too much. We will not let it happen again.”

  Brave people, committed. But lambs to the slaughter.

  “I have been told,” Peterman said, “you should hide. Remain quiet and hidden until this passes.”

  The hundred or so men murmured in the negative.

  “I have been told I should leave tomorrow morning. Leave forever.”

  Several discussions broke out among the crowd. It didn’t last long. The spokesperson again addressed Peterman.

  “We will kill them. Do not quit.”

  Time to shut this down. Their bodies would stack up like cordwood if they went after the mercs with machetes and hoes.

  “And the ones not in town?” I asked. “The soldiers still at their camp?”

  More short, huddled discussions among them until they reached a consensus.

  “We will kill the ones here. Then we will march to their camp and kill the few who remain there.”

  I switched back to English.

  “Tell them, Peterman. They’re headed into a bloodbath.”

  He tried. But from the get-go, men’s heads shook in the negative. Mentally, these people had crossed the Rubicon. They would fight.

  Oh, man. I thought of Mom, CC, and Jess, home and hearth. This remote spot on the globe held no grip on me. I had no personal vested interest. The easy and smart thing was to head for Santa Cruz before dawn. Leave the entire mess in the rearview mirror and return stateside. Check out what was happening in Nevada, and write Exponent’s Bolivian operations off. I wouldn’t require confirmation that KDB had slaughtered all these brave men. It was a given.

  The smart thing and the right thing. It was nice and clean when life presented the two on the same side of the coin. But in my experience, life didn’t work that way. It was decision time. The villagers stared, a few machetes clanging together as they stood close. The people at my table, with one exception, stared at me and waited.

  What they didn’t grasp and hadn’t internalized—their failure was damn near a given, and it would have terrible conse
quences. Lifeblood would flow in Santa Ana’s streets. It wouldn’t make the news, and there’d be no reaction from the paid-for Bolivian government officials. Andris Simko wins, Bolivian bodies stacked like cordwood. A horrible reality, and one only Chambers and I understood. Sometimes fighting resulted in multiple outcomes. Not this time, this situation. Simko’s henchmen would wipe Santa Ana off the map, take over Exponent’s claim, and bring in new workers. I could walk away from Simko winning. Powerful people getting their way was a daily occurrence. And I wasn’t subject to peer pressure or the villagers’ fighting fervor, as impressive as it was.

  What pushed me near the edge, kicking off grim commitment, was personal—the undeniable fact that I’d carry regrets with me the rest of my life if I walked away, human slaughter in my wake. Butchery I could have prevented. Lives I could have saved. I stared at the faces in the crowd and sighed.

  There was one other person present who possessed a fighting background. A man who had dealt with and delivered death. At the moment he was firing his pipe with a detached look on his face, his attire and hair perfect.

  I waited for his inevitable glance my way. We locked eyes, and Chambers delivered a single raised eyebrow and a resigned shoulder shrug. Translation: if you’re crazy enough to take it on, mate, I suppose I’m in.

  I had remained on the razor’s edge, filled with potent empathy for these machete-wielding villagers. The MI6 spook’s unspoken signal tipped me into the abyss. I threw the kill switch and accepted the inevitable ugliness with no backward glances.