by Vince Milam
The operator holding his dislocated arm paused and turned toward me. The other followed suit.
“You are dead man.”
We locked eyes. He spoke with the other in Russian while we continued staring. His partner curled a lip and spit a gob of bloody spittle at my feet. We were having a major communication failure. I went for the direct approach.
“No, scooter. I’m the guy who will blow your brains out if you mess with me again. Tell Antonov he’s also on the hit list. This entire thing is over. No more.”
Another brief Russian language exchange ensued.
“No. You are fly. Insect. We step on insects.”
They turned and again started their ass-dragging march toward their vehicle. I considered the need for upping my de-escalation skills. We continued our weird little vignette, two bloody and beat-up men trudging in pain followed by an armed man whose conciliatory tank ran on empty. A dog barked as we passed. An old man, dressed in a paint-splattered artist’s smock, sat in the shade of a collapsing porch overhang and stared our way. He reached toward the porch floor, lifted a warm MD 20/20 wine jug, and took a healthy swig. Two loud lip smacks later, he resumed an uninterested stare our way. Just another Montello late afternoon.
I checked their truck for weapons, found none, and indicated they should get the hell out of here. Both groaned climbing in. The one who spoke better English closed his door and spoke through the open window.
“Not finished. This is not finished.”
Enough. I pulled the Glock and pressed the barrel against his temple.
“I can finish this anytime, day or night. Tell Antonov. If you come after me, you will never see Russia again. Guaranteed.”
He turned his head more in my direction, the skin folds at his temple bunched against the pistol’s barrel. His eyes held a cold cast, unafraid. His partner started their vehicle, and they rolled away.
Chapter 27
First things first. During our little motel sashay, I’d felt several small punctures, one in my side and a couple in my leg. Once the Spetsnaz operators were down the highway, I reached under my shirt and ran into an embedded locust tree thorn. Once I’d plucked it out—causing a sharp exhale during the upper body twist as my ribs yelped—I undid my belt and pants, fishing for the two thorns down my leg. The porch-bound, smock-wearing old man hollered at me during the process.
“That a boy! Feel it! That a boy!”
Case Lee, providing uplifting and inspirational actions for every wingnut within sight. Weapon collection was next. I toted the two Russian GSh-18 pistols along with my back-seat armament into the room. It was now quite the armory. I popped some Advil, swallowed dry, and made a quick bar trip, collecting a large paper soda cup filled with ice. A picnic table near the motel firepit became operations central. Vodka on ice washed down supper, a slim smoked sausage packet. My laptop joined me, as did the Colt rifle, twelve-gauge pump shotgun, and Smith & Wesson .500 revolver—all laid out within easy reach. If they came for me over the next few hours, there wouldn’t be any lead shortages on my part.
Marcus called while I checked messages.
“What’s the situational status?” he asked as a greeting.
“It’s been an interesting day.”
“You sound different. Are you hurt?”
“Only my feelings. You forgot to express how marvelous it is chatting with me again.”
“You’re an idiot. Tell me just how interesting your day was.”
I did. The desert dove cooed overhead, a rattling pickup pulled into the nearby bar, and cool stillness joined a setting sun. I kept the soliloquy, including the blow-by-blow, short and sweet as the Advil and vodka kicked in.
“Are you unwrapping bandage packaging?” he first asked.
“Gas station smoked sausages. Fine fare.”
“Let’s start with the sheriff. How legit is he?”
“Plenty legit as far as I can tell. By the way, I forgot to tell you I snapped photos of the governor leaving a brothel this morning. Then I sent them his way, anonymously, with a note to back off the mining conflict.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
“I know. It was a minor-league move. But I’m trying to keep a low profile, firing off incriminating photos instead of engaging in violence.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
“Not well.”
Past the locust grove, I spotted two working girls exit a shabby trailer and climb into a blue sedan. The passenger door, salvaged from a junkyard, was white. Their day was starting.
“Will the sheriff handle the dirty deputy?”
“Don’t know. I have a feeling he will.”
“Tell me more about the Russians.”
“What’s to tell? At least they didn’t shoot me.”
“Would they have killed you had they won your fight?”
“Don’t know. My gut says Antonov ordered them to put me in the hospital.”
“Your gut is usually right. That won’t be their orders next time.”
“Yeah. I know. If there’s a next time.”
“Son, do you seriously think they will call it a day? Twelve Russian operators, directed by Andris Simko?”
“Eleven-point-five Russian operators.”
“I’ll be there at daybreak. I’ll pull over and catch forty winks halfway.”
“Nope. I’ll call on the Exponent manager tomorrow and tie a bow on this job. No need to saddle up, Marcus. I appreciate it, though.”
“I figured this situation would devolve since we last talked. My vehicle is packed, and a neighbor is on standby to care for the dog.”
“The situation hasn’t devolved.”
“The situation is classic Case Lee. Why don’t you rename your company Shitstorm Guaranteed? At least your clients would know what they’re getting.”
“Funny. Don’t come. Lord knows, I appreciate it. But stay put.”
“Keep your head down until daybreak. See you then.”
He hung up, and my emotions roiled. I appreciated his concern for me—love and brotherhood were precious commodities—although angst over his personal safety while entering my playground bit hard. He’d lost a half-step or two over time and hadn’t kept certain skill sets honed as I had. He was a Montana rancher. I waded through treacherous shadowland swamps.
But relief at having rock-solid backup crept in, as did the answer to who I would want in my foxhole. I’d take any three blood brothers in a tight situation, with Marcus, perhaps, topping the list. Levelheaded to the extreme, mission-oriented, decisive. A man with undaunted courage who I could always count on. Always.
The legal framework bothered, big time. US turf, and I’d already engaged the county sheriff and his dirty deputy. I was on law enforcement’s radar with this gig, an uncomfortable position. On the Chaco, or in New Guinea or the Amazon or Suriname, ties with any semblance of the law were tenuous at best. Yeah, Marcus had lent a hand, a valuable hand, in California at the Amazon job’s finale, but that venture was well under law enforcement’s radar. This was a different hairball. I didn’t want Marcus’s entanglement with any potential legal repercussions, especially if events involved expired bodies. A distinct possibility if things escalated.
Underlining my immediate headspace was also the issue of not handling the current situation myself, incapable of delivering without help. There was no denying a light sting having a blood brother lend a situational hand to bail me out.
Stars appeared overhead; another vodka poured. I twisted my torso and assessed the rib situation. Not bad. How it would feel in the morning without the protective barrier of Advil and booze was another story. I slipped on a light jacket and remained at the picnic table, surrounded with high velocity comfort blankets, and considered the next day.
A visit to the Exponent site was mandatory. Global Resolutions contracts continued coming my way because I went the extra mile. Which, with this job, entailed running the gauntlet again along a middle-of-nowhere gravel ro
ad. While a Spetsnaz operator or two squinted through a riflescope. Not good. Not good at all with Marcus along for the ride. I couldn’t glom onto a better angle, a more prudent approach, although Marcus would be invaluable when considering the best tactic.
As I contemplated hitting the rack, a call from Mom came in. I jumped on the call.
“Are you and CC okay?”
It was unusual having her contact me at night. And Charleston was two hours later than Nevada.
“We are fine, and I apologize for the late hour, but CC won’t go to bed without talking with you. I don’t know what’s gotten into that child.”
“Twenty-four-seven, Mom. Call anytime. You know that.”
My jacked-up emotions settled. Unusual calls at this hour could have spelled bad news.
“Are you in Nevada?”
“I am. Should wrap this job up in a day or two. Everything’s good here.”
“Well, let me put her on the line. Then maybe she will quit haranguing me about you and boats and homes.”
CC came on.
“Case?”
“Hi, my love. How are you?”
“Case. I like your boat.”
“Well, I’m glad you do.”
“I like taking trips on your boat. Do you remember the turtles?”
A recent CC trip involved a stop at Jekyll Island’s Georgia Sea Turtle Center. She’d been infatuated with turtles ever since.
“Of course I remember. It was a great day.”
“It was a great day. Do you remember the sweet potato pie?”
During a more recent trip we’d stopped at a BBQ shack, and the owner had made a point of catering to CC.
“I do. It was good.”
“No, Case. No. It was better than good. Remember?”
“I remember, my love. It was better than good. So were the ribs.”
“Tinker Juarez is asleep.”
“Maybe you should go to sleep as well.”
“I like your boat.”
“I’m glad you do. We’ll take many more trips together on my boat. CC and Case and Tinker Juarez.”
She was silent for a while, chewing on whatever was bothering her.
“Your boat is your home.”
“It is.”
“That’s okay if your boat is your home, isn’t it?”
Our walk along the beach had uncovered a sore spot with CC. My mobile lifestyle. She’d mulled her concern for a while and now had concluded it was within the realm of acceptable.
“It is okay. I enjoy living on a boat. I especially like it when my CC is with me.”
“CC and Tinker Juarez.”
“CC, Tinker Juarez, and Case. That’s right.”
“That is right.” She’d reached an affirmation point, and all was well in the world. “I am going to sleep.”
“Before you do, do you remember the one big thing?”
She giggled.
“You love me more than the sun.”
“And?”
“And the stars. And the moon! That is a lot.”
“It’s true, CC. So, so true.”
She ended the call, off to bed. I sat renewed and refocused on the important things in life. Family, friends, and a lover. The human experience. Montello was a world all its own, disconnected from my life’s anchor points but representing a caution marker. One I’d heed. Just a job, remain vigilant, do the right thing. It was a rippling warning flag prompting extra precautions.
I planted a chair under the room’s doorknob. The bathtub became my bed, along with blankets and pillows and protection from nighttime intruders. The Glock at the tub’s edge, the pump shotgun and Colt rifle within reach, an extra blanket stuffed into the tiny bathroom window. Not a Taj Mahal setup but safe and secure, and sleep came easy.
Hours later, I dreamed of desert sands and blue people when my eyes popped open. Something was wrong. It may have been a sound, now gone, or my life-saving sixth sense on high alert. One item glowed certain; danger was present. A malevolent aura filled the immediate area.
I edged from the tub, chose the shotgun, and crawled against the bathroom doorjamb. The bed blocked the limited-light view—moon and starlight snuck in around the closed curtain edges—but the door’s upper section was visible. I waited, senses hyper-alert. Boots on gravel approached, two sets, slow and cautious. Then silence. A concrete sidewalk ran along the motel’s room doors and they’d accessed that silent pad. I knew damn well who they were. Two Spetsnaz operators, here to finish a job. Finish a job with ice-cold execution.
The next sound sat on discernible’s edge. The door handle quarter-turned until the lock mechanism halted it. Then, quiet as a church mouse, it returned to its original state. Next came a brass-on-brass slide as a key worked its way into the keyhole. Unwanted entry and gun blasts and gore and death were seconds away.
I’d left the shotgun without a shell chambered. For a reason. There exist universal sounds on this good earth. A jet airplane taking off, a baby’s cry, waves hitting a rocky coast. And the sound of a pump shotgun chambering a round.
I racked a shell loaded with double-aught buckshot. The loud click-clack froze the environment, its message clear. Enter and die. Absolute silence for five seconds, followed by the key’s slide from the door handle. Message received with absolute clarity. Now, discretion was the better part of their valor. Attempted murder on this night was off the table.
Boots-on-gravel retreated into the distance. A vehicle started and drove off. And I snatched a pillow off the bed, placed it under my head, and slept on the floor with the shotgun cradled. Helluva way to live.
Chapter 28
A signature sound woke me. A Zippo lighter’s distinctive clack outside my room announced Marcus’s arrival. Dawn’s first light peeked around curtain edges, the shotgun remained nestled in the crook of my arm, and bruised ribs barked as I sat up. Morning in Montello.
“Be with you in a minute,” I said, poking my head out the door.
He wore his Stetson, cotton canvas ranch coat, jeans, and boots. Tall and slender with hints of white hair below the hat’s brim, Marcus collected fallen locust limbs and branches, tossing them into the motel firepit. He’d set up his own folding chair nearby, and two stainless-steel thermoses leaned against the firepit exterior stones. Marcus Johnson—former Delta team lead, a rare black rancher among Montana’s wilds, and more than a precious friend. A blood brother.
“Take your time. Heaven knows you require beauty sleep.”
Man, it was great seeing him again. While time’s passing highlighted a few more wrinkles for us both, it also strengthened our personal bond as we became wiser and more attuned to what was important in life.
Fifteen minutes later and after a quick shower, I joined him. A fire blazed in the morning chill as the town and highway remained silent.
“I’ve brought coffee,” he said from his chair. “And an appropriate mug for you.”
He handed over the thick porcelain mug and unscrewed a thermos lid. The mug bore the slogan “In my defense, I was left unsupervised.”
“Your subtle messaging is always a treat. Have you ruined the coffee with additives?”
“I have mine, you have yours.”
Unlike his sweetened and flavored coffee, the thermos contents he poured for me were hot and straight and black.
“Thanks, bud. It’s great to see you.”
“You, too,” he said. “You’ve picked quite the spot as an operational base.”
“Said the man from Fishtail.”
“Fishtail has character. This place is sad.”
He had a point.
“Did you get any sleep?”
“Four or five hours. I’m good to go. Does that bar serve food?”
“Eggs and sausage in the a.m. Steaks and burgers at night. How’s the cattle business?”
“They are fat and happy. Prices are solid. It’s a good year. How’s the James Bond business?”
“Always an adventure. There was a minor event in
the morn’s wee hours.”
I detailed the uninvited visit from the Spetsnaz operators.
“I’d say we’re at an escalation point.” He sipped coffee and puffed the cigar. “They were here to kill you, son. Let’s not crawfish around that reality.”
A large SUV approached, its roar carrying some distance. It screamed through town, slammed the brakes, and went into a guided one-eighty spin on the highway’s centerline. The tires smoked as black tracks painted gray pavement.
“Now, there’s another reality you should accept,” Marcus said. “I asked Catch to join us.”
I couldn’t deliver an appropriate reply. Juan Antonio Diego Hernandez. Catch. Wild man, blood brother, unshackled soul. And the best shot our Delta team had ever encountered.
“This is big open country,” Marcus continued as he pushed himself from the chair. “We may require long-range sniping, so don’t get all bent I’ve included him. Especially after your experience last night. It is a prudent move.”
Still situated in the highway’s middle, the SUV’s driver door opened, and a bear of a man exited. With close-cropped black hair and an immense bushy beard, he stood, stretched, and extended both arms outward. The battle cry started and continued as he performed a slow turn for all Montello to appreciate. Then back in the vehicle, tires screeching again, and a launch into the motel parking lot. I wore a mile-wide smile and shook my head.
“Marcus, I’ve never been in a place in my life when it wasn’t a joy seeing Catch. For whatever reason.”
He slid from the SUV and came at me, rolling and rumbling and firing mobile critiques.
“Look at you! Uglier than ever and still a poster boy for the wussification of America.”
I held up both hands, laughing.
“Ribs, my brother. I’ve got sore ribs.”
“There it is! Always something, you wuss.”
He snatched me up at the waist and lifted me over his head. We looked like history’s worst figure-skating team as his bright white teeth shone through the midnight beard, and I wiggled midair. The ribs hollered loud and long.
“Put me down, you moron!”
“You weigh as much as a popcorn fart. You’re not eating regular.”
