by Vince Milam
“And you’re still a menace to society and anything peaceful in the world. Put my ass down!”
He did. His handshake with Marcus was firm and sincere and expected. While Catch, Bo, and I might grapple and hug and fool around, we exchanged dignified handshakes with Marcus. The lone exception was the aftermath of a recent battle in Sudan, which should have killed us all. It was a battle that had ended the bounty on our heads.
“So, our boy has stepped into it again,” Catch said to Marcus, tossing a head gesture toward me. “What else is new?”
“Spetsnaz operators attempted a hit on him last night,” Marcus said. “Here at the motel.”
“That right?” Catch asked me.
I detailed the story as Catch plucked my mug from the firepit stones and downed it with one gulp.
“You heard them on the gravel, walking away?”
“Yep.”
“While you held a loaded shotgun?”
“I know where this is going.”
“Next time, you dumbass, crack the door and while their backs are toward you cut ’em down with buckshot. Adios, amigos. How many of these sons-a-bitches are there?”
“A dozen. The first two that visited and wanted a dance aren’t moving well. The two last night are still in fine fettle because I wouldn’t blow them away and go back to bed. Even in Montello.”
“You blow them away, drag their butts into the desert, and let the coyotes manage the rest. Then go back to bed. No muss, no fuss. I mean, look at this place.” He performed a slow turn. “Who the hell would say anything?”
Man, I loved the guy. Simple solutions from a man who viewed life with little nuance or subtlety. Good and bad, right and wrong. I often wished I had the same stark mindset. Marcus finished his coffee while we stood together in Nevada’s cool dawn and chatted. The setting fostered a unique atmosphere among us. Casual, heartfelt, no real judgment. There was something about knowing you’d lay down your life for someone and they for you. A bond unique, unspoken, welded tight.
“Let’s mosey over to the bar. I’ve heard either the owner or their first customer drive up,” Marcus said. “We could use more coffee and some decent sustenance. I imagine between you two, the jerky and peanut supplies out West have taken a hit. Are you headed in there like that?”
He pointed toward the Glock holstered at my waist.
“It’s an open carry state. They take it serious out here in the boonies. In an hour, I won’t be the only one packing at breakfast.”
“Then standby one.”
Marcus headed for his SUV. He’d strap on his sidearm of choice, a German Heckler & Koch in .45 caliber.
“What about me?” Catch asked. “Do you two mullets expect me to walk around naked among armed miscreants? I brought my long-range rifle, not some OK Corral peashooter.”
“I’ve got an extra H&K for you, Catch,” Marcus said over his shoulder. “Don’t get your panties in a wad.”
“I can do one better, bud. How does a .500 magnum revolver sound?”
“No shit?”
“No shit. Hold on while I get it.”
As I headed for the room, Catch called to Marcus.
“Never mind, Marcus. Case brought a real pistol.”
Several minutes later, we appeared as either three armed desperados or men prepared for a Montello breakfast. Take your pick. At five pounds, the .500 would be a pain to hang at your side, but it fit Catch. Both in size and implication.
Martha the owner greeted us with a cigarette dangling from her mouth, one hand with three mugs and the other toting a coffeepot.
“Anyone want cream?” she asked as we filled a corner table. There were no other customers. “There’s sugar and sweetener on the table.”
“Please,” Marcus responded.
“Where are you fellows from? I’ve asked Case,” she said and pointed toward me, the cig now between her fingers. “He said East Coast, which is all I need to know.”
“Montana,” Marcus said.
“Too cold. How about you?”
“Oregon.”
“Too wet. Now you fellows can have your eggs any way you want as long as its fried or scrambled. I’ve got toast, hash browns, and sausage. What’ll you have?”
“Six eggs, scrambled,” Catch said. “Four slices of toast. Hash browns. How big are your sausages?”
“Stick up your thumb.”
He did.
“You have gorilla fingers, partner. The sausages aren’t that big.”
“Then I’ll have six.”
“You win customer of the month. And you, tall, dark, and lanky?”
She lifted her chin toward Marcus, smiling. He placed his order, and I followed suit.
“You fellows get up and help yourself to more coffee when needed. I’m in the kitchen.”
She walked away, humming an indecipherable tune.
“Speaking of too wet,” I said, “how’s life in Portland?”
“Your momma will be happy. I asked Willa to marry me. She said yes.”
Catch wore a big smile with the announcement. I’d stayed a day or two with Catch and Willa in Portland and liked her. A lot. She owned a metalworking shop and allowed Catch to work there. A no-nonsense woman, she was the perfect counterbalance for the wild man from eastern Oregon’s sagebrush country.
“Outstanding!” I said and slapped him on the shoulder. “She’s a fine woman.”
“It’s about time,” Marcus said, chuckling.
We clacked coffee mugs as an early morning toast.
“What did you tell her regarding hauling it out here with no notice?” I asked. “And how’d you get here so fast? It’s gotta be a twelve-hour drive.”
“Made it in ten. I’ve got a new radar detector. As for Willa, I told her I was on a scouting trip for the deer season opener.”
“Did she buy it?” I asked.
“She grabbed my fine beard and asked me if I was lying. I said yes, and she shook her head and called me a lowlife skunk. Then we made love. What a woman.”
“That she is. You’re a lucky man.”
“Don’t I know it. Anyway, we haven’t set a date yet. When we do, I expect to see you both. It will be an epic party, gentlemen. Epic.”
“I’m in.”
“Me, too,” Marcus said, still smiling. “I look forward to meeting Willa. Anyone who puts up with you must be pretty amazing.”
A statement worthy of another coffee toast. As the mugs clanged, Martha called from the kitchen behind the bar.
“Stop banging those mugs! They’re American-made and cost three bucks each.”
We laughed, Catch and I exchanged shoulder shots, and Marcus brought us back to business. Serious business.
Chapter 29
“This is the situation. Case can walk away or complete his job. A job that’s over once you interview and inspect the Canadian site. Which you could do today. Is that right?”
“Pretty much covers it. And you can take ‘walk away’ off the table.”
“And those two last night?” Catch asked, locking eyes with Marcus. “And the SOB that tried whacking him in his vehicle?” He shifted attention toward me. “You’re lucky to be still upright. I know for a fact you were driving too slow when that happened. I mean, what the hell? Were you sightseeing?”
“We cover his back so he can complete the mission. We are not here to go in with guns blazing. Is that clear?” Marcus asked Catch.
“We’ve got Russkie operators on our turf. You don’t see me over there sending lead downrange.”
“Only because you haven’t been offered the opportunity. Our mission is protection. Period. And protection doesn’t always entail trigger pulls.”
“So you’re fine and dandy with Spetsnaz muscle here in the States for some foreign billionaire who enjoys stomping on the competition. Is that what I’m hearing?”
“I am neither fine nor dandy with the situation. You know that. You also know there’s not a thing we can do about it. What we can do is provi
de protection for twenty-four hours. Then get the hell out of Dodge.”
“Bud, I appreciate the sentiment,” I said, squeezing Catch’s arm. “But Marcus is right. And I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you both showing up here. I’m not walking away, but I was sure stuck moving forward. The key thing is, I don’t want either of you hurt.”
“Hurt?” Catch asked. “I’ll put the hurting on them.” He pulled the .500, stared at it, and smiled. “I wonder how big a hole this puppy makes.”
“Stop talking holes,” Marcus said. “Let’s develop an ops plan for the day. One that fulfills the mission without gunfire.”
Catch twisted his torso and sighted the hand cannon toward the room’s ceiling.
“Don’t shoot the cook,” Martha said, balancing three plates as she approached. “Anyone want hot sauce?”
Catch holstered the weapon, we ate, and Marcus kept us on track.
“Let’s focus on the gravel road,” he said. “Empty miles with plenty of sniper spots. Let’s get you in there and back out.” He opened an unused paper napkin and produced a pen. “Show me where their guardhouse is in relation to the road.”
I sketched it out. Both Marcus and Catch pointed and asked questions as I drew.
“Do they have a visual on traffic bound for the Canadians?” Marcus asked.
“It’s only a hundred yards or so down their entrance road. So yeah, if they’re paying attention, they have a visual on traffic.”
“Good. It’s an opportunity to assess their intent.”
“I’m not following you,” I said.
“I do,” Catch said. “You’re the bait, little buddy! Sweet.”
“Wait a minute. I’m missing the sweetness with this plan.”
“We will be proactive,” Marcus said. “They may not have any long-range plans for you. Long-range as in sniper shots. They may have backed off after last night’s attempt. I need to know how much they plan on escalating this situation. Otherwise, we are flying blind.”
I got it. Which didn’t help reduce the pucker factor.
“They’ll recognize your SUV,” Catch said. “Stop at their entrance and take a pee. Make sure they have a positive ID.”
“That’s not how I would wish to receive a fatal bullet. The eulogy from you guys would be ha-ha funny for everyone except me.”
“The point is,” Marcus said, “we want them recognizing you making tracks for the Canadians. If they scramble and send shooters into the terrain for your return trip, we know what we’re dealing with.”
“What if they’re already positioned?” I asked.
“I’ll find out,” Catch said. “Past their site’s entrance, I’ll bail out of Marcus’s rig and hike into their turf. Deep into their turf and circle behind potential sniper spots. I do have expertise in this area. If they’re already positioned, I’ll remove them. While you and Marcus wait. Easy peasy.”
“Hold off on any removals. I mean it. Do you have your satellite phone?” Marcus asked Catch.
He slid the phone from his pocket and waggled it for us.
“Good,” Marcus continued. “Then we have comms. If they don’t set up for an ambush, you can wait for our return trip and continue communicating. If it’s quiet, we’ll pick you up and mission accomplished.”
“You on board with that, bait-boy?” Catch asked.
With anyone else on the planet, I wouldn’t be. But having Catch as my guardian angel was as close as I’d come to a sure thing. For a fact.
“Yeah. On board.”
“Alright,” Marcus said. “Let’s talk worst-case scenario.” He pulled a cigar from the ranch coat’s inside pocket and lifted it toward Martha. She cleaned beer glasses behind the bar. “Do you mind if I smoke this in here?”
“You can smoke jimson weed for all I care.” She turned off the water, dried her hands, and held up a small paper receipt. “Who’s paying?”
The wooden chair squawked against the plank floor as I stood and paid, giving her a twenty-buck tip. Martha was the real deal, and I’ve always appreciated those types. While I paid, two more customers filtered in. Locals, they plucked their own mugs from a stack and used the second coffeepot to fill them. We exchanged pleasant nods, the day had begun, routines followed.
As for the plan Marcus and Catch proposed, it appeared viable. They filled me with gratitude for their concern and commitment—I’d had enough of KDB’s crap. Bolivia was a much different dynamic. Locals murdered, brutal thuggery applied without constraint. A different playing field from where we now sat. Yeah, it was an isolated chunk of US turf, but the rules of engagement were different. Here, KDB’s physical harm intimidation remained limited toward a solo player. The CEO and chief bottle washer of Case Lee, Inc.
The indications were, even without sussing Exponent’s operations, that both sites contained legit and lucrative rare earth deposits. Fine. Get after it, folks. And play by the rules. Let me do my job, leave me alone, and I’m outta here. With Marcus and Catch as backup, I held hope for a plain vanilla day. But my gut said things could get ugly.
The big question was Catch’s trigger finger. A missed shot wasn’t a concern. Not with Catch. But full-blown escalation balanced on his right index finger. Full-blown battle. Deadly events within US law enforcement’s realm. When I returned, grabbing a coffeepot on the way, it was clear Marcus had the same concern.
“Let’s talk best- and worst-case scenarios,” Marcus said. “Best case—we visit the Canadians, there are no shooters hidden among the terrain, and we head back to Montello. We wash our hands of the entire deal, Case fulfills his contract, and we disperse. Right?”
“Roger that,” I said.
“Worst case. They plant a shooter or two. Catch has them covered. One or both raise their rifles as Case’s vehicle approaches. What then?”
“I blow their butts away.”
There wasn’t a helluva lot to add. We sat silent as each mulled other options. At least Marcus and I did. Catch had kept it simple, and he wouldn’t waffle from his position. Fifteen seconds later and with grim nods, Marcus and I arrived at Catch’s proposed action plan.
“Alright,” I said. “Now we’ve got a dead body or two sprawled out in Elko County, Nevada. What then?”
“There is one upside for them being Spetsnaz,” Marcus said. “They won’t run to the law. They’ll seek vengeance, man-to-man, and come after us.”
Another pause as we sipped coffee. Marcus’s Zippo clacked again, relighting the cigar. Hauling ass was an option. Run away. Perhaps it was the smart move. Leave the entire mess in the rearview mirror. A part of me voted for a hasty exit. A larger part, the had-enough part, said screw that noise. They’d tried intimidation, a severe beating, and last night a stealthy hit job. Initiated and executed with Russian operators. On my home turf.
“I’m not running.”
Catch punched my arm and said, “Alright. The wussification hasn’t embedded. Welcome back.”
Marcus remained silent a few more seconds, then said, “Alright. Let’s play that out.”
“You and I have left more than a few expired birth certificates sprinkled across the US landscape,” I reminded him.
“Understood,” Marcus said. “But as lonely as this little burg is, it is a far cry from wilderness. Outside the window is an actual town with an actual highway. Folks won’t ignore gunplay and dead men. Then what?”
“Hell, let’s go after them,” Catch said. “At their site.”
“There are dozens of mining workers living there, bud,” I said. “Witnesses out the wazoo.”
“Then let’s lure them into the wilds,” he said. “Handle business out there.”
“Hold on,” Marcus said. “There are a dozen operators. Three of us.”
“Only ten or eleven after I take out the sniper. I like the odds,” Catch said.
“I don’t.” I wouldn’t have my blood brothers endanger themselves like that. No way, Jose. “Stow the desert shootout. I mean it.”
“You
wuss. Fine. Montello’s dusty streets it is. How long do we wait for them?”
“This has gone off the rails,” Marcus said. “Listen up. Worst-case scenario. Catch cleans one or two operators. Afterward, he stations at an overlook and keeps us informed on activities. Then we’ll know what we’re dealing with. At that point, once we have valid intel, we assess and plan. Meanwhile, let’s hope for a best-case scenario. Roger?”
“Roger,” I said.
Catch didn’t respond, disgruntled at the lack of a direct-action plan.
“Catch?” Marcus asked. “Single steps. Assess. Act. Repeat. You on board?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m on board. Let’s do this. If everything stays calm, are you finished for sure?” he asked me.
“Finished for sure.”
“Then we’ll go tear up a town while we’re all together. How far is Vegas?”
“Seven hours.”
“Reno?”
“Five.”
“Excellent. We can make it in four. Now, tell me about Bolivia. Marcus said you led a revolution down there. How cool is that!”
For my money, Marcus had outlined the best options. As usual. Fingers crossed, the day would pass without incident and we could all slip away in peace. But crossed fingers were weak mojo for this situation. I’d been into the belly of this beast, and killing was on the table.
Chapter 30
One step at a time. Catch crashed on my bed for three hours while Marcus and I added more firewood into the pit and talked familiar subjects, voices low, the atmosphere as good as it gets. When the bear left hibernation, we hit the road. Marcus drove with Catch. I led with my vehicle. We traversed the first long gravel stretch at regular speeds. I slowed as we neared KDB’s entrance road and kept the dust plume to a minimum.
We pulled off the road a quarter-mile from their turnoff and exited. Under the bright Nevada sun, we retrieved our long rifles. They were checked and chambered for action. Catch had brought his Remington .300 Win Mag M24 sniper rifle with a Marauder night-vision scope. The weapon system he now loaded could, in the hands of someone like Catch, reach out and touch someone at a thousand yards.
