by Vince Milam
“Yeah, but I’ve got a gut feeling Andris Simko won’t sit this one out.”
In the firelight, the shared look and tight smiles between Chambers and Esma told a threatening and perhaps terminal tale.
Marcus snorted his disgust at their expressions and spookville’s inner workings. Bo added a “My, my,” joined with a wide smile. Catch addressed his brothers, saying, “Check out their Cheshire cat routine. Man, I don’t miss mingling with spooks. Not one damn bit.”
“Right,” Chambers said and drained his drink. “We do not wish to wear out our welcome. Well done, gentlemen, regardless of the motivation. Well done. We had best be off.”
I pushed up from my folding chair and circled the campfire, extending my hand toward Chambers. We shook.
“When next we meet, white sand beach and umbrella drinks,” I said. “See if you can arrange it, Chambers.”
“Will do, sport. All the best.”
He turned and climbed behind the steering wheel, smiling and delivering a military salute toward my teammates. They didn’t respond, their expressions deadpan. I approached Esma with hand extended. She took mine with both of hers and displayed a wry smile.
“I meant what I said about not contracting me again.”
“I will pass your request on.”
“It’s been a strange ride, Esma.”
“You are an interesting man, Case Lee. Come see me next time you are in Santa Cruz.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
“You never know. Take care of yourself, Case.”
She joined Chambers in their vehicle. Marcus, Catch, and Bo failed to express any goodbyes other than three briefly raised glasses. Not unexpected. While the glass-raising salute acknowledged their contribution—Esma’s in particular—my blood brothers were plenty happy seeing the spooks vacate our location. Red taillights faded in the distance as an MI6 and Mossad agent slipped back into the shadows.
I settled back into the chair after pouring another Grey Goose. We remained silent, each lost in private thoughts.
“Thank God none of you were injured,” I said as my boot toe rearranged firewood. “And thank God I have you three as brothers. I can’t tell you how appreciative I am.”
“Back at you,” Catch said. “There’s something about exercising old skill sets. The metalworking shop gets old.”
“Everything gets old,” Marcus said. “It’s how you look at it. It gets old chopping ice on water tanks for the cattle all winter. But it’s part of the overall deal. Part of life.”
“Which may lead to an answer,” Bo said as Catch handed him the bourbon bottle. Bo took a long swallow.
“I’ve got serious doubts about that,” Catch said.
“The less enlightened among us may wonder why our Georgia peach does what he does. He has learned to apply a loose hand on the tiller as the cosmic winds offer opportunity. Fresh opportunity, seldom old.”
Marcus grunted. But Bo had a helluva point. My jobs never got old. Yeah, the being away, uprooted with regularity, was tiresome. Tiresome but tinged with excitement. I could do without the gunfire and life-threatening situations, but even those fed a larger desire. A desire I hesitated to acknowledge. A desire to hang it out there and see what happens.
Marcus tossed more tree limbs on the fire. Sparks shot skyward, the night now borderline cold.
“Case has a woman now,” Catch said. “Things might change.”
“We can only hope,” Marcus added.
“Don’t want to make this about me. But you’re right. I’m wrestling with how to manage a relationship given these jobs. Plus, CC made a few passing references regarding my mobile lifestyle. It stung.”
“From the mouth of babes,” Bo said.
“Amen,” returned from me and Marcus.
We wandered through personal connections, divorced from the battle. We’d get to it, but for now we required a grounding in the normal world. A firefight mental digestion while speaking of other things. Happy to be alive things. A decompression period or simple relief or avoidance until the bloodletting settled into the rearview mirror. Hard to say.
“You three are coming to Portland, right?” Catch asked. “Willa will have her crowd attend the wedding. I’ve gotta have a counterbalance.”
“What’s wrong with her crowd?” I asked.
“Flower child crapola, which I can take in small doses. Collectively, man, I don’t know. I’ve gotta have some wild and woolly tossed in the mix. That would be you three.”
“I didn’t notice much flower child in Willa,” I said.
“And how cool is that? It’s one reason I love her. But her crowd is another story. Feelings, feelings, and more feelings. I’ve refrained from any ‘Suck it up, Buttercup’ statements. But it’ll reach critical mass at the wedding. That’s where you three come in.”
“My wild and woolly days are behind me,” Marcus said.
“Go tell that to the Spetsnaz operators you plugged,” Catch replied.
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
“I’m hungry,” Catch said. “Anyone have anything to eat?”
“I have some delicious goat jerky you are more than welcome to, brother bear.”
“Again, does anyone have anything to eat?”
I tossed him two protein bars and addressed Marcus.
“How’s Miriam? Is it still on-again-off-again?”
“It is off more than on.”
Miriam was Marcus’s sometimes girlfriend. She lived in Livingston, a hundred miles from Fishtail.
“I like her. Is it the distance?”
“She claims I’m too levelheaded and cannot provide a fun factor. I am unclear what that means.” He extended a long leg and repositioned burning wood with his boot. “Or why levelheadedness is a downside.”
“You could always seek romance in Beehive. Or Nye. Or Dean.”
Each was a wide spot in the road near Fishtail.
“Funny.”
“The cosmos swirls, my brothers.”
“Here we go,” Catch said.
“It swirls, and flings serendipity and tragedy and love. Capture the love, cow whisperer, and accept serendipity.”
“I don’t whisper to cows.”
“Are you sure?” Bo asked.
Marcus smiled, sipped bourbon, and said, “Maybe a little.”
“A major ass-chewing would have been flung my way if you’d gotten hurt, Bo,” I said. “JJ would have lit up my phone for a week, one detailed dossier per day on Case Lee’s failings as a human being.”
“Languages of love,” he said, taking another hit. “I believe Jezebel and I will sojourn back into Nevada. Gold and silver radiate potent auras within those mountains.”
“Head south first,” I said. “Cut back into Nevada near the Arizona border. You may remember we’ve left a major footprint in Elko County.”
“What is it with you and spooks?” Catch asked, edging the conversation back toward the firefight.
“Check out his work environment,” Marcus said. “A day at his office pretty much guarantees it.”
“I’ve absorbed advice from some guy named Bo. Be in it but not of it.”
“A sound ecumenical approach,” Bo said.
“A weird-ass way to live,” Catch replied, followed with an “Amen” from Marcus.
“True confession,” I said, sighing. “I was played like a fiddle. Thumped like a freakin’ kettle drum. It bugs the hell out of me. Again.”
It did. Mossad and MI6 both, in retrospect, manipulated—played on—my personal makeup. It’s what spooks do. Having ignored Jules’s one big thing, I was too stupid to see it.
“The same thing as in New Guinea,” Catch said. “They’re experts at that crap.”
“And this comes as a big surprise?” Marcus asked. “After we spent years working with them?”
I could name other recent instances where I’d been played, but avoided pouring salt into old wounds.
“At lea
st the Mossad spook taking out the spotter helped,” Catch said.
“It improved our odds, no doubt,” Marcus said.
“Yeah. Improved. But we still had the bastards by the shorthairs,” Catch said, emphatic.
Catch and Marcus drew on bourbon while I sipped Grey Goose. Jezebel shook in her halter as the lead-line slapped against the trailer.
“Do you reckon they figured on wiping us out and going on with business as usual?” Marcus asked.
“Antonov would have rotated them, brought in a new batch,” I said. “Swept things clean.”
“They knew, after the battle’s onset, what they were up against,” he said. “Even after they lost several men, they kept coming. Why? Money?”
“Dumbassery,” Catch said.
“But why?” Marcus asked. “Why put your life on the line?”
“We know why,” Bo said.
He was right. We did. A nugget of contorted logic all warriors carried. Not sane or rational, but there. And we each knew it. Acknowledgment and silent musings joined with long stares at the fire or into the stars.
“Before dawn,” Marcus said, breaking the silence, “we depart at fifteen-minute intervals. Hit the hardtop and scatter.”
We remained around the campfire for another hour, then climbed into our vehicles and caught some shut-eye. Our conversations reflected a precious bond, powerful and strong and true. Critiques and jokes and personal pokes aplenty. But no judgment. None. Only acceptance of each other as who we were. And a blanket of love wrapped so tight it ached to think of our departure.
Epilogue
I dismissed the rental SUV’s bullet holes as strange unknowable occurrences with the young lady at the car rental company. She claimed they were a first for her. I claimed they were for me, too. Seated at an airport bar, I called Mom and Jess.
“How’s the world’s greatest mom?”
“Relieved knowing you are in the US. Not that Nevada is civilized, mind you. I’ve been thinking, son of mine.”
“About?”
“About meeting Jessica. Is this event near the horizon, or will she remain a mystery?”
“Near the horizon, promise. Oh, Catch is getting married.”
“Praise God. Where and when will this event take place?”
“Portland, Oregon. As for the when, they haven’t worked it out yet.”
She sighed.
“Should I call Juan and light a fire under him?”
“I wouldn’t. He and Willa will come up with a date. You and CC are coming. Peter, too, if he’d like.”
“That place is as far away from Charleston as you could get except for Alaska. Where I’ll never set foot.”
“They have these things called airplanes, now.”
“Hush. And let me know as soon as you find out. This will take some preparation.”
“How’s CC?”
“She’s at school. Tinker is moping around the house waiting for her, as usual. I’m so happy for Juan. Less so for that poor woman, but she must know by now what she’s getting into. When will we see you next?”
“Couple of weeks. I plan on heading south with the Ace.”
We both signed off with heartfelt expressions of love.
Jess, as expected, was still at her Oregon job.
“I’m becoming a wine expert,” she said. “The pinot noir grape, in particular. I can now bore you to tears when we get together.”
“We could try the Cliff Notes version.”
“No way. And no eye rolls while I discuss the harvest and the crush.”
“What’s a crush?”
“It’s when they crush the grapes and make grape juice. It happens in September. The first of many factoids coming your way.”
“Do they wash their feet first?”
“Absolutely not. We’re talking flavor profiles, bub.”
I raised a finger and ordered another beer.
“What I’m hearing is it’ll be another week or so before you head home,” I said.
“A fair assessment, super sleuth. Did you finish up in Nevada?”
“Yep. Easy peasy. Since it will be a while before we see each other, I think I’ll take the Ace south.”
She didn’t buy the sidestep tango.
“Easy peasy? I will soon hear all about it, the tale layered with obfuscation and avoidance. I cannot tell you how much that turns me on.”
“Would an Airbnb in the Blue Ridge Mountains turn you on?”
“Is that an offer?”
“It is indeed.”
“Done and done, cowboy. Give me a few days in Charlotte to straighten a few things out, and then I’ll be there with bells on.”
“A negligee would also work.”
We signed off. My Norfolk, Virginia, flight was on time, so I downed the beer and headed off for a post-engagement visit with the Clubhouse in Chesapeake. Jules had confirmed an early meeting for the next day. At an airport specialty shop, I purchased a bag of gourmet English licorice. I spent the night in a seedy cash-only Chesapeake motel. Engaging with MI6 and Mossad kept me on edge. Plus, this was Clubhouse turf, and you never knew who lurked in Jules’s orbit.
My Glock and cell phone covered with dropped-off laundry—the elderly Filipino woman remained expressionless, as usual—I scaled the stairs. Every third step squeaked, a Clubhouse early warning system. I flashed back to Bo’s one visit with Jules. He’d bounded up the stairs without a sound.
“My mining engineer’s return,” Jules said, staring down the shotgun’s double barrels. “Filled, one would hope, with tales of intrigue and adventure.”
Once I’d performed the requisite pirouette, pockets inside-out, arms extended with a roll of Benjamins in one hand and the licorice in the other, she used the shotgun as a pointer and indicated a chair.
“Sit, dear boy. Sit. It is said, beware of Greeks bearing gifts. You may have a dollop or two of Hellenic blood, but I shall risk it. What have you brought me?”
I tossed the licorice bag on her desk and sat. As a heron inspecting a potential aquatic meal, she cocked her head and focused on the candy.
“It’s English,” I said.
“An absolute treasure. I should frame it.”
“I’d suggest you eat it.”
“Wise words, best heeded.”
A clawlike thumb and forefinger dragged the bag toward the desktop-embedded Ka-Bar knife. Using both hands, she split the bag open against the blade. Several pieces spilled out, and she shifted those into an array before her. She dug out a kitchen match and fired a new cigar.
“You’re not going to try them?”
“In due time. The visual appeal is so great I shall first relish the presentation. Now, tell me about Bolivia. Leave nothing out.”
I did. There was no point holding back from Jules. If she desired, she’d uncover events and motivations and outcomes through her spiderweb network. She might have already done so, and now used me as confirmation or as a benchmark for my personal perspective bias. I’d never know.
“Quite the Simón Bolívar act, dear,” she said as I wrapped up. “I was unaware you carried such revolutionary fervor.”
“I got caught up in events. A borderline stupid thing to do. But I couldn’t walk away from wanton murder. Not when I could do something about it.”
“And do something you did. In spades. A facet of your makeup this wretched creature finds so appealing. That, and the gifts you bring.”
She plucked a licorice, small and multicolored and sandwich-like, and popped it home. She leaned back with her eye closed, sucked, chewed, and emitted small groans. I remained silent, aware it would be a minute or more before we resumed business.
“Heaven,” she said, straightening up. “I am curious as to the Bolivian fixer’s activities. They so seldom choose sides. It tends to be bad for business.”
“She’s a Mossad agent.”
She raised the eyebrow over her good eye. Fresh news or an act, take your pick.
“Indeed?”
“Indeed.”
“Which would unveil another Exponent Mining silent partner.”
“Yep.”
“How interesting.”
“Is it?” I asked, raising my own eyebrow with a glance at the desktop abacus.
Irritated, she slam-shifted two black balls along an abacus wooden rail. If she already knew Esma was with Mossad, it was part of an act. A clandestine fog enhanced with her mysterious accounting system that not a single Clubhouse client understood. Nor ever argued with.
“Now describe your more recent travails and successes. I have yet to hear of a Nevada pitchfork and machete uprising, so one must assume your endeavors were less flavored with insurgency.”
She smiled often during my tale and buttressed my suspicion that the entire Nevada affair had played out like a Hollywood western.
“Sheriff Manuel Garza,” she said once I’d finished. “A rare breed. It raises the spirits knowing such lawmen exist, albeit on a county stage.”
“Yeah, a pleasant surprise.”
“And tell me how Messrs. Dickerson, Hernandez, and Johnson fare these days. I do miss Mr. Dickerson. A bright quasar among a too-often bland skyscape.”
Bo and Jules had hit it off, big time.
“Bo is still Bo. He’s doing well. He and JJ are still together.”
“And your other two colleagues?”
“Marcus is fine. He says the cattle business is good. Catch is getting married. I’ve met her. A great woman.”
She held up another candy and inspected it, smiling. Before she took a taste, the smile dropped, and she cast an eagle eye my way.
“All evidence suggests the four of you still constitute a formidable team. Bravo. If I may sprinkle a bit of grit in life’s lubrication, you four might consider tempering your more violent inclinations. I am aware it is not in your natures to do so, but time takes a toll. I wish each of you a long and storied life. Especially you, dear boy.”
“I don’t ask for the violence, Jules.”
“No? Consider your refusals of hasty exits when hazardous conflict rears its ugly head.”
“There’s good and bad, right and wrong in life.”
“Is there?”
She inserted the candy. Her smile returned.
