Some Die Nameless

by Wallace Stroby

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2018 by Wallace Stroby

  Cover design by Alex Merto

  Cover art by Jane Yeomans / plainpicture

  Author photograph by Matt Rainey

  Cover © 2018 Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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  First Edition: July 2018

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  ISBN 978-0-316-44018-9

  E3-20180521-NF-DA

  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Dedication

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Wallace Stroby

  Newsletters

  Well is thy war begun;

  Endure, be strong and strive;

  But think not, O my son,

  To save thy soul alive.

  —A. E. Housman

  For

  Lt. Col. Frederick Mark Tinseth, USA, Ret.

  1935–2012

  and Sgt. Arnold John Tinseth II, USA

  In memory of my brother

  William R. Stroby

  1949–2017

  New Jersey Air National Guard

  177th Fighter Wing

  One

  The storm caught Devlin out on the Intracoastal just before dark. The rain was light at first, only pebbling the surface, then lashing down in staggered sheets that moved like ghosts across the water.

  He steered the Pacemaker through growing swells toward the marina. Rain beat on the wheelhouse roof, coursed down the windscreen faster than the wipers could bat it away. It stopped as the boat passed beneath the Blue Heron Bridge, then picked up again harder on the other side. To the south, over the power station smokestacks of the Port of Palm Beach, lightning pulsed in the black sky.

  As he neared the marina, he saw the lone figure waiting there on the dock, knew it was Bell. Devlin raised a hand to let him know he’d seen him, then eased back on the throttles. The starboard engine was running rough, out of synch with its mate. It had been fine at speed out on the salt, but now, as the rpms dropped, he could hear it starting to miss again. It would need another overhaul before long. But the Pacemaker was more than forty years old, and it was getting harder to find both spare parts and a mechanic who knew his way around the ancient Crusader engines.

  He swung the boat around, reversed the engines, and began to back slowly toward his slip, looking over his shoulder as he steered.

  Bell watched him come in. He wore an olive-drab field jacket, had pulled up the hood against the rain. Behind him, the pole lights on the dock were flickering into life.

  Devlin’s slip was at the far end of the dock. He lined up the stern, slowed the engines again, exhaust gurgling. He’d already hung the fenders off the gunwales, and now they bumped and scraped against the bulkhead on both sides as he entered the slip. He judged the distance and shut down the engines. The boat’s momentum carried it in the rest of the way.

  Bell got the nylon stern lines from the dock. Devlin went to the transom, caught them as they were tossed, looped them through the rear cleats, and pulled them tight.

  “You’re early,” Devlin said. “I should have guessed.”

  “Permission to come aboard? Get out of this shit?”

  “Granted.”

  Bell went out onto the short side dock. Devlin took an aluminum boat hook from the gunwale rack, used it to snag the line from the port bulkhead. He pulled on it to bring the boat closer to the dock.

  A swell rocked the boat just as Bell stepped over the side. He leaped down easily, landed with knees slightly bent on the wet deck, no stumble. Still quick on his feet.

  “Go on in, get below,” Devlin said. “I need to secure the rest of these lines.”

  Bell ducked his head, went through the door and down into the low cabin. Devlin climbed out on the side of the boat with the hook, made his way forward in the rain, stepping carefully. He hooked the bowlines, made them fast to the cleats, then went back the way he’d come. Rain washed the deck, ran out through the scuppers.

  He replaced the hook, went down the three steps into the cabin. Bell had already taken off his jacket, hung it from a peg on the wall below the pantry shelf, the boxes and cans there held in place with a bungee cord.

  Devlin went forward into the bow, got two thick towels from the drawer below one of the bunks. He came back, tossed one to Bell, then dried his own face and hair. Bell did the same.

  “You’re a hard man to get ahold of, Sarge.”

  “Long time,” Devlin said.

  “It has been.”

  “You’re looking good.”

  The last time he’d seen Bell had been at a private airstrip in Arizona, almost twenty years before. There were patches of gray in his hair now, but the arms and chest beneath the tight black T-shirt were still ridged with muscle. Devlin felt a pang of envy. They were the same age.

  “I thought I had the right place,” Bell said. “But I wasn’t sure. I was expecting yachts. This is more like a floating trailer park.”

  “Surprised you found me.”

  “So am I. Seems like you didn’t want to be.”

  Devlin took the damp towels back into the bow, hung them up. It was close and humid in the cabin. He’d
worn a long-sleeved T-shirt against the sun. Now he was sweating under it.

  He came back out, nodded at the dining nook with the hinged table. “Have a seat.” He switched on the overhead light, then knelt by the low refrigerator, took out a bottle of Dos Equis, held it up.

  “Hell, yeah,” Bell said. “Come all this way.”

  Devlin took out a second bottle, closed the refrigerator door with his knee. He popped the caps with the aluminum opener that hung from a string on the pantry shelf. He set a bottle on the table, leaned back against the counter with his own. Rain drummed on the cabin roof.

  Bell looked around. “Very retro, I dig it. This thing looks older than me.”

  “Close.”

  “How much it run you?”

  “Paid five thousand in cash for it a couple years ago. A fisherman from Rhode Island was planning to scrap it. Spent another ten grand getting dry rot repaired, engines overhauled, scraping, painting. A hundred other things.”

  Bell rapped knuckles on the tabletop. “It’s all wood?”

  “All twenty-eight majestic feet of her.”

  “You live here? Like, all the time?”

  “On the boat? Yeah. I move around a little. I’ll probably take it up north again this summer. It’s home, for now.”

  “You don’t get claustrophobia? It was me, I could barely move in this bitch.”

  “It focuses you,” Devlin said. “A place for everything, everything in its place.”

  “You must not have many things.”

  “I don’t. Not anymore. But everything I need is here.”

  “Your hands.”

  “What about them?”

  “You been doing some work.”

  Devlin looked at his palm, the calluses on the fingers, the scar where he’d cut himself on a rough piece of rebar.

  “Construction,” he said. “Here and there. Unskilled. I take what comes along.”

  “All cash, and under the table, I bet. You’re staying off the grid. I admire that.”

  “Not well enough, apparently. You found me.”

  Devlin opened a counter drawer, took out the Bicycle playing card, an ace of hearts with Bell’s cell number written in black ink at the bottom. He’d come home from a work site the day before, found it tucked into the hinge of the locked cabin door.

  He tossed it on the table. “Good one.”

  “Knew you’d remember it. Figured if that didn’t get you to call, nothing would.”

  “How’d you find me?”

  “Still using your real name, so that was a start.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Lots of reasons I could think of. Anyway, I did a simple web search, Googled your ass. Found an address and phone number in New Jersey. Number’s disconnected.

  “I go there anyway, though, talk to your former neighbors in some sad-ass garden apartment complex. No one knows much about you, what you do, who you are, et cetera. But the manager tells me he thinks you keep a boat nearby. He sends me up the road to a marina, but you’re not there either. Now what do I do?”

  “Give up?”

  “Nah. I keep pushing. But none of those white folks at that marina want to talk to me, even after I show them a badge, which, if you don’t look too close, may imply I’m a licensed investigator. Still, doesn’t get a brother anywhere. Jersey, man. It’s full of angry white people.”

  A swell rolled the deck under their feet. Bell’s bottle slid off the table. He caught it by the neck in midair.

  “Finally I find an old man there with an eye patch, has a houseboat, used to know you.”

  “Reuben.”

  “Yeah, Reuben. Gives me a description of your boat, the name—the Higher Tide, whatever that means—and says he thinks you might be down in Florida, trying to beat the winter. At least that’s what he heard. And all it cost me was twenty bucks.”

  “Florida’s a big state.”

  “It is. But Reuben—who’s my buddy now—says he’s pretty sure you mentioned the East Coast, that you’d at least stop there before moving on. So I get a list of marinas in south Florida—I mean, it’s gotta be south, right? No use going all that distance unless you’re sure it’s gonna be warm. That means south of Daytona, at least. More likely farther down.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “I get the numbers for those marinas—there’s a lot of them—and I start cold-calling. After all, I have the name of the boat, the description. Can’t be too many of those around, right? What’s that name mean, anyway?”

  “Nothing to me. That’s what it was when I bought it. Bad luck to change a boat’s name. What story did you use?”

  “That I was an insurance adjuster settling a claim, trying to track you down. Had some money for you, but no fixed address or way to contact you.”

  “They really fall for that?”

  “You’d be surprised. Hit it on the ninth call. Riviera Beach. Twenty-four hours later, here we are, drinking beer.”

  “Pretty slick.”

  “Tradecraft, baby.”

  “And what exactly is your trade these days?”

  “Little of this, little of that. Personal security details, whatever comes along. Just like you.”

  “Not like me.”

  Devlin looked at Bell’s hands. His wrists were thick, and the first two knuckles of his right hand were swollen and rounded, like stones beneath the skin.

  “You getting enough work to make a living?”

  “Trying,” Bell said. “But it’s not like the old days.”

  The rain had slowed. They heard the chug of a diesel engine going by on the Intracoastal. The boat moved in its wake.

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” Devlin said. “But if you came here to play Remember When, I’m not sure I’m up for that.”

  “Say what you like about those days, we were pros. Doing a job and getting paid.”

  “Not enough.”

  “You ever hear from anybody from back then? How about Roarke?”

  Devlin shook his head. “Not in a long time.”

  “He and I did a little work together after you retired,” Bell said. “A PSD in Qatar, a gig in Honduras, some other things. But I hear he’s out of the game now too. You remember Villiers?”

  “I think so.”

  “He went back to the Legion, did another five years. Don’t know where he is now. Torbert caught a hot one in Sierra Leone. Diamond mine detail. He’s buried over there.”

  “I heard. Aren’t you getting a little old for this yourself?”

  “Age and cunning, attitude and experience. They always win out. You interested in a proposition?”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am.”

  “If that’s the reason you came here, you wasted your trip.”

  “What’s wrong?” Bell said. “You lose your mojo?”

  “Not sure I ever had it.”

  “Yeah, you did. Maybe you can get it back.”

  “I don’t think so. Not at this point.”

  Bell turned the bottle in his hands. “You don’t even want to hear it?”

  “You sure you want to tell it? Even knowing what my answer’s going to be?”

  “You and I, we have skills most people don’t. There’s not a lot of us around. Don’t underestimate that, man. Celebrate it.”

  “I got all the celebrating out of my system years ago. Market’s full of young guys, back from overseas, looking for work. I’m fifty-four. I’m done.”

  “Get back into it, you might feel different. We do what we’re good at. You try to deny that, and what are you?”

  Devlin smiled. So this was it, what it was all about, what he had suspected. And never a question what his answer would be.

  “I appreciate the philosophy. And I’m flattered you came all the way down here to ask. But like I said, there’s lots of young bucks looking for private gigs. And they’re all quicker, smarter, and tougher than me.”

  “Finding a trigger puller is easy,” Bell sa
id. “Finding someone who knows when to pull it and when not, that’s the difference.”

  “I wouldn’t trust myself either way anymore. I wouldn’t trust myself on much of anything. You still work for Kemper?”

  Bell drank beer. “Sometimes. If the pay’s right. Our arrangement isn’t exclusive, though. You could say I’m more of a freelancer.”

  “He still in the same racket? After all this time?”

  “Man, you’re not up on current events, are you? You don’t have a TV, radio? Read a newspaper?”

  “Not often.”

  “You know about this thing called the internet?”

  “I heard. I had a laptop once, but I sold it. Used to get online a little, but it didn’t seem worth the time. Too much static, lots of people bitching at each other.”

  “You should hear yourself, Grandpa.”

  “I’ll tell you what, though, just so you didn’t make the trip for nothing. There’s a decent seafood place up on U.S. One. I’ll buy you dinner, a couple drinks. If you want, you can crash here tonight. Sleeps four in a pinch.”

  “You really going to leave it like that?” Bell said. He wasn’t smiling. “Don’t even want to hear what I have to say?”

  “No, man, I don’t.”

  “You might change your mind.”

  “I won’t.”

  Bell raised his shoulders, let them fall. “What can I say?”

  “Nothing.” Devlin set his beer on the counter. “I have to hit the head, then we can go. You got a car here?”

  “Rental. Up in the lot.”

  “Good. You can drive.”

  He pushed on the toilet stall door. It was hinged down the middle, opened inward. Inside, he shut the door, pulled the string for the light. He unzipped, urinated, and flushed, caught a glimpse of himself in the circular mirror he’d hung on the wall.

  There was more gray in his hair now, no hiding it. Shadows under his eyes that never went away. And the weight he’d gained in the last year showed in his face. He touched the trail of small scars across his left temple, the bare patch in the brow there, thought again how lucky he’d been not to lose that eye.

  He could hear Bell moving around out in the cabin.

  “Hey,” Devlin called. “How was Roarke last time you saw him?”

  He pulled open the door, and a gun came through, the muzzle inches from his face.

  He twisted away, slammed his shoulder into the door. The gun went off near his ear. The edge of the door caught Bell’s wrist, pinned it against the frame. The gun—a small black automatic—jumped again, and the mirror exploded. A shell casing bounced off the wall and onto the floor.