by Vince Milam
It was still early evening. Unbelievable. So much had happened, so many major events. I returned to the area of town where I’d last seen Bo. The area was filled with islanders, tourists, police. And more than a handful of Delta operators. Each chipped in, lent a hand. The wounded were treated as best as possible, bleeding controlled, hands held and comforting words expressed. Then they were loaded on vehicles and sent toward the airport. US military planes were coming, physicians and nurses on board. Once loaded, lives would be stabilized until back in the States for full treatment.
Other incoming flights would pour in soon enough and deal with the aftermath. FBI, Homeland Security, political appointees. The media hauled it toward St. Thomas as well, sure as the sun would rise. And most Delta operators would take the last planes out, before daylight. They’d done their job and would fade back into the shadows.
“Next available vehicle, ma’am.” It came from an operator near an older woman lying on the sidewalk. She had wads of bandages and restaurant linen napkins around her upper chest area, near the collarbone. The operator caught my eye. I nodded back. He moved on to help others. I took a knee near the senior citizen.
“What’s your name?” I asked. She was in severe pain but not shock, and her face held a hard and determined set.
“Lois. Lois Dunham.”
“Where you from, Lois?” I held her hand and kept an eye for an available vehicle. The blood had congealed around the shoulder wound, but she required medical help ASAP.
“Warren, Ohio. Near Youngstown.”
Steel and manufacturing country. Tough folks, resilient.
“Well, Lois. I’m going to get you on the first vehicle available. Can I make a suggestion?”
“Sure. After I ask a question.” She lifted her head off the sidewalk and locked eyes.
“Ask away.”
“Can I have that pistol sticking out of your britches? I might run across one of those bastards between here and the airport.”
Wrong, perhaps, to crack a smile given the environment of death and trauma and tears, but I couldn’t help it. “I think you’re covered pretty well on that front, Lois. And my suggestion is you stay awake during the trip. It helps. Helps you hang in there. I have a little experience with these matters.”
“Oh, I’ll be awake all right. They aren’t blindsiding me again.”
Two men approached—an islander and a tourist. “There’s room in this vehicle. A quick airport trip and then the mainland.”
They lifted Lois with gentle hands. She grunted once and squinched her face. Eased into the back seat of the sedan, she pointed toward my pistol and asked, “So, the answer’s no?”
“You hang in there, Lois.”
She lifted me, gave heart and a pinpoint of positive light. I wandered toward a bistro across the street where activity bustled. The wounded were carried on makeshift stretchers to pickups and placed on the truck beds. I stood aside until the entrance cleared and then stepped inside. A slaughterhouse. Bodies, blood, the stench of death. Bo worked among those saving lives, covered with blood. I blew a hard exhale and waited for a pause in his activities, washed with relief. He stood as I approached.
“Any of it yours?” I asked, pointing toward his blood-soaked clothing.
“It’s all mine, my brother.” Eyes radiated depthless sadness and pain. His body slumped, the universal weight of such horror across his shoulders. I didn’t figure he was wounded—the “all mine” was a metaphysical reference.
“Was worried about you.”
He looked about the immediate abattoir, back at me, and shrugged. “I worry about all of us.”
“Yeah, I know.”
He grabbed a cloth napkin from a stack on the small corner bartop. People bustled, volunteers worked, the wounded carried outside awaiting airport transfer. Bo wiped his hands, smearing fresh blood over dried. His shirt front stuck to his chest and belly, crimson. Red speckles crossed his face.
“Here, bud. Let me help.” I grabbed a few cloth napkins, went behind the bar, and soaked them with water. The scene of Bo’s back, drooped, helpless as the wounded and dead were lifted and moved from the small enclosure said it all.
I started with his face and asked him to remove the soaked shirt. He could go shirtless until we returned to the hotel. I wiped him down and cleaned him, ending with his hands. He stood still and offered no resistance.
“I take it things were pretty active in this area of town.” I’d never seen him like this. Plenty of death and blood and gore connected our common past. But not with innocents. Tourists, locals. Folks on vacation and the folks who helped them enjoy their time. Our Delta days were spent stopping the bad guys before they could act. Before this could happen. And no slam on the operators who showed and stopped this group of killers. If they knew of Trinidadian opportunities to cut this off, they would have taken care of business. But this attack, after all the years since 9/11, held a pall of inevitability.
“Slowed. Everything slowed,” he said and looked into my eyes for answers. I had nothing. “A slow-motion horror flick. It couldn’t be real. I shot the bad guys while they shot civilians. It makes no sense.” He gripped my hands. “And I worried about you. Thought I’d see you stretched on the street, cashed in.”
“I went to the cruise ship. Bad news all around. Looks like right here.”
Sad eyes blinked back. “I need some air.”
I led us outside. All around, among the carnage, mercy and spirit and grace. Locals and tourists. Good and fine people consoled, triaged, helped as they could.
“Well, we’ve faced it before,” I said, broaching one of the universal questions often mulled during active Delta Force days. Evil as a real and vile force among us. Without acceptance of such a possibility the actions of certain fellow travelers on this earth held no explanation.
“You ever read Hobbes?”
“No, Bo.”
“The state of nature. Life. Nasty, brutish, and short.”
“Okay.”
“And this,” he said and waved a hand toward the street scene. “Nothing but affirmation. Affirmation of death and chaos, a Hobbesian life unchained.”
The breeze blew warm and we stood for several minutes, silent. Law enforcement from the mainland would pour in soon. Followed by the press. And we required placing ourselves on the low side of things. An army of badges held zero appeal.
“Let’s hit the hotel,” I said. “Clean up. We have to fade into the woodwork.”
The scooter remained the only available transportation. We drove up the hill, retrieving our duffel bags from the hotel bar. Patrons and staff fell silent as two well-armed, blood-splattered men strolled in and retrieved the empty duffel bags. Center of attention was the last thing we needed.
I stood under a hot shower longer than necessary. Much longer. The “Whys?” and “Hows?” flooded as water cascaded down my face. Bo was the perfect sounding board, and I required expression and digestion of thoughts aplenty. We agreed to meet in the lobby and find another bar to have a drink. Our rifles remained in the rooms, although pistols were tucked in pants. A short walk together and we settled at another hotel’s quiet bar.
“JJ?” he asked, a beer and Grey Goose ordered.
“She stayed with me. Joined the battle on the cruise ship.”
“She okay?”
“Physically, yeah. A trooper. Swallowed fear and dived in, undaunted. Covered my back.”
“Operators?”
“One. For the entire ship.”
“I take it you shut things down.”
“Not soon enough.”
We sipped drinks and stared through the open window. Military transport—medical airlift—droned overhead, coming and going. Bo pulled his phone. “Sorry I missed your messages. Was walking through a surreal time and space.”
“No worries.”
“I messaged JJ from the hotel. She just messaged back. Wants me to call her.”
He stared, waited for input. We held no option
but to get off this island. Fade away. And sever communications with any and all badges. But she and Bo clicked, and I wouldn’t toss roadblocks across their path. I returned a shrug, ambivalent. His choice.
They held a low, brief chat. Soft tones, affirming. He handed me the phone. “She wants to talk.”
“A couple of Executive Assistant Directors are flying in,” she said. “Way, way up the food chain.”
“Okay.” She’d regained a semblance of normalcy, her voice precise. But underneath, a sadness, a loss. One which would stick with her for the rest of her life. I knew. Boxed and tucked into a mental attic. But there. Always.
“We’re holding an all-hands meeting at 5:00 am. A post-mortem. Is that an accurate descriptive or what?”
“Okay.”
“And a game plan moving forward which will include handling the press. I’d like you there.”
“Why?”
“I’m not real sure, Case. Insights, maybe. Thoughts. You were in the thick of it.”
My initial reaction was no way, Jose. But answers—sought and missed and longed for—could be revealed during their meeting.
“Who’s attending?”
“FBI, Homeland Security, CIA.”
The last guest appearance sealed the deal. “Where?”
A large conference room at a beach-front hotel was reserved. Not a government building—the first place the press would head.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll meet you there. So how are you doing?”
“Walking around in a fog.”
“Yeah. If it’s any solace, it will clear. Eventually.”
She signed off. We ordered another round, and I laid out the Pettis office vignette. Bo listened, nodded, and asked minimal questions during my soliloquy.
“It ties,” he said after I’d finished. “A subset of a larger flow.” He leaned my way for emphasis. “And this guy isn’t afraid to drag a branch.”
Cover his trail. No disagreement from me. This Jones character held informational pipelines that located the Clubhouse. And no doubt identified Case Lee due to a surreptitious photo taken on Abaco and fed upstream. Facial recognition software—with a top secret database for mining. Damn few players held those cards.
“Did JJ mention an a.m. meeting?” I asked.
“Yes, but no commitment from me.”
“I’ll go. Answers may lie there. Best if you don’t attend. Too many opportunities for association.”
“Sure. Fine.” He sighed heavy. “We rubbed against the dark underbelly of the universe and it makes no sense. My failing, I suppose. A blind eye toward ugliness real and realized.”
“I don’t get it either, bud.”
We sipped our drinks and paid the tab. On the walk back, I asked, “How does this affect you and JJ? A pretty strong vibe was working there before hell unleashed.”
“We’ll see. It casts her, and me, onto a different stage. I don’t know how it mixes or resolves or if it should. But a deep spiritual component resides there. And trust. A tough commodity to find at the moment. I should drift those waters.”
At the hotel, I called Pettis.
“Hello?”
Trepidation and uncertainty filled his voice. He knew it was me, the Omaha exchange still working.
“Picking you up at 4:30 a.m.”
“What? Why?”
“A short visit. Don’t upset me.”
Chapter 25
Early morning. I took a taxi and parked outside Pettis’s house. Stood on the front walk. The door slid open, he assessed my silhouette, and walked out. He kept silent until we reached the large hotel—site of the badges confab. He’d learned. I didn’t exist.
We stood off the circular drop-off drive at the main entrance behind robust potted bougainvilleas trained up hotel columns. The air calm, insects called, and the first vehicles began arriving.
“Tell me if you see Jones. Don’t screw this up.”
No response. I glanced his way. An emphatic wide-eyed head nod returned.
One after the next, sedans and SUVs and taxis arrived and dropped passengers. Suits. FBI, Homeland Security. Grim no-nonsense the order of the day. JJ arrived with several others. Their IDs on lanyards reflected the hotel’s overhead lights. No one glanced our way until a couple of remaining operators showed. They sussed our position, acknowledged my nod, saw no danger, and moved inside.
Another taxi pulled up, and a spook exited. Jeans, long sleeve button shirt, Ray-Bans folded and nestled in the shirt’s neckline. Badge on lanyard. Still too much in the dark for decent viewing. As he strode toward the entrance, visibility increased. Flashback and a gut twist. The man was a spitting image of Tom Cruise.
“That’s him. Jones,” Pettis whispered.
“You sure?”
“Sure.”
So a CIA spook ran the Costa Rica deal conspiracy and had Bettencourt and Whitmore killed. He’d violated the sanctity of the Clubhouse. Sent hitters after me and Bo. And intended to have Pettis whacked during the fourth attempt on me. The dude wanted the Costa Rica deal shut down, big time. Now to see what else he was involved in—before taking him out.
“Walk away. Stay in the shadows. Go home. And I require your jet later today.”
“I’m leaving this island! What am I supposed to use?”
“Why are you making me upset, Jordan?”
“I even called the cops last night. There was no response. That body is still in my house. I’m not staying another night.”
“Very upset.”
His mouth opened then clapped shut. He slunk away, tripped on landscape plants, and looked back at me once, visibly upset. Schmuck.
I waited until the arrivals thinned. Over a hundred badges poured into the place, and I joined the tailing few. JJ met me at the door.
“Bo couldn’t make it?”
“And good morning to you. Nope. He couldn’t.”
She hadn’t slept. Dark circles under her eyes, fatigue and attempt at recovery on full display.
“Sit with me. They may ask me questions. I want you near me as back-up. Confirmation.”
“Sorry, JJ. Not going to happen.”
A quizzical expression, my answer unexpected. And unwelcome. “What?”
“I don’t associate with badges. At least not the feds. No offense, but too many questions could bubble up. And obscurity is my middle name. I mean it.”
“Then why did you come?” Hands on hips, one eyebrow raised. She was a stunner—given everything she’d been through the last twelve hours she would still turn the head of every guy in the house.
“Personal reasons. And let’s leave it at that.”
She remained frozen, wouldn’t budge without my elaboration.
“We have a bond, you and I. Trial by fire. Right?” I asked.
Wheels turned as she mulled it over. “Yes. Fine.”
“It’s special, life-long, and I’m not blowing it by dwelling on the past. My past. So leave it, JJ. Just leave it.”
Her body released, signaled resignation. “And you’ll do fine in there,” I continued. “If you are asked, I’m an unidentified Delta operator. Don’t mention retired. A little loose with the facts, but not a lie. Okay?”
She glanced inside the room. A suit organized papers at the podium. Back to me. “Okay. Yes, okay.”
“And you’ve never heard the name Case Lee. Or Bo Dickerson.”
Her jaw clenched, lips tight. “All right.” She’d stick to it. I trusted her.
We filed in. I worked my way to the massive coffee urn at a back table with an eye for Jones. One of the few operators remaining on the island joined me. We exchanged tight steeled smiles and nods of acknowledgement as coffee poured. No handshakes or bad-ass gestures or implied accolades. A job done, mission performed—sufficient in and of itself. Coffee in hand, I sat on the back row of folding chairs. The double doors were pulled shut and locked. The meeting started. A high-ranking FBI suit addressed us.
“First, a few knowns. Thirty-three terror
ists. Dead. Three others wounded but alive. There may be others who haven’t engaged. If they exist, we’ll find them. Eighty seven locals and tourists. Dead. Another seventy two wounded. Evac to the mainland has been completed.”
He paused, scanned the room, and continued. “ISIS. The Islamic State. We know this due to the remarkable work done by the head CIA Caribbean operative. I’ll introduce him in a minute. You will all understand he will maintain the lowest of profiles, no names mentioned with the media. And he will be leaving in a few minutes.”
The suit went on and explained the terrorists originated from Trinidad. A weird geographic and situational anomaly. Trinidad and Tobago had the highest recruitment rate for ISIS in the western hemisphere. He stated the “whys” and “hows” would be covered later. I flashed back to Tig and his Trinidadian accent.
The three surviving terrorists had talked, and the FBI pieced together the grand plan. Three dozen Trinidadian ISIS fighters planned on taking over St. Thomas. A US territory. Hold the locals and tourists hostage while they established an island caliphate. Insanity.
“While there is little to be considered good news, one fact, one acknowledgement, is clear. Case Officer Roger Stinnett of the CIA obtained intel, established a potential location and timeline, and positioned Special Forces accordingly. Without Case Officer Stinnett’s efforts, the outcome would have been much worse. Worse by a factor of ten, at least. So let me take a moment and acknowledge the man.”
Stinnett, a.k.a. Jones. He stood, his chair at the front row. Applause sincere and extended filled the room. A half-smile, nodded returns, a touch of humble just-doing-my-job. Several suits in the audience gave him a standing ovation. As he scanned the room and received continued applause, he slowed and checked the lone individual in the back not clapping. Not clapping and wearing a deadpan expression. It took a second or two given the incongruity of my attendance, but recognition came. I matched the photo he’d acquired.
I raised my paper coffee cup toward him. Hi, asshole. His smile disappeared, replaced with confusion and uncertainty. And something else. An all-too-brief glimpse of fear. I should have been dead, blown away by Tig, my body occupying the same room as a poisoned Pettis. His jaw clenched as reality was absorbed. That’s right, you SOB. That’s right Mr. Hero. Case freakin’ Lee.
