by Mark Aitken
‘What happened?’ said Gallen, reaching for his smokes.
‘Took this G36 out of the deep freeze—one just like that—walked out to the range and put a whole magazine into the big spot from eighty yards.’
Looking down at the rifle, with its weird handle over the top of the breech, Gallen didn’t know how to respond. ‘How long had it been in the deep freeze?’
‘Overnight, boss,’ said Winter. ‘Mag too. It was so cold my hands stuck to it, and there I am putting eyes and smile in a black circle from eighty yards.’
‘On auto?’ said Gallen, getting annoyed.
‘Sure—singles, full auto. Learned to love that rifle.’
‘Well.’ Gallen rotated the weapon in his hands. ‘Looks like a prop from Star Wars.’
‘It’s the latest and the best—Heckler & Koch,’ said Lang, like a philosopher.
‘I got one answer to the latest and the best,’ Gallen handed the Heckler back to Winter.
‘What’s that?’ said Lang, as Gallen turned to go.
‘Winchester .30-30,’ said Gallen as he walked back to the Colts, laughter banging around the warehouse.
~ * ~
CHAPTER 9
Winter did the driving, north from Natrona County airport on 1-25, the northbound interstate into Montana. Sitting in the passenger seat Gallen scrolled through his cell phone, picking up texts and voicemail. He’d said yes to the Heckler & Koch rifles; the quip about the .30-30 had been a joke at his own expense. Most North American farmers kept a Winchester .30-30—the ‘lever-action’ rifles from western movies—even though the weapon was invented more than a century ago. The .30-30 was easy to use, didn’t fail and any gunsmith could work on one. What he really wanted was more control over the kit he’d bought. He’d have preferred to dump it in a lock-up until it was needed but Aaron had it bundled into a bunch of black holdall bags and said he’d store it, like it was his property. Gallen’s time in the field had taught him valuable lessons about the crew’s kit and who gets to touch it. Too many hands on the bags was a doomed recipe. Only one approach got personal gear where it had to go, and that was signing it over to each man and making him responsible.
‘So Donny said yes?’ said Winter as he got Roy’s truck settled at sixty-five mph and found a country music station based in Casper.
‘Said yes on the phone. Last night was just catching up.’ Gallen grimaced at a series of voicemail alerts from his father. ‘About to take a job on the armoured cars, so this gig’s what he’s looking for.’
‘He’s not married is my guess.’
‘Hah!’ Gallen smiled at the idea. ‘Donny McCann likes being single. Can’t imagine him taking crap from a wife.’
‘Roy said you was married.’
‘Divorced. Two years ago. Two and a half.’
‘While you’re in that shit?’ said Winter, cracking the window and flicking his ash at the gap.
‘Technically,’ said Gallen. ‘But it was failing before then.’
Winter paused like he was trying to establish something. ‘So she divorced you while you’re dodging bullets from Towelie?’
Gallen put down the phone, looked at Winter. ‘Got one for me?’ Taking a smoke, he lit it.
‘Didn’t mean to pry,’ said the Canadian. ‘Just that a woman can break a man like no Talibani ever could.’
‘Marcia didn’t break me.’ Gallen cracked his window as ‘Louisiana Saturday Night’ started on the radio.
They drove after that without talking, Gallen thinking back to that morning at the US forward base in Marjah. Spring was taking forever, the rare patches of warmth suddenly whipped away by the vicious alpine winds that swooped down from the Kush, making grown men stand still in shock.
In special forces, the enlisted men and officers messed together, and as Gallen had passed into the chow tent for breakfast he’d seen Marcia on the Wall of Shame, a public noticeboard where dishonourable wives and girlfriends were displayed. He’d taken down the photo, embarrassed, as he prepared himself for the morning briefing.
The picture was on the board again by lunch and Gallen had let it be known that he didn’t want his disintegrating personal life played out on a wall of shame in Afghanistan. He was too private for that.
By the second day of the Marcia episode, he’d shared a coffee with the commanding officer of the forward base, Major Andrew Dumfries—a veteran of Desert Shield/Storm. Dumfries was a no-bullshit Texan who came straight to it, telling Gallen that the Wall of Shame wasn’t about a single individual.
‘You put my ex-wife up there,’ said Gallen, ‘and that’s about an individual.’
‘No.’ Dumfries pointed at his chest. ‘It’s about all of us. We’re a corps, a single body. Your men want to put shame on your wife, it’s their way of taking the pain for you. So let ‘em!’
Gallen had let it go, just as he’d let Marcia go off with her dentist boyfriend.
‘It’s okay to be beaten by a lady,’ said Winter as they hammered along in the overtaking lane, the V8 purring. ‘You can go AWOL for a while, shake her out of the system.’
Gallen picked up on what Winter was talking about. He’d drifted around the country after discharge before arriving back at the farm, but it wasn’t something he wanted to go into.
‘I shook her out,’ said Gallen. ‘She’s gone.’
~ * ~
The lawyer’s office advertised McRae Doon Partners—-Attorneys at Law on the wall behind the receptionist, but Messrs Doon and McRae hadn’t been around for fifty years. The only practising lawyers in the office were Rob Stansfield and Wes Carty, the dead-eyed lawyer who emerged in front of Gallen.
‘We’re inside,’ said Carty, thumb over his shoulder.
Carty’s room was large and sun-filled, an 1890s tribute to what the founding fathers once thought Clearmont could be.
‘Well, lookie here,’ said the red-faced man in the armchair, sneering as Gallen sat down.
‘Dad,’ said Gallen. ‘How you doin’?’
‘You little fucker,’ said Roy Gallen, standing.
Carty threw himself between the armchairs. ‘Roy! We spoke about this.’
Gallen eased into the armchair that faced Carty’s desk. There wasn’t much Roy Gallen could do to him these days, ‘less he was carrying a gun, but Gallen flinched all the same, felt the ice in his stomach as his father eyeballed him. Too many hockey games, too many broncs broken, too many winter mornings being thrown out the door to do barn chores. They had left their mark. Gallen was no longer scared of his old man, but he wasn’t immune to his anger.
‘Gallen Family Farms Sweet Clover Trust,’ said Carty, sitting behind the desk and reading straight from the filing tag of the manila folder on the desk. ‘We’re all present: trustees Roy Gallen and Gerard Gallen, and the designated trustee, Wesley Carty. Agreed?’
Gallen swapped a look with Roy and the lawyer continued.
‘There is a dispute around the finances of the Sweet Clover Trust and given that we are all here, does anyone object to the motion that the designated trustee be the arbiter of the dispute?’
Roy sighed, Scope mouthwash coming off him in waves. ‘Depends where you come down, Wes.’
‘I come down in the best interests of the trust, Roy,’ said Carty, a scratch golfer whose daughter was a champion barrel racer thanks to the horses he kept buying her.
‘I accept your decision, Wes.’ Gallen raised his hand like he was at an intel briefing. ‘Let’s get it done.’
Carty scribbled a note in his minutes. ‘Roy?’
Roy sighed, like someone had pulled the plug on an airbed. ‘Shit.’
‘That a yes, Roy?’
‘Sounds like I need my own lawyer.’
Carty noted it in the minutes but Gallen wasn’t going to ignore it. ‘Dad, Wes is the trust lawyer. This is his job.’
Roy Gallen waved his hand like he was swatting a fly at the sale yards. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Like the colt said. Let’s get it done.’
~
* ~
Gallen found him at the diner’s window table, Roy wearing his uniform of Carhartt canvas jacket, white western shirt and an old pair of Wranglers. Hair pulled back in a Brylcreemed wave that hadn’t changed since Gallen was a boy.
‘Can I join you?’ said Gallen, pausing before he touched the chair.
Roy looked out the window. ‘No law against it.’
Gallen removed his cap and signalled the waitress for one coffee. ‘We’ll clear the debts and then let’s start again, okay?’
‘Didn’t know it was that bad,’ said Roy. ‘Been drinking too hard, I guess.’
‘The creditors just want an arrangement, Dad,’ said Gallen, not wanting to talk down to his father or lecture him about the booze. ‘Wes will control the creditors and the cheque book for the next month and then we review it, okay? It’s not forever.’
Roy nodded. ‘We still need cash. Those steers don’t ship for another ten weeks at least.’
‘I’m putting in two thousand a week,’ said Gallen, treading carefully. ‘Wes takes care of the creditors and pays you a wage.’
‘I ain’t being paid by that sissy little Protestant sonofabitch,’ spat the old man, sitting up straight. ‘No Gallen was ever on no Carty payroll.’
‘He’s the trust lawyer,’ said Gallen. ‘And besides, the money comes from me.’
Roy shook his head slowly.
‘Look, Dad, the power will go on today. That’s something.’
‘Yeah,’ said Roy. ‘That’s something. So where’s this money of yours coming from? Marines ain’t givin’ it away.’
‘Got a gig,’ said Gallen. ‘Corporate security.’
‘Who for?’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Gallen. ‘Kenny’s signed on too.’
‘Take my farm labourer?’ Roy tapped a big forefinger on the tabletop. ‘Know we got some jumpers to work up? For real cash?’
‘We start in ten days. Kenny can start ‘em, and you can finish.’
Roy sipped at the coffee. He was as good a horse trainer as you could find in Sheridan County but he didn’t like jumpers and he’d obviously been planning to hide behind Kenny’s expertise.
‘Ain’t been over a rail for ten, twelve years,’ said Roy. ‘Might have to stop the drinkin’ for a whiles.’
‘If Kenny gets them horses to the point, then we can have Yvonne over to do the rail work.’
‘Yvonne?’ said Roy, confused. ‘McKenzie? She’s down Shell.’
‘She just bought a place on the forty-second,’ said Gallen, feeling his voice squeak. ‘She divorced.’
Roy’s face flashed concern and then his eyes were warmly focused on his son. ‘Yvonne and you.’
‘No, Dad. Not—‘
‘Yeah, son. I remember,’ said Roy, his face blossoming into the charmer of old. ‘Patricia told me, when you was in high school.’
Gallen blushed. ‘Told you what?’
‘Yvonne McKenzie was sweet on you, is what.’
‘She got it wrong,’ said Gallen, wondering where that coffee was.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Roy, dentures lighting up his face. ‘Women don’t make mistakes with all that.’
~ * ~
CHAPTER 10
Gallen stood in the forecourt of the Logan Super 8 Motel, watched a 767 landing in the grey morning light as he waited for Winter. It was the first day of his employment by Oasis Energy and while he was happy with the corporate MasterCard he’d been mailed, he didn’t like his name jumping up wherever Mulligan or Aaron felt like tracking it. Still, it eased a cash-flow problem in the short term and he was feeling more relaxed than he had at any time since resigning his commission.
‘Time for breakfast?’ said Winter, approaching with his small backpack.
‘Coffee and biscuit, at least.’ Gallen headed across the car park.
They discussed how they were going to structure the bodyguard and decided that, regardless of the chain of command, they’d rotate the personal aspect so as to keep things professional. Didn’t want anyone making friends with the client—that created mistakes.
Gallen glanced at his G-Shock: time to meet McCann’s flight from LA.
As they stood, his cell rang.
‘Yep,’ said Gallen, noting Bren Dale’s name on the screen.
‘Boss, it’s me,’ came Dale’s voice, not happy.
‘Yeah, Bren?’
‘I can’t make it. Sorry, boss.’
‘What?’ said Gallen, turning from Winter. ‘Can’t make it this morning?’
‘No, boss,’ said Dale. ‘Can’t make the gig.’
‘Not at all? Shit, Bren. The gig’s built around you.’
There was a sound of someone hyperventilating. ‘I’m sorry, man. Find someone else, okay? Sorry.’
The line went dead and Gallen stared at the phone.
‘What’s up?’ said Winter, zipping his pack.
‘Bren’s out.’ Gallen could barely believe it.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Gallen.
Winter got to his feet, slung his bag over one shoulder. ‘Cold feet?’
‘Not last I checked,’ said Gallen.
‘Lady got to him?’ said Winter.
‘Could be.’ Gallen dropped change on the table.
Waiting for a cab in the forecourt, he mulled on it. He hadn’t just lost his 2IC. He’d started a gig with a bad omen.
~ * ~
Gallen spotted Donny McCann as the crowds spewed out of the domestic arrivals gate of Denver International. McCann was in jeans and a polo shirt under a ski jacket; he had a lean middleweight’s body and a set of aviator shades.
‘Hey, boss,’ said McCann, stopping in front of Gallen and Winter.
‘Donny,’ said Gallen, shaking his hand. ‘This is Kenny Winter, former Canadian Assaulters, served in ISAF.’
McCann shook Winter’s hand, gave the slow nod of a veteran recognising another’s credentials.
They drank coffee in one of the airport’s cafes as they waited for Aaron to arrive from LA with the gear.
‘Slight change,’ said Gallen, once the middle-aged Anglo male at the adjacent table had moved on. ‘Bren can’t make it.’
‘Why not?’ said McCann. ‘That’s not like Bren, pull out when he say he in.’
‘I know,’ said Gallen. ‘Phoned me an hour ago. Said he can’t make it, now all I can get is voicemail when I call back.’
McCann looked around the cafe and the concourse, scanning the crowds. ‘So now we’re three?’
‘Till we get a replacement, yeah.’ Gallen cleared his throat. ‘But for now, Kenny’s my second.’
McCann and Winter eyed one another for several seconds, Gallen hoping nothing would start. Donny McCann was the smaller man but he’d grown up in Compton Beach and Gallen had never seen him take shit from anyone; Winter was the hulking farm boy and—if Mulligan was correct—a NATO assassin.
‘You okay with that, Kenny?’ said McCann evenly, not taking his eyes off the Canadian.
‘I do what the boss says,’ said Winter, not even a bob from his larynx. ‘I’m okay with that.’
Gallen was about to leap in when McCann broke with a big smile. ‘Shit, boss. You hear that? Damn good answer, if he gonna work for you.’
Gallen leaned back. ‘It’s a perfect answer, Donny.’
McCann shrugged, extended a hand to Winter. ‘Let’s take the money and not the bullets, okay?’
‘My sentiments exactly,’ said Winter, his broken incisor showing as he grinned.
~ * ~
The Oasis jet was late but Gallen and his crew were airborne shortly before two pm, heading north for Calgary.
Leaving McCann and Winter in leather seats facing one another at the front of the cabin, Gallen moved down the plane to where Aaron was seated in conversation with a blond man with a military haircut. Gallen had him at late twenties, perhaps thirty.
‘Gerry, have a seat,’ said Aaron, pointing at the seats across the aisle. ‘Need
a drink?’
‘No thanks,’ said Gallen, sitting. ‘I work dry.’
