It took a moment for me to realize she was referring to the fly boxes sprawled wide, their insides arranged in tiered rows. Once it clicked what she was saying, I couldn’t help but smile.
“Montana jewelry boxes. Nice, I like it.”
Kaylan bowed her head in acceptance of the compliment. “Thanks. Feel free to use it.”
“Appreciate it,” I said, knowing full well I probably would. “And to answer your question, yes. You remember a guy named Grey Rembert? Did a tour with us summer before last?”
A crease appeared between Kaylan’s brow as she stared upward, trying to place the name. “Vaguely? I remember it being the first time I’d ever seen Grey used as a first name, but...”
“Older, heavyset guy from Georgia,” I said, hoping to help jog her memory.
Of all the guests we’d ever gotten, Rembert might not have been the most memorable, but he was easily in the top ten.
The instant the word Georgia was out, I could see things settle into place for her, eyes going wide. “Oh! Him! The guy that was always saying hellfire!”
“Damnation!” I added, both of us bursting into laughter.
Most trips that fall under the guise of being worth recalling do so because they are a miserable experience. A family trying to find themselves in the woods and realizing they still didn’t like each other. Folks from a major city wanting to see what it’s like to rough it and finding out pretty fast they didn’t like it.
People not realizing how damn cold it can get in the park.
Rare was someone like Rembert, a jolly guy that if his name wasn’t already distinctive enough would have earned a nickname along the lines of Santa Clause.
“Hot damn!” Kaylan said, slapping at her thigh. “I always liked him. He’s coming back up?”
Still quivering with laughter myself, I could feel blood flushing my cheeks. Warmth had passed beneath my sweater, raising my core temperature.
“Not exactly,” I replied. “He actually called a few days ago and said he’s heading down to Patagonia for a fly fishing trip. Supposed to be some of the best in the world.”
“Depends on where you’re at,” Kaylan said. “Is he going to be in Argentina or Chile?”
To that, I offered only a raising of the eyebrows. When Rembert had first called, I knew about Patagonia only because I had spent an inordinate amount of time with the DEA working in and around South America.
Otherwise, I wouldn’t have had the foggiest clue about where it was or what it encompassed.
“Don’t give me that,” Kaylan said, again waving a hand at me. “We do have schools here in Montana, you know.”
Raising my hands to either side in submission, I said, “I didn’t-“
“Didn’t what?” Kaylan asked. “Didn’t think I could read a map?”
Slowly, I lowered my hands. I slid the chair back a couple of inches, putting a bit more space between us, and said, “Easy, I never-“
“Never thought I would know about other places or cultures?” she snapped.
Unsure how to respond, where the sudden burst of vitriol came from, I merely sat and stared. Across from me, Kaylan did the same, holding the pose as long as she could.
Which was about fifteen seconds.
Her face splitting into a broad grin, she resumed her posture in the chair. “Man, it has been a long winter. You’re losing your edge.”
For a moment, I had no response, merely staring back at her, before slowly pushing out a breath. “Holy hell. I was trying to figure out what just happened there.”
“What just happened was you made it too easy,” Kaylan said. “Almost took all the fun out of it.”
Looking away for a moment, I raised my right hand and dug at the inch-long growth of beard on my chin. The whiskers felt wiry beneath my fingertips as I scratched, making sure not to let her see me smile.
She had gotten me.
But I didn’t have to be happy about it.
“My dad was a fisherman,” she said. “Always talked about Patagonia, wanting to get down there, but he never made it.”
“Ah,” I said, my head rocking back slightly in understanding. Knowing better than to offer condolences, that she hated anything of the sort, I pushed ahead. “Well, Rembert is headed there, and apparently had contracted with a company out of Georgia to go with him and act as a guide.”
“Oh-kay,” she said, drawing the word out to signal she was not quite yet understanding.
Which was pretty much exactly where I was at during this point in the story when Rembert first called.
“And very long story short, they backed out on him at the last second and he needs someone to go with him.”
A host of lines appeared around her eyes as she winced slightly. “Ouch, that sucks.”
“That’s what I told him,” I replied.
For a moment, Kaylan cast her eyes over the array of flies spread around us. “But we don’t work down there. I’m not even sure we have the proper permits and everything for that.”
“I told him that, too.”
“And his response?” she asked.
“Said he made sure when setting it up that all the paperwork was transferable. He has everything necessary, just needs someone to go down and do the day-to-day stuff.”
Raising her eyebrows, Kaylan said, “That’ll be fun.”
I knew exactly what she was alluding to. More than once she’d had to hear me vent about such days. Hour after hour of listening to terrible stories. Unknotting one leader after another when they couldn’t get their casting down. Watching flies I’d spent hours tying get tossed to the winds. Maneuvering the boat through rocky straits.
In terms of those things, Rembert was only a half-step up from most that I encountered.
But at least he was a nice guy about it.
A nice guy with extremely deep pockets.
“So you told him you’d do it?” she asked.
The fact that we were even having such a conversation made the answer to that clear, as was the fact that the question was purely rhetorical.
“Well, it wasn’t quite that simple,” I replied. “I did play a little hard-to-get.”
Arching an eyebrow, Kaylan said, “Yeah? How fat a check are we talking?”
“Morbidly obese.”
“Nice. And when do you fly out?”
“First thing in the morning.”
Chapter Ten
The Director of the Central Intelligence Agency was a compact man with square shoulders and knees and elbows that all seemed to be jutting out at the same time. Even dressed in a solid grey suit and matching tie, his joints were all easily distinguishable.
As was the scowl that had settled onto his face, a hardened visage shaped like the inverted head of a shovel.
With short cropped steel grey hair and a faint scar on his right cheek, he looked to fulfill every last stereotype of what a former special forces soldier would look like.
And at the moment, all of that was staring fiercely at Charles Vance.
Standing just a few feet away from the closed doors of the Oval Office, the pair was sequestered in a small holding room. An antechamber no larger than the average water closet, they could hear the faint din of office business taking place through the door on one end.
Could hear absolutely nothing through the door on the opposite side, the one that would open for them at any moment, beckoning them forward.
Wedged into the tight space with them was Hannah Rowe, Vance choosing to leave his other two senior personnel behind in favor of the sole one with actual direct knowledge of Venezuela.
Three times in the last twelve hours Vance and Director Horace Joon had been through the events of the rally.
The first was in the immediate aftermath. Joon had listened in silence as Vance relayed the proceedings of the evening. Had stayed that way as he pondered what it might mean.
After a full two minutes of thinking on things, he had then rattled off a litany of questions. The first two were the ones Vance h
ad asked Rowe in the conference room. Content with the responses, a back-and-forth had then opened up about the best way to handle it moving forward.
Less than ten minutes after making the connection, it was agreed by both that a meeting with the president needed to be set for first thing in the morning.
It was also agreed that neither side was especially happy about it.
The second and third trips through the information had been made during the car ride. With both Vance and Rowe before him, Joon had rattled off every question he could think of twice.
A list that included some things that could not possibly be relevant, but Vance knew he had to ask about in the name of saving his own hide should it come to that.
Which everybody hoped it would not.
Standing inside the small room, the pressure seemed to build by the second. Nervous energy rolled from each of them. It filled the small airspace, threatening to blow the doors on either side from their hinges.
Until, mercifully, the door to their left opened. Through it, White House Chief of Staff Max Hemmings appeared and said, “We’re ready for you now.”
Without another word he disappeared, followed in order by Joon.
Casting nothing more than a quick glance to Rowe, Vance followed third. A moment later, the door closed behind them.
It was the first time Vance had ever been to the White House, let alone near the Oval Office itself. Stepping inside, it had all the familiar trappings one might expect, the Hollywood professionals having done a masterful job of recreating it a hundred times over.
Framed along the back wall was the Resolute desk. On the floor was the presidential seal, standard shades of blue the chosen color scheme.
On the wall was a framed portrait of Thomas Jefferson, a popular choice as the favorite for the sitting president.
In the interior of the room was a pair of sofas facing each other. On either end of them were armchairs, Hemmings staking a claim to one. Opposite him stood President Mitchell Underall.
A contrast in almost every way to the Director, Underall was tall and lanky. Light brown hair was worn long enough to comb to the side. Skin sagged slightly beneath his jawline.
As the trio entered, he stepped forward, shaking each of their hands in turn and exchanging introductions, before motioning to the sofas.
“Please, be seated.”
Not until everybody was positioned – Joon on one side, Vance and Rowe on the other – did Underall assume his seat as well.
“Mr. President, thank you so much for meeting with us on such short notice,” Joon opened. Per usual, he spoke in a quick cadence, rattling the words off.
“Max here informed me that it was a most urgent matter that demanded my attention,” Underall replied. “It is my experience that the CIA doesn’t label such things unless it is warranted.”
From the opposite side, Vance watched the mutual preening with a slight level of detachment. While never had he intended to rise to his current station, never did he try to deny it either.
Men like him didn’t get to where they were without a certain amount of motivation and ego.
That being said, not once had he ever had any wanting of climbing higher, the exchange he was witnessing being a perfect example why.
Every account he had ever heard sold President Underall as a reasonably likable man. More than once in his five years in office, he had been an ally to the Agency.
Which was to say, he didn’t offer too much resistance, followed their advice, and provided cover where he could.
Again, a reasonably likable man.
Even as such, never would Vance be able to arrive hat in hand on a weekly basis to deliver a briefing or ask some sort of favor. It just wasn’t in his makeup.
“No,” Joon agreed. “And we know you are a busy man, so we’ll be brief. Charles, would you please?”
Having been warned beforehand that the floor would be his, Vance jumped directly in. He stated everything in a short and orderly fashion, beginning with why they were monitoring the event and finishing with the spectacle of the flag burning for all to see.
As he spoke, not a single person in the room gave a reaction of any kind.
Clearly, everybody had been prepped ahead of time, his delivery of the information merely a formality so that everybody was on the same page.
More of the necessary box checking that seemed to fill government work.
The first two questions Underall asked were the same two that Vance and Joon both had, referencing Belmonte personally and if there was any prior mention of America. When both of those turned up negative, he shifted gears slightly.
“What has been the reception of the event in the time since?” he asked.
“His numbers have climbed eight points,” Vance said.
“Which puts him where?” Underall asked.
Turning his chin toward Rowe, Vance deferred in silence to her expertise.
“That takes President Salazar’s lead from fifteen points down to seven,” she stated.
For the first time since their arrival, Underall gave some form of visible reaction. His eyebrows raised as a low, shrill whistle from his lips. “Down to single digits? Just like that?”
Vance knew exactly how the president felt.
It was the same initial reaction he’d had as well.
“Belmonte also has rallies scheduled for tonight and tomorrow night,” Vance said. “Our team believes that this was meant to be the jumping off point for his campaign.”
“Spearheaded by introducing a new platform of blaming America and burning our flag,” Underall said.
More a statement than a question, Vance chose to respond anyway. “It would appear that way, sir.”
Shifting his focus from the Agency officials to Hemmings on the far side, Underall raised his hands to his face. He rubbed both palms over his cheeks vigorously, and by the time he lowered his hands, both showed bright pink.
“You mentioned that we have a call set up with President Salazar later this afternoon, right?”
“That is correct,” Hemmings said. “Three o’clock.”
“Three o’clock,” the president repeated. “That gives us just over six hours to figure out exactly what we want to say to him.”
For another moment, he and Hemmings sat in silent conversation, matching each other’s gaze, before Underall turned to face the Director. “I assume you folks have some suggestions on the best way to proceed?”
Chapter Eleven
The previous evening had been a raucous one. After the events in the stadium, it had taken more than two hours for the cheering crowd to disperse.
Another two before Edgar Belmonte and his team were able to be whisked away.
Forced to hole up in the underbelly of the stadium, the time had been split into two equal parts. The first was a celebration of sorts. Food was brought in. Jackets and ties were stripped. Congratulations and handshakes were offered all around.
It was still early, too early to truly be counting the night as a major step toward victory, but there was no denying the effect that the display had had on the crowd.
The goal had been to get a solid visual. To get some energy from the crowd and translate that into a platform they could build on moving forward.
What they had gotten was a full-fledged launching pad for the next few months.
Once the initial euphoria had worn off, the tone of the room had tempered slightly. Empty food cartons were shoved to the side. The chalkboards in the locker room were put to good use.
They had momentum. It was important not to squander it.
The event was the first in a trio that was planned, the week meant to launch Belmonte into the national consciousness. Having achieved that goal on the first outing, they needed to recalibrate on the fly.
Already they had what they were after. Now it was time to go bigger, bolder.
By the time the crowd was finally gone, the chanting falling mercifully silent, the team filed home bleary-
eyed and weary. Six hours later, they were back at campaign headquarters, ready to start another day.
As ready as six pots of coffee could make the small contingent crammed into the meeting room in the back of the office anyway.
Seated at the head of the table was Hector Ramon, a pair of clipboards spread before him. On either one was scads of blue ink, a hundred different thoughts and ideas jotted down on every bit of available space.
As people filed in, he sat pouring over them, intently committing everything he could to memory.
To his right was Giselle Ruiz, making an impassioned effort to speedread every newspaper article she could. One atop another they were stacked in front of her, the tip of her finger skimming each one as she passed through.
Every few seconds, the slap of a new paper joining the stack could be heard.
Not once did she bother to even look up at the haphazard pile.
Filling in the remainder of the seats stretched wide in either direction were a handful of aides and staff. Some had been present the night before. A few of the more junior in the room had managed to slide their way in that morning, no doubt anxious to be a part of whatever was about to take place.
Standing in the doorway, his shoulder leaning against the frame, Edgar Belmonte couldn’t begrudge them in the slightest. The events of the previous evening had been a powder keg. It was only natural for them to want to get their piece of it.
Just as it was only natural that he drew all the labor he could from them in the process.
Casting a glance at the opposite wall, he saw it was now exactly eleven o’clock. Taking a half step forward, he pulled the door shut behind him, letting the rattle of the frame call the room to attention.
At once, any residual conversation bled away. Every head turned his direction.
“Buenos Dias,” he said. “Thank you all for being here today after such a late night.” Pausing, he let a slight smile cross his face, “Though if ever there was a day to get in early, this would be it.”
To that, several smiles appeared around the room. Bright white teeth glimmered against tan skin.
“For those of you that weren’t on hand last night, I’m sure you’ve all read the recaps in the papers. As I haven’t yet seen many of them, I trust they are going well, Giselle?”
Hellfire: A Suspense Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 4) Page 4
