Without Measure: A Jack Widow Thriller

by Scott Blade

  I’d seen so many Middle Easterners that I was good at spotting their localizations. This guy, minus a beard and Islamic attire, looked like he had gotten straight off a plane from Tehran or possibly Istanbul. He was clean-shaven, and somewhere in the neighborhood of his late thirties, not much older than me, if I had to guess. He had thick, dark hair, in a haircut that must’ve originated as a jarhead cut, but now was a bit grown out from that.

  On the table in front of him was a bunched-up Marine cap, with woodland camo patterns. It looked like it had been folded and pinched and thrown around for years. It was a part of the second thing about him, the most obvious thing.

  This guy was in the United States Marine Corps. No doubt about it. He wore a woodland pattern combat uniform.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE SECOND HAND on the wall clock, that was exactly forty-five degrees to my right and above the countertop, read the time as being 06:45. The dayshift at Arrow’s Peak Marine Base would be starting soon, and this Marine was still seated in front of me. He stared blankly at the empty wall behind me. Nothing there to look at but wallpaper.

  He had the soundless, somber expression of a man waiting on death row, like the day had come. No backing out now. No escape. He looked about as desperate as anyone I’d ever seen before.

  The waitress had brought him a coffee, I didn’t hear him order it, but I saw his lips move. He shot her a brief smile—an expected courtesy, and nothing else.

  Turik had bushy eyebrows, well-trimmed, but bushy. He wasn’t a gym rat, that was for sure, but he was far from being above his fighting weight. He had a small belly, broad shoulders, and big arms that looked like they hadn’t lifted a dumbbell in years, but still had the muscle memory.

  He wasn’t enlisted. I was damn sure of that. The Marine woodland camo uniform doesn’t provide information of rank, only name, but I knew I was looking at an officer in the United States Marine Corps. He had that worn and weary look in his eyes, like he’d seen real battle time. An American Muslim was something of value to the USMC, because most likely he spoke a foreign language. Which has been thought of as a strong attribute for about the last ten years. I knew he spoke a foreign language. Kurdish. Had to be. This wasn’t a shot in the dark, but an accurate estimation. Because the base that was close by wasn’t an ordinary base. Four hundred miles to the south and east was the Marine Training Base in Bridgeport, California. This was where the Marines sent their best to train for mountain warfare. However, Arrow’s Peak was a lesser-known military training base. It served as a mountain combat and warfare training facility. The difference was that Arrow’s Peak was strictly for training the Raiders. These were dangerous guys, the Marine Corps’ elite.

  They ran Special Ops training up in the mountains. I had no doubt of the kinds of simulations they ran. They probably did extreme survival, combat mockups, and recon exercises. As well as running training, these were the guys who were combat ready. Meaning that they were probably running Special Ops missions out of there in Afghanistan. It all depends on what’s needed.

  Turik’s work uniform and weapon told me all of that because the M45 is assigned to MARSOC units. Therefore, he must’ve been a part of that unit.

  A uniformed Marine carrying a sidearm wasn’t alarming, not in itself. That’s not what raised my suspicion about him. It wasn’t that he was Arabic, either. I’d known plenty of Muslims and Arabic Americans who fought in the military. There was something else about him.

  It wasn’t his M45. I knew that commissioned officers were protected ever since 2013 to be able to carry concealed and non-concealed service weapons when off-duty, off-base, or on leave. But the price for this is to be approved by law enforcement or working with law enforcement. They had argued for that privilege for years. Claiming it could’ve prevented mass base shootings. And finally, it had been granted to approved soldiers back in 2013 because of a string of military base shootings, like the 2009 shooting at Fort Hood, Texas.

  The thing that worried me about Turik was that he was wearing his camo uniform and carrying his weapon. The uniform was his operating combat uniform. The US Army could wear theirs in public, but not the Marines. It was a major no-no, a major violation of military law and off-base operating conduct.

  That was the first thing that worried me about him. The second was the look in his eyes. He looked like a soldier distraught, like he’d just seen his buddy blown to bits on a road outside of Bagdad. Which was a look I’d also seen before.

  Suddenly, a new man walked into the diner. The bell at the top right corner of the door chimed as he bent his head under the doorframe and stepped in. The guy was a giant, much larger than me, and I’m tall. He wore dark jeans and a black pea coat, silver sunglasses. He removed the glasses and stared around the room, not in a lingering way, just quick enough to note the layout and casual enough not to draw suspicion. It was impossible not to notice him, because of his height. He must’ve been 6’8”, at least. Maybe he was even seven foot.

  He looked at me first and then everyone else. He walked by the officer and looked around the room. He walked to the bar top counter and plopped down on one of the stools, wielded down low on a long bar and bolted into the counter. He was massive. The whole structure wobbled under his weight like someone dropped a wrecking ball on the seat.

  Karen offered him a menu, but he waved if off with a goliath hand like a sand blaster attached to his forearm. He said only one word—coffee.

  She gave him a cup and poured black coffee in it. I grinned because she had used the older coffee pot. I had noticed it when I walked in. Since I’d been there she’d made a fresh pot in the other pot, the one that she served me with. The burner for the old one wasn’t even switched on when I ordered mine. I watched her switch it on after she made mine.

  I glanced over at the giant one more time and then back to the rest of the room. I watched the married couple get up, put on their coats, the husband helping the wife slip hers on, and they left. I let my eyes look around the room, recounted the patrons and staff. Nothing had changed. There was still the pair of truckers, laughing and talking. Karen stood back behind the counter until the couple left and then took a tray over to their table and started to clear it of the remaining dishes.

  I guessed that there was probably at least one employee in the back. Certainly, there was a cook on staff and possibly a manager.

  I grabbed my coffee, which was still warm, and I slid out of my booth. I carried it, onehanded, and walked over to Turik’s booth. I stopped and asked, “Hi, friend. Mind if I join you?”

  He stared up at me, slowly like I’d interrupted him out of a holy prayer.

  He said nothing, but his face had a big question mark on it.

  I said, “I served, once. I notice you wearing your uniform.”

  He broke out of his stare. He glanced at the bar top counter, at the giant. Then he looked back at me and said, “Yeah.” His voice broke and cracked, like he hadn’t used it in days. That was a feeling that was no stranger to me. Sometimes, I’d go days saying very little.

  I didn’t wait any longer for a response. I just set my coffee mug down and slid into the spot across from him. The vinyl crinkled and crunched as it scraped across my black jeans. I’d worn a pair of day-old black jeans and a gray T-shirt, with a navy-blue denim jacket. The jacket was off and draped across my lap. It was a comfortable jacket, but not very warm. The winter months were rolling to a stop, but the higher altitude of Northern California made up for it with shadows of the cold wind and low temperatures.

  I got comfortable and looked at him with a big smile on my face.

  I said, “My name is Widow. I was an O-6 at my last rank.”

  Turik looked at me, his eyes finally looked human. He asked, “Colonel?”

  I shook my head and said, “Captain.”

  “Not Marines?”

  “No. Navy. I’m not from here. Just passing through.”

  He nodded.

  I said, “You’re in the Marines, obviousl
y. I like Marines. Always did. My Marine friends used to joke and say they had great love for the Navy. They’d say we’d always give them a ride so they could go fight real battles.”

  Turik didn’t smile, but didn’t frown either.

  I asked, “You an officer?” I took a sip of my coffee.

  “Yeah,” he said, but didn’t divulge rank.

  Silence fell between us. His coffee was still full.

  “You teach out there? At Arrow’s Peak?”

  He nodded.

  “You got a specialty?”

  “I teach Arabic,” he said and he paused a long beat. Then he said, “And Middle Eastern studies.”

  I nodded and said, “I see. You help our guys blend in?”

  “That’s part of it.”

  Another long pause filled the space between us. We both looked out the window.

  The highway was about forty yards away, across a basically empty parking lot. I saw the two trucks from the truckers. Both generic, big rig trucks. Both had big trailers on the back, hauling God knows what.

  I had had a stranger experience the night before. I started to think about it. I decided to share it, to make small talk. I said, “I had a bad night last night. Not bad, but different.”

  He looked at me, possibly interested, possibly not. But I didn’t talk about my night. Keep it light was key. Instead, I asked, “How long you been in?”

  Must’ve been at least a decade for him to reach his current rank. He said, “I joined after nine-eleven.”

  I nodded. There was a huge influx of hiring after 9/11. Especially then, the armed forces sought out Arabic Americans. We needed everything from translations to Special Forces operators who could speak and understand the local cultures.

  He didn’t elaborate and I didn’t ask.

  I said, “I was in sixteen years. More or less.”

  He stayed quiet.

  I said, “I’m from Mississippi. Originally. You?”

  He made eye contact with me, nothing sinister in his eyes, but I saw a lost man in there. I hadn’t made any presumptions that he’d had intentions of using that gun. I hadn’t ruled it out either. He said, “You don’t have an accent?”

  I smiled and said, “That’s a myth. Like Hollywood shit. I know people who talk like that, but it’s not rampant. In some places, there are people who talk slower, but it’s far from all of us.”

  He nodded, slowly. He said, “Like being Muslim. I get that.”

  I asked, “You Muslim? From Istanbul?”

  He made a half smile, like he had been recognized by an old friend. He said, “How’d you know? You been there?”

  “Nah. I been in the Middle East enough to guess, but it’s your name. Turik is from Western Turkey.”

  He nodded.

  “How long you been in the States?”

  He said nothing.

  I waited, took another sip of coffee, and stared out the window. I saw a big rig truck blast by. It looked like it was going at the top speed limit, which was high. Nothing really out here but highway and trees.

  Finally, he said, “I was born here. Only been to Turkey once. My parents moved here before I was born.”

  I nodded and asked, “Got any brothers and sisters?”

  He stayed quiet.

  I asked, “You married?”

  Silence. He took a long breath and a sip of his coffee and stared back out of the window.

  I looked past him, but was looking at his shoulders. A seated man with a gun strapped to his side usually had a hard time brandishing his weapon. The shoulders moved long before the weapon was out. The elbow had to fight to pull back a weapon. Booths were tight spaces and this one was no different.

  He didn’t move his shoulders or elbow. He didn’t go for his weapon.

  I said, “My name is Widow by the way.” I held my left hand out, for a handshake. He was right-handed. I could have grabbed his hand, tight, and jerked him forward. I could’ve disarmed him fast, but he didn’t give me his hand.

  He said, “I know. You told me.”

  I nodded and let my hand fall to the tabletop. I left it there, out and obvious. I said, “Right. I did.”

  He stared down at my tattoos, said nothing about them. He looked at my stature, like he was seeing it for the first time. He asked, “You a SEAL?”

  “I used to be. Among other things.”

  He was quiet again and then he said, “Look. I better go.”

  Before he got up, I said, “I was a cop once too.”

  He looked at my face.

  “I was a cop with the SEALs.”

  “MP?” he asked.

  “Not MP.”

  “NCIS?”

  I nodded and said, “I can help you.”

  He paused. Hope seemed to peer through the darkness in his eyes. He asked, “Why do you say that?”

  “I can see something’s off with you. Something that appears to be serious.”

  He stayed quiet.

  I said, “You’re not supposed to wear your woodland camo in public.”

  He looked off in the distance and then at me again. He nodded like he got that I had noticed he was breaking military law.

  He said, “Good luck, Widow.” And he stood up, took up his camo hat, and put it on. He walked out, like a ghost, like he’d never been there in the first place.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE NIGHT BEFORE, I had ridden into town with a nice enough trucker, who had a lot of opinions. Opinions are fine to have—I certainly have them—but some are dangerous to talk about with complete strangers. So, I listened and nodded in agreement. On most topics, I can agree and talk about them, and on others I have no clue. The trucker I rode in with had everything on his mind, and nothing was going to stop him from pouring it all into my ear, like Hamlet’s deceitful uncle. Which meant that nothing was going to stop me from listening.

  I hadn’t slept right the night before and I wanted nothing more than to sleep, but I had been hours from the nearest town and I wasn’t going to sleep on the freezing ground. I ended up riding with the guy for around five hours. He was a good guy, a normal trucker. Nothing unusual about him except for one small thing. He was hauling bullets.

  He had told me that he worked for a major ammunition and gun manufacturer. They, in turn, dealt with a large distributor chain called Lexigun, a twist of letters from Lexicon. Not sure the reason why they picked this name, but that’s what they were called.

  Lexigun stored and sold ammunition for all sorts of weapons. It was a major employer in the area. Hamber had two industries going for it: Arrow’s Peak Marine Base and Lexigun, which employed many of the locals.

  Hamber wasn’t much of a township, in the traditional sense. It was quiet, quaint, and a little rustic, a little outdated in the modern sense. The people seemed friendly so far.

  I had spent the night listening to the trucker go on and on about an entire range of topics. Politics. Crime. Religion. And many more. I was exhausted.

  I’d come into the Wagon Hash diner around sunup and got a couple cups of coffee. Now my intention was to find a motel and sleep the day away.

  I stayed in the diner for another thirty minutes.

  The waitress came back over and asked, “Want anything else, sir?”

  “Just the check.”

  She nodded and walked back to the old cash register. She jotted down something on a notepad and returned to give me a handwritten check. The breakfast and coffee was about twelve bucks. I left a ten and a five on the table.

  She came back over to pick it up and I asked, “Where’s the nearest motel?”

  She stopped and paused and looked out the window at the highway. Another truck came barreling down it, didn’t slow.

  “If you go out on the highway and head in that direction, there’s one about two miles up the road, near old downtown.”

  “You guys have a downtown?”

  “Of course we got one. This town is small, but it ain’t dead. Then again it ain’t much either. You�
�ll see some official buildings and some historical sites. They protect the old goldmines. Not sure why. No one really comes up here anymore to look at the goldmines.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “We got one big one. Out of town about five miles. Then there’s dozens scattered all over the valleys.”

  I nodded and thanked her. I got up and grabbed my coat. Put it on and headed to the street. As I walked out of the diner, I saw the giant get up from his seat as well. He tossed a five-dollar bill on the countertop to cover the coffee and he followed me out to the lot.

  I walked out to the center of the lot. The thin layer of snow on the ground parted under my feet and I saw the gravel beneath. I waited, looking down the highway in both directions.

  The giant stepped out behind me and stopped. I could feel him staring in my direction. I turned and glanced back over my shoulder. He was looking up at the sky in a blatantly obvious fashion. I’d seen bad surveillance before and this wasn’t that. He was doing it on purpose. He was letting me know, Hey, I see you. Keep on moving.

  I waited.

  He didn’t linger long enough to make it a standoff. He walked over to a parked white pickup, opened the door, and got in. He fired up the engine and drove past me, slowly. I walked to the highway and stared off in both directions again. He stopped at the edge of the lot. He also looked both ways and then at me. He smiled and drove off, toward town. I followed, memorized his plate.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE FIVE-MILE WALK to the downtown part of Hamber was a hell of a lot longer than the two miles that the waitress had told me, but I didn’t give up. Walk long enough on a road and you’re bound to come across something, right?

  I made it to downtown and wasn’t disappointed. It was small, maybe one of the smallest downtowns I’d ever seen, at least for a town that was actually on the map. I passed a small church, fenced off and tucked back away from the road. There was a cemetery to its south side and a garden to its west. On the cemetery side, there was a long drive that came out to the street. I imagined there was a hearse parked somewhere on the property. Probably out of sight.