The Rogue (Planets Shaken Book 1)

by Lee Brainard

  57

  Deukmejian Wilderness Park, Glendale, CA

  Sunday evening, June 9, 2019

  Woody started getting anxious after dinner knowing that the window for a call from the transporter was drawing near, so he drove to Deukmejian Wilderness Park and went for a hike. Walking in the hills always relaxed him. He loved the Southern California chaparral, especially when flowers were blooming—like bush mallow, chamise, and sage. About a mile up the trail his burner vibrated in his pocket. “This is Tenkara.”

  “This is Ghost. What are you looking for?”

  “I need to be picked up in the mountains in northern California near the Desolation Wilderness and driven to a drop-off site near Truckee. Drop off needs to occur after dark. A four-wheel drive will be needed to access and depart the pick-up point.”

  Ghost replied, “The job won’t be a problem. I have a 4WD pickup with spare parts, spare gas, and a winch. What are the expected pick-up and drop-off times?”

  “10:00 a.m. pick up and 10:00 p.m. drop off. The drive will only take about half that time, so we will need to hole up somewhere and burn up a few hours.”

  “I charge one hundred dollars per hour, plus vehicle expenses, plus whatever extra charges I feel like adding due to the difficulty or danger of the job. You will be taking up—I’m guessing—probably fourteen hours of my time, which comes to fourteen hundred dollars, plus six hundred miles of wear and tear and gas, which comes to another six hundred dollars, plus I don’t know you—which is a risk—so that’s another two thousand dollars. That’s a total of four thousand dollars, which I want up front.”

  Woody countered, “How about two thousand up front, a thousand at pickup, and a thousand at drop off?”

  “That’s cool. When does this job need to get done?”

  “Approximately two weeks in the future.”

  “I will need a week advance when you finalize the date and the times.”

  “No problem. I have one more request.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you pick up a duffel bag for me from a locker at the Greyhound Bus Station and bring it with you?”

  “That will be another thousand dollars since picking up and hauling bags is dangerous. You never know what might be in the bag you’re hauling.”

  “Fine. How about five hundred up front and five hundred when I get my bag—unopened and not tampered with?”

  “Done. Anything else?”

  “Nope.”

  “Meet me at 5:30 Tuesday morning at the Redondo Municipal Pier. I will be wearing black pants, a gray sweater, and a gray newsboy cap. I will be alone. You must be alone too. Stand at the inside rail in the middle of the wide section just past Kincaid’s. I will approach you and ask to borrow your phone. You got that?”

  “Yep. Got it.”

  “What will you be wearing?”

  “Jeans, sagebrush-green shirt, olive-drab patrol cap with Special Forces insignia, brown leather bomber’s jacket.”

  “Nice. Definitely a rookie.”

  Woody cringed at the sarcasm.

  Ghost continued, “Bring the cash, a note with the point and time of your pick-up and drop-off, and the locker key. GPS coordinates are preferred, but landmarks are acceptable. Have the cash, note, and key inside your phone case. I will ask to borrow your phone, you will toss it to me, I will walk away, turn my back to anyone near enough to watch, remove the items, count the money, then pretend that I am on a call. Got all that?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good. Another thing—I can call the deal off when we meet if I feel uncomfortable or don’t like you. But you can’t call the deal off.”

  “Fair enough. See you Tuesday.”

  Ghost responded with a little bristliness in his voice, “Maybe. Maybe not. If I don’t walk up to you at 5:30 sharp, it won’t be because I didn’t show. I will show. I always show. It will be because I saw something that made me feel uneasy. If I see anything that makes me nervous, I will turn around and leave, you will not see me, and the deal will be off. If that happens, you will not attempt to contact me.”

  “I understand.”

  Ghost fired off one last salvo, “Be standing at the rail at 5:25 Tuesday morning. Don’t be early. Don’t be late. No dogs. No friends. No nonsense. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  The transporter didn’t say goodbye, he just hung up.

  Woody was glad the phone call was over. Talking with Ghost made him feel uneasy in a way he hadn’t felt since he had been forced to deal with the underworld in the Balkans. The Special Forces had helped local authorities handle the Russian mafia, who were selling drugs and illegal arms and murdering any locals that stood up to them. He still got the chills whenever he thought of arresting and interrogating those Mafiosi. They hardly seemed human. They were cold, ruthless devils without heart, conscience, or moral compass. Dealing with Ghost gave him the same chills. He wished he had other options, but there were none. So, he steeled his soul to do what he had to do—“necessity knows no law”—and looked forward to putting this behind him.

  When he returned home that evening, he dug out his digicam parachute bag, rummaged through his preparation cache, and packed the bag with everything he would need for a week long trip by rail to Montana—food, water, water purification, cookware, clothing, shelter, personal items, his burner phones, and coffee. Can’t forget the coffee. Then he added some supplies he wanted with him at the Compound—two knives, an extra tenkara rod, six tenkara lines, four boxes of flies, a hacky sack that Joby had given him, and a set of mini-screwdrivers. Lastly, he packed several mementos that he couldn’t bear to leave behind. After a little rearranging, he zipped the well-stuffed bag shut, then zip-tied the zipper to the end loop. Ready to hop a train and roll.

  58

  Los Angeles

  Monday, June 10, 2019

  Woody worked through his lunch break and left work early—shortly after 1:00 p.m. He would have to make up the lost hours later in the week. Right now a critical mission demanded his attention. Forty-five minutes later, in a part of Los Angeles he preferred to avoid, he turned off South Main Street onto East Seventh Street and headed into Skid Row, keeping his eyes peeled for a suitable runner. At the corner of East Seventh and Crocker, he saw a lone Hispanic fellow, who looked to be around twenty, leaning against a building. Woody pulled into a no-parking zone, stopped, rolled down his passenger window, and beckoned. The young man walked up to the car warily, sized up Woody, and asked, “What’s up?”

  “How would you like to make two hundred and fifty dollars?”

  “I’m not queer.”

  “Not looking for a date. I’m looking for a runner to do an errand. I need someone to take my duffel bag to the bus depot, put it in a locker, and bring me the key. It will only take fifteen or twenty minutes.”

  “Okay. I’m game. I want the money up front though.”

  “Here’s fifty. I’ll give you the other two hundred after the job is completed. Hop in. I’ll drive you to within a couple blocks.”

  The young man hopped in the car, reached out his hand, and said “Roberto.” Woody grabbed it, and said, “Ace”—he didn’t know why. It just popped into his head. Then he put the Jeep in gear and took off. A dozen or so blocks later he crossed Alameda, turned right on Channing, and parked on the side of the street. He turned to Roberto, handed him the duffel bag and a crisp fifty-dollar bill, and warned him, “Make sure this bag gets in a locker and bring me the key. See this fisheye-looking thing on the zipper? That’s a camera. I’ll be watching the whole operation right here on my phone. I will know whether this bag gets stashed in a locker or not. I will know if someone tries to open my bag or walk away from the bus depot with it. And if someone does try to cheat me, I can track them, find them, and make them wish that they hadn’t crossed me. Comprende?”

  He nodded, “I know the drill. This isn’t the first time that I’ve run errands for dealers.” He opened the door, jumped out of the Jeep, and briskly walked back t
oward East Seventh Street. As Woody watched in his rearview mirror, the young man turned the corner and disappeared.

  Fifteen minutes later the runner returned, opened the Jeep door, and handed Woody the key. Woody handed him the remaining two hundred dollars along with a twenty-dollar McDonald’s gift certificate as a tip. Roberto nodded, said “Thanks,” then went his way. Woody sighed and relaxed. A burden was lifted. He started his Jeep, whipped a U-turn, and headed for home—emotionally spent. Glad this little foray is out of the way . . . next step . . . meet with the tough-talking transporter . . . not looking forward to that . . . the mountain trek part looks easy compared to this seedy, underworld stuff.

  59

  Redondo Beach, California

  Tuesday morning, June 11, 2019

  Woody pulled into Kincaid’s parking lot at the Redondo Municipal Pier at 5:16 a.m. A little early . . . just enough time for some coffee. He poured himself a cup from his battered thermos—a wedding present from Anne twenty-eight years earlier—and found himself teased by her memories. He had proposed to her on this very pier in June 1990 while home on leave from the Special Forces. He sighed. The passing of time hadn’t healed the pain or filled the void . . . the ache . . . the emptiness . . . was still there.

  Five or six dozen fisherman were on the pier already, mostly mid-section. Dawn was starting to break, a glorious red glow brightened the east over the mountains. A few bright stars still twinkled on the western horizon. The chug of fishing boats reverberated across the water as they made their way toward open water. Gulls were swarming the beach like raucous marauders. A gentle breeze wafted the salty smell of the ocean inland—he never tired of the fragrance. If I was given the chance to do my life over . . . I could picture myself on a carrier . . . the queen of the seas.

  He glanced at the clock on the dash. It was 5:20 a.m. He set his coffee cup down, slipped on his jacket, walked out onto the pier, and slowly made his way toward the meeting place. He stopped and lollygagged a few times so he wouldn’t get to his destination early. At 5:25 a.m. he leaned against the rail as directed. Resisting the urge to look around for Ghost, he turned his attention to a fisherman around seventy-five feet away, his rod bent and straining as he shouted to his buddy on the other side of the pier, “Fish on!” After several minutes, the fish rolled near the surface and the angler hollered, “Halibut!”

  “Excuse me, can I borrow your phone?” Woody turned and faced the transporter, a big, burly man with wavy blonde hair, probably in his late twenties, who looked like he could handle any trouble that came his way. Woody reached in his jacket pocket, retrieved his phone, and tossed it to him. Ghost caught it, walked away, and turned his back toward Woody and the nearby fishermen. A minute later he turned back around and started pacing back and forth, phone to his ear, pretending he was enquiring about a charter boat for bonito. Abruptly he flipped the phone shut—all of Jack’s burners were flip phones—walked towards Woody, tossed him his phone, muttered “Thanks,” whirled about, and hastened shoreward. Woody shook his head, bad business manners must be standard protocol in his line of work.

  Woody returned to watching the fisherman, whose friend was attempting to gaff the halibut. After the fish had been hoisted aloft, he started walking toward the middle of the pier to find a seat and watch the sunrise. Might as well enjoy creation for a little while . . . it’s the only pay I’m going to collect for the day . . . feels a little strange to be putting in hours this week and next for which I will never get paid.

  60

  Caltech

  Friday, June 14, 2019

  Woody woke in the wee hours of the morning and began worrying about the vacation request he was going to put in that morning. He hoped that requesting a vacation wouldn’t set off any alarms, that it would be viewed as a just another routine request for time off in June, as had been his practice every summer for over a decade. But he knew that he was being watched with suspicion by Sterling and the FBI.

  He was so anxious that when he arrived at the Cahill Center, he barged into Sally’s office first thing, before he had even poured himself a cup of coffee, and made his request. “Mornin’ Sally . . . I’d like to take a week off . . . the week of the 24th through the 28th.”

  She quickly checked her planner, then looked back to him. “That will be fine. There’s nothing going on that week that concerns you.”

  Woody nodded, “Thanks.”

  Smiling broadly she inquired, “Going on another one of your Sierra adventures?”

  “I sure am. This just might be my biggest adventure yet.”

  “So, what do you have planned?”

  “I’m heading north to the Desolation Wilderness. I hope to catch the damsel-fly hatch, which typically happens in late June at the lower elevations—that usually means really good trout fishing. And I would love to get into some good golden trout fishing too.” He reached in his portfolio, ripped the top page off his legal pad, and handed it to her. “Here’s my itinerary, just in case something happens.”

  She smiled at him and read the outline. “Desolation Wilderness trip on Pacific Crest Trail—June 2019. Starting point is Echo Lake on Saturday, June 22. Day one: stops at Aloha Lake and Heather Lake, camp at Susie Lake. Day two: up early, day hike down to Grass Lake and Glen Alpine Creek for brook trout, back in camp around dark. Day three: hike around Susie Lake, try stream above. Day four: hike to Gilmore Lake, make camp (hopefully catch a big laker). Day five: stay in area, fish Gilmore Lake and Half Moon Lake. Day six: hike to Dicks Lake, make camp, fish Fontanalis Lake and Dicks Lake. Day seven: stay in area. Day eight: hike to Velma Lakes and camp. Day nine: hike back out to the highway via the Eagle Lake Trail, hitch a ride back to my Jeep.”

  Sally looked up at the rugged gentleman, marveling, and said, “Wish I was going with you. I would love to learn to fly fish.” She sighed wistfully, “It’s been a long time since I went camping . . . the last time was when I spent the summer with my grandpa at his cabin in Oregon when I was twelve.”

  Woody was nonplussed. The tone of her voice, her eye contact, and her twosome comment made his heart skip a beat. But now was not the time to pursue romance. He was hitting the road soon and would never be coming back. In his anxious haste to avoid the awkwardness of dead-air time, he responded with the lame reply, “The local fly shop offers lessons.”

  Sally’s countenance cooled, and she reverted to her usual reserved demeanor, “Thanks . . . well . . . I should get back to work.”

  Woody turned and walked out, relieved that his vacation had been granted but annoyed with himself for his bumblings and bunglings when it came to Sally. In the past when she had seemed to show interest in him, he had ignored her clues, afraid of reading romantic interest into attention that may have been nothing more than friendliness. He recalled his old feelings of helplessness. I can read the woods . . . I can read a trout stream . . . but I can’t read Sally . . . she’s as mysterious as she is enchanting . . . I feel like a compass in an iron mine . . . no idea where I stand in relation to her.

  This time was different. He was certain that she was interested. And he had hurt her when he brushed her off with a line that suggested that he wasn’t interested. He felt stupid. Talk about poor timing and bad luck . . . oh well . . . nothing I can do about it . . . I am going . . . she is staying . . . our paths will probably never cross again . . . best to put it out of mind.

  61

  Caltech

  Monday, June 17 to Friday, June 21, 2019

  On Monday Woody wore his favorite fishing hat to work, its ragged fleece band sporting a few of his favorite patterns: an elk hair caddis, a stimulator, and a golden stonefly nymph. While his fishing spirit was dampened by the danger hanging over his head, he needed to put up a good front—as if nothing was out of the ordinary. His associates had come to expect that he would get into the fishing spirit in June with his first Sierra trip and that his enthusiasm would last until the last hatches in October.

  He kept this show up for the entir
e week. Tuesday, he brought his new tenkara rod and showed it off—a shortie-stick from Patagonia for small, brushy streams. Wednesday, he brought a collection of Japanese patterns, dry and wet. Thursday, he brought a dozen Russian patterns, including a massive mouse for Siberian taimen. And Friday, he brought smoked trout—his own apple wood and juniper berry mix—a treat which everyone appreciated.

  As he and his colleagues nibbled on trout, cheese, and crackers in the break room, he experienced a few waves of nostalgia. He was going to miss these folks—most of them at any rate. Sadly, he couldn’t say goodbye. That was hard. For a moment he had to fight back tears and a lump in his throat. Though he hated to admit it, sometimes he was just a little too sentimental for his own good.

  62

  South Lake Tahoe and Desolation Wilderness

  Friday, June 21 and Saturday, June 22, 2019

  Woody jumped into his Jeep after work and headed for Interstate 5 North. While he had gone straight from work to a camping trip before, this time was different—he wouldn’t be coming back. The blues visited him with a vengeance. It was sad . . . painful . . . to be leaving permanently . . . never to see his home again. Memories overwhelmed him like a flood. His only Christmas with Anne . . . her excitement over the antique crystal dove her grandmother had given her . . . watching her gingerly hang the dove in the tree. His daughter Katrina and her friends in junior and senior high school and in college. The informal Cahill Center get-togethers a twice a year at his house—when Sally loosened up and laughed infectiously after a couple glasses of wine. He was going to sorely miss the house and those who were part of it.