by John J. Rust
“Loaded Bases. It’s a sports bar and grill about three miles from my house.”
A few seconds of silence passed. “Okay. I programmed the name into the GPS. I should be there in about a half-hour.”
After Rastun said good-bye, he stared at the cell phone, his curiosity piqued. “Something worth his while.” Did Colonel Lipeli mean a job? Something to give him a new sense of purpose?
You can but hope.
He changed into slacks and a casual polo shirt before heading downstairs. He apologized to Mom and Dad, who’d gotten home a few minutes ago, for missing dinner. Neither seemed to mind when he told them about the phone call from Colonel Lipeli. In fact, both looked very happy and wished him luck.
When Rastun got to Loaded Bases, he waited near the front doors for Colonel Lipeli. At one point, two women around his age walked toward the entrance. He held the door open for them.
“Thank you,” they both said, the redhead smiling much wider at him than her dark-haired friend.
Rastun smiled back, admiring the woman’s slender figure and pretty face. She wore her hair straight and shoulder-length.
Just like his ex-fiancée Marie had.
He felt a sting in his chest as he let the door close. Marie. Being forced to leave the Rangers had been bad enough, but for her to do what she did to him . . .
Rastun grunted and shook his head. He hadn’t been with another woman since Marie.
Twenty minutes later, a burly, tan-skinned man with dark hair strode up to him, carrying a mini laptop.
“Captain.” Colonel Lipeli stuck out his free hand. “Good to see you again.”
Rastun resisted the urge to salute. “The Lip” was now just like him. A civilian.
“Likewise, sir.” He shook Lipeli’s hand. “It’s been a while.”
“That it has.”
The pair went inside, where a hostess in shorts, sneakers and a white and red baseball jersey led them to a booth. Most of the tables were filled, with dozens of different conversations going on. Everywhere he turned he saw TVs tuned to one baseball game or another.
After giving their orders to the waitress, Lipeli looked across the table at Rastun. “So, how’s life at the zoo?”
“I’d say it’s okay, but then you’d know I was lying.”
Lipeli nodded. “I can’t imagine being a rent-a-cop suits someone like you.”
“No it does not.” Rastun turned away for a second, letting out a slow breath. “Making the transition to civilian life hasn’t been easy. I’ve been out a year and I still don’t know what to do. I can’t see myself wearing a suit and tie, sitting at a desk and doing the same thing day after day.”
“A lot of ex-military go into law enforcement. Did you ever think about that?”
“I have. But remember how we used to complain about how the panty wastes in Washington kept handcuffing us in Iraq and Afghanistan? It’s probably a hundred times worse if you’re a cop.”
The waitress returned with their drinks, a Diet Coke for Lipeli and water for Rastun. When she left, he continued. “To be honest, sir, after all the stuff we did, I can’t find anything in the civilian world that’s as remotely challenging as being a Ranger.” He emitted a sardonic laugh. “Maybe I should have given more thought to life after the Army. Here’s to hindsight.”
Lipeli said nothing, just gave him a hard stare.
Rastun leaned back in his seat. “I guess this is where you tell me to quit feeling sorry for myself, get my head out of my ass and get on with my life.”
“Quit feeling sorry for yourself and get your head out of your ass.”
“Noted.”
“Good.” Lipeli opened the mini laptop and tapped a few keys. “Now, as for the getting on with your life part, I can help with that.”
He turned the laptop toward Rastun. The screen showed a logo featuring the silhouettes of an ape-like creature and a large serpent.
“The Foundation for Undocumented Biological Investigation? You work for them?”
“Started two weeks ago. I would have let everyone know, but I’ve been busy as hell moving from Georgia to Virginia and getting settled in.”
Rastun stared at his former CO, impressed. The FUBI had been formed less than a year ago, following the discovery of a living Sasquatch in California’s Klamath National Forest. “So what do you do for them?”
“I’m Director of Field Security Operations.”
“What, you keep the field researchers from getting eaten by Bigfoot and the Lake Champlain Monster?”
Lipeli grinned. “No. For the most part the cryptids haven’t been a problem. Hell, the Sasquatch are actually pretty shy. Our researchers usually can’t get more than thirty feet from them before they turn tail. Our main problem is poachers.”
Rastun felt anger lines form on his face. For someone who’d been around rare animals all his life, poachers ranked very high on his scum list.
“Ever since that hunter stumbled on that injured Sasquatch,” Lipeli said, “our field expeditions have found five Sasquatch colonies in California and Oregon. We also have leads on other colonies in Missouri, Ohio and Florida. Now that we know more about their habitat and behavior, it’s easier to find them. Because of that, poachers have shadowed some of our teams. A few have been threatened at gunpoint. We also had one woman raped and another researcher shot, not fatally, thank God. But these expeditions are unarmed and in a lot of cases, the nearest cop is fifty to a hundred miles away. I need someone to safeguard them, someone who’s experienced operating in all kinds of terrain and environments. Someone who can keep their head when everything goes to hell. Someone who can neutralize a threat when it pops up.”
“Someone like me.”
Lipeli nodded. “Captain, you were one of the best Rangers I had in my battalion. That, and your knowledge of animals, makes you perfect for this job.”
“I take it I’ll have something better to protect people than a set of keys and a whistle.”
“Standard issue for field security specialists are a Glock pistol and a Steyr AUG rifle.”
The choice for rifle surprised Rastun. The Austrian-made Steyr AUG was well over 30 years old. Still it was compact, lightweight and accurate. An all-around good rifle, despite its age.
“They seriously only gave you keys and a whistle at the zoo?” asked Lipeli.
Rastun snorted in disgust. “Yeah, we were really well-equipped if any serious shit ever went down. But I made up for it.”
“How?”
“You know that Black Ops tactical knife I had. The one my former platoon sergeant in the Eighty-Second gave me before I went to Ranger School?”
“Yeah.”
“I kept it hidden in an ankle holder. I wanted to have something I could use if anything serious ever happened.”
Lipeli smiled wide. “You always were prepared for anything. That’s why you’ll make a perfect field security specialist. So, are you interested?”
“What about Western Sahara? Is that going to cause any problems?”
“As far as anyone is concerned, you were honorably discharged from the Army. I don’t think we need to bring up some of the unpleasant details surrounding it.”
Rastun mulled it over. He had a chance to work far beyond the four walls of an office, to help with the discovery of creatures previously thought to be myths and to protect people. It may not be the Rangers, but it was probably the closest he’d ever get to it.
“Count me in, Colonel.”
“Terrific.” The two shook hands. “So when can you get started?”
“Yesterday.”
“I thought you’d say that.”
Their food arrived, a chicken teriyaki sandwich for Rastun and a cheeseburger for Lipeli.
“So,” Rastun picked up his sandwich. “Where do I need to be to crack some poacher skulls?”
“Actually, this time it’s the cryptid giving us problems, not the poachers, and you won’t have far to travel.”
Lipeli leaned forw
ard. “Better stock up on sunscreen, Captain. You’re going to the Jersey Shore.”
THREE
After six months of war, Piet was ready for a change of pace.
He downed the last of his Jack Daniels and gazed at the enormous, three-story ranch house before him. Hundreds of acres of rolling fields stretched in all directions. Here and there herds of cattle grazed.
Piet viewed it all from the comfort of a chauffeured town car, complete with a mini-bar in the backseat. A pleasant change from the tents, battered Land Rovers and government soldiers he put up with in the Central African Republic. He knew with this client he probably wouldn’t have to deal with people shooting at him. Not that he was skittish about bullets flying around him. That came with the territory. But long ago Piet decided he couldn’t keep jumping from conflict to conflict. The more wars you fought in, the more the odds increased that the bullet with your name on it would find you.
The town car pulled up to the house. The chauffeur opened the door for Piet. As soon as he got out, two men in dark suits and sunglasses approached. Both looked about Piet’s size, 6’1 and 210 pounds, all of it muscle. They also wore their hair in crew cuts, like him, except theirs was darker while his had grayed. Everything about them screamed ex-military, probably with special ops experience. His client only hired the best for his security detail.
“Arms out,” one of them ordered.
Piet complied. He’d gone through this routine on previous visits.
One guard ran a metal detector wand over him while the other patted him down. They found no weapons. Despite his best efforts, that nervous feeling scratched the back of his mind, the one he got when he wasn’t packing. He didn’t like going anywhere without a weapon. But a lot of these rich clients didn’t trust anyone, save for their bodyguards, to carry a gun or knife so close to them.
“You’re clean,” said one guard. “Follow me.”
The man led him into the foyer and ordered him to wait before heading back into the blazing Texas heat. Piet looked around the large living room, his eyes resting on the animal heads mounted on the wall, deer and elk mainly. Animals that were legal to hunt.
What his client really craved were the ones you couldn’t hunt legally. Tigers, mountain gorillas, Komodo dragons, rhinoceroses and many others. The client had contracted Piet on numerous occasions to bring in these endangered species, sometimes alive, sometimes dead, depending on his mood. A much easier task than ambushing soldiers, mainly because animals couldn’t shoot back. Sometimes, though, he’d run into environmentalists conducting research on his target. They were usually unarmed and abhorred violence.
Their noble beliefs hadn’t saved them.
The armed security patrols at the African wildlife preserves could present a challenge. But many of them didn’t have his level of training and experience, and certainly nowhere near his bank account. A bribe or a bullet usually took care of them.
Low risk, high reward. That’s what Piet liked about this client.
“Mister Piet?”
A petite blonde in a short skirt approached him. She looked to be in her mid-twenties and wore blood red lipstick and too much make-up on her heart-shaped face. It made her look like an expensive whore.
Not that he considered that a bad thing.
“I’m Piet.”
She gave him an alluring smile. “Mister Gunderson will see you now. Follow me, please.”
The woman, probably Gunderson’s personal assistant, turned and walked toward a long hallway. Piet followed, running his eyes over the woman’s hips and ass. He wondered if Gunderson was buggering her. He must be. Any boss who didn’t fuck a piece of ass like that had to be a fruit.
“You’re new here,” said Piet. “What’s your name?”
“Allison.”
“Allison. That’s a pretty name.”
“Thank you.” She flashed him a grin.
She led him up to the second floor and to a thick wooden door flanked by two bodyguards who could have been clones of the ones outside.
“Mister Piet for Mister Gunderson,” she told one of the bodyguards.
The man nodded and tapped a keypad on the door, making sure his back was to Piet so he couldn’t see what numbers he hit. He opened the door. Allison went inside, followed by Piet.
The office had brown wall-to-wall carpeting, with a polar bear pelt lying in front of a large mahogany desk. An aquarium sat in the left corner, with piranha swimming around. Glass cases throughout the room displayed many animals, including a bald eagle, a Bengal tiger and a clouded leopard, all stuffed and mounted.
This was the office where Norman Gunderson conducted his illegitimate business.
The man himself rose from behind the desk. Gunderson was just under six feet, with a compact, unsmiling face, a sizeable paunch and receding dark gray hair.
“Mister Gunderson. Mister Piet to see you.”
“Thank you, Allison.”
Piet noticed the lecherous smile on Gunderson’s face and the way his eyes fixed on Allison as she left the office.
Oh yeah. He’s fucking her.
When the door closed, Gunderson waved him to one of the leather chairs in front of his desk. “Good to see you again, Mister Piet,” he said without a trace of that cowboy accent that made Texans sound ridiculous.
“You too, Mister Gunderson.”
“Care for a bourbon?” Gunderson walked over to his wet bar.
“I would, thank you.”
Gunderson poured two fingers of the dark orange liquor into a pair of tumblers. He handed one to Piet and sipped from the other as he returned to his desk.
“So how was the Central African Republic?”
Piet took a gulp from his tumbler before answering. “Typical Third World shithole. But you have to go where the fighting is.”
“They’re still fighting there, last time I looked.”
“I fulfilled my contract. Showed the kaffirs how to ambush soldiers and police, kidnap VIPs and do interrogations. Now they can straighten out their own mess.”
Gunderson nodded. “I suppose one man can’t win a war by himself. Well, the task I have in mind for you shouldn’t be as unpleasant as your last one. It will probably be more profitable, too.”
Piet looked around at the endangered animals that decorated the office. “Let me guess. You want me to bring you a Bigfoot. Your country seems obsessed with that ugly bugger.”
“Sorry, but it’s not Bigfoot. One day, most definitely, but not today.”
“So what is it this time?”
Gunderson picked up his iPad. “Have you heard of Glenn Flynn?”
“Should I have?”
“He’s a wide receiver for Temple University’s football team in Philadelphia. That’s our kind of football, not yours.”
Piet grunted. Pussies played football. Real men, like him, played rugby.
Gunderson continued. “He was sailing along the Jersey Shore with some girl a couple of days ago. They both went missing.”
“I take it there’s a reason you’re so interested in a missing athlete and his whore.”
“There’s a very good reason I’m interested.” Gunderson tapped on his iPad. “Look at this.”
Piet’s brow furrowed when he saw an image of a serpentine neck ending in a long snout filled with razor sharp teeth. “This a clip from a horror movie?”
“That image came from the girl’s cell phone. The Coast Guard recovered it when they found the boat, which was covered in blood.”
“This thing ate them?”
“It appears so.”
Piet looked at the image again. “So what is it?”
“Your next job. I want that creature.”
Piet rested the iPad on his right leg and stared at Gunderson. “This isn’t like the other hunts you’ve sent me on, you know? It’s a lot harder to track an animal in the ocean than on land. Do you have a submarine I can use?”
Gunderson gave him a slight smile. “You don’t have to worry abou
t catching this creature, Mister Piet.”
“Come again?”
“The Foundation for Unidentified Biological Investigation is putting together an expedition to find it. All you have to do is shadow their activities. When they catch it, you hijack their boat and secure the creature for me.”
“Then what do I do with it?”
“I have a secret research facility on the East Coast. It will be brought there.”
“That could be a problem.” Piet took another gulp of his bourbon. “What if they get out an SOS? Even if they don’t, they’re certain to check in with their headquarters regularly. When they don’t hear from them, they’re going to send out search parties. There’s a good chance I’ll be spotted.”
“I’ve already planned for that contingency. I’m sending one of my research vessels, the Sea Sprite, to the area, ostensibly to determine if methane pockets under the Eastern Seaboard can be converted into an alternative energy source. When you’ve secured the FUBI vessel, you’ll rendezvous with the Sea Sprite and hand the creature over to them.”
“And the FUBI vessel?”
“Lost with all hands. I have no doubt you can arrange that. The Coast Guard will search for days with nothing to show for it, while the Sea Sprite slips away with no one the wiser.”
Piet stared out the thick, bulletproof window behind Gunderson, thinking. The plan was doable, but riskier than his previous hunts. Only one thing would convince him whether or not the job was worth taking.
“How much?”
“Four million.”
Piet’s eyes widened. That was triple the price Gunderson usually offered to bring back exotic animals. “You must really want this thing.”
“I do.”
Piet finished his bourbon. “What about the FUBI vessel? How many are on board?”
“Nine.” Gunderson motioned for Piet to give him back the iPad. “One of my contacts in the FUBI provided me with the files of all the expedition members.”
It didn’t surprise Piet that Gunderson had spies inside the FUBI. The man loved collecting rare animals, and the Foundation dealt with some of the rarest, most intriguing animals in the world.
