Skin in the Game

by D P Lyle

  He assumed he’d then be deployed with his unit. The military had other ideas.

  For the next year, he trained with the Navy Seals and Delta Force and learned hand-to-hand combat from a series of instructors, the most important being an Israeli IDF Krav Maga instructor. Krav Maga. A combination of boxing, wrestling, Karate, Judo, and old fashioned street fighting. It fit well with what he had learned from Uncle Albert, whose philosophy was that there was no such thing as a fair fight. The Marquess of Queensberry didn’t exist in his world. Anything and everything was in play. Knives, chairs, rocks, whatever. The only principle was to hit first, hit hard, and don’t stop until your opponent was down and out.

  Cain had no idea why the military put him through two years of this type of training and, true to the military, no one would tell him.

  Then he found out. In a military transport somewhere over Eastern Europe. Inbound to Afghanistan. It seemed they had a problem with a well-ensconced Taliban general. The mission lasted less than 48 hours and ended with Cain on a low-flying stealth copter weaving through rocky mountains toward a secure CIA base and the Taliban general sprawled in a pool of his own blood.

  For the next five years, Cain went on nearly two dozen other missions. If you can call sanctioned assassinations missions. Most in the dark of night, all requiring his unique abilities to get in, kill quietly, and get out without raising any alarms. Iraq, Afghanistan, even a couple in the heart of Beirut.

  Each was carried out by small squads. Cain was mostly hooked up with Seals or Delta Force, sometimes with Marine specialists. The CIA never far away. No records were generated; ever. No written orders. Just pack up and go.

  But just two weeks after his twenty-seventh birthday, Cain’s life changed. Dramatically. On several levels. A reunion. The end of a career.

  The hot desert wind buffeted the helicopter. The newest generation stealth version. They hugged the faceless terrain, invisible now in the moonless night. The pilot, a young Marine, relaxed, as if out for a routine training run. Cain sat in the back with two other Marines. Guy named Bart O’Keefe from Kentucky, and Mike Bolton, from the deep woods on Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.

  Their destination for this operation was some shit-hole village a few kilometers from Kandahar. Supposed to be mostly “friendlies,” but with those guys you never knew. The Afghanis you trained could turn on you when least expected. When they could do the most damage. Happened all the time.

  Cain had been added to the mission late in the game. Apparently things on the ground had morphed. The target a mullah, which always made things sticky, and could easily blow up into an international incident. But their target wasn’t really a mullah. No sign of God or Allah, or whoever, around this guy. Taliban all the way. A commander, a bomb maker, an intel guru, but not close to a man of the cloth.

  The problem? He had proved difficult to track, had changed locations weekly, if not daily. Each time he blipped up on the radar, he quickly vanished, making each window of opportunity a narrow sliver. Now he had ensconced himself in a fortified house. Two days now. The fear, of course, was that he’d pull up stakes and bolt. If he hadn’t already. But the latest intel said no.

  Only two ways into his hideaway. A firefight, or Cain doing what he did so well. The brass opted for the latter, so here he sat.

  The helicopter dropped Cain and his Marine escort in the desert two kilometers outside the village. It was nearly ten p.m. They worked their way through ravines and around towering sand dunes and ultimately into the bowels of the city. The so-called “safe house” was in a more residential area. They met four Navy Seals in the back room of a damaged and dusty structure.

  “Any problems?” one of the Seals asked.

  “No,” O’Keefe said. “All five by five.”

  The Seal in charge introduced himself to Cain. “Louis McNamara.”

  They shook hands.

  “Who’s the CIA dude running the op?” Cain asked.

  “McCoy.”

  “Where’s he at?”

  “She’s right here.” A woman’s voice.

  Cain turned. The world tilted. He couldn’t believe it.

  “Bobby Cain,” she said.

  “Harper?”

  She smiled. They embraced, holding each other tightly for what seemed like several minutes.

  Cain’s mind raced. He had not seen her since they were removed from juvie and packed off to their respective adoptive parents. Cain had been twelve; Harper thirteen. He honestly thought he’d never see her again.

  The Marines and Seals made nervous movements. Obviously, unsure what all this meant.

  He and Harper released their holds on each other.

  Harper said, “My brother.”

  “What?” McNamara asked.

  “Bobby Cain. My brother. We were raised together but haven’t seen each other since the family broke up. Fifteen years ago now.”

  Cain smiled. “Or was broken up.”

  She nodded. “True.”

  “So, how did you end up here?” Cain asked Harper.

  “Long story. And one for later. Right now we have a mission.” She shrugged. “Sorry you got dragged into it so late, but things here changed. The target moved to a more secure location. So, a change of plans.” She looked at Cain. “They said they were sending in someone with special skills. I didn’t know it was you until after you were airborne.” She shook her head. “The truth is I didn’t know you were in this line of work. Even that you were in the military.”

  “Speaking of long stories,” Cain said.

  “We’ll catch up later.” She nodded toward McNamara.

  He unfolded a map and a schematic of the compound, spreading each on a wobbly wooden table. He went over the plan. Cain listened, absorbed. Then they were off.

  The mission went well. Just after midnight. The guards, either asleep or drinking or smoking some of their own shit, left the target alone and vulnerable. Third floor of a ramshackle house on the western edge of town. Took all of fifteen minutes for Cain to slip inside the walls, scale the outside of the building, and take care of business.

  Then they returned to the safe house, where Harper waited. Nearly three hours to kill before their extraction copter was due. Two kilometers away, four a.m.

  The house where they were holed up was near the southern perimeter of the village. Rumor was the sector was populated by three hundred Marines, but Cain only saw a handful of them. Keeping a low profile until asked to do something high profile. Something bloody and deadly. Things they were good at.

  One of life’s basic truths is that everybody has a breaking point. An intersection of place and people and circumstances that tests their skills, judgement, and moral fiber. A series of events that forces a moment of decision. One that alters the trajectory of life.

  Cain’s came around two a.m. while he and Harper sat outside on a small enclosed porch, catching up. Harper’s naval career, entry into the secret world of the CIA. Cain’s training and black ops.

  They had listened to the rape for half an hour. The cries, the whimpers, the begging that are the same in any language. Just across the street, three doors up, a group of “friendlies” were having their way with a young girl. Cain wondered what part of Islamic dogma covered that. Of course, dogma was for the sheep, not the wolves. Been that way for millennia.

  Cain sat in a dark corner, knees drawn up. Every time silence fell he thought it was over. Either they had had their fun and moved on or the girl had died. But the begging and screaming always flared again. His nerves were like live wires. As if charged with pulses of electricity.

  McNamara stepped outside. He twisted his neck as if working out a kink. “Somebody should do something about that,” he said.

  Cain stood. “Someone is.”

  “You?” McNamara asked.

  Cain nodded. “I can’t let this go.”

  “I hear you.”

  Harper stood, brushing dust and sand from the rear of her pants. “This isn’t sanction
ed.”

  “I know,” Cain said.

  “You could end up before a court martial. Worse.”

  Cain shrugged. “I’ll worry about that later.”

  Harper smiled. “Good.”

  “So. You’re okay with this?”

  “This what? I don’t see anything.” She grabbed his arm. “I just wanted to make sure you were committed.”

  “I am.”

  “Me, too. I’m in.”

  Cain stared at her. “No. This is my deal.”

  She tightened her jaw. “No, it’s mine. I’m in charge.”

  “But like you said, this is off the books.”

  Harper shrugged. “Everything we do is off the books.”

  And it was settled.

  The house was dark, only an upstairs light on. The window open, the anguished cries spilling out. A guard stood just left of the front door, smoking a cigarette, his weapon propped against the wall.

  Cain and Harper made their way up a trash-strewn alley, cut between two houses, crossed the street, and crept back toward the house, approaching from the rear. Most of the houses they passed were dark, but how the occupants could sleep through the girl’s cries was a mystery. Maybe they were used it. And the occasional gunfire Cain could hear in the distance. Some Taliban dude firing into the air. Seemed they did that day and night.

  They crept along the side of the house to the front corner. The guard, his back to them, took a final pull from his cigarette and crushed the butt beneath one boot.

  Harper stepped into the open. Looked at the man. She said something to him in his native language. How did she know that? The man moved toward her. Eyes bright, a smile on his face. Harper had obviously propositioned him.

  Cain moved quickly. Clamping a hand on the man’s throat, squeezing him into silence, Cain dragged him around the corner. He struggled and kicked, but Cain’s grip only tightened. Cain took him down, on his left side, pinning the now terrified man against his chest, never relinquishing the pressure on his larynx. He smelled of sweat and fear. Cain easily sliced through his pants at the groin, severing his femoral artery, and held him tightly as his life ebbed away. Took less than five minutes.

  They entered through a rear door, finding the first floor unoccupied. At the top of the stairs, light and the girl’s whimpers tumbled through an open door. Cain slowly ascended, Harper behind and to his left. He grasped a throwing knife in each hand. He peeked round the door jamb. Two AKs leaned in the far corner. One bad guy stood, tucking in his shirt; a second, pants down, climbed on top of the girl.

  When Cain stepped through the doorway, the standing man looked up, eyes wide with surprise. A flick of Cain’s wrist and the blade entered the guy’s throat, just left of his trachea, puncturing the carotid on that side. He gasped, clutched at the knife, blood spouting between his fingers. His gaze locked on Cain for a second, then he collapsed. The guy on the girl twisted toward them, tried to rise. Harper’s silenced handgun spit a hole in his forehead. He collapsed on the girl. She screamed.

  Cain dragged the dead soldier off her and onto the floor. Harper said something in Arabic. The girl, now covered with blood, rolled from the bed, stood. Harper collected her clothing from the floor and handed them to her. She clutched them to her chest and bolted out the door.

  Cain, Harper, O’Keefe, Bolton, and three of the Seals reached the extraction point fifteen minutes early, the stealth copter five minutes later. They were quickly airborne. Them, their mission, no longer existed. They had never been there. The mission that bore no name never took place.

  When they reached the mountainous base, the CO was waiting for Cain. He took him in his office and delivered the worst news Cain had ever received.

  His parents in Tyler, Texas had been murdered.

  The funeral had been four days later, delayed so Cain and Harper could make their way from Afghanistan to Texas. Cain’s pass was a given; Harper had to plead and threaten to get hers.

  They each took a leave while Cain settled his parents’ estate, with Harper’s help. Along the way, decisions were reached and plans were made. Cain left the military; Harper, the CIA. His separation proved easier than hers, but in the end, they were again civilians.

  The police had three suspects in the slaying of his parents. Guys tied to the Sinaloa cartel. Drugs dealers, killers, very connected. And now in Mexico.

  They reached out to Mama B, their first of many collaborations. Mama B was also on the way out the door, winding down her four-decade career. She found the trio. Holed up in Juarez. A neighborhood of cheap stucco shit-boxes west of town. At one a.m., the street dark and quiet. But the trio had company. A pair of local prostitutes. Cain and Harper scaled the fence that encased the small backyard and settled along one side. A clear view through a dirty window. The party wound down around two. The girls, and they looked like just that—mid-teens as far as Cain could tell—finally slipped on their clothes, stuffed wads of pesos in their purses, and headed out. They watched as the pair giggled and staggered up the street, passing a bottle of tequila back and forth. Most likely their tip for services rendered.

  Juarez is one of the most dangerous cities in the world. A cartel war zone. As bad as any place Cain had encountered in the Middle East. So, when the bodies were found, throats sliced to the point of near decapitation, the Sinaloas had no doubt it was the work of the rival Zetas. Retribution was promised.

  CHAPTER 29

  As soon as they got back into the molasses that is Nashville traffic, Cain’s cell pinged an incoming text. Kelly Whitt. Cindy’s roommate:

  HAVE INFO ON ADAM. HEADING INTO CLASS. CALL ME AT 1 PM.

  They reached the condo before noon. While Harper unpacked her bag, flipped on the Keurig and made them coffee, Cain called Mama B and brought her up to date.

  “Let me guess,” she said. “Kessler wants this rectified.”

  Rectified. The perfect word. “Exactly.”

  “So we’re in full attack mode now?” Mama B asked.

  “You got it.”

  “One thing—does Kessler know I’m involved?”

  “No. I figure it’s best if he doesn’t,” Cain said.

  “I agree. I don’t think he’d have a problem but I appreciate being off the radar on this one.”

  “Of course, he probably suspects you’re lurking somewhere,” Cain said.

  “Lurking’s what I do best.”

  “I might have a line on Adam Parker.” Cain told her of Kelly’s text. “Hopefully later today.”

  “I’m going to send you a couple of things. A link with your pimp daddy contact info. What name do you want to use?”

  “William Faulkner.”

  “Always the jokester.”

  “And we’ll see how well educated he is.”

  “I love it. Simply send the link to his phone, it’ll add you to his contacts, and I’ll be inside.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I can tap his phone. Listen and record all his conversations and texts. Even if his phone’s off.”

  “That’ll help.”

  “The other thing is a link to the new site. Have him log on with his computer to see what you’re all about, check out your girls, that sort of thing, and I’ll be inside his motherboard. Same access.”

  “You’re amazing.”

  “That I am. There’re a dozen other ways I could access his electronics, but these will be easy and clean.”

  “I’ll get on it when I meet with him.”

  “Later.”

  Cain dropped on the sofa. He told Harper the plan.

  “So now we wait,” she said. “Any idea what Kelly has for us?”

  Cain shook his head. He checked his watch. 12:30. “Guess we’ll know soon.”

  Mama B’s email arrived. Cain checked it. He added William Faulkner to his own contacts so he could feed it to Adam Parker. He then bookmarked the URL for the site.

  At exactly one p.m., he called Kelly.

  “You got my text,” she said. “Good.�
��

  “Where are you?”

  “Just got back to my apartment.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “You better sit down.”

  “No. Please don’t tell me something’s happened to Cindy.”

  Cain sighed. “Unfortunately, something did happen. She was murdered.”

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who? How?”

  “Better you don’t know.”

  “But…”

  “Kelly, listen to me. We’re going to try to keep all this out of the public eye, for as long as we can. You might hear about the murder on the news but the victim will hopefully be unidentified. It’s Cindy, but we don’t want to create any hysteria. It’ll make the cop’s job harder. Mine, too.”

  Kelly broke down. Cain let her get it out, though hearing her anguish wasn’t easy.

  “I don’t understand any of this,” Kelly said.

  “You will. Later. But right now, this information can go no further. Understand?”

  Silence.

  “No one. Not another person. Okay?”

  “Jesus, this is so hard.”

  “I know. But you’ll be fine. It just takes time.”

  That was a lie. Kelly would never be fine again.

  “So, what news do you have?” Cain asked.

  Kelly sniffed, sighed, then said, “I started to call you this morning. Around nine. I saw Adam. At Starbucks. He was talking to a girl I sort of know. Not well, just to say hello. I managed to maneuver nearby so I could catch what they were talking about.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “No. The place was packed.”

  “Okay. What did you hear?”

  “Just a sec.”

  She covered the phone but Cain could hear her talking to someone. Muffled and not intelligible.

  “Sorry. A friend just invited me to a party later. I’m not sure I’m in the mood though.” Another sigh. “Adam was recruiting the girl. At least it seemed that way. It was a short conversation and I didn’t have time to call. The good news is that he’s meeting her again at four. At a place called Murphy’s. A local hang out.”