Mission Mayhem

by Michael Cross

  I look at the phone in confusion for a moment, then shake my head to clear it. I’ve been pacing my room, so excited about going to meet Jafi that I’m not thinking clearly. I’d completely forgotten about the burner she’d given me.

  “You there?” she asks.

  “Hey, yeah sorry,” I say. “I’m here.”

  “You okay?”

  “I’m good,” I tell her. “I just have a couple of things going on.”

  “Yeah? Anything you care to go on record about?”

  I laugh softly, recalling who it is exactly I’m talking to. I need to be careful about what I say around Publius; she’s a journalist first, whatever else she is to me second. Possibly even third. The point is, I can’t give away too much, or I’m going to find it splashed across the front page of the Call. And that would most definitely not fit with Temperance and Delta’s idea of laying low.

  “Not this time,” I tell her. “I was actually hoping you might have some information for me.”

  “You know, this is supposed to be a symbiotic relationship,” she teases. “You do know the meaning of symbiotic, don’t you?”

  “I’m going to have to look it up.”

  “Echo—”

  “Relax,” I tell her. “I’ll share with you when I get something worth sharing.”

  “I have a feeling a lot of what you’re doing is worth sharing,” she insists. “You’re just kind of stingy with the details.”

  “And yet, you always seem to have the details anyway.”

  “That’s because I’m damn good at what I do.”

  “So I’ve gathered,” I note.

  “Where are you today? Saudi Arabia? Syria? Pakistan?” she inquires.

  “Tucson.”

  “Arizona?”

  I chuckle. “Do you know of another Tucson?”

  There’s a long pause in the conversation, and I can all but hear the gears turning in her head.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “What are you doing there?”

  “I wish I could tell you that,” I reply. “But what’s going on with you? I can hear something in your voice.”

  “I scratch your back, you scratch mine,” she says.

  “If I can, I definitely will,” I tell her. “But I have to say up front that my reason for being here is classified. The circle is small, so I can’t give that up.”

  “Well then, what do you have to barter with?”

  “At the moment, half of a Starbucks white chocolate mocha, and a pack of gum?”

  “Wow,” she laughs. “Hard bargain.”

  “Honestly, I don’t really know what I’m doing here,” I admit. “I don’t know if I can do the job I was tasked with, which is why I’m hoping you can help me out.”

  “Can you tell me who you’re looking at?”

  Leaning against the wall next to the window, I pull back the curtain and glance out at the pool a couple of floors below. There are a few people laying out and a couple more in the pool, taking advantage of the morning sun of what is probably going to be a hot afternoon.

  “I can’t give you op specifics,” I tell her.

  “I don’t expect you to give me specifics,” she says. “I know how this game works.”

  I sigh and run my fingertip down the window. How much can I tell her? How much should I tell her? I purse my lips and nod as I come to a decision in my mind. The only way this comes back to bite me is if it breaks before I finish with McGregor. I don’t want him tipped off that he’s being looked at. If it all works out and I take him out, if the story breaks afterward, it’s not going to matter.

  Journalists will be lining up to take a pound of flesh out of his corpse, digging deep to find his darkest secrets or anything they can use to tarnish the man’s reputation. Seems like when somebody of note dies, there are some journalists who want to shine a light on the worst parts of a person. Slaughtering the sacred cow seems to be the American way.

  “I need your word that none of this leaks until I’m done with my op here,” I tell her. “I really need you to keep a lid on this until I’m safely out of town.”

  “You have my word.”

  Given my current state of not knowing much of anything, I don’t trust people who tell me I can trust them. It’s cynical and strange, I know. But I prefer to watch a person’s actions rather than listen to their words. And everything Publius has done to this point has made me believe I can trust her. So far as I can tell, she’s a straight shooter.

  “I’m in town looking at Ellis McGregor,” I admit.

  “The DEA Chief?” she asks.

  “Mmmm hmmmm,” I confirm.

  “It’s about damn time somebody did something about him,” she mutters.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The man is in bed with the Vargas cartel,” she says. “He looks the other way when loads of drugs, guns, and women are trafficked across the border. Makes a very nice living doing what he’s doing.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “A couple of years ago, I did a piece on the sex trafficking trade. I spoke to a few women who escaped a ring,” she explains. “And both of them told me they were taken in Sonora, brought across the border, and into Tucson where they were turned out and sold.”

  “But how do you know McGregor was involved?”

  “According to both of them, it was McGregor who got the first crack at them when they arrived in Tucson,” she replies smoothly. “I didn’t even know who the guy was before that, Echo. But I sure as hell kept tabs on him after that.”

  If true, that’s really all I need to hear. Like I keep saying, being on the take is one thing. If he’s taking cash from the cartels, he’s a scumbag and should be dealt with. But it’s nothing a thousand other cops and border agents aren’t doing. And I’m certainly not going to go around and kill them all for that.

  But the idea that he’s not only helping human traffickers bring women into the country illegally but is using them the same as any other john would, is a whole different animal. That is definitely worth putting a bullet in the man for.

  “So you’re sure McGregor is in bed with the cartel,” I state.

  “One hundred percent,” she replies. “In fact, I thought that’s why you were in Tucson.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have a contact inside the cartel who says Javier Vargas is in Tucson,” she says. “Or he will be soon. He’s supposed to meet with McGregor.”

  “How in the hell did you get a contact inside the cartel?”

  “I’m just that good,” she offers.

  “Apparently so,” I note. “What’s the meeting about?”

  “Business, I assume,” she tells me. “The important point is that they are both going to be in town while you’re there. You can get the goods on both of them.”

  Or I can put a bullet in both of them. Vargas isn’t part of my op specifics, but I doubt Delta or Temperance would care too much if I took out the head of a vicious cartel and shut down a major pipeline for guns, drugs, and women.

  “Can your sources get you any specifics?” I ask. “The time and place of the meet maybe?”

  “I can try,” she says slowly. “My contact is on the other side of the border though, so they may not have the most current information.”

  “I’ll take whatever I can get.”

  “And you’ll give me a story when it’s done?”

  “As much as I can,” I tell her. “I give you my word.”

  “Fair enough,” she replies. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Chapter Nine

  Still buzzing after my conversation with Publius, I make my way from the hotel to the computer repair shop where Bahiri—Jafi—works, feeling positively upbeat. Not only are my memories starting to emerge, but I have a solid lead to follow, and I’m starting to feel more settled about this op. If Publius’ intel pans out, I’m okay with the greenlight order.

  As the thought passes thr
ough my mind, I shake my head. I sound so blasé about taking a man’s life. I know some would think me a monster. And it slightly troubles me that I don’t see myself the same way. I mean, I recognize that taking a life isn’t something to be glib about.

  At the same time, I do it to save lives. They hurt others and do damage to this world simply by existing. When I pull the trigger, I’m taking evil out of this world. I’m protecting others and saving lives. Surely that has to matter. That has to count for something. Right?

  But still, the fact that I’m okay with taking them out should be more disturbing to me than it is. Shouldn’t it? I wonder if I’ve always been this way. If I’ve always been okay with killing somebody I deem to be a ‘bad guy’. Or is this a side effect of my coma? I wonder if while I was out, something shifted in my brain chemistry, or if something in my soul withered, causing my sense of justice to intensify. It makes me wonder if being in a coma so long turned me into a sociopath.

  Honestly, I don’t know. All I know right now is that I feel like I’m making the world a better place. I’m protecting and safeguarding people against those who would do them harm. Those who would make this world far worse and far less safe. The needs of the many, in my mind, will always outweigh the needs of the few.

  I pull into the parking lot just down the street from the computer shop and find an unobtrusive spot where I can observe his car. I sit behind the wheel and silently debate with myself for a moment. Although that memory ended on a positive note, I have no idea what happened after that. I have no idea if I step into the shop whether Jafi is going to freak out or not. The last thing I want to do is cause a scene. And I would rather not tip Jafi off that I’m here. I’d rather maintain the element of surprise.

  So I wait. Roasting in my car for two hours in the searing Arizona sun. But as the sun starts slipping toward the horizon, Jafi comes out. He’s alone, thankfully, his fellow pothead nowhere to be seen. He drops into his car and starts to pull out. I start my car and give him a slight cushion before pulling out into traffic behind him. I follow him through town, keeping a safe distance. I want to see his living situation before I make a move on him one way or the other.

  He pulls up outside a small bungalow on a residential street and gets out of his car. His front yard is surrounded by a waist-high picket fence—although it’s missing quite a few of the pickets. It’s mostly dirt, overgrown weeds, and scrub brush. The bungalow is made of a fading yellow stucco and has a red tile roof that’s cracked and missing a few tiles.

  His front windows are dirty, and cardboard is taped over a few of the panes where the glass is obviously missing. The stucco is cracked, and the garage door is sagging on its hinges. The whole place is in a state of disrepair.

  I sit at the curb across from his house and take in the neighborhood. Most of the homes are on the smaller side, but they seem to be kept up pretty well. The paint on the other houses looks relatively fresh, they don’t have busted out windows, and seem to be in a general state of good repair. Jafi’s house is the outlier. It seems to be the only one on the street that looks like it’s about to fall apart.

  I raise a small pair of binoculars I keep in the glove box and peer through the curtainless front windows, spying the massive flatscreen TV in the living room. I watch as he flips it on and flops down on the sofa, immediately lighting a bong and taking a deep pull from it. So judging by what I see, it’s not a matter of not having the money to fix his place up, it’s simply a matter of laziness.

  “Way to have some pride in your home, man,” I mutter.

  I hunker down in the seat and pull a ballcap from the back seat, slipping it onto my head and pulling it low. I keep an eye on the neighborhood around me to make sure I’m not drawing any undue attention. I sit and wait, watching the house. Nobody comes, and nobody goes for the next couple of hours, and I decide that he lives alone. No wife, no kids, just Jafi and his bong.

  I can’t believe that when I helped him escape from whatever it was he was running from and set him up in this new life and identity that this is what I expected from him. I can’t believe I thought he’d lead the life of a burnout with his new lease on life. But hell, what do I know? Maybe he was this way before. It’s not like I know one way or the other.

  With the moon climbing into the darkness above, I slip out of the car, glad to be on my feet and moving again. Taking one more look up and down the street, I don’t see anybody out and about. Nor do I feel eyes on me. The street is so quiet, so far as I can tell, Jafi and I are the only two people in the world.

  Pulling my hat a bit lower, I walk across the street. Time to get some answers.

  Chapter Ten

  I creep down the side yard, moving as quietly as I can among the shadows. It’s not easy to do when the dry dirt and gravel are crunching loudly beneath my boots. I glance in the windows as I go and see Jafi still sprawled out on his couch, his TV remote in one hand, his bong in the other. Shaking my head, I continue on and make it to the rear of his bungalow without incident.

  Reaching out, I turn the doorknob, and when I find it unlocked, give the door a light push inward. It creaks on its hinges and bumps softly against the wall behind it. Stepping across the threshold, I move silently through the darkened interior of the house, careful to avoid the piles of clothes and garbage that are strewn about.

  There are dishes piled high in the sink and empty pizza boxes, thick with grease and bits of the toppings stuck to the tops, are stacked on the counters, three and four high. The air inside the bungalow is sour with garbage and thick with the smell of pot. I personally can’t believe anybody could let themselves live this way.

  The sound of a laugh track from the television echoes into the kitchen. A moment later, I hear Jafi laughing along with it. It’s that baked out of his mind stoner laugh, and all I can do is shake my head at him. I step through the archway from the kitchen and into the living room. He turns and gives me a smile, his eyelids at half-mast.

  “What’s up, dude?” he asks, his voice slow, tinged with a Middle Eastern accent. “Grab me some pizza from the kitchen, yeah?”

  “Bahiri Marwat,” I say. “Now known as Jafi Zaidi.”

  He sits up straight as his eyes open wide. I can see the fear coursing through him, his face paling. Nothing like a good shot of terror to sober you right up. He looks at me for a moment, trying to place my face. No doubt he’s burned through so many brain cells smoking the amount of dope he does, he doesn’t recognize me right off.

  But as he looks at me, I see the light of realization dawn on his face, and he’s on his feet a moment later. He nearly trips over himself, grabbing the armrest of the sofa, but he looks fully aware. Or at least, aware enough to push through the haze and focus on the situation at hand. Focus on me.

  “Dude. You’re the guy,” he gasps. “Duncan—Duncan—something or other.”

  The name doesn’t ring the slightest bell of recognition inside of me. No doubt, one of my cover IDs from my past life. But if he knows me as Duncan, then Duncan I will be. As he stares at me, I see an expression of absolute horror cross his face.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you,” I reply. “I have some questions I need you to answer.”

  “A—am I in danger?” he asks. “D—did they find out where I am? Are they comin’ after me?”

  I slide my hands into my pockets and relax my shoulders, doing my best to convey an air of calm reassurance.

  “Nobody’s coming after you, Jafi,” I tell him. “I’m only here because I need your help. This is all strictly personal. Nothing to do with anything else.”

  “You came all the way out here to ask me a question?”

  “I was actually in the area and happened to recognize you,” I say.

  He cocks his head and looks at me, his eyes glassy, and a look of relief on his face. He swallows hard and does his best to look sober and in command of all of his faculties. Which he clearly is not.

  “You need my help?�
�

  I nod. “I do.”

  He nods eagerly. “Anything, man,” he says. “You saved my life. Gave me a new life. Just name it.”

  “Well, first, I need you sober, Jafi,” I tell him. “I need your head totally clear.”

  “Sure man, I’m straight,” he nods. “I’m good.”

  I arch an eyebrow at him. “You’re definitely not straight right now, Jafi.”

  “No, seriously,” he argues. “I’m good. What’s going on? Tell me what you need from me, man.”

  I debate with myself for a moment, not sure that I can trust his self-assessment, but wanting to get some answers so bad, part of me doesn’t care that he’s higher than the proverbial kite. I figure if he’s too loopy or going too far afield, I can always wait until he’s sober again. But maybe he’ll be coherent enough to tell me what I want to know. What I need to know.

  I give him a nod and sit down on a tall barstool off by itself in the corner. He drops back down onto the couch and quickly gathers up his bong.

  “Sorry, um,” he says, barely suppressing a chuckle, “just give me a minute.”

  He carries it off to another room, barely stopping himself from tripping over random shoes in the hallway and other things strewn about. He patters over to the bathroom and splashes water into his face. After a few seconds, he emerges, but the sound of the running water still rings through the house.

  “You forgot the sink, Jafi.”

  Jafi bursts into a fit of giggles. “Right. Right, right, right, right, right, right, sorry. Right.”

  He turns around, turns off the faucet, and makes his way back to the living room. He settles back against the couch and looks at me expectantly.

  I take a breath and let it out again, my stomach churning wildly. I’ve wanted answers for so long, and now I’m on the verge of some. Not that I expect him to be able to give me all the answers to my life, but I need to start somewhere. And I’m holding onto the hope that filling in this blank spot will lead to a chain reaction. Even though I know it’s not smart to bank your hopes on a pothead, I’m holding onto that hope tightly anyway.