Damage Control

by John Gilstrap

  Inexplicably, Tristan found himself blushing. “That’s it,” he said. “I’m boring. I’m a geek. I’m the anti-you.”

  Scorpion laughed. “The anti-me? What does that mean?”

  Under different circumstances, the laughter might have been offensive, but in this case, Tristan kind of liked it. He’d planted the joke, after all. “Look at you,” he said. “Now look at me. Any questions?”

  Scorpion laughed again. Then he seemed to notice that he was laughing alone, and he turned serious. “Look,” he said. “I’m not going to bullshit you with a bunch of esteem-building nonsense, okay? I bet you have enough of that in your life. I’m really sorry about all your friends. I wish I could have done something for them.”

  Tristan looked away. He felt emotion pressing behind his eyes, and he didn’t need anybody to see that.

  “You know that there are bad folks in the world,” Scorpion went on. “You probably always knew that, but now you really know. Your best revenge is to come out on the other end of this alive.”

  “I can live with that,” Tristan said. He didn’t mean it as a pun, but once he heard it, and the chuckle that it elicited, he allowed himself a smile.

  “I bet you can,” Scorpion said.

  A minute or two passed in silence as they trudged on. Tristan pulled at his vest, trying to get it to sit comfortably.

  “How do you do this all the time?” Tristan asked. “How do you handle the stress?”

  Scorpion answered without dropping a beat. “Scotch,” he said. “But not just any scotch. Good scotch. You’re too young for it, but when you get older, remember the name Lagavulin. Doesn’t get any better than that.”

  Tristan smiled because he knew he was supposed to, but it had been a real question. Disinclined to ask it a second time, he stared ahead.

  “I don’t know if I can make you understand,” Scorpion said. “I tried to touch on it before. It’s not about stress for me. It’s about success. No matter how bad things look sometimes, there’s always a happy solution to be found somewhere. You just have to stay with it until you find it.”

  “But suppose you don’t?”

  “You always do. That’s the reality. If you’re willing to commit everything to finding the answer—and I mean everything, up to and including your life—then the answer will be found, even if it costs everything you were willing to risk.”

  Tristan scowled, not sure that he’d actually heard the words. “You mean, even if you die.”

  Scorpion nodded. “That’s exactly what I mean. I’m the first to admit that I’ve got a weird squint on the world, but the way I see it, the business of living is all about the living. Too many people devote their lives to not dying, even though none of us gets out of this experience alive. To me, that’s just squandering limited days on the planet.”

  The words clanged Tristan’s bullshit bell. He wanted to ask how Scorpion could get so used to killing people, but he didn’t know how to phrase it so it wouldn’t sound like an accusation.

  After a pause, Scorpion said, “Now, can I ask you a question?”

  Tristan shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Why did Bill Georgen and Bobby Cantrell back out of this trip at the last minute?”

  The specificity of the question startled him. “How do you know about Bill and Bobby?”

  “You don’t do what I do without a lot of research,” Scorpion said.

  “I don’t know,” Tristan said. “But it happened pretty quickly. I didn’t know they weren’t coming until just before we left. Lucky bastards.”

  “From what you could tell, were they looking forward to the trip?”

  Something tugged at the back of Tristan’s brain. “Why are you asking this?”

  “For exactly the reason you think I am,” Scorpion said.

  “You think they had something to do with this?”

  “Not them, necessarily. But maybe their parents.”

  Tristan knew that the very thought of such a thing should offend him. So, why didn’t it?

  When it became obvious that Scorpion was actually waiting for an answer, Tristan hedged, “I can’t say for certain. We weren’t exactly close.”

  “What did the chaperones tell you about them not coming?”

  Tristan shrugged. “Nothing, really. Just that they wouldn’t be.”

  “Surely someone must have asked.”

  “I guess I did, but Mrs. Charlton just said there was a change in plans. She seemed kind of pissed about it, actually. Something about having to change the numbers on a bunch of reservations. It didn’t seem all the important to me, but Mrs. Charlton is kind of a control freak. I mean, was.” Man, oh man, he was going to need some serious shrink time when all this was over.

  Tristan changed the subject. “So, am I right that the plan is to steal an airplane and sneak back into the United States?”

  “Um, no. Not exactly. There’s no way for us to just fly across the border. The United States doesn’t like airborne invasions. Especially these days. We have to pick up a passenger first, and then she’s going to smuggle us across the border.”

  The pieces didn’t fit in his head. “Aren’t we still wanted for murder? What happens when we get back?”

  Scorpion did a bobblehead thing with his neck. “That’s where it gets complicated,” he said. “This passenger we’re picking up has information that will clear your name. Actually, she’ll have information that will bring all these bastards to justice.”

  “What about your name?” Tristan asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said that this lady will clear my name. What about yours?”

  “Mine, too,” he said, but there was a sparkle that spoke of an inside joke.

  “How long?” Tristan asked. “You know, before we’re there? It’ll be dark soon”

  “We want it to be dark,” Scorpion said. “I’d say we’re about three miles out.”

  “Isn’t it easier to fly an airplane in the daytime?”

  “It is,” Scorpion said. “But it’s much easier to borrow them at night. Some people get nervous when you borrow their stuff without asking.”

  “That’s because the rest of the world calls it stealing,” Tristan said.

  Scorpion made a puffing sound. “We’re not going to keep it. We’re just going to use it for a few hours.”

  Tristan shook his head. “I’m pretty sure the law—”

  “Tristan.”

  Tristan blushed. “Oh. You knew that.”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  Tristan wanted to ask one more time if Scorpion thought everything would be all right, but he already knew what that answer would be.

  “What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get back home?” Scorpion asked.

  “Seek counseling.”

  “No, that might be the second thing. What’s the first thing?”

  He had no idea. “It’s like I haven’t allowed myself to think about that. Maybe for fear of jinxing it.”

  “Oh, you’ve got to think about home,” Scorpion said. “That’s where all the good stuff is. That’s where the reason to fight resides. No matter how intense the here and now is, you never want to lose sight of the goal. I can’t tell you the number of times the image of home has inspired me to take a step I didn’t think I was capable of taking.”

  “Where is your home?” Tristan asked.

  Scorpion waved the question away. “The where isn’t important. That it’s waiting for me is all that matters.”

  “Are you married?”

  Scorpion stared straight ahead. “For me, the first thing will be a shower. A long, hot shower. Long enough to drain the water heater.”

  Great dodge, Tristan didn’t say. “The scotch won’t be first? The Laga-whatever?”

  “Lagavulin,” Scorpion said, donning a pensive expression. “Good point. I might actually bring a wee dram into the shower with me.”

  Tristan cocked his head and couldn’t help but smile. This man
—this Scorpion—was such a contradiction. He’d seen him be so brutal, so ruthless, yet here he was chatting like a friendly neighbor. In the wash of the casual conversation, the weapons and the bloodstains somehow mattered less.

  This guy projected such confidence and so little fear that Tristan found it impossible not to be inspired by him. He wondered if this was what the real face of bravery looked like. It wasn’t about the swagger and tough talk that passed for manliness in the halls of his high school. The real thing was about understatement and the projection of calm in spite of whatever heart palpitations were hammering in your chest.

  You don’t get people to follow you by telling them what to do. You do it by being forthright and friendly.

  “Yeah,” Tristan said at length, “I think a shower will be first.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Trevor Munro lived an immaculate life. Where so many others in his profession had surrendered to the temptations of women and alcohol and overeating, his was a life of discipline. It was a point of pride.

  He’d written more than once in his diary that precise men lead precise lives, and precision translated to cleanliness and restraint. People could sense these traits in him. That was how he earned their trust. And once earned, that trust was never broken. Not by him. And if it was broken by others, then he made sure that they paid a heavy price for their betrayal.

  This business with Felix Hernandez was particularly troubling for him because Felix was convinced that Munro had betrayed him. That of course meant that Hernandez would be after his blood, but that was far less of a concern than the affront to Munro’s reputation. The record needed to be corrected.

  As he entered the mudroom through the garage door, he punched in the code to disarm the alarm, and then armed it again as soon as the door was closed. The light switch on his left illuminated a pathway into the kitchen. His was a world of white on black. The overhead lights sparkled against the polished white Sile-stone of the countertops, which blended perfectly with the white walls and the white cabinetry. Together, they provided stunning contrast against the gleaming black appliances and the black-stained walnut floors that he buffed to a high gloss every Sunday.

  He crossed through the kitchen to his den, which doubled as a home office on the occasions when he just couldn’t bring himself to make the drive from Reston to Langley, and laid his briefcase on the floor at the edge of his desk.

  The curtains and blinds were closed throughout the house, as they would remain until this terrible business in Mexico was resolved. Munro had received no specific intel that Hernandez had dispatched hit squads to the United States, but the man certainly had the resources to do so, and the temperament to make it happen. For the next few days, his would be the life of an undercover operator, reminding him of his early years with the Clandestine Service. He would stay away from windows, avoid prolonged exposure out in the open, and drive different routes to work, traveling at unpredictable hours.

  The point wasn’t to be bulletproof, but rather to make it as difficult as possible for the bad guys to execute whatever plan they might have. Evasion, then, combined with the protection that Sjogren’s people provided, should give him an edge until this mess stabilized.

  Should. Far from a guarantee, but perhaps that’s the way things should be. He was in charge of an operation that hadn’t gone well, and now pipers needed to be paid.

  As Munro reentered the kitchen, he turned on the broiler on the wall oven and then walked to the refrigerator to retrieve the filet mignon that he had set in there this morning to allow it to defrost. As he lifted it, he knew from touch alone that the six-ounce filet was ready to cook. It was exactly six ounces, too—306 calories—specially cut and packaged by the butcher at the Whole Foods up the street. Throw in a cup of corn at 183 calories, and he had a healthy meal that wouldn’t add an ounce to the reading on the scale. He hadn’t exceeded his budget of 1,750 calories a single time in the past ten years.

  Discipline and precision.

  He’d just removed the steak from its plastic wrapping when his BlackBerry buzzed on his hip—a phone call, number blocked. He answered it. “Mr. Abrams. Do you have a name for me, or are you just calling to pester?”

  “As much friggin’ fun as it is to pull your chain, Trev, I’m looking forward to the moment when I don’t have to chat you up at all anymore.”

  “At last,” Munro said. “We have found common ground. Do you have a name or not?”

  “Nope, no name,” Sjogren said. “But I do have a plan.”

  Munro’s heart skipped a beat. Finally, some progress.

  Sjogren continued, “My guy at the AG’s office says that they’re smuggling the snitch out of Mexico in the next day or two.”

  “Through where?”

  “He doesn’t know specifically, but somewhere in Ciudad Juárez.”

  Munro’s bubble of hope burst. “That’s hardly helpful,” he said. He pulled a package of corn from the freezer, then pulled a measuring cup from the cabinet over the stove.

  “I think it’s more helpful than you recognize,” Sjogren countered. “The only reason my guy knows what he knows is because the FBI is pulling strings from a really high level to grease the skids for this thing. What he told me was that the snitch isn’t coming alone. Specifically, she’s coming in with three fugitives. Does that ring any bells for you?”

  Munro sighed. Everything with this man was such a tug-of-war. Why couldn’t he just—

  “Did you say three fugitives?”

  “There you go, Trev,” Sjogren said with a laugh. “Now you’re catching on. Care to guess what the names of the fugitives are?”

  Hope bloomed again. Much larger than before. “Don’t toy with me, Mr. Abrams.”

  “I got a Tristan Wagner, a Leon Harris, and a Richard Lerner.”

  Munro coughed out a laugh before he could stop it. “I don’t understand how you can know the names of the fugitives and not know the names of the informer,” he said. “We need to know them all if we’re going to stop them.”

  “No, we don’t,” Sjogren argued. “All we need to do is find your commando buddies and follow them. They’ll take us to the snitch. Then all we have to do is take them all out.”

  “You say that as if it’s a simple thing to do. Have you any idea where Harris and his friends are?”

  “Actually, I do. They had a bit of a firefight. They won, of course. But they couldn’t have gotten very far because the Mexican Army is out in force, looking for them. They even know what vehicle to look for. I’ve already talked with the Army commander down there, and he’s ordering his troops to sight and follow.”

  “We can’t let them get through,” Munro said. The true ramifications of this new discovery hit him in a rush, eliciting an audible gasp. “My God, this means they know everything. We know they’ve connected the dots to the cathedral, and because they’re hooking up with this informer, that means they’ve connected it back to the drugs and Hernandez.”

  “That’s the way I see it,” Sjogren said. “But there’s light at the end of that tunnel, too, if you look hard enough for it. Apparently, they need this guy’s testimony to make any kind of case. Otherwise, they’d be all over Hernandez, and after that, they’d be all over you.”

  “You need to get a name,” Munro pressed. “We cannot wait for Harris to hook up with the informer. We need to take the informer out first.”

  “I don’t think anybody disagrees with you, Sport, but weren’t you listening? We don’t know who the hell she is. Your butt buddy’s got himself a hell of an operation down there. I imagine it could be any one of hundreds of people. It’s not like they’re salt-of-the-earth types like me and you.”

  Munro pulled the phone away from his ear and let it dangle by his side for a few seconds while he collected his thoughts. Part of having a disciplined mind was the ability to control the flow of information. This situation was at the proverbial tipping point, equally capable of going well for him or turning into a comp
lete catastrophe. Progress one way or the other would be entirely dependent on the decisions he made in the next few minutes.

  And then the decisions to be made after those. And after those. On and on for God only knew how long it would take. Munro needed to embrace this as a siege, not a—

  As a bell rang in his head, Munro brought the phone back to his ear.

  “—did you go? For God’s sake, Trev—”

  “I’m here,” Munro said. “I had to put you down so I could think. Tell me where this shootout was. The one the Harris and his team won.”

  “A few hours north of the exchange site,” Sjogren said. “North and east. I don’t have a name of the town. Hell, I don’t even know if there is a town. That’s still pretty remote country.”

  “So they were still in the jungles?”

  “Oh, hell yeah.”

  “And who was killed in the shootout?”

  “What, you want names?”

  Munro rolled his eyes. “Heaven forbid,” he said. “We all know that names are beyond you.”

  “Hey, screw you, Trev.”

  “Of course I don’t need names. I don’t know these people. But who were they? Bystanders? Local cops? Army?”

  “Oh, they were definitely Army. Why does that matter?”

  This is what happened when you’re forced to deal with people of inferior intellect. You had to explain everything. “It matters because Harris knows he’s being looked for. He knows that the Army is involved, and he may very well know that they will recognize his vehicle.”

  “How would he know that?”

  “I would assume, were I he, that the group who spotted them would have called it in on the radio. Isn’t that in fact how your Army friends know the identity of the vehicle?”

  Sjogren’s response was more guttural than verbal. Having some of his shit fed back to him apparently disagreed with him.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Munro pressed. “So, if they think that they’re being looked for, don’t you think they may take some countermeasures? Perhaps they’ve changed vehicles by now. Isn’t that what you would do?”