Mathew and Steve started making calls. Some technical FBI agents arrived to beef up their communications gear. By midnight, Steve was on a Bubird on his way south. Sometime in the next 24 hours, the team would move in. The local FBI sent another agent over who would take up residence in a van outside the house. Ivy went into work, expecting to take the next day off or however long it took for Steve’s mission to be over. She was so worried that Steve could be killed the next day, leaving only memories in her devastated heart. Here she was an ordinary female executive embroiled in an international drug raid. As the old adage says, sometimes you should be careful what you wish for -- Ivy wanted a man of action in her life and she certainly had one.
***
Steve arranged to have Mathew and Ivy patched in shortly before he boarded the helicopter to take off for the yacht. The call came in at three Pacific the next morning, with Steve and the team planning to depart right before dawn. Mathew had on Steve's headpiece and microphone. Ivy had sound only -- even she could see that it would be best for her not to be able to speak, scream or cry into a microphone, depending on what happened.
Ivy and Mathew had communications with both Steve and Brian. Moll was also with the team, but not plugged in to their communications. They could hear the officer on the Navy vessel who they referred to only as “Captain”. Ivy found it nerve-wracking to hear the hissing interactions at the same time that Steve heard them. Steve made the initial contact and then put them on mute, only switching on the sound when the helicopter took off from the nearby naval craft. All too soon, it seemed to Ivy, they were up and heading to Isla Holbox, a low-key fishing and tourist island off the eastern coast of Mexico near Cancun. The team was mostly silent. The noise of the rotors droned on. Everything was so real, yet it was like being part of a movie. Ivy could see it clearly in her head as a movie done in black and white, everything dim and eerie in the predawn gloaming.
"Target at two o'clock."
"Roger."
"Jump time in three minutes."
Ivy could hear movement, gear being snapped, feet shuffling.
"Commencing count down."
Ivy visualized the chopper sinking low, then hovering with the Navy Seals and the FBI agents lined up to kick off and rappel down. She could picture Steve having to bend over to clear the doorway. Her shoulder muscles clenched tighter when she hunched forward, listening intently. She gripped the arms of her chair feeling as if she were going out of the helicopter with Steve.
They heard rapid counting as each team member rappelled out. Steve gave an "oof "into the microphone when he kicked off and Brian made what sounded like a growl of anticipation. Could they really control the lines well enough to land on the yacht? Ivy's heart was pounding in her chest as they waited for an update. Mathew gripped the edge of the desk, leaning forward in anticipation. A whump and then a muffled, "Fuck" let them know Steve landed. They heard feet running stealthily and then a "Holy Shit" from Steve.
"Report," barked the Captain’s voice.
"Target surface deserted." Steve's voice was tight with tension. "Seals heading for the cabin and the bridge.”
“Anyone in sight?”
“The undercover. Dead and strapped to the mast. Hold on."
A second passed. Two seconds. Three seconds. Mathew and Ivy each leaned forward, trying to catch any sounds that would tell them what was happening.
Finally they heard Steve yelling, "Abort. Abort Agents. Abort Seals. Abort. It's a trap!"
Feet thudding. Splashes. Steve yelling at the Seal leader to abort.
Another splash. And then another, "Fuck".
"Steve, jump." Mathew yelled into his headset.
They heard a series of explosions, one echoing after the other, loud splashes, and then some sloshing. Ivy was on the edge of her chair, fear for Steve surrounding her heart, listening intently.
The Captain repeatedly demanded an update. "Report. Report. Report."
For Ivy the waiting seemed to go on far longer than it should. Had none of them made it safely away? Where was Steve? Where was Brian?
Again the Captain came on. “Are you there? Report.”
Brian came on, his voice faltering, making him restart twice before he could speak clearly. "Agents all in the water, sir. I have one with a dislocated shoulder -- thrown overboard. Two Seals here too that I can see. Maybe more behind some debris and smoke. Shit’s on fire all around us, uh, sir."
Mathew went on then. "Steve, where the hell is Steve?"
Brian gave a choked, stressed laugh and said, "He has water in his headset."
They heard a lot of splashing and then a blast of air blown into the mouthpiece.
"Nielsen here. Fuck, I was reporting in. Nothing was transmitting. Can't you give us waterproof headsets?"
"Damages?"
"Vessel destroyed. Damn pricks must have set charges to go off when the door to the cabin area opened. Two Seals likely dead. They failed to jump when I shouted to abort. They were heading down into the cabin. I think that's what set off the charge."
After a long silence, the Captain asked, "What tipped you off besides the dead undercover?"
"The boat wasn't in the best shape -- not what this kind of drug lord would have as his yacht. He would have it spic and span. Real flash."
"Good work, Nielsen. While this was bad, the situation could have been a whole lot worse. Swim around to see if you can find those two missing Seals. Pickup should be in about five minutes. Anything to salvage from the vessel?"
"Bits and pieces. That shit was flying all around; parts of it are still on fire, floating in the water. I hear a siren. Likely the water police are coming out of Cancun."
"We just alerted them."
They could hear swimming, and then some muffled words, a yell of pain and a distant "son of a bitch". Steve must have reached Brian and was helping to hold up the injured agent.
Brian came back on. "Agent's shoulder is back in place, sir."
Steve gave a gruff, "Sorry Stanford."
"You save my life and you worry about hurting my damn arm?" They heard what sounded like Moll in the background.
Then silence, until Steve spoke quietly, "Ivy, one of your angels was riding on my shoulder."
Tears welled up in Ivy’s eyes, spilled over and ran down her cheeks. Steve understood that while she was not religious, she did like the concept of angels. That mission was nearly a disaster for Steve and everyone else. Ivy was not cut out for this kind of action and she was safely sitting in her home, thousands of miles away. How did Steve do it?
Mathew spoke quietly into his headset, "We are all thankful for that."
He pushed away his microphone and sagged back in his chair. "Believe it or not, it's easier to be on the ground than to monitor the action remotely. Thank god for Steve and his sixth sense, deducing trouble from small signs. That poor agent. Felipe was his name, though he went by Phil. I worked with him a few years ago on another drug case. Family was from Puerto Rico. Great guy -- gung ho on our country and on his work with the DEA. Awful way to die. Damn, damn, damn."
"And those Navy Seals. Likely not too old. Maybe they signed up for it, but so wrong, so awful."
Ivy felt drained, though her heart was humming, "Steve's okay. Steve's okay. He saved most of the team. He saved Brian and Moll. Steve's okay."
Mathew and Ivy sat silently, their energy too sapped by the chain of events to move. They listened to the communications until Steve landed on board the Navy vessel and went off for debriefing. Mathew struggled to his feet, leaning on his cane. They dragged themselves like two worn soldiers to the kitchen where Ivy began to make an early breakfast, thinking that Steve would call when he could.
***
Late that afternoon, Mathew selected a varietal burgundy from the Joseph Drouhin vineyard in the Burgundy region of France, opened it, poured a glass and held it up to the light.
"Good color, rather a ruby red," he murmured to himself. He twirled the glass, inhaled, tasted and sm
iled in appreciation. "To produce a wine that will delight whoever is lucky enough to drink it, would be a worthy achievement."
"Why don't you?" Ivy asked hearing the admiring tone of his voice.
"Oh sure, with the work demands I have and this bum leg?"
"The leg will continue to improve. You can hire out the running of the vineyard."
"What would the sense be in that?" he retorted peevishly.
Mathew moved into the kitchen where Ivy was grinding a mix of red, white, green and black peppercorns and then pink sea salt onto some bone-in chicken breasts marinated in lemon, garlic, rosemary and olive oil. He regarded Ivy sulkily.
"Ivy, I don't want to go back to the Bureau, even if my leg fully recovers," he blurted out. "I can't figure out how to tell Steve -- too hard, like deserting him."
She nodded. "So that's what has been on your mind these past weeks. Maybe Steve isn't so sure of things himself these days. He hasn't talked about it, but he has been moodier."
"What should I do?"
"Wait and heal. One day, the time will be right to discuss it with him. Are you thinking of opening a vineyard?"
"Stupid to even think about it."
"Not necessarily. I have an acquaintance who is the owner of a large vineyard that started as a hobby and grew to a successful enterprise. I could see if he will talk with you."
"Thanks."
Ivy thought for a bit, trying to think of other ways to help Mathew. "I remember a special on our OPB TV station that had interviews with the growers in Oregon who started the wine industry here. You ought to do a search for it and watch it. Those folks had a notion that Oregon could produce good wines. Hearing their stories might give you more confidence."
His face showed that he was not encouraged.
"Mathew, you're smart, hardworking, and good at research. You have money from your Dad to invest for the startup. As long as your heart is in it, why not?"
"Thanks, Ivy. Times like these, I wish you had a younger sister."
"Someone is out there for you."
He smiled sadly. "She'll have to like a cripple."
"Oh com'on, limps and canes can be both distinguished and sexy to a woman," Ivy said as she opened the oven door to slide the roasting pan onto the rack.
"Oh sure, right up there with fat old men in tweeds." The glimmer of enthusiasm that appeared when he talked about the vineyard was gone. His expression was glum; he even slouched over.
"That's it, Mathew." Ivy closed the oven door with a little bang and whirled around to face him, hands on her hips. "From this day forward, you are not to act sorry for yourself or have that hangdog, depressed expression. You are still relatively young, you are handsome, and you have laughing eyes that could seduce the panties off any woman you chose. Most importantly, you are capable of doing so much with your life. To spend it morosely, acting as if your life is over, is simply not acceptable."
She turned and started chopping some spinach with more vigor than usual.
"Jeez-Louise." Mathew stared at Ivy in surprise. He limped past her and went out on the deck. Once out there, Ivy heard the first real laugh out of him since he had come to stay. He took an appreciative sip of his wine and stood there -- a man who had a little hope scolded into him.
Chapter 11
That evening, Steve sat on the Bubird that would take him back to Ivy, Mathew and Portland. Even though he would arrive late, he needed to bury himself in Ivy's reassuring embrace. It amazed him how quickly he had become dependent on her. He remembered that night by the fire after the child trafficking case, when she had so gently comforted him and listened without pressing him. While he was tired and he often slept fitfully on flights, today with his nerves jangled from that awful mission, he was glad for the time to sit back and reflect.
He had perceived a couple of years ago that his edge started eroding, haunting him on the last four field missions. His reactions were no longer what they had been. At first he thought he had become soft; he trained harder. He was stronger; he felt fit. Again on the job a year later, he could tell that his reactions were not what they had been. If not for his great teams, he could have been in trouble. While he worked hard to mask it, he was aware of a gradual slippage in his edge. As an agent, he should have retired at 57. However each year he had been extended. He was beginning to see why the FBI has chosen to push older agents out, especially high mileage ones like himself.
Until Steve met Ivy, retirement scared the bejesus out of him. While leaving the Bureau still worried him, he could envision a life with Ivy. He saw a warm home. He pictured the inspiring image of Mt. Hood. He could see Mathew with them for as long as he wanted to hang around. Steve had a foretaste of a place where he could be happy. Moreover these weeks with Ivy, taking care of Mathew and now living in and working out of her house, had been so fulfilling that he had to continue seeing her every day.
What he had not talked about with Ivy was how much the excitement of the hunt was a part of him. The complex cases were like giant multi-dimensional puzzles with lots of layers and moving parts. Figuring the puzzle out, learning how to out-think its evil makers and then shutting down a dastardly operation were all are so stimulating. The ultimate goal to make the world a better place, or at least save it from deteriorating into a worse one, drove him. Moreover he was accustomed to living on adrenalin surges. While he still craved the feeling of power they gave him, now the adrenalin from the hunt left him sick in its aftermath. That was the way he was now, wanting only to get home to Ivy.
He glanced out at the clouds drifting under the plane. The child in him still liked to see big puffy clouds moving merrily along. They were flying into the setting sun and would have light for some hours as they passed through time zones heading west. No matter that he had flown more than a thousand times, he still found the experience refreshing.
On this mission, Steve should have called to abort the action sooner. Once his eyes fixed on that dead undercover, he froze in place. He never froze. None of the hellish things he had seen in his career had paralyzed him. Yet today he lost all consciousness that he needed to move, to see and to run the damn operation. While it was only for a second or two, when the timeline is in sub-seconds, each moment becomes mission-critical; each moment could make the difference between life and death and between success and failure. He could still see a snapshot of the scene in his mind, frozen in time with the edges jaggedly distorted by diffracted light from the water.
Standing there, Steve had heard a voice in his head. The voice was Ivy's, whispering, "Look at the yacht." It was enough to break him out of that trance. He saw the neglected deck, sensed it was a trap and yelled to abort. That is why he told Ivy one of her angels was on his shoulder. He did not understand how her senses were with him, maybe only a murmur in his subconscious to survive because now he had so much to live for. Had it not been for those whispered words, his yell would have come too late or not at all.
He understood that his field days needed to be over. He wanted to arrest this perp and destroy his drug-based empire. He wanted to be there to shield Brian. Yet he almost got them all killed. As it was, two Seals died. The leader of the Seal unit resented having to report to an FBI agent. Steve thought that was why he kept going when he heard the command to abort. He wanted to show that Steve was only a panicky old man of an agent who had called to abandon ship precipitately.
Steve had recognized his physical deterioration and was too stubborn and scared to face it. Now that Ivy was in his life, he was less afraid and that eased his natural obstinacy. He understood that he could be stubborn, particularly when challenged or apprehensive. His challenge now was to figure out how to spend his days. He needed ways to keep his brain busy, because he feared that if it did not have challenges, it would become neurotic or even paranoid. He had seen agents become like that. He was afraid that all the badness he had seen would collect like too much street litter and blow around in his mind until it drove him insane. Work had let him put the bad st
uff away, locked in file drawers in his brain. What if those locks broke down? What if boredom drove him to examine that litter? Seeing those bad memories collectively would be to wade in a quagmire that could be overwhelming.
Determining what to do with his life would be his number one challenge. Ivy was defining a retirement life for herself. He did not want to become so dependent that he stifled her. He had to delineate a life for himself, too. Only then could they map out one together. While these topics would be hard for him to discuss, maybe she could help him out of his own head. Perhaps Ivy could again be the angel on his shoulder. Even so, he worried that this revelation could make her think less of him. He decided to think about it for a few more days.
***
Early the following Friday afternoon, Ivy was out in the back yard with the dogs watching them sniff around to see what creatures might have invaded their space. She was now working four days a week with Fridays off and, particularly with Steve and Mathew in her life, she was liking the change. She was mulling over her relationship with Steve while wandering around the little garden where spring would soon start to make it come alive again. He seemed preoccupied since his return from the mission in the Caribbean. He spent a couple of days filing reports, doing the required paperwork, conferring with Brian by phone, and checking in with Moll about his shoulder. He kept up with the continuing work on the case, however she sensed a difference -- he seemed more withdrawn and thoughtful. She could only hope that he was on a path that included her. Despite her concerns, she sensed that he needed to journey in his mind for a time on his own. She worried that Steve was feeling confined and feared he would leave to return to fieldwork. The way he lit up when he was intent on a case made him appear unready to retire. While she found it hard to imagine him doing anything else, she was not sure she could live with seeing him only the occasional weekend.
Mathew continued to improve. He was diligent about doing his exercise routines twice a day. He still had a significant limp, which he was determined to reduce. The biggest change she noted was his attitude -- he was more cheerful and more focused. He was keeping busy, working at a makeshift desk he made out of a table in his room. He was so intent on researching the vineyard, that Ivy could picture him as a formidable FBI agent.
Old Growth & Ivy (The Spook Hills Trilogy Book 1) Page 14
