The Suriname Job: A Case Lee Novel (Volume 1) (The Case Lee Series)
Page 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2017
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Other books by Vince Milam:
The Unknown Element
Pretty Little Creatures
Gather the Seekers
Acknowledgments
Editor – David Antrobus https://bewritethere.com/
Cover Design by Rick Holland at Vision Press – myvisionpress.com. Front cover photo by Ian Mackenzie (madmack66) at flickr.com. Back cover photo by Maarten van der Bent at flickr.com.
Story Consultant – Robert Ford
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Epilogue
Thank you for...
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chapter 1
I carried a price on my head. A million bucks. The source of the bounty unknown. A Yemeni sheik, perhaps. Somali warlord, Malaccan pirate, Taliban mullah—all possibilities. I’d trade my situation in a heartbeat for more mundane burdens. A failed marriage. Money issues. But that wasn’t my reality. I toted early retirement for the conductor of my violent demise.
A quick scan of the small bar—a clockwork affectation to identify threats—ensured the cast of patrons hadn’t changed. The older couple at a corner table. He rubbed her back, absorbed. Her eyes bright, telling a tale. Both still in love. The man at the end of the bar opposite me in a gimme T-shirt. He rolled his own smokes and sipped his drink, stretching it. A bum hip caused him to adjust on the barstool. A middle-aged woman, divorced—no ring evident—sat with her grown son, having a beer. She radiated pride and love as only a mother could do as he talked of a new job, full of excitement. She bathed in his youthful exuberance, smiled, nodded. She lived in the moment and set aside life’s knocks she’d encountered. Knocks and bumps and disasters guaranteed to strike her son, and all of us. A cluster of young people in a corner, laughing and arguing. A solid cast. Good people. No bounty hunters.
“Another one, Case?” Jonas asked. I’d known the bar owner for several years. He met all my expectations for a good barkeep. Served legitimate drinks, did a flyby when my glass showed lonely, and otherwise kept to himself.
“You bet.” Jonas poured stiff four-dollar drinks with good booze—Grey Goose, in my case.
The lone bar in Joiner, North Carolina, sat on the banks of the Intracoastal Waterway. Its small dock offered a regular stop for my boat, the Ace of Spades. A quiet bar, where a man could hole up and find a small crevice of peace and protection.
The corner argument’s volume, distant from my position, increased. I gave a wide berth to public involvement, and when the exchange between a large, muscular young man and a maybe-twenty woman kicked off, it entered my closed world as white noise—an irritant best ignored.
“Not an option, Jessica,” yelled the young man. He had the knot-chord muscles of a shrimper and the volume of someone who had started the party early. “Not an option. You said we’d meet and go out. Well, here I am. Right here, Jessica. Right here.”
Fine, kid. There you are. Alert the press. I captured a quick glance of the little vignette under lowered eyebrows, both hands on my head, elbows on the bar. The vodka rocks under my chin held dregs, awaiting Jonas’s ministrations. A shifted gaze to the mirror behind the bar reflected back a man this side of forty who appeared to be praying over the small glass. In a sense, I was. I’d made a decision to take the gig offered by my client in Zurich. The money was too good to pass up. So off to Suriname, South America. Off for another day at the office, knife between my teeth.
“You’re drunk, Billy,” Jessica replied, tears welling. “We agreed to get dressed up and hit the town. You being drunk as Cooter Brown wasn’t part of the deal.”
Jessica wore clean tight jeans, a red silk blouse, and too much makeup. A local, she’d vacillate for several years between staying in her current environs or striking out for the big city. Charlotte. Raleigh. Greensboro. The Kendra Scott earrings spoke to the bright-lights allure. She stamped her foot to emphasize her point with Billy.
Why pretty young women thought their looks improved through the application of makeup with a putty knife was beyond me. Social pressures, sure, because they’re taught to hide every perceived flaw. Interested men wouldn’t care about those slight imperfections. Most would find them endearing. But makeup aside, the foot-stamping addition was cute as hell.
Jonas reached inside my huddled position, removed the dead soldier, and placed a fresh Grey Goose under my nose. The bar top held the remnant aroma of lemon polish. Jonas ran a tight ship. The hand that delivered my drink was missing the small finger. I’d asked about it several years earlier. Jonas had replied, “Accident,” and left it at that. Fair enough. A man after my own heart.
Early evening choruses—insects and animals and the resident creaking of tied-up boats—filtered through the open windows and doors. The fall weather cut the sticky heat, and if Billy and Jessica would shut the hell up, the evening would take on a near-perfect patina.
“Not an option, dammit!” Billy had become more adamant. “We’re going.” Overloaded with youthful testosterone and Jim Beam, the strapping young fellow began to display behavior I wasn’t going to abide. The kid had started to get mean.
I shifted focus from under my two-hands-on-head position and checked the Ace of Spades through one of the open windows. Tied close to a handful of shrimp boats, she bobbed sedately, a single barge and tug having left a slight wake as they passed. She could have used minor repairs and new paint. But she got me from A to Z every time, and appearance took a back seat to reliability.
Jonas had commented years before that she looked like the African Queen from the old Bogart/Hepburn film. Not true. I ran diesel instead of steam, and I had more deck space—essential for both my old recliner and a row of heirloom tomato plants. The former perched as a forlorn throne under the blue foredeck tarp. The latter lined t
he railing to accept sunshine. Capable of a sedate twelve knots cruising speed, the Ace of Spades was home.
The Ace and I lived on the Intracoastal Waterway. Permanent watery residents affectionately call it “the Ditch.” Stretches of the Ditch crossed saltwater bays and natural inlets, but most of it consisted of dug canals. Quiet, with sparse recreational and barge traffic, it offered an eight-hundred-mile north–south living channel from Virginia to Florida.
“Don’t!” Jessica yelped as Billy grabbed her arm. She twisted and aimed a kick at his leg. Good for her, for the effort. But poorly aimed. She should have kicked him in the nuts. Big Billy laughed and started to drag her to the door. “Stop it, damn it! Billy!”
The other patrons, peaceful citizens enjoying the evening, remained still. So the curtain rose on act one. I stepped from the wing and moved center stage. Damn. The smell of greasepaint and the roar of the crowd hadn’t been on the evening’s agenda. My lay-low spot in the world wished this had happened another night without my presence, but my gut called, “Fix this.”
Not permanently—I knew the ensuing actions wouldn’t alter Billy’s character. But maybe, just maybe, Billy would think next time, and hesitate. Hesitation provided the Jessicas of the world a moment, a collection point, and perhaps an exit strategy. Besides, I couldn’t abide bullies.
“Let her go, son.” Hands still on head, my body relaxed, no hackles or fireworks. The statement wasn’t meant for resolution. It meant to draw his attention toward me—an activity I was well trained to avoid. But this was Joiner, not El Salvador or Syria.
Billy’s testosterone flowed—uncontrolled and ugly and washed with too much bourbon. He may not have been a bad-to-the-core kid—hell, I wasn’t exactly Mahatma Gandhi—but signs pointed to a bully who had yet to have his ass kicked. That would soon change.
He released Jessica’s arm, approached, and received a simple admonition from Jonas. “Don’t, Billy. You won’t want to mess with him.”
The kid stopped to ask, “Why not?” with an eye toward me and a ham fist resting on the bar top. Billy’s role had expanded, a star was born, and he smiled a surly lip and waited for me to respond.
Jonas had provided Billy this little informational tidbit about me due to a past altercation, years before. It had involved five tough men, visitors to Joiner. Three ambulances had hauled them off. Afterward, Jonas had asked me just what kind of person was Case Lee?
I didn’t get into the Delta Force background but did explain, as he poured me a post-encounter drink on the house, that I possessed certain skills. Special skills.
“No shit,” was his reply and last mention of the incident. The perfect barkeep.
“Well?” Billy challenged, waiting for my response. The blood and bourbon rose in his now-mean countenance, and his neck swelled—a bull pawing the ground. His left earlobe displayed a small barb earring—a member of the commercial fisherman tribe.
I felt no joy and more than a little angst knowing this kid would soon be floor-bound. I stayed hunched over my vodka. All other bar conversation had stopped.
This would have been a prime opportunity for Jessica to haul ass or call the cops. But the dynamics had changed, Case Lee introduced. My opening soliloquy to let her go had been delivered—short and sweet. The curtain had lifted, and everyone likes a good show, so Jessica wasn’t about to depart.
Act two started. A slight head twist allowed for an eye lock with Billy. “Think about it, Billy. There’s always—and I mean always—someone out there who can kick your ass.”
“Like you?” he snorted, mocking.
“I’m not saying it’s me. But it could be.”
The Jim Beam replied. “Then let’s find out, asshole.”
Act three approached, ugly and unnecessary. Act four would consist of yelps, pain, trauma—all avoidable.
He turned the corner of the bar and entered my sanctuary, fists clenched. He reached back to throw a punch. I shot a fingertip into his right eye.
“Shit!” His forward progress stopped, hand to the afflicted eyeball.
A lightning jab to the throat, fingertips driving like a wedge into a tree stump. It partially collapsed his trachea, shut down his ability to breathe. He struggled to inhale, lost his focus on me. Big mistake.
A brutal grip up his nostrils and a quick violent twist. The muted pop of a broken nose spread through the room. Billy dropped to his knees, struggled to inhale. Blood flowed from both nostrils. I wiped two fingers clean on his ball cap, took a sip of vodka.
His bruised throat began to allow sips of air. Then he vomited. I’ve always disliked the vomit part. The smell forced a move away from whatever cozy corner I occupied, back against the wall.
A bit of smug affirmation, I’ll admit. Only my left hand had left the top of my head. Not joy or exultation. Satisfaction. Satisfaction with a skill set still well honed. The same hand now lifted the Grey Goose and saluted the sprawled Billy. Bravo, kid, bravo. And so the curtain dropped on Thursday’s Joiner community theater.
An empty corner table offered refuge. One of Billy’s buddies helped him stand. Jessica retreated to a tight knot of friends across the room and replayed the scene, embellished as needed. The table chair squeaked on the wooden floor as it scooted position and offered me a view of the cypress-lined Ditch and the Ace of Spades. A shrimper on one of the fishing boats cussed as he struggled with an unseen piece of equipment. The sun hid below the treetops, and puffs of red and orange littered the horizon—a backdrop for shore and land birds as they moved to roost. The evening courtship calls of frogs accompanied the settled scene.
Reflections, unwanted, drifted in. Rae. My wife. Gone four years now. Murdered. Dead and gone because of me, my past. The memory, the realization was like a cast net descending, ever-present. Early on, I’d fought to dodge the remembrances. Over time I learned to let them settle and cover me. Live with it. The past’s enveloping touch was now light, faded. Except for those melancholia moments, blessedly rare, when events and decisions sat wet and heavy. When past actions dripped remorse and guilt. I’d learned to reduce those times. Battle the memories back into an amorphous state. It took concerted effort.
“Need another drink?” Jonas asked. He’d edged over after demanding Billy’s buddies clean up the blood and vomit. They’d moved to comply. Jonas wasn’t someone you’d want to mess with, either.
“I’m good. Thanks.”
He wandered off to supervise the cleanup.
My shot at normalcy gone, killed. So another overseas trip loomed, vacuous, bereft of any purpose other than to pad the bank account. It filled time, utilized practiced skills, allowed escape. Then a return to Ditch life, wandering, figuring it out. It wore, grinded, and the hole in my heart remained.
The bar patrons continued to point in my direction and speak with hushed tones. The seat of attention spelled bad news for a man with a bounty on his head. The Grey Goose downed, I slapped a ten on the table, nodded to Jonas, and said, “See you in a few.” Ditch talk for a few days, weeks, or months.
“Watch your back, Case.”
I returned an “Always,” and walked home.
Chapter 2
Jessica’s light snores snapped me awake at irregular intervals. I’d ensconced her in the aft bunk but kept the small door open to my forward bed. Not with any expectations. I’m a better man than that. The door was kept open because it wouldn’t do for her to wander the Ace unsupervised. Sensitive electronics, private items, and enough firepower to start a coup left far too many opportunities for curious young fingers.
Earlier, the light footfalls on the wooden dock had pulled me from a front-deck recliner reverie. Jonas had closed the bar, and Ditch life had reverted to nature’s call. The Glock pistol was aimed with well-practiced surety as the sound approached, on low alert. The steps indicated a woman, young, moving with hesitation.
“Hello?” Soft and questioning, a cookies-and-milk voice.
Jessica stood waiflike alongside the Ace, seeking shelter an
d succor and God knows what else.
I hid the Glock and replied, “Hi, Jessica. What’s up?”
She scooted off the dock and came on board, uninvited. The Ace reacted and leaned into her body weight. “I need a place to stay.”
I moved from the shadow of the wheelhouse to give her a moonlit perspective of my position. No point scaring the kid. “Nope.”
She twisted a toe into the deck and talked to her feet. “The deal is, Madeline dropped me off, and I was supposed to, you know, spend the night with, well, him.”
I remained silent. She continued to pull levers.
“And Madeline isn’t answering her cell phone, and she’s my roommate, and I don’t have a ride back to my place and, well . . .” Jessica swept her arm toward Joiner, dark and still. “So I’m kinda screwed.”
“You don’t have someone else you can call?”
“No. No, not really.”
A young-lady lie, for whatever reason, but I couldn’t turn away a lost puppy. First, the ground rules. “There’s an extra bunk downstairs. You will not, and I repeat, will not touch anything. You leave at first light. I have an appointment.”
It was against my practice to open the door for her type of request. But a “You had a hand in this, Case” twinge jabbed at me hard, and I couldn’t push it away.
Jessica smiled, nodded, and perked up. Ready for her next little micro adventure. I showed her the bunk and the head, in case she needed it during the night.
“Thanks for letting me stay. And thanks for taking care of the deal with Billy.”
“I didn’t take care of it. He’s not going to change.”
She shot me a quick quizzical look, dismissed my statement, and turned to seek something. I lived alone, and it took me a moment to grasp that she sought privacy. So I doused the overhead light, threw the bunk rooms into deepest black, and started up the steps to the top deck.
“Thanks.” Shoes clomped on the floor. She shimmied out of her jeans and top and slid between the sheets. “Jonas said your name is Case. Case what?”