by Vince Milam
The last thirty yards of water were covered at a Delta Force pace—submerged, no wake, no noise. I paused before crawling onto the island, eyes, ears, and nose exposed. Waited, watched, listened, smelled. The last sense brought my heart to a jackhammer cadence. The smell—burned wood, thick. And death. Blood. And the millennia-old buzzing of fat flies. I snaked into the underbrush and waited again, then worked my way to the other side of the tiny island, silent.
A pool of coagulated blood, too much to have dried completely, maggots working it. Signs of battle, struggle. The remains of Bo’s burned-to-the-waterline houseboat. The Ace, parked behind it, showed evidence of flame licks on the bow but appeared otherwise undamaged.
I didn’t move a muscle, observed, breathed deep and slow for thirty minutes. It could be a trap, a setup. The half hour allowed time for horror, grief, betrayal, hatred, and revenge to run their course. Then I stood.
No sign of Bo Dickerson. Blood brother, dearest friend. Gone. No one could have done this except another Special Forces member. No one. British, Israeli, Russian. Or American. No run-of-the-mill bounty hunter could have taken out Bo. A specialized pro, either rogue or sent by an order from some government. My gut tightened as Jules’s words echoed. People change. Wayward son. Angel.
I refused to accept his death and held on to fragile hope. I moved with caution, performed battle forensics. Pieces of Bo’s boat, blown onto dry land. It hadn’t been simply set on fire. Empty shell casings, dozens. They matched Bo’s weapon. Firing had come at him from the swamp, the attackers’ shell casings either underwater or on outlying islands.
I waded to nearby islands, cautious. Birds chortled overhead, undisturbed. The Dismal, dead quiet otherwise. More shell casings—Kalashnikov. AK-47 assault rifle. The most ubiquitous assault rifle on the planet.
Tossed in the brush near a pile of shell casings was the shoulder-mounted firing tube of an RPG. Rocket-propelled grenade. That explained the remnants of Bo’s houseboat. The bastards had blown it up, and it had caught fire.
And blood. Splatters dried, rusty reddish-black. Then puddles, viscous and thick. Collected and pooled within the thick brush. Familiarity struck—bodies bleed out, blood collects in buckets. Universal and terrible and final. In this humid environment, it would take another day or two for it to dry or soak in. And it pointed back to a timeline—the attack had taken place in the last forty-eight hours. I moved on hands and knees, paused, checked. Swam the channels between bits of land, submerged. Crawled out, pistol ready. More blood. Three separate areas on two different islands. Bo had taken three of them out.
On a tiny hummock of land, another pile of shell casings. The caliber and ejection markings of an H&K. A Special Forces weapon. A Delta weapon. And no blood on that bit of dry land. Four of them had attacked. One lived.
Commitment comes in weighted degrees. The commitment to make the surviving attacker pay for this filled with the assuredness of the sun rising in the east. I’d find that son of a bitch. He’d pay.
A tour of the Ace to check for trip wires and booby traps, methodical and slow, revealed the surviving attacker had left well enough alone. Papers rifled through, opened cubbyholes, but nothing missing. I checked for explosives that could be triggered by the start of the Ace’s diesel engine. Nothing.
The Ace of Spades now functioned as potential honey, a lure. The assassin knew I’d return to my home sooner or later and had left it for me. Or had Bo been the prime target? Or was it only me they were after, and Bo was killed by association? Either way, time to get the hell out of Dodge. Remove the bait. Get on the offense. Hunt the bastard down. Or bastards. Didn’t matter.
Bo was indestructible. As tough a fighter as ever lived. The killer may have come at night. Maybe a night-vision scoped rifle, striking Bo as he slept in his hammock. Bo’s body wasn’t around to confirm any theories. Fed to the alligators, or crawled and swam away to die. Too damn much firepower directed his way. Son of a bitch. I’d find the killer. Dead man walking.
I swam back to the canoe and rucksack, and called Mom on my satellite cell phone. Relief flooded when she answered.
“Mom, you need to take a break. Today. Now. Right now.”
Our private code. Pack up, grab CC and Tinker Juarez. Leave town for her still-spry mom’s place nestled in the forested rolling hills of Spartanburg County, three hours away. They’d be safe with Grandma Wilson, who kept a pack of loud, alert dogs around and knew how to use a firearm. It was a long shot thinking they were in danger, but no chances, no mistakes, until this matter was settled.
Mom didn’t argue. This exit strategy had been used once before, and I had explained my rationale to her. She understood, accepted, and did nothing but warn me about taking care of myself. A world-class mom.
The canoe’s bow grated up on the island. One more final act. I squatted near the largest dark wet spot close to the burned boat, flies buzzing, crawling. Bo’s blood. A symbol, a totem.
I crumpled from my squat to a seated heap on the ground, shook my head, and cried. I already missed him, and the anguish twisted, tore. Pieces of possibilities, reenactments of the battle, clawing hope. But reality weighed, and dragged me down. Him residing in the Dismal, doing his unique thing, had always been an anchor, a set point in my life. Gone, gone.
I spoke, turned to address all around me, and said a prayer—talked to not only the higher power but to Bo, listening from another place, another celestial plane. Reviewed the tough times in mortal combat, the loss of other teammates. The laughter and relief, the absurdities we’d gone through together. And I told him how much I loved him and missed him already and asked for him to wait, hang out, because I’d be joining him. Maybe soon, maybe not, but I’d be there. The tears wouldn’t stop.
The AR-15 assault rifle from the Ace joined me in the wheelhouse, loaded, safety off. I’d call Marcus Johnson. The former leader of my Delta Force team, now raising cattle in nowhere, Montana. But not yet, not now. Bo still loomed, swirled around me, as I maneuvered the Ace through the Dismal Swamp. He was part of the immediate—thick air, dark water, bird and animal noises, cypress trees, and brush. Life. I wasn’t going to share this time with anyone. Just me and Bo. One last time.
Chapter 25
The Ace maneuvered out of the Dismal and into the canal, headed south. Windows and wheelhouse door closed, the glass bulletproof. Stuffy, sealed, it provided a capsule of safety and a hunting platform. It would be hours before I left the Ditch system and crossed larger bodies of water. During those hours, the slap of a bullet against the glass would indicate the general location of the shooter.
I’d then travel a short distance farther, tie off at the bank, and circle back on foot. Become the hunter. Find the bastard, or bastards. Kill them all.
Lethal thoughts fogged reason, pulled me away from a clinical approach, and allowed emotions steerage. My temples pounded with blood, and a sharp desire for steady talk—reasoned conversation—struck me hard. Marcus. Level-headed Marcus. In the middle of Montana. A friend, brother. I placed a call.
“Bo’s been hit.”
“He okay?”
“Dead.”
“Tell me.”
“No body. But his boat was blown up, burned. Blood nearby. Pooled. I just left the scene. Deep in the Dismal.”
Silence as the analytical wheels of a Delta Force team leader turned.
“When?”
“The last forty-eight hours. Blood pools hadn’t dried. Still smell the burned boat.”
“The Ace?”
“Okay. Left alone.”
Silence. A Ditch cruiser approached from the south at a sedate pace. A binocular scan highlighted an older couple, retired, headed north.
“Who?”
“Four attackers. He killed three. No bodies. Like Bo, fed to the gators.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yeah, I do.”
Marcus chewed on my assessment; the Ace rumbled along. Trees and brush, close against the canal, flowed by. Shadows
lengthened. The cruiser passed on my port, and the couple waved. I nodded back, grim, eyes working the tight tree lines.
“Tell me about the battle.”
I reviewed my findings and clarified the scene. Blood, crushed foliage, the RPG tube tossed aside. We came to the H&K shell casings left by the fourth, still alive, attacker.
“A pro,” Marcus said. “Special Ops. The other three could be anyone.”
“Yeah.”
“What are you not telling me?” he asked.
Classic Marcus. Something in my voice, my inflection, told him I withheld thoughts and perceptions.
“It was Angel.”
Silence, as expected. Wind noise, a gust, came over the call. He stood outside on the Montana prairie.
“Tell me.”
I detailed the feedback from Jules and the events in Suriname. Russians. Naval base. Everything. “The trainer for the rebel forces is an American. They’ve been trained. I saw it.”
“So?”
“Plus a strong inference Angel is back on US turf.”
“The Clubhouse again?”
“Yeah.”
“That old witch doesn’t know everything, Case. There’s always been an element of self-promotion with her.”
I wasn’t surprised at his comment. Marcus viewed the whole Spookville world with derision. A battle leader, cut and dried. Solid intelligence was part of his action plans, but speculation led to waffling, indecision. If Marcus was anything, it was decisive.
“You shake the tree that hard down there?” he asked.
“Russians. You and I both know their tendencies. They don’t forget. Or forgive.”
“Fine. You pissed off the Russians. But the timeline is too tight. They’d have to have sent a hitter immediately.”
“I know.”
“A hitter,” he said, “who knew of you. And Bo.”
“Right back to Angel.”
Silence. Another gust of wind on his cell phone.
“Or back to the Clubhouse.”
A possibility only Marcus would have considered. But I couldn’t buy Jules pulling the strings on this headhunting expedition. Then again, she offered to keep in touch. Or keep tabs on me. But why would she give me a heads-up on Angel?
“We live in a messed-up world, bud,” I said.
“No shit, Sherlock.”
A tiny town passed off the starboard side. Nothing moved but an old lab, who raised his head from a nap at the Ace’s passage, a single tail slap of “Hi,” then back to sleep. The tight wall of trees on both sides of the canal continued.
“Okay. Back to the firefight,” he said.
Again, classic Marcus. Digest the information, stay out of the speculative realm. Move to the immediate. “A pro and three mercs,” he continued. “Bo cleaned the mercs. The pro is still out there.”
“Yeah.”
“Signs still point to bounty hunters. Collect a million bucks.”
“My gut tells me otherwise.”
“Your gut is full of shit.”
I made a conscious effort and released the tight grip on the Ace’s wheel. Move. Hunt. They’d come for me. Movement afforded a level field of battle. Offered the opportunity for payback.
“I’m getting out of here. Head south. Draw the Special Ops bastard in. Finish it.”
“Head west. Montana.”
“You mean leave the operational area. Run. That’s not happening.”
“Reposition, dumbass. When the enemy knows your general whereabouts, reposition. Lie in wait. Take them by surprise,” he said.
“Run.”
A loud sigh. “Look, I’m not buying this as anything but collecting a million bucks for Bo’s head. But if you’re convinced you were the target, get your ass to Montana. The Special Ops hitter will have intel on me. I don’t hide.”
“So?”
“So he’ll figure you’ve fled the scene, toward backup. Toward me.”
“And put you in danger.”
“Reposition. We’ll attack if it comes to that.”
“I’ve gotta draw him in. End it.”
“Fine. End it. Head south, catch a flight. Reposition. Occupy different turf. Our turf.”
“Bring my problems your way.”
Another sigh, then silence. “Look, this is what we do, remember? Cover each other’s backs.”
Walls crumbled, and a strong desire hit hard. Marcus had offered sanctuary and relief from a solitary world. My friend, special and bright. I damn near cried again.
“I’ll call Catch,” Marcus said. “Tell him what’s going on. Prescribe he lay low.”
“You too, Marcus.”
He remained silent. Marcus Johnson didn’t hide or attempt anonymity. He lived an open life, albeit in lonely country. He wouldn’t lay low. He’d lay prepared.
“Text me your flight,” he said. “Pack warm. Fall comes early in the Rockies. I’ll pick you up at the airport.”
We signed off. The rumble of the old diesel, acute awareness I might be in a riflescope’s crosshairs at this moment. Fine. Take your best shot, you son of a bitch. Take your shot. Then say your prayers.
Chapter 26
Resolution replaced anger. Cold, committed focus overtook the hooded mantle of revenge. Take care of the small things, clear the decks for what would come. I checked flights to Billings, Montana. Early departure from Raleigh, North Carolina, through Minneapolis, and land in Billings tomorrow afternoon. Norfolk would have been closer, more convenient. But I’d left a trail there and wasn’t going to backtrack. Think, calculate, plan.
Over one hundred forty Ditch miles to New Bern, North Carolina. Twelve hours. I’d get there at dawn. Travel at night, using the light of the moon on the Intracoastal Waterway and GPS when I crossed Albemarle and Pamlico Sounds. Then up the Neuse River. Catch a ride to Raleigh’s airport.
The satellite-enabled laptop beeped an incoming message. Global Resolutions. Business. Time to put a wrapper on Suriname, deny their expected request. The gnomes of Zurich would want me back in Suriname. A new gig, this time with more definitive outcomes.
Report accepted. Well done. Payment processed.
I wasn’t in the mood, but appreciated the perk working for the gnomes—a personal Swiss bank account. The message went on. We present another engagement. Same location. Engagement details: Stop—repeat—stop all destabilization activities by whatever means. Triple rate. Urgent response requested.
There were two issues with the message. First, it wasn’t sent deep web. Global Resolutions had violated protocol before, and I’d admonished them. They continued believing cryptic messages were sufficient cover. Wrong. After my chat with Agent Abbie Rice, she’d ensure the NSA focused on certain keywords within electronic communications flowing toward the United States. The Russians would already be working the same angle. Engagement. Destabilization. Catch words for the spy nets. I wouldn’t be surprised if Nika got this shortly after I did. Good. It would keep her on her toes in Paramaribo.
And Global should have known I wouldn’t accept this gig. Yes, I’d muck around most places around the world, probe, take chances, and find answers. It’s why they kept hiring me. Several years before, they’d made a similar proposition. End things. Stop events. The quick and easy translation was, “Go kill the appropriate people.” Their client—and it was clear they weren’t auctioning my information—had made a request regarding Suriname. Fix it.
The client would remain unknown. Commercial interests, perhaps a multinational bank. Or a government, possibly my own. The perfect plausible deniability. Request action through Global Resolutions. Hands clean.
I was done with that world. Others—less skilled and more accepting of delivering death—were regularly deployed around the world for such duties. Case Lee, having left the US Army and Delta Force, wasn’t one of them. There was a fine line between killing and murder. But a line nonetheless, and one I wasn’t crossing. In a few cases, rare circumstances, one affected the other. Bo had been murdered. I would ki
ll his murderer. We all live by a code, acknowledged or not. And the Global Resolution request resided outside my code, my boundaries.
I visualized the tight, soundproof, and elegant Zurich meeting room. A stainless-steel carafe filled with fresh coffee. Perhaps Swiss cookies or chocolates arranged on a Langenthal porcelain plate. Serious men, well-tailored suits. Suriname players discussed with hushed tones, a hit list compiled—orderly and neat. They knew they wouldn’t have to spell it out for me. Luuk Hoebeek. Joseph Hoff. Nika. Cut off the head of the snake. Send Case Lee. Tight, tidy, problem solved.
Not going to happen. I responded with a message on the deep web.
Declined. Kindly use secure means for ALL communications.
They’d be disappointed but would get over it. They might even stop asking me to perform wet duties.
Fall brought early nightfall, and I made the lock ending the Dismal Swamp canal just as the single operator was calling it a day. He waved me in, lowered the Ace to sea level, and waved a goodbye. A Comanche moon showed close, full, bright. Tiny towns rolled by alongside the Ditch. Their lone bars sounded loud evening conversations and occasional laughter, audible in my wheelhouse enclosure. Then the trees and thick brush enveloped again until the Ace was spit into Albemarle Sound. Open water, nighttime. I lowered the wheelhouse windows, relaxed, and gathered my thoughts. Set the GPS to track us along the dredged Intracoastal Waterway across Albemarle Sound. Considered pulling the Clubhouse fire alarm. I needed Jules’s affirmation, an assurance. Marcus had tossed out a possibility, one that still gnawed. Decision made, I sent a message: Bo Dickerson. Dead. Extreme malice.
It was sufficient enough for Jules, a picture painted. I’d never communicated with her in such a manner. The reply cycle, unknown. If there was a reply cycle. One thing for sure, the spiderweb tendrils of Jules’s world would vibrate, and word would move through the world’s underbelly. Whether she’d reply, even with her offer of help, was another matter. Her silence would spell bad news. Conspiratorial news.
