by Vince Milam
“Clearly, you didn’t pick the movie.”
“Was going to fake an upset stomach. But I’ve used that one before,” he said.
“A memorable night for Miriam.”
“A memorable night for me. I prayed for a theater fire.”
Miles rolled by, sage and grasslands and rolling hills dominant. Antelope and mule deer grazed in the distance.
“You happy here?” I asked.
“You pose the same question every visit.”
“Yeah. Just checking.”
“Same answer. Who wouldn’t be? This is my turf. Life is good.”
Fishtail, less than a hundred hardy souls, had a bar named Dead Solid Perfect. The locals referred to it as The Solid. We both carried holstered sidearms into the near-empty establishment. An old habit, and legal in Montana. The interior hadn’t changed since my last visit. Wooden-plank walls, a potbellied stove occupying a corner. The neon Jack Daniel’s sign still had the J out of commission. Beer Nuts, pork rinds, and a two-gallon glass jar of pickled eggs constituted the entire food menu. The lone bartender didn’t ask for money with our order, assuming as always his patrons would drink several of their favorite medicinal brews prior to hitting the gravel again. We both sat at a table, backs against the wall.
Grey Goose for me, beer for Marcus, and another change of subject.
“There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” Marcus said.
I remained silent.
“A woman.”
“You and Mom both.”
“This isn’t some Southern belle Lola Wilson has vetted as soul mate material for her wandering son.”
“From operator to matchmaker. There’s a natural progression.”
“Shut up and listen. She’s from California. Her granddaddy left her the ranch adjacent to mine. PhD in something to do with chemistry. She told me, but I forgot.”
I took a sip and stared out the open window. A herd of pronghorn antelope moved, grazing, a half mile distant. The rolling high plains abutted the Beartooth Range. The highest peaks, cragged, desolate, well above the tree line, stood sentinel over empty wilderness—cold and daunting.
“She’s hot, you idiot,” Marcus added.
“Not a prerequisite, but it helps.”
“And bright. And engaging.”
“She paying you for this service?”
Marcus put a booted foot on the corner of the table, drained his beer, and shook his head. “You’re a moron.”
“There’s serious shit going down, bud.”
“I’m well aware,” he said.
“So let’s put aside a float on the love boat until answers, or killers, come my way. Our way.”
Boot removed from the table, he edged my way, eyes hard.
“Let’s assume it was a bounty hunter that took Bo down. A pro. Russian. British. Maybe one of ours. It doesn’t mean they have a signal on you. Or me,” Marcus said.
“Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve got feelers out.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Feelers?”
“Yeah.”
“The inscrutable witch of Norfolk?” he asked.
“She’s a lifeline. And, maybe, a friend.”
“The word friend isn’t part of her vocabulary.”
“Information, Marcus. That is in her vocabulary.”
He asked for more detail about my recent gig and absorbed the information, cold and calculating. He pointed out that once Russia started construction of the naval base, my role—and findings—became irrelevant. The die was cast. He glommed on to the timeline associated with my Suriname activities and Bo’s death.
“That’s too short a time span for the Russians to send someone to find you back in the States.”
“Maybe.”
“A professional hit isn’t done on a moment’s notice, son. I don’t see the connectivity,” Marcus said. “I’m leaning toward bounty hunters. No association with your Suriname activities. Well trained, for sure, but bounty hunters nonetheless.”
The bartender brought us another round. A rattling pickup pulled up, and an old rancher climbed out, one side of his Stetson’s brim patched with duct tape. Bowlegged, saddle years showed in his shuffle. He nodded our way upon entering and sat at the bar, gossiping with the bartender about local events.
“Her name’s Irene. Irene Collins.”
“You back to the girl of my dreams?”
“Early thirties. Divorced.”
“Let’s sit on the porch. Satellite connectivity for my laptop.”
“You going to ease up?”
“Repositioning. Remember?”
Lifeline. An appropriate term for Jules at this moment. I floated blind, unsure of adversarial intents, and her information—any information—would lower the angst level. Subsurface anger and desire for revenge remained.
“I’m unsure of Irene’s worldview. But she’s nice,” Marcus said.
“Need a pipeline to Jules.”
“She seems to have made the decision to live here after a breakup with some California fellow.”
I stood and told the bartender we were moving outside. Laptop retrieved from Marcus’s rig, I joined him on the small porch of the bar. The wood-slat building shielded us from the wind. It blew all day, every day. Its presence only a matter of degree. From light breeze to howling, it stood as one of several weather-shared experiences for the inhabitants of the high west.
Marcus occupied an old rocker and lit a cigar, his beer on the wooden deck. He pushed his beat-up Stetson further down, and tugged his jean jacket tighter around his torso. The air cooled, a hint of winter.
I fired up the laptop, and Marcus continued the matchmaking thread.
“Did I mention she’s hot?”
He puffed smoke, long legs stretched away from the rocker, and enjoyed the view. He did his Marcus thing—weighed risks, assessed immediate threats, and ascertained Fishtail and the immediate environs offered sanctuary. I didn’t share the feeling.
“You weren’t there, Marcus. Helluva firefight. Now he’s gone. Body fed to the gators.”
Marcus pulled his legs in and tilted toward me, dead serious. “Yeah. I get it. And it tears me up thinking about Bo. I loved the guy. I’m not getting over it anytime soon.”
“I know. Me either.”
“But I don’t need the grisly guesses, and I damn sure don’t appreciate conspiracy theories polluting the air here on my turf,” he said.
We locked eyes. The low chatter from the old rancher and bartender filtered through the open windows, mingled with the wind moving through the prairie grass and sagebrush. Assurance from a friend, one of very few, may have been all I was looking for. Someone telling me to calm down, we’ll handle it, it’ll be all right. There was no shame with such desire—everyone requires affirmation, the feedback of “it will work out.” I’d lived alone on the edge long enough and recognized my need. I began to crank the gut roil down a notch and opted for reasoned discussion.
“Let’s say the killer, or killers, do come here. As part of a concerted effort from a professional network.”
Marcus’s eyes took a harder set, and he spoke with a low, matter-of-fact tone. “Then we kill them. Triple S.”
Shoot, shovel, shut up. Cut and dried, and I could live with that. A semblance of definitive action, if not a real plan. But assured, final. I nodded and relaxed a bit more.
“And we’ve got more backup coming,” Marcus said. “Although I’m not of the opinion it’s needed.”
“Backup?”
“Although it will be good to see him again.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked.
“Almost overkill on the protection side of things.”
“You irritate the fire out of me sometimes. You really do.”
“Juan Antonio Diego Hernandez.”
“You’re shittin’ me. Catch?”
“Why would I deceive you?” Marcus asked.
“Because you’ve rambled on about movies and some woman you want
me to meet and have damn near completely dismissed the possibility we’ve got a hot target on our backs. Catch?”
“Called him last night. After talking with you.”
“Any other little tidbits you’ve failed to disclose? Jeez, Marcus. You really are an ass pain sometimes.”
“He’s driving over from the Portland area. Left this morning.”
“What is that? Fourteen hours?”
“About twelve for him. He’ll be at the ranch house tonight.”
“Catch.”
“Catch. Haven’t seen him in over a year.”
“You ask him to come?” I asked.
“He insisted. Once he’d found out you’d kicked the wasp nest.” He puffed the cigar, self-satisfied, then rocked back, stretched his legs, and smiled. “He didn’t want to fly. Bringing his own hardware.”
We were all excellent shots, but Catch stood a notch above. Whatever he’d packed, it would pop a flea at five hundred yards.
“Meanwhile,” Marcus continued, “we’re not going to sit around full of anxiety. Tomorrow morning, fat trout. Then an afternoon grouse hunt.”
“You are one sanguine SOB, you know that?”
He laughed. I sent a message to Jules, deep web. In Montana. An act of trust. The Clubhouse, an ally. A belief required, or the whole damn thing became too weird, too off-kilter. Firmament and friends—my current assets. With Catch tossed in the mix, a sense of protection and comradeship swept over me. I damn near cried again and wondered if there was some emotional crevasse I kept slipping into. Mental and spiritual highs and lows. This moment, at the speck of humanity called Fishtail, was a high.
We drove to his ranch house, situated on a slight rise in the middle of his five-section ranch. Thirty-two hundred acres. Marcus owned five square miles of rolling grass-covered hills and small creeks. The nearest neighbor—the much-touted Irene.
The Jules message was a marker, both geographic and operational. She’d figure it out, would know of Marcus Johnson, as he did of her. The fine filaments of her spiderweb would tingle with the information. I kept an eye on the horizon. Big, wild country. Hunting country.
Chapter 29
Beware Chechens. An incoming message on my satellite phone. The Clubhouse. We stood on Marcus’s outdoor porch, a stone fire pit throwing flames. I messaged back a simple, Thanks. Her help, while nebulous, required acknowledgement. And the mental blanket of doubt was cast aside with this further confirmation that Jules backed me. And a tinge of irritation toward Marcus for planting the seed. And a knotted gut as the message was absorbed.
Chechens. The Chechnya area of Russia was home to a band of people fierce and fearless. Their relationship with Russia had been more than rocky. Insurrections, terror attacks, and moves toward independence. Yet Chechens often volunteered for the Russian military’s Spetsnaz. Special Forces. Operators.
Another cryptic message from the Clubhouse, and no elaboration forthcoming. But one truth stood tall. Bad news had been delivered. It was buckle-up time. I paced around Marcus’s porch fire pit, scanned the horizon, rifle within reach. Logs burned, crackled, and sent sparks into the night air. Marcus chided the pacing. I’d started to reveal the Clubhouse message when a light glowed over the near horizon. I snatched my rifle from its resting place.
Headlights. They appeared on the rise leading to Marcus’s home and bounced as the vehicle flew along. At a gravel curve, the SUV went into a four-wheel drift, straightened, and skidded again at breakneck speed. A war cry sounded from the open window.
We exchanged knowing smiles, and I placed the assault rifle back within handy reach.
Juan Antonio Diego Hernandez. Catch. Originally from the high desert of eastern Oregon, he now lived life among the green and rain and funkiness of Portland. His operator moniker came from his ability to catch anything that slipped through the cracks during field operations. The unexpected, the wild variables during firefights. And if any of those variables brought firepower to the party, he ensured they would catch hell.
The SUV skidded to a stop; he popped from the passenger seat and ran toward me. Never lithe, he’d put on a pound or two, wore a flannel shirt, still moved like a bear, and had added a dense beard. He reminded me of a Paul Bunyan.
Catch slammed into me, lifted me off the ground, and growled as we spun around.
“Put me down, you goofy bastard!”
Marcus laughed loud. Catch squeezed, hard.
“Your scrawny ass hardly looks any different. Gimme a kiss.”
His puckered lips air-pecked my direction while I squirmed, feet dangling. Marcus and his dog Jake howled.
“Shithouse mouse, Catch. You’re breaking my ribs!”
Sweet release and sound footing allowed for a more sedate return hug. Man, it was good to see him. “I get the beard. Covers the ugly.”
“Wrong again, peckerwood. I’ve done gone lumbersexual,” Catch said.
“The citizens of Portland have to be a little worried about that.”
The three of us laughed, Catch and I traded a few body punches, and we found our places around the fire pit.
“It is really, really good to see you,” I said.
“You too. Understand we might have a bit of a shitstorm coming.”
“As per Case,” Marcus said. “I’m not convinced.”
“Tell me about brother Bo,” Catch said.
I reviewed events. His ruddy face grew redder, blood rising, as I skimmed over Bo’s murder. Marcus added a few clarifiers, pointed out the unknown unknowns.
“Everything became a lot more likely ten minutes ago,” I said.
“How’s that?” Marcus asked, the team leader digesting information.
“Message from the Clubhouse.”
Marcus and Catch both waited. The former tossed a skeptical “Hmm” under his breath.
“Beware Chechens.”
The three of us exchanged quizzical stares.
“That old woman on acid?” Catch asked. “What the shit does that mean?”
“I’d suggest we have Chechens after us,” I said. “Spetsnaz. Either current or former operators.”
“Screw ’em. Bring it on,” Catch said.
“Unclear at best,” Marcus added. “Another shot of muddy water from the Clubhouse.” He stared into the big empty and processed the message. Catch drained a beer he’d retrieved from his vehicle and belched. At some point in his deliberations, Marcus opted to mitigate risk. A sop to me or real concern, hard to say.
“Daylight ops are our advantage. Nighttime, theirs,” he said. Team leader, constructing the most advantageous scenarios. “It’s dark. We start by getting wrapped.” Armed. Prepared.
We changed into fatigues and reassembled on the firelit porch. Coyotes began yipping from nearby coulees. Jake returned barks until Marcus banished him inside.
Our weaponry consisted of two Colt 901 .308-caliber assault rifles, each with an ELCAN Specter scope wired for night vision. Mine already leaned against a porch post. Catch had brought his Remington .300 Win Mag M24 sniper rifle with a Marauder night-vision scope. Trained as an expert sniper, he now loaded a weapon system that would reach out and touch someone in the dark at well over five hundred yards. Marcus produced three HK45 pistols, semiautomatic, and three handheld radios with earbuds for communication.
“Overkill and too damn dramatic,” Marcus said. “But Case isn’t going to ratchet down the speculation.”
“She’s legit intel, Marcus,” I said, reiterating my position regarding Jules.
He ignored me and continued. “Four-hour shifts. Work the perimeter. Two hundred meters out.”
“I’ll take the first one,” Catch said. “Make it six hours. I won’t sleep for a while.”
Marcus nodded, added, “Everyone clear on ROE?”
Rules of engagement. Protocols for conflict.
“Hell, yes,” Catch said. “Kill ’em all.”
We exchanged tight nods. Whoever, whenever. Bring it on.
Catch disappeared into
the night; Marcus retired inside. Jake wandered through the dog door, barked once at the deep night, strolled over, and leaned against my leg. I scratched him, his beard wet from lapping water. He pressed harder when I stopped, waited an appropriate time, gave a glance of “See you later,” and ambled inside to rejoin Marcus.
I stared at the fire; white sprinkles wisped through the air. Thoughts of wild country and killer headhunters swirled. The coyote chorus picked up again, close. Social calls, interactions, bands of coyotes establishing turf. And somewhere within two hundred meters, Catch, the protector.
The yelps and whines stopped, shut down. Far in the distance, toward the Beartooth range, came a low, primitive moan, riding the wind. Wolves. A person may become inured to the yips and howls of coyotes, plaintive night music. But not the primal, deep howl of a pack of wolves. A call and response tuned to ancient fears. The sound carried, was wind-muted, and carried again across the night wilderness. Alone, not lonely. Prepared. Hunting.
Chapter 30
I radioed Catch early in the morning and relieved him. Catch’s strength had always been faith in the unpredictable. Faith in the unseen, in surprises out of nowhere. And a deep conviction that violent intent would arrive when least expected. His conviction had kept us alive on more than one occasion. Together in the snow-filtered breeze and black night, we exchanged a brief chat.
“Sorry about all this,” I said.
“You can file that bullshit away right now.”
“Stomped an ant bed in Suriname.”
“So what else is new?”
“Triggered activities. Bo. Chechens.”
“You don’t know that,” he said.
“I do know they’re coming.”
“Suits me. Clean out some more bounty hunters.”
We stood still and relished our friendship—comradeship—in the cold night.
“Marcus doesn’t share your conviction,” he said.
“I know. Wish he was right. But he’s not.”
He hit on the elephant in the room. “He claims you think it’s Angel.”
“Yeah. Signs. Feedback from the Clubhouse. My gut.”
He spit, shook his head. “Angel. Chechens. Whatever. If they’re coming, I’m glad I’m here. Help take out the trash.”
