The Suriname Job: A Case Lee Novel (Volume 1) (The Case Lee Series)

by Vince Milam

A single pistol pop, wind and snow muffled. A body crumpled inside; the assault rifle clattered to the ground.

  “Give it up, Angel. It’s over,” I called. Silence.

  Gusts blew weather into the garage. Snowflakes lifted, danced. Marcus’s location outside—unknown. Angel, cornered. Dangerous as a cobra, prepared to strike. I called again.

  “Angel. Listen to me.”

  Silence. Then, soft and close. “I’m listening.”

  I was a dead man. The low voice, behind me, at the garage bay door. He’d done his thing. Flanked me. His pistol aimed, steady. The snow swirled around him, profile visible in the night. A laser sight, held steady, created a small dot on my chest. Any movement and he’d fire. Kill me.

  “She’s not what you think,” I said. Grasped straws, no idea where to go except Nika. Modulated my voice, calm, reassuring.

  “I love her,” he said. Simple statement, definitive, crazy.

  “Okay.” A bullet would drive into my chest any second. A roll toward the front of the parked Suburban also guaranteed a bullet, but maybe not one to the heart. A torso wound, a chance it wouldn’t be fatal.

  “She loves me. Said so.”

  Whatever Marcus’s position, it was on the wrong side of the house. I was screwed.

  “You had happiness, Case,” he continued. “You loved. You understand.”

  Crazy as hell, slipped off the rails, a madman. A madman with a trigger finger squeezing my life away.

  “I do understand.” Couldn’t lock eyes, too dark, but I stared at his night-obscured face. White snowflakes pelted his side and stuck. “It’s a strange world. I get that.”

  Drag it out. Give Marcus a chance to find him, take action.

  “No. Not strange. Pure. Pure love,” he said, voice subdued, drifting.

  My legs cramped, frozen in position. I’d have to dive, roll, soon. I kept my voice low, nonconfrontational.

  “You’re a lucky man, Angel.”

  Half his head blew away. An echoing boom followed. Catch. Somewhere in the night, hundreds of yards away. Howling winds, drifting snow. Used his night-vision scope. Catch. Thank God.

  I stood, shaken. Called Marcus. His footsteps carried across the wooden floor of his house. He’d hunted inside. The splintered kitchen door opened. He joined me.

  We stood shoulder to shoulder. Angel’s body lay with the gathered snow, a dark outline against the white.

  Our earbuds crackled, followed by, “It’s over?”

  “Yeah, Catch,” Marcus replied. “Yeah. It’s over. Come in.”

  We remained, absorbed, our former brother’s body at our feet. Memories, questions, sadness. An act performed, required. Still, room for sadness.

  Footfalls crunched; Catch appeared and stood at Angel’s head. His beard showed white, the snow collected, rifle slung over a shoulder.

  “Let’s bury him,” Catch said. “Over and done.”

  He stood as a force, a sentinel, oblivious to the weather.

  “Over and done,” I said. But it wasn’t. The memories, the pain, and confusion would remain. As would the bounty.

  “Heard your half on the radio,” Catch said. “He’d gone over. Nuts. Let’s bury him and be done with it.”

  Jake whined from his dog crate inside the Suburban.

  “You’re right,” Marcus said. “Move on.”

  But none of us did. We stood, circled Angel’s body. Stood in silence and wondered. At least one of us prayed.

  Chapter 36

  “Let’s clean it up.”

  Over. Over and no transition or review or regrets. Marcus remained mission-focused.

  Inside, he produced a gallon of bleach, a bundle of rags, and several plastic garbage bags. We wrapped the Chechen body, carried him out the front door, tossed him in the snow. Marcus shoved a rag through the window where he’d made the Chechen-killing shot.

  “I’ll clean. Clorox inside. You two collect the SUVs and bodies,” he said.

  Catch and I took flashlights and hiked to the parked SUVs. Keys were left inside both. The wind had died, snow fell, the storm front passed. Catch and I drove across the prairie and collected bodies by headlight. We spent fifteen minutes searching for the Chechen that had looped to the outside, their version of Catch.

  “The son of a bitch had sighted on me,” Catch said, the body shoved in the back. “He was good. I squeezed the trigger first.”

  “Okay.”

  Killing, death, empty land. Surreal and cold. So damn cold. I followed his vehicle to the west side of the ranch house and helped him toss another bounty hunter inside. Then the hitter on the snow-covered front drive—Marcus’s house kill. Six. Six splayed, bloody, lifeless bodies.

  The seventh remained outside the garage bay door. “I’ll get him. You go inside. Help Marcus,” Catch said. He moved toward our former brother.

  “No. No, I’ll get Angel.”

  He paused, understood, patted my chest as he passed and entered the front door. I approached my dead former teammate. Dragging him over the fresh sleet and snow was the easiest route. Or toss him over a shoulder, a fireman’s carry. Instead, I cradled him in my arms, lifted, walked a dirge back to the SUV.

  You stupid SOB. What the hell got into you? A bit of merc work, train the Suriname rebels. Okay, I could get that, sort of. Something to do. Utilize your skills. Okay. But this other crap? You stupid SOB. Love? Money? You killed Bo, went after us because of love? Love? No freaking way. Utter madness. But the words of Jules loomed large. People change.

  No tears. Loss and betrayal. Frustration at never knowing the answers. Senseless death. Balled up, an enigma, wrapped with pain. Culminating when I dumped him on top of the Chechens.

  The slam of the car door ended it. There, it’s over. I hope you knew I loved you, you dumb bastard.

  We wiped, cleaned, scrubbed in silence—filled the house with the smell of bleach, deposited rags into another plastic bag. A throw rug joined the rags. Finished, the cleanup debris was tossed into one of the SUVs. Not a word exchanged since I’d carried Angel.

  “Let’s get warm clothes,” Marcus said, turning to inspect the final product. Jake, relegated to his corner dog bed, shook his head and sneezed at the Clorox. “This will take a little while.”

  We donned winter wear, left the doors open, aired the place. Marcus put Jake in a bedroom and stomped toward the barn. We followed. He propped open both barn doors, flicked the light, grabbed a half-full grain sack. Climbed on his D-7 Caterpillar bulldozer. A common piece of equipment on large ranches for building roads and general dirt moving. It took it a while to fire, the engine cold. Then it roared to life and belched exhaust.

  “Follow me,” he called and backed the dozer out of the barn.

  We did a sedate six miles an hour, drove the SUVs in the dozer’s wake, my vehicle last. I’d rolled the windows down, the bleach rags too strong. Over the loud rumble of the forward dozer, music, full volume. Catch had lowered his windows, too, and serenaded us with classical music. No one for miles, pitch-black, a light snow, and a bulldozer leading the way—a weird, memorable funeral procession. Fifteen minutes later, at the base of a steep rise, we stopped.

  “This will take a little while,” Marcus said. “Keep the headlights on. Helps me see.”

  And so he began moving dirt and dug a massive grave to contain the SUVs and their contents. White stuff collected on the windshield as I stood alongside the vehicles, refusing to share space with the occupants. Catch wandered over, offered a beer from the six-pack he’d grabbed before we left for this little expedition.

  “One for the books,” I said, and took a swig.

  “A decisive day. Progress.”

  “Progress?”

  “Seven less after my head.”

  Marcus demonstrated expertise with the dozer, moved earth. He crafted a steep ramp at one end of the grave, now twelve feet deep. One tiny speck on the universe’s tiny speck called Earth, occupied by three people burying any remnant of extreme violence, death, mayhem. />
  Thirty minutes later I followed Catch’s SUV and drove down the dirt ramp to its final resting place. Before we had climbed from the hole, Marcus began filling it. The roar of the Caterpillar diesel engine filled the air. It was soon finished, smoothed over, done, and Marcus climbed down with the grain sack.

  Together, we scattered pasture grass seed over the area. Sowed disguise, finality. I rode back on the dozer, standing alongside Marcus. Catch walked, humming a tune.

  “Any concern over the scar that leaves on the land?” I asked.

  “None. Snow-covered all winter. Springtime will sprout the grass seed. No trace of digging.”

  The bleach smell had dissipated, the doors and windows were closed, and a massive fire started in the fireplace. Jake ran from one to the next of us, brought us toys, was assured, and glued himself to Marcus’s leg. Vigorous scratches and soothing words were applied, and Jake calmed down. Marcus stretched duct tape over the kitchen door bullet holes. It was over. Over and done. We poured stiff drinks and settled in. Marcus lit a series of lavender candles. They masked the remnant odors of bleach.

  “I’m worried about you, Marcus,” Catch said, watching his former team leader place the scented candles.

  “I like lavender.”

  “When you breaking out the patchouli?”

  “Shut up. I’ll run to Billings and get a new door tomorrow. There’s a spare windowpane somewhere in the barn,” Marcus said, settling, feet on an ottoman near the fireplace.

  “Just like that,” I said.

  “Don’t start that shit,” Marcus said.

  I took a long sip of Grey Goose and propped open my laptop. It was over. I owed her the information.

  “For someone constantly harping about getting away from your line of work, you sure do keep contact with that world,” he said, certain whom I was communicating with.

  Deep web accessed, I paused, uncertain what to convey to Jules. Even this hidden, deep in the bowels of hidden web traffic, it was important to remain obtuse. The fireplace logs popped, Jake curled on his dog bed near the fire, and I constructed the message.

  It’s over. All the Chechens and wandering son.

  Cryptic enough, and Jules would understand. I hit “Send,” set the laptop on the floor, and stood to make another drink. Marcus and Catch’s glasses showed dregs, so I picked them up as well. Over my shoulder, mixing drinks, I started the conversation again.

  “You think he really did it for love? Love for the Russian?”

  “I told you not to start that shit.”

  Snow drifted against the great-room windows, falling heavy again. Jake groaned, shifted on his dog bed. He’d hunted hard and had then been traumatized by the firefight. I set the Scotch and soda on Marcus’s side table, handed Catch his bourbon and water. Plopped in my stuffed chair, I continued.

  “Well, I am going to start that shit because you and Catch and Mom and CC are all I have left in this world. It’s a big damn deal when I lose someone.”

  “You didn’t lose him. He lost himself,” Marcus said.

  “And why?”

  He took a long sip, stared at the fire.

  “Could have been love. Or money. People change.”

  “You sound like Jules.”

  “I never sound like Jules because I don’t have a damn thing to do with her world. That’s your hairball, son.”

  “Sex?” I asked.

  “I doubt he was lacking,” Catch said. “Wherever the hell he was living in South America.”

  “Sense of team? Of mission?”

  “She’d have been good at pushing that line. Your Russian,” Marcus said.

  “Nika.”

  “You got a sports channel on your TV?” Catch asked. “Or strictly home-improvement TV. Maybe the Martha Stewart channel.”

  “You’re an ass pain,” Marcus said, tossing him the remote.

  “I’m not the one lighting lavender candles.” Catch fiddled with the device and found ESPN.

  Over and done and now let’s fix a few bullet holes and move on. I never understood how they did it, other than heavy compartmentalizing. The laptop beeped an incoming message. Deep web. Jules. A surprise—I didn’t expect to hear back from her until tomorrow, if at all.

  It’s never over, dear. Glad you are well.

  Chapter 37

  Six inches of new snow covered the ground. Morning light reflected crystalline sparkles. Bright and fresh and masking carnage. I acknowledged the surface beauty, a hidden hell felt. A surreal greeting to the day.

  Marcus left for Billings, Catch for Portland. I made a commitment. Clean the birds from yesterday, cook dinner. The grouse and Huns had stayed plenty cold since we’d bagged them.

  Catch and Marcus shook hands, half hugged, and traded a few final barbs. I followed Catch outside and said goodbye.

  “Let’s not wait so long,” I said. “I do miss you. And no commentary on the sentiment.”

  “Hell, I miss you, too. Come to Portland.”

  “Rains a lot.”

  “And the rainy season has started. We can hole up. Drink heavily.”

  “Grow mold.”

  “Grow beards,” he said.

  “Be careful, my friend.”

  “Be happy, my brother. Give it a shot. It’s time.”

  The hug lasted long, his hand pat on my cheek heartfelt. I missed him before he took off, tires spitting snow, another war cry blistering the serene landscape. Juan Antonio Diego Hernandez. Blood brother.

  Marcus ambled out wearing a Stetson, ranch coat, and Tony Lamas. Mr. Rancher.

  “I should see him more often,” he said and lifted a chin at Catch’s vehicle, now sideways in a controlled drift, disappearing over the hill. “Hope to hell he stops to open the gate.”

  We chuckled and shook our heads.

  “You know what you’re doing in the kitchen?” he asked.

  “Trust me.”

  “Always have.”

  Before he climbed into the vehicle, he mentioned an Irene Collins visit. To taste my fare. Irene Collins, new neighbor, Californian, scientist of some sort.

  “Not necessary.” Ambivalence on my part, a desire for emotional stability before social interaction. Besides, the whole matchmaker thing bugged me.

  “I might like dinner conversation other than yours, moron,” he said.

  “Invite Miriam.” With Irene coming over, I wanted Marcus’s lady friend around. Another conversational contact, Miriam could offset the Irene focus.

  “Already did.”

  He left. We never mentioned yesterday’s events. Compartmentalized. Locked away. Man, I wished I could do the same.

  I skinned the birds and cut meat from bone. Jake focused on the procedure, wiry eyebrows matching my movements. A large old cast-iron pot was the lone required stovetop tool.

  Love? Angel had never talked of relationships. He’d always been stoic. Spartan.

  A mixture of olive oil and butter, sauté the meat. Vegetables chopped. Bell pepper, celery, parsley, garlic.

  Nika could have manipulated him without too much effort. She damn near did me.

  A large jalapeño seeded and diced, tossed in the mixing bowl of collected ingredients.

  But to kill a teammate, a brother? Something wrong, wiring messed up. I had to hang my hat, and angst, on bad wiring.

  I chopped onions and tossed them in the bowl.

  Angel had gone off the rails. Simple as that. Still, still—I wanted definitive answers and struggled to accept it wasn’t going to happen. Move on, Case. You’ll drive yourself nuts.

  While the meat cooked, I placed a call. Mom answered after the second ring.

  “Hey, Lola Wilson.”

  “Hallelujah on my end. Are you okay?”

  “Fine. You can head back to Charleston.”

  A pause while she digested the meaning. An event, a threat, now over. She dealt with it in her own way, never pried.

  “All right. You sure?” Her voice, calm and strong.

  “Sur
e as I can get.”

  “CC is upset with Grandma’s dogs. They haven’t given Tinker Juarez the love and respect he deserves.”

  “I imagine.” Grandma Wilson’s hounds—rambunctious farm dogs—would have been less than accepting toward a new member of the pack.

  “When do we see you?”

  “Within the week.”

  “Good. Good, and I want you staying for a while. Meet the young lady I told you about.”

  “Tell CC I’m taking her for a trip. On the Ace. With Tinker Juarez.”

  “She’ll love that.”

  “Me too. And you should take a break. Go connect with one of your gentlemen callers.”

  “Hush.”

  We signed off, love and affection palpable over the phone. An anchor, Mom lifted my spirits with normalcy, human relationships, family. The conversation mapped to the clean snow outside the kitchen window and conveyed a new start. Cover the past and move on.

  Bird meat removed from the oil, fire lowered, I started a roux. The end goal, game-bird sauce piquante—a spiced-up version of gumbo. Flour added to the oil, a flat-edged wooden spoon stirred and scraped. After ten minutes, the flour edged light-brown, darkened. A critical roux moment between done and burned.

  Time for proof that alchemy works. At the proper moment, before the roux seared, the chopped vegetables were dumped in, stirred. They melted, congealed, cooked—a thick brew of magic, transformed. A better smell could not be found. I added chicken stock, tomato sauce, a splash of wine, sautéed bird, and sliced Polish sausage for added fat and flavor. Sauce piquante, à la Case Lee. It would simmer all day, then serve over rice.

  Jake and I took a walk, and the sight of last night’s burial passed indistinguishable under the snow. Marcus had done an excellent job, scars smoothed. The high prairie protected its secrets without a trace.

  I helped with the new door and the windowpane replacement. Smooth, working as a team, Marcus and I finished repairing the event’s remnants. The simmering stew filled the house with comfort smells and overcame any lingering bleach odors. Loose ends—tied, snipped, buried.

  “Early dinner, then over to the Solid for drinks and dance.”

  “Dance.”

  “Local band. They’re good.”