Never Bloodless

by Steve Richer

  Then, exasperation gave way to restrained pleasure. Preston went to Embry and they shook hands.

  “I take it you remember Burt Embry,” Brown said.

  “Of course he remembers me, Mr. Brown. I was his boss at the PMC.” He turned to Preston. “How are you, son?”

  “It’s good to see you, sir.”

  Surprising himself, Preston was actually telling the truth. Embry had been in the Army for over 25 years before moving on to the private sector. He’d brought his experience as a colonel to the PMC company and he’d been proud to serve under him.

  “So you like hauling rocks and mowing lawns now, is that it?”

  “Sir, I moved on with my life.”

  “You are a soldier, Mr. McSweeney. You’ve been a soldier since you graduated high school. You can trim branches and water potted plants from here to the next century but that won’t make you any less of a soldier.”

  “Sir...” Preston pleaded with a half measure of grievance in his voice, the way a child begins when he knows his complaint doesn’t carry a lot of weight.

  “That’s what you are. It’s in your blood, it’s your nature. You know about the thing with denial and Egypt and the river.”

  Brown smiled and leaned back against the fender of his car, enjoying the show.

  Preston shook his head. “The problem with being a soldier is that you have to give a shit, whether it’s about the mission or your fellow soldiers. I can’t do that anymore. Not after all I’ve been through.”

  He turned back toward the trailer, finally deciding to put an end to all this nonsense. If he just went back inside and ate his baloney sandwich it would all be over. He didn’t need another reminder of his past fuck-ups.

  “Giving a shit is highly overrated, Mr. McSweeney. We’re talking millions of dollars. This is how you can reach us when you change your mind.”

  Embry moved behind the car by the edge of the road and put a business card into the flimsy mailbox. Preston disappeared inside, deciding he’d had enough. The older man finally got into the BMW’s passenger seat while Brown wasn’t quite sure what to do next.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The sun had set and the moon had decided not to show up tonight, hidden behind a thin layer of clouds which had at last formed over the Bel Air area, if a bit late. The homeowner turned on his flood lights but it wasn’t enough and the landscapers had to use handheld electric torches to finish their work.

  As always, Preston used the opportunity to think. The problem now was that it was the last thing he wanted to do.

  The visitors had mentioned millions of dollars. They’d mentioned the opportunity of going back to do the very thing he had been born to do. The fact that Colonel Embry had showed up had to mean they were pretty desperate for him to join the operation. Why had he instinctively turned him down?

  Extremely sweaty, and not necessarily because of his work, Preston drained the last of his bottled water as his foreman came over to him.

  “Listen McSweeney, I’ve thought about that pay increase you asked for and it’s not going to be possible this year. Maybe next year if we get the country club contract. Okay?”

  Well, there goes my career plan, Preston silently grumbled. Resigned, he nodded and wiped his forehead.

  The foreman was on his way to his truck when he suddenly spun around. “Oh, and I forgot to tell you. I need you to come in Saturday and Sunday for the new Burger King job. I need you to be there at a quarter to six.” And he meant six in the morning, obviously.

  He walked away before Preston could reply. That was how management was supposed to operate, never giving the employee an opportunity to complain. Christ, it was obvious Preston had no life but that didn’t mean he wanted to spend his weekend excavating holes for ungrateful rich people.

  He dug into his pocket and retrieved the business card left by Embry. He decided that maybe he didn’t have to put up with this crap.

  Chapter 6

  Preston sat down in the booth on the far end of the diner. Colonel Embry and the attorney Brown were waiting for him. It was all so surreal.

  He had left work the evening before, after telling his boss he was quitting, and had spent the night mostly awake. He had tossed and turned in bed for hours, thinking about what it would be like to go back in the field with a paycheck and a genuine cause.

  In the morning, he had called Brown and they had set up a meeting for an early lunch in this shabby diner located in a strip mall between an optometrist and a dollar store. It was just after eleven and the place was mostly deserted.

  “I’m really glad you called, Mr. McSweeney.”

  Preston acknowledged his former superior with a nod as he settled into his seat. The vinyl banquette cushion had seen better days and he sank a couple of inches.

  “All right,” Brown said. “Let’s do some business.”

  This would have to wait a few more minutes as the waitress, a middle-aged mammoth of a woman with the joy and enthusiasm of a cancer patient, approached their table.

  “Get you anything?”

  “Coffee,” Brown ordered.

  Preston said, “The same, please.”

  Embry declined and she walked away. At the same time, Brown inspected the spoon he would have to use to stir his coffee. His eyes narrowed as he found grime on the handle.

  “Everything all right, Mr. Brown?”

  “Oh everything is just fine and dandy, thank you very much. They ask you to part with your hard-earned money and they don’t have the goddamn decency to give you clean utensils.”

  As he was talking, Brown grabbed a paper napkin and scrubbed furiously at the hardened stain.

  “Here,” Embry calmly said, handing over his own spoon to the lawyer, defusing the situation.

  “Can I hear about the offer now?”

  Embry raised his index finger, asking for a little patience, as the waitress came back with the coffee. Brown looked at her and it was evident he was about to give her hell for the hygiene deficiency and then he backed down upon seeing her own expression, a murderous look which seemed like her normal disposition. She finally went away.

  “The job is pretty straightforward,” Brown said. “We need you to overthrow the government of Katoga.”

  “As in the African country?”

  Preston looked around instinctively, knowing that it was better not to be overheard when having conversations such as these. He saw there were only two people in the restaurant and they were at the counter 20 feet away. He relaxed.

  Besides, the area catered to truck drivers, day laborers, and other low-wage workers, not the kind of people with the higher education or inclination to understand the kind of stuff about which they were talking.

  “It’s a small nation with a small military. A dictatorship, of course. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  “It’s not what I do,” Preston declared. “I thought you wanted me for a security job, or something. It’s not a mission I’m trained to do.”

  “You’ll surround yourself with experienced people,” Embry interjected. “They’ll know what to do.”

  “Then why not put them in charge?”

  It was a perfectly reasonable question, Preston judged. There was no sense in putting someone as inexperienced as he was in charge of such an important operation.

  “Because I need someone I can trust as a leader, Mr. McSweeney.”

  “Okay, then why aren’t you leading this operation, sir?”

  “I’m already involved with another assignment,” Embry explained. “I was asked to consult and I recommended you. You were one of the best once. I believe you can successfully accomplish this mission.”

  Preston’s eyes went back and forth between the two older guys across from him. Thinking. And then it hit him. He could totally see why he was here now.

  “Basically, you’re looking to have some inexperienced patsy to blame should the operation be blown to shit. How am I doing so far?”

  “Well, uh,” Brown stammered
, ill at ease. “It’s that, uh...”

  Embry allowed a soft smile to trace his lips. “That’s exactly correct, Mr. McSweeney. But that won’t happen because I know you. Do you remember the circumstances under which you left the military?”

  “How can I forget?”

  Is he really gonna bring this shit back up, Preston wondered angrily.

  “This tells me you’ll make all the right decisions when push comes to shove. I have faith in you.”

  Brown, feeling left out of the conversation, said, “If you take the assignment, we’ll give you a list of qualified personnel to choose from. You’ll have three months to complete the mission.”

  “Why?”

  “Why the time constraints?”

  “No, why do you want to overthrow this government? It hasn’t done anything to me. When I woke up this morning I didn’t have a sudden urge to go unleash hell on this tiny African state.”

  “What has Iraq done to you personally, Mr. McSweeney? You didn’t have a personal grudge against the Iraqi people, did you? And yet you fought admirably.”

  Embry wisely didn’t bring up Afghanistan because this one was actually justified, the Taliban having trained and harbored the terrorists responsible for the September 11 attacks. Afghanistan had been personal to a lot of soldiers.

  “And what about when you were working in the private sector?” Embry continued. “Protecting convoys, guarding oil wells and refineries, was that because of a higher calling?”

  “No,” Preston replied in a voice that was just above a whisper.

  Of course, the Colonel was right. As a soldier you went where the officers sent you and as a mercenary you did what your boss paid you to do. This wasn’t a meeting about philosophy and morals. This was a business offer. Could he go down that route one more time?

  “How much?”

  Turning sideways with a smirk, Brown took a thin manila envelope from his briefcase but didn’t hand it over to Preston right away.

  “Ten million dollars,” he said. “Five right now and another five once you complete the operation. That amount should cover all your expenses if you don’t go overboard. You get to keep what’s left, which should be enough to retire on.”

  “Once more into the breach, Mr. McSweeney?”

  Preston glanced at his dirty, calloused hands and then at the envelope. This could be it, his chance at redemption, an opportunity to make everything right again. He could leave his entire tainted past behind and start anew. All he had to do was reach across the table and grab that envelope.

  He remembered his father’s words. You open the door when opportunity knocks.

  Knock knock.

  Did he dare answer?

  Chapter 7

  The next morning, Preston was in his truck driving north on the US101 – well, technically speaking, he was heading west – about to recruit the first member of his team.

  He had risen to the challenge. He had spent the remainder of the previous day inspecting the contents of Brown’s envelope. It contained a list of suitable candidates for the operation as well as a tourism brochure and a sheet of paper on which was written Katoga, change of regime, no later than July 4.

  The envelope had also contained a $5 million certified check from Brown’s law firm.

  He must have spent two straight hours staring at that check. That was more money than he’d ever seen and it occurred to him he could escape to Belize or some other tropical paradise and never be seen again.

  Then again, people with the wherewithal to overthrow a foreign government would probably have the means to track him down and make him pay for his mistake.

  No, he decided. He would do this thing by the book. He would do it to the best of his ability and he would do it honestly. It would be an event that would go down in history and he wanted to be proud of his accomplishment.

  Naturally, he didn’t know the first thing about setting up a coup so he needed someone to mentor him.

  That special person lived in Oxnard. On the list were 10 names of people who had been in the intelligence business and three of them could be found in California. The one Preston was interested in was called Nigel Hewitt. He was listed as British, a former member of MI6, and had operated in Central Africa for three years. He was perfect.

  The trip north to Oxnard took more than an hour and thankfully traffic was light as most people were driving into LA and he went in the opposite direction. He had googled the directions before leaving but he still had to stop at an Exxon station when he believed he missed a turn, distracted by all the banners advertising the upcoming annual strawberry festival.

  At last, he reached a small but clearly new apartment building in the Colonia district, once a hub of crime and poverty, which seemed to be amid a gentrification process. He climbed to the second floor and knocked four times without getting an answer.

  Preston had debated whether to call or not beforehand and now realized he had made the wrong choice. It seemed such an important mission that very little could be said over the phone and he also wanted to stress its magnitude by showing up in person.

  Hewitt was obviously not home and Preston hated having come all the way here for nothing. He dug into his pocket for the list provided by his employer and found Hewitt’s phone number which he dialed on his own cell phone. He was hoping it was a mobile number and he’d be able to reach the Briton.

  No such luck. He could hear the phone ringing through the door.

  Suddenly, the door to the next apartment opened and a head appeared. The man, well into his 70s and with a mouth devoid of teeth, stared at Preston like he was today’s entertainment.

  “You looking for the English fella?”

  Preston turned to him and nodded. “Yeah, you know where he is?”

  “You wouldn’t believe it just by looking at him but the man’s a surfer.”

  “A surfer?”

  “Sure as two flushed turds, he is. Always carrying that longboard with him.” Then he added proudly, “I used to be something of a surfer myself once, you know.”

  “So he’s at the beach? Would you know which one?”

  “Well, think I once heard him mention Mondo’s Beach, it’s north of Ventura. Makes sense, good beach for beginners, something he is, obviously, with that longboard of his.”

  “Mondo’s Beach,” Preston repeated. “Got it.”

  “Some of the best surfing in the world there, got a sand break that keeps the waves regular. Faria Cove’s where I’d go if I was him. Nicest section of Mondo’s.”

  “I appreciate the help. Any way you could tell me how to get there?”

  It took the old man nearly seven minutes to give him the proper directions to reach the beach. Pass this exit, and turn after that rock, watch for this sign, and keep an eye out for the railroad tracks. Preston entered all the information into his phone as to not miss anything vital and ending up in Santa Barbara.

  It was only about 20 miles away from where he was but he drove slowly for fear of having to stop at another gas station. His ego could only tolerate one stop per trip. He’d been an elite soldier for a decade; basically half his training had been dedicated to land navigation, for God sakes.

  Half an hour later, Preston found the tiny parking lot between the Pacific Coast Highway and the Ventura Freeway, right next to the dreaded railroad tracks. There were already 20 cars in the lot and it was bordering maximum capacity. The beach access was located between two stretches of front-row beach homes.

  He carefully crossed the road and let his eyes scan the area for restrooms. He had allowed himself to bring coffee for the journey out of Los Angeles and now his bladder was threatening to overflow. To his dismay, he saw no public toilets and briefly considered going for a swim in order to relieve himself covertly.

  There were a dozen people on the small beach, all in various degrees of undress. There were twice as many in the water, mostly on surfboards. Preston, in jeans and camp shirt, was grossly overdressed.

  Ev
en though he’d grown up in Southern California, he’d never been into surfing himself. He much preferred land-based activities like camping, which explained his military career choice.

  He approached the people on the beach, surfers taking a break or waiting for better waves, asking if they knew Nigel Hewitt. One thing he knew about surfing was that practitioners were territorial, they tended to bond together and stick to a location. If the man was here, somebody would know.

  The fourth person to whom he talked, an obese woman nobody would ever mistake for a surfer, pointed out a distant figure over the water. He had found Nigel Hewitt. Preston walked closer to the water’s edge and waited until the 60-ish British gentleman pulled up to the beach with his 10-foot board under his arm.

  If there was a stereotypical image of a surfer, Hewitt was the complete opposite. He was below average height, above average weight, and his hair was entirely gray. With his loose, drooping jowls, he looked like he belonged in a stuffy British TV show about the history of the cocker spaniel.

  “Nigel Hewitt?”

  “Not if you are with any bank, insurance company, or recovering agency.” His tone was curt and yet his voice was somewhat joyful.

  Hewitt gave him a brief glance but didn’t stop walking. He went directly to his towel and clothes further up the beach. He wiped off water from his face.

  “I’m not with any of those.”

  “Good for you, lad. Your mother must be very proud.”

  He rummaged through his stuff and retrieved a water bottle. He pulled a long swallow from it.

  “I was told you had a long and distinguished career with MI6.”

  “Too long and not so distinguished. You’re not a bloody journalist, are you?”

  “Future employer, actually.”

  Hewitt laughed good-naturedly and said, “I seriously doubt it. Any employer worth my time already knows that it’s not exactly water in this bottle and they usually stay away.”

  He took another gulp of the not-exactly-water and winced as he swallowed. He noticed Preston’s confused look and smiled.

  “You didn’t know, did you, lad? It’s all right, it’s not as if I advertised the fact that Her Majesty fired me from her intelligence service because I liked to have little nip before tea time.”