Final Target

by John Gilstrap

  No, at this stage the only real mistake would be a trip back to his cage. He still owed seven years on his original sentence, and he still hadn’t gotten laid since his release. Not that he didn’t have an occasional opportunity, but he was saving himself for that special woman who wouldn’t give him chlamydia.

  He manned up, addressed the door, and knocked with the heel of his fist. It sounded a little too much like search-warrant service.

  He heard movement inside, beyond the door. It was the sound of moving furniture and footsteps. “Just a minute!” someone yelled. Jesse thought it was Davey’s voice, but it had been too long to tell for sure.

  Thirty seconds later, the door cracked open a couple of inches. A bearded face appeared. It was grayer than the last time Jesse saw it, but there was no mistaking his father’s aqua-blue eyes. They showed fear until recognition kicked in, and then they showed delight.

  “Jesse!” he said. The door flew open all the way, revealing his father wearing a mostly closed kimono. “Kiddo!” His arms opened wide, and he enclosed his boy in a huge bear hug. “I thought you were in the joint!”

  Jesse returned the hug, and from his perspective over his father’s shoulder, he saw a naked woman doing her best to cover herself as she moved from the bed to the bathroom. “Do I have a new mommy?” he asked.

  Davey pushed away. “What?” Then he caught the eye line. “Oh. No. Tiffany is a . . . How do I put it?”

  “Hooker?”

  Davey smirked and gave his shockingly gray beard a vigorous scratch. “Don’t be vulgar. I think of her as a passing fancy.”

  “A professional?”

  The smirk became a grin. “You have no idea. Want some coffee?” Davey adjusted his kimono and tied it a little tighter as he walked toward the kitchen. “What time is it, anyway?”

  Jesse checked his watch. “A little past one.”

  “No wonder I’m sore,” Davey said.

  What every twentysomething wants to hear: his father’s getting more action in the bedroom than he is. Jesse needed to get a life. Sooner would be better than later.

  Jesse followed at a distance as Davey poured a double dose of coffee grounds into the basket of his Mr. Coffee, filled the carafe with water, and filled the reservoir.

  “How long have you been out?”

  Jesse winced against what he knew was coming. “About a year and a half.”

  Davey froze in mid-pour. “Excuse me?”

  Jesse shrugged. “I didn’t call, because I really hated where I was in my life. I was stuck on parole, with a shit job and a shit apartment.”

  “But I’ve been worried about you,” Davey said.

  Jesse planted his fists on his hips. “Was that because all those letters you wrote to me came back undeliverable?”

  Davey acknowledged the riposte with a smirk. “You know I don’t like to write letters,” he said. “That don’t mean I wasn’t thinking about you.”

  “Well, I’m here now,” Jesse said. He pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and helped himself. Virtually nothing about this place had changed since his last visit. Everything was precisely in the spot where it belonged, and every surface shined. If there was one thing in life the Navy had taught Senior Chief David Montgomery, it was obsessive cleanliness. Jesse figured that was why he himself was such a slob. His own form of rebellion.

  “You said something about parole,” Davey said as he moved the red rocker switch to the brew position. “Your PO know you’re here?”

  “Sort of,” he said. “Kind of a long story. I’ll wait till we’re alone.” As if on cue, the toilet flushed and the shower came on.

  A concerned look flashed across Davey’s face. “Oh, shit. I’m being rude. Did you want a turn with Tiffany before she packs up and gets out of here? Be happy to pay for it.”

  Jesse wanted to be more appalled than he was, even as his trousers tightened. “I am not taking sloppy seconds from my father,” he said.

  “Don’t be crass. You’re afraid of the comparison, aren’t you?”

  “Hey! Jesus.” Jesse felt his ears grow hot.

  Davey chuckled as he padded to the stove. “Suit yourself,” he said. “Just don’t say I never offered you nothin’. Want some eggs?”

  Until he heard the question, Jesse hadn’t realized how hungry he was. “That’d be great. Thanks.”

  The cast-iron skillet appeared from the spot where it always resided under the sink.

  “Need any help?” Jesse asked.

  “Did you ever learn to cook worth a shit?” Davey asked.

  Jesse laughed. “As long as the cuisine requires a can opener, I’m Bobby Friggin’ Flay.”

  “That’s what I figured,” Davey said. “No, you keep a load off and tell me what you’ve been up to since you got out.”

  An eavesdropping stranger would have missed the genuine affection in Davey’s banter. Jesse understood that though the man was something of a free-range father, he wanted only the best for his son. As they ate at the kitchen table, Jesse told him of his life at the scrap yard, of his shitty little apartment, and of his mission to save enough money to buy a life worth living.

  Having never bought a hooker—make that a passing fancy—Jesse was intrigued by the lack of a good-bye when she was done in the shower. No peck on the cheek or even a smack on the ass. Not even a wave.

  “Worth every penny,” Davey said after the front door closed.

  “Oh, come on,” Jesse said.

  “And there were a lot of pennies.”

  “Okay, let’s call a truce on your sex life,” Jesse said. “We’ll stipulate that your loins are far more experienced and satisfied than mine. How’s that?”

  Davey chuckled softly, clearly proud of his win. “Okay, we’re alone,” he said, patting the table with both hands. “Why are you really here?”

  “You remember Uncle Paul?” Jesse asked.

  “You don’t have an Uncle Paul. I’d have to have a brother named Paul for you to have an uncle.”

  “Boersky,” Jesse prompted. “Not a real uncle, but that’s what I called him when I was a kid.”

  Davey grimaced at the ceiling as he tried to place the name.

  “Okay, remember Bob and Madeline? You sent me to them for one of your Gulf tours.”

  “Of course I remember them. Bob and I go way back.”

  “Okay, well, Paul Boersky—Uncle Paul—was tied to them somehow. Nice guy.”

  “And all this is relevant how?”

  “Uncle Paul is apparently a bigwig in the FBI now, and they need help with something, so they reached out to me.”

  “Bullshit,” Davey said with a scoff. “You’re a con. No offense.”

  “Apparently, that’s the one qualification they’re looking for.” Jesse pushed his plate away and leaned his forearms on the table. “They want me to steal for them.”

  Now Davey was interested. He leaned back in his seat, folded his arms, and crossed his legs. “Steal what?”

  “A boat.”

  “Because . . . the Navy doesn’t have enough?”

  Jesse bobbed his head noncommittally. “This is where it all gets a little confusing,” he said. “I don’t have the right to know a lot of the details, but apparently, there’s some kind of a secret operation going on down in Mexico, and—”

  “Mexico?”

  “Right.”

  “As in the country? You’re sure they didn’t say New Mexico?”

  “I’m sure. The country. So they’ve got this job going on down there, and the people need a ride home.”

  “Why don’t they steal their own boat?”

  Jesse laughed. “You know, I never asked that. I doubt I would’ve gotten a straight answer even if I did. But they’re in a hurry.”

  Davey’s eyes narrowed as he assessed his son’s story. “So, why are you here? What do you need from me?”

  Wasn’t it obvious? “I don’t know anything about boats,” he said. “I don’t know how to drive them, and I sure as hell
don’t know how to navigate six hundred miles in one.”

  “Six hundred miles!”

  “That’s what they said.”

  Davey stood. “Where are they going?”

  “They wouldn’t tell me that,” Jesse said. He stood, too, because it seemed like the right thing to do. “The way this works is, I get my instructions a little at a time and then move forward accordingly.”

  Davey looked at him as if he thought his son had lost his mind. “Why would you even consider such a thing?”

  “Because if I do, they expunge my record.”

  “That’s what they say,” Davey pointed out. “Do you have it in writing?”

  Now it was Jesse’s turn to give the crazy look. “Really? Is this the kind of thing you can see Uncle Sam putting on paper?”

  “They’re asking you to go back to what got you put in jail to begin with,” Davey said. “Their word don’t mean shit if they decide that you’re suddenly expendable.”

  “I don’t think you understand—”

  “No, I do understand,” Davey said. His eyes showed anger. “You’re the one living in a dream world. Trust me. I’ve been screwed over by every government agency and every administration for the past thirty years. When you’re dealing with politicians, everything and everyone is secondary to their career.”

  “Paul Boersky is not a politician,” Jesse said. “He’s a friend.”

  “A friend you haven’t seen in how many years?” Davey said. “People change, sonny boy. The way to get through this world in one piece is to trust no one.”

  “I know Uncle Paul,” Jesse said. As the words came out, he wished they hadn’t. This conversation was about to get very awkward.

  “No, you used to know him.”

  “I still do, Davey,” Jesse said. “We’ve kept in touch. While I was in prison, I mean.”

  Davey cocked his head, a puppy dog look.

  “He does like to write letters,” Jesse explained. “And talk on the phone.”

  It took a couple of seconds, but Davey got it. “Ah, I see. He’s a better daddy than me.”

  “Don’t,” Jesse said. “I got no hard feelings, and neither should you. We are who we are.”

  Davey closed his eyes, settled his shoulders. Got control. “Fair enough. Yet when you need help, you still reach out to dear old Davey.”

  Jesse shrugged. “I took a shot. The rest is up to you.”

  Davey made a show of collecting the dishes. He walked them to the sink and turned on the water. “Did anyone mention the likelihood of getting shot at?”

  “They did,” Jesse said. “Apparently, that’s pretty much a sure thing.”

  Davey turned to face him. “You ever been shot at?”

  “First time for everything. I’m hoping maybe you can teach me to shoot back.”

  Davey braced his back against the sink. “You’re asking me to go along on this thing, right?”

  “Right.”

  “How much are they paying you?”

  Jesse said nothing.

  “Oh, please, God and Sonny Jesus. Tell me that you’re getting paid.”

  “I am,” Jesse said. Now he owed a number, and he wasn’t sure how to play it. His father was many things that were good, but he loved a good payday more than most. He decided just to tell the truth. “Eighty thousand dollars.”

  “I get fifty,” Davey said.

  Jesse recoiled. “How about forty? A fifty-fifty split?”

  Davey grinned. He knew he’d won. “What, it’s not worth ten thousand dollars in free money not to get lost at sea?”

  Just like that, the deal was done.

  CHAPTER 18

  Alejandro brought his cousin Orlando and two others with him as he escorted the four children back through the forest, first to the spot where they had initially assembled and then to the spot where they had camped out for the night. All the children except Mia walked with their hands bound and their heads down. It made for slow going, but it also taught a powerful lesson about finding oneself on the wrong side of the power equation.

  He wasn’t sure what he hoped to find by visiting these spots, but it seemed like an important thing to do. It was nearly noon now. If the attackers had left at dawn or only slightly thereafter, they had a formidable head start, but whoever the attackers were—whoever the soldiers were—they were likewise burdened with a crowd of whining children and would suffer slower progress than they otherwise would. The difference was, in a half hour or so, Alejandro would no longer be similarly burdened. Soon he would be shed of these children.

  “I think this is it,” Mia said when they arrived in a relatively clear patch of jungle. “This is where we stopped to sleep.”

  Alejandro thought she was probably right. The trees had thinned out significantly, and the lower growth of ferns and grasses appeared to be recovering from a severe matting.

  “They didn’t go very far,” Orlando observed. “If it were me, I would have tried to gain more distance.”

  “Scorpion said that he didn’t want us to get separated in the dark.” This came from the boy named Franco, another young one. These were the first words Alejandro heard him utter.

  “He was also worried about noise,” Hugo said. Apparently, the self-appointed leader had decided to get with the program.

  “There is no possible way they can hike all the way to the shore at Laguna de Términos,” Orlando said.

  “Look at this, Mr. Azul,” said Enrique, another of Alejandro’s men. He had stooped to one knee and was fishing something out of the grass.

  Alejandro strolled over and saw that Enrique had found a couple of bullets. “Five-point-five-six NATO,” he said. He recognized the distinctive shape of the round.

  “The American military’s favorite bullet,” Orlando said.

  Alejandro appreciated his cousin’s desire to contribute, but the caliber of the bullet meant nothing. Next to the 7.62 x 39-millimeter round, which fed an AK-47, the 5.56 x 45-millimeter cartridge was among the most common rifle bullets in the Western Hemisphere. If the rumors were correct, about twenty-five million civilians in the United States owned a rifle that fired the same round.

  “Mia,” Alejandro said, “how many of the people in your group had rifles?”

  “There were more than enough for everybody,” she said. “And bullets, too. But I don’t know how many they took with them. We were gone before then.”

  “Alejandro!” It was Enrique again.

  Alejandro spun on his heel to see what the excitement was, and he beheld Enrique with an AK in his hand, holding it high over his head.

  “There are four more of them over here, in the weeds,” Enrique said.

  Alejandro arched an eyebrow at Mia.

  She shrugged and shook her head. “I don’t know why they’re there.”

  “Are these all of them?” Alejandro asked.

  “Oh, no. There were many more. Black ones.”

  Alejandro imagined that the “black ones” were in fact the shipment of M4 assault rifles that were supposed to be pulled out of Saint Agnes today.

  “What I don’t understand,” Orlando said, “is how they can expect to make it all the way to the coast.”

  “They will have to stop along the way,” Alejandro said. “Assuming that they can walk twenty kilometers in a day—which I don’t think is possible with the children—it would take them a week just to make it to the coast. That gives us that much time to find them and extract our revenge.”

  “And to kill the DEA man, who knows too much,” Orlando added.

  “I don’t care why we kill them,” Alejandro said. “As long as they are killed.”

  Mia’s face paled. “But not the children.”

  Alejandro made a show of not answering her question. “Pick up those rifles,” he said to Enrique. “We’re taking them back with us.” Then he dug back into his pocket and found the folding knife he’d used to cut her bonds. With the blade still closed, he handed it to Mia, whose hands trembled as
she took it.

  “This is for you,” he said. She held it as if it were something slimy or it perhaps contained some kind of evil power. “This is a gift for all of you. You are all free to do whatever you want with the rest of your lives. You see? You chose wisely to leave the others and set out on your own. You have one hour to disappear wherever you wish.”

  The children looked confused, their heads cocked at nearly identical angles as they clearly struggled to find hidden meaning in his words.

  “I assume that Mia will choose to cut your hands free, but, Mia, if you decide otherwise, that’s fine with me.”

  A rumble started among the assembled kids as they moved closer to Mia and twisted their bodies so that she could see their hands, all of which were swollen and purple from lack of circulation.

  “But listen to me, boys and girls,” Alejandro said. “Trust me when I tell you that I have a very good memory, and I know what each of you looks like. After one hour has passed, if I ever see you again, I will not hesitate to gut you like a fish.”

  * * *

  Sacco Salvage and Auto Parts took up ten acres of rolling hills in the southern part of Prince William County, Virginia. Gail had never visited before, but she understood the business model from her discussion with Venice. John Sacco was a beefy, good-natured blond of about fifty, whose looks and demeanor struck her as far more Irish than his Italian surname implied.

  When she arrived with her beater of a Plymouth, Sacco was waiting for her in the front parking lot. They exchanged the pass phrase arranged by Venice, and, satisfied, Sacco asked for the keys.

  “Where are you taking it?” Gail asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does to me,” she said. “We don’t know each other. I want to make sure that the promised destruction actually happens.”

  Sacco seemed amused. “How long do you suppose we’d stay in business if we didn’t follow through?”

  Gail made a point of closing her fist around the keys. “This may be commonplace for you, but it’s a unique experience for me. Trust but verify, if you know what I mean.”

  Sacco grinned and tossed a glance back toward the car. “Suit yourself,” he said. As he walked around to the passenger-side door, he added, “I can see why Digger thinks so highly of you. Lots of attitude.”