Overbrook Farms

by Neal Goldstein

  These were first words she had spoken since she had fainted in the compound. He looked at her though the rear-view mirror.

  “Some place safe until I can take you home,” he said softly.

  “My mother….”

  He looked back and shook his head.

  The girl began to cry. Hunter wanted to stop the car and take the child in his arms, but all he could do was reach back and pat her knee. “Haley, I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

  3

  One half-hour later, Caracas, Venezuela

  It had been two and a half years since Hunter had last been in Caracas, and there had been many changes in that time, both good - new construction, skyscrapers, and modern upscale apartment buildings, and bad, with graffiti on the sides of buildings, litter on the sidewalks, and other symptoms of urban decay.

  As he drove by certain of the landmarks he remembered, he fondly recalled the good times he had enjoyed in the Altamiro neighborhood and the shops and restaurants of Las Mercedes. He had friends there, people who could help him secure safe housing and get what he needed to make Haley and his getaway; at least he hoped that after what had happened, they still considered him a friend.

  Hunter drove along one of the side streets that ran parallel with the pedestrians-only Boulevard of Sabana Granda, through the heart of Caracas. The broad tree-lined thoroughfare was lively, packed with people of all ages, among them young couples strolling hand in hand and families with children, enjoying the early evening. The peaceful scene belied the recent reputation of Caracas as the most dangerous capital city in the world.

  Haley, who was now sitting next to him in the front of the jeep, took in the sights and sounds of the crowded boulevard. Hunter watched the child with this peripheral vision. It broke his heart to see her tears. He could only imagine how the images of the happy, smiling families, must have contrasted with the unimaginable horror of the past several weeks of her life. It reminded him of the loneliness of his own childhood, and reinforced his commitment to do everything in his power to help Haley get through the ordeal that lay ahead.

  He parked across from the Chiro Grille, a corner café in the Altamira neighborhood, took Haley’s hand in his, and led her inside. When they walked through the door, Haley seemed completely embraced by the atmosphere of the room. The incredible smells, soft lights, quiet conversations of the diners, and soft music playing in the background appeared to have calmed her.

  “Hunter!” the Maître D said with a broad smile on his handsome face when they entered.

  “Hello, Carlos,” he replied.

  “And who is this beautiful senorita?”

  “Haley, say hello to Carlos Dijonari.”

  She turned towards the tall man, looked directly in his dark eyes and nodded.

  He flashed her a smile and said softly, “You seem so sad.”

  “We’ve had a long day,” Hunter responded. “Is your father in?”

  “He’s in the back,” Dijonari replied, still holding his gaze on the child.

  “I think Haley’s hungry. Could you give her a plate of your empanadas while I speak with Don Carlos?” Hunter asked.

  “Of course,” he said as he offered his hand to the girl.

  She looked back at Hunter who nodded, “I’ll be right back. Carlos will take good care of you.”

  The open kitchen was bustling with activity. Line cooks, with plates in their hands ran from the grill to the stainless-steel front counter where the servers waited. Carlos Senior, the owner/executive chef, shouted out the orders and inspected every plate, sometimes centering an errantly placed offering, or wiping a spot of gravy from the plate before releasing it.

  He was an older version of his son, with the same dark eyes and movie star looks. “So, the prodigal son returns,” he said when Hunter approached the counter.

  “Jorge!”

  “Yes, chef?”

  “Take over,” Don Carlos said as he stepped away and waved Hunter to follow him.

  Three years ago, Hunter, who happened to be dining at the Grille, interrupted another patron’s aggressive advances towards one of the servers. The young woman’s thank you was surprisingly restrained. When Hunter left the restaurant, the man and four of his associates were waiting for him.

  The erstwhile Romeo, who was several inches shorter than Hunter, who stood six feet three, suddenly lunged forward, thrusting the switchblade he held in his right hand at Hunter’s face. His attacker was off balance and Hunter pivoted to his left, grabbed the man’s right arm at the elbow and pushed the arm up and back, with the full force of his 220 pounds, tearing the man’s arm out of the shoulder socket. The gruesome sound of ligaments snapping could be heard over his screams. The attacker’s posse watched in horror and ran away, leaving their leader whimpering in pain on the sidewalk.

  A man wearing chef’s clothes, came out of the restaurant. Instead of thanking Hunter, the chef said, that although he was grateful Hunter had stopped the man’s unwanted advances, he would now have to deal with the consequences of the thug’s humiliating encounter with the Americano. He assured Hunter that he was fully capable of dealing with the matter without his further assistance and called for an ambulance.

  The next night, Hunter stood in a doorway close to the restaurant. At mid-night he saw the man now with his right arm in a sling, and his companions who had abandoned him the previous evening, get out of a tricked-up sedan that had parked in front of the restaurant. One of the posse handed his leader a makeshift bomb. Another member of the gang lit the fuse with a Zippo lighter.

  Before the slinged-armed thug could throw the bomb through the restaurant’s front window, Hunter fired a round in the air startling the thug. He ran over and hit the man with the handle of his Glock flush on his face, breaking his nose. Hunter grabbed the Molotov cocktail before it dropped to the ground and threw it into the front seat of the car from which the gang had alighted. In seconds the bomb ignited, setting the interior of the vehicle ablaze. Once again, as they had the previous night, the members of the gang ran away, leaving their patron whimpering on the sidewalk.

  Hunter grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck, pulled him to his feet, and in an icy whisper said, “If I see you near this establishment again, or anywhere near the girl, I will kill you. Nod your head if you understand me.”

  The man nodded. A second later the car exploded.

  * * *

  Don Carlos

  The next morning, Carlos Dijonari, the chef /owner of the Chiro Grille, was waiting in the lobby of Hunter’s hotel. “Come, let’s take some coffee together,” he said when Hunter approached.

  They sat in a nearby outdoor café, each with a steaming cup of expresso.

  “Who exactly are you?” the chef asked.

  Hunter shrugged, “Nobody really.”

  The man studied Hunter’s face. He saw a well-muscled, light-skinned black man, with a shaved head, whom he gauged to be in his early-thirties, whose pale gray-green eyes held the chef’s gaze. “Your name is Charles Hunter, former U.S. Recon Marine, currently an independent ‘security consultant.’”

  Hunter’s eyes narrowed.

  “Should I continue?”

  Hunter nodded.

  “You’ve been in Caracas for the past six months working for La Banca Venezuela. I understand you recently successfully completed your assignment.”

  “You seem to know a great deal about me,” Hunter observed.

  Now the man smiled, “Yes, I haven’t only been a lowly chef all of my life.”

  For the next two hours the two men shared their respective histories. Prior to his retirement Carlos Dijonari had been Chief of Venezuelan Military Intelligence for 20 years. He left the service when he could no longer stomach the pervasive environment of corruption and incompetence, bred by political interference and cartel drug money. Dijonari’s reputation among likeminded patriots had left him with valuable sources.

  Hunter told the older man an all too familiar story of a troubled childh
ood, a single mother who died at 30 years of age from a drug overdose, leaving her eight-year-old son a victim of the foster care and juvenile justice systems. When he turned eighteen, he got arrested when was a lookout for a gang that was robbing a convenience store. A judge offered him an opportunity to avoid incarceration if he volunteered for military service.

  Hunter finally caught a break; a Marine Recruiting Officer gave him a chance, an opportunity to change his life for the better. It turned out that the recruiter had come from the same background as Hunter. The Gunnery Sergeant saw something in Hunter, a spark that the boy himself did not realize he possessed. He challenged the young man to step up and show the world that he was not destined to live the street life into which he had been thrust.

  Hunter accepted the challenge and exceeded all expectations, especially his own. He was an exemplary Marine for six years. It all ended in a poorly planned mission in the mountains of Afghanistan when his unit was caught in an ambush.

  February 2010, Kandahar Province, Afghanistan

  It was Hunter’s third deployment to Afghanistan. He had been temporarily assigned from his regular Recon unit to a rifle company until permanent replacements could be deployed.

  The Bravo Company Commander smiled when Hunter walked into the hutch that had been designated his HQ. The CO looked like he was born to be a marine. He was a solid six foot two inches tall with close-cropped blond hair that was turning gray, piercing dark eyes and a granite chin. He removed the cigar he was smoking from his mouth, said, “Welcome aboard,” and extended his hand.

  “Sergeant, I’m real glad you’re here, even if it’s only for a short stint. I gotta level with you, our outfit has been hit pretty hard. The assholes in Central Command don’t have a fuckin’ clue,” the CO continued, motioning Hunter to sit down.

  “You’re going to the first platoon; you’ll like the platoon leader he’s not full of shit like a lot of the politicians that come out of the Academy. He’s gonna assign you to lead second squad, four of the men are green recruits, fresh off Paris Island,” The CO’s eyes narrowed. “This might seem tame to you, considering your usual jobs, but for the kids it’s gonna be the big time.”

  “Don’t worry Skipper, I’ll take good care of them.”

  “I know you will Marine.”

  At the pre-op meeting at zero 600 hours the next morning, Hunter and the rest of the platoon were huddled together in the company commander’s hutch. The CO told them their objective was to retake the village of Ghorak, that had been overrun by the Taliban several months ago. He explained that the village was the center of the district, and was strategically significant because it was near the border of Helmond province, a Taliban stronghold.

  He turned the briefing over to the platoon leader who laid out the plan of attack. “Hunter, your squad will take the lead. You’ll enter the village here.” He pointed at the map coordinates. “Charley Company will provide cover on your flank while you’re setting up your perimeter defense; second platoon will approach the village from the north.”

  “LT, what’s Intel’s estimate of the force we’ll encounter?” Hunter asked.

  “According to the analysis of the satellite pass-overs, the Taliban contingent has been reduced to company strength. Make sure your guys look out for IEDs and other fortifications they left behind.”

  “Roger that.”

  * * *

  Hunter knew it was going to be a real shit show minutes after the Huey that transported them flew off. “Control, this is Bravo 1 actual,” Hunter said.

  “This is Control actual,” his platoon leader replied.

  ‘We’re dug in. Taking heavy fire. There is no, repeat no, cover on our flank. Where the fuck’s Charley Company?”

  Hunter had moved his squad into position 100 meters south of the village. According to the assault plan, two squads from Charley company were supposed to begin their assault from the west to provide cover for Hunter’s squad to advance. He scanned the west perimeter searching for the support. It wasn’t there.

  Hunter heard the hiss of the mortar shell approaching. “Take cover!” he yelled seconds before the shell hit the road with a deafening explosion 25 meters from where the squad had set up. The heat and concussive force of the blast engulfed them.

  He pointed to a ditch on the east side of the road, and then to the ditch on the west side, “You five, fall back 30 meters and keep down! You,” he pointed at his commo and the four newbies, come with me. Now!”

  Hunter ran to the ditch on the west side of the road that was closer to the building from which the mortar had been launched. As both groups took cover a second round hit the road less than a meter from the location the squad had evacuated.

  There was still no sign of Charley Company.

  “I’m going to knock out that fucking mortar! Cover me!” he ordered and ran along the ditch while his squad provided covering fire.

  When he was about 10 meters from the building, he threw a grenade into the open door that he assumed led to the courtyard from which the mortars had been launched. After the grenade exploded, he threw a second grenade and waved his men to advance.

  Hunter heard the screams from inside the courtyard. When he entered, he saw two Taliban sprawled at the launcher, one was dead, the other was screaming, trying to grab the hand that had been severed from his arm. One of Hunter’s men put two rounds in his head.

  “We need to set up our position here,” he said and ran to the north side of the building. He looked through his binoculars, “Reposition the launcher and get ready.”

  He waved for his commo man to approach, “Control this is Bravo 1 actual. We neutralized the mortar at the front of the village. There’s still no sign of Charley Company. I estimate enemy strength outnumbers us at least two or three to one.”

  “Bravo 1, I called for air support.”

  “Control, they better get here fast. What the fuck happened to Charley Company?”

  Before he received the reply, the assault started. The squad was well outnumbered by the Taliban. Had they not taken refuge in the building all of them would have been killed.

  Charley Company arrived at the same time the gunship helos flew in. By then one member of his squad had been killed and two more were injured. Hunter had been lucky; he had only taken shrapnel to his right leg.

  The battlefield injury he had suffered was not the reason for his discharge from active duty. In the post op briefing when the battalion commander, a pompous U.S. Naval Academy graduate with no balls, blamed the fiasco on the Bravo Company skipper and his platoon leader, Hunter laid the asshole out with a single punch, breaking the officer’s jaw.

  Five years later, Caracas, Venezuela

  “So how come they didn’t throw your ass in Leavenworth?” Carlos asked Hunter.

  “It seems my CO had a lot of clout. So, I got an honorable discharge for medical reasons instead of a court martial.”

  By the end of their conversation Carlos and Hunter had established a rapport of mutual respect and even admiration. “You must come to dinner tonight at my farm. My wife and daughter want to thank you properly.

  That evening Hunter learned that Carlos’ daughter Lena, who had been filling in as a server, was the young woman Hunter saw being accosted by the thug. Lena, who had a Master’s Degree from the University of Pennsylvania, Wharton School of Business, managed all of the Dijonari family enterprises, including the restaurant, farm, tomato packing plant and export operations. She was not only an accomplished business woman, she was also a breathtaking stunner. Lena’s large dark brown, sensuous eyes, sparkled when she smiled at him. He wanted to kiss her full lips, and touch her perfect milk-coffee complexion. Hunter was smitten.

  “My father told me you came to Caracas on business, and now your assignment has ended. What will you do next?” she asked as they sat on the terrace of the farmhouse at sunset, enjoying the view of the meadow and the mountains in the distance.

  “I really have no plans at the moment,”
he replied and shifted his gaze away from the scenery to the woman, once again immediately losing himself in her eyes. He felt the heat of a blush on his face and turned away, but not before he caught the sparkle of her knowing smile.

  “So, you’re staying in Caracas for a while?”

  He nodded.

  “Then you must allow me to show you our city. Come with me,” she said and offered him her hand.

  She took him to Tiffany’s, a nightclub just east of the city. As they approached, he could feel the pounding of the techno disco music and see the crowded dance floor. When they entered the club, he saw couples of all ages, men and women, women and women, and men with men, all moving to the heavy beat.

  “I’m not a very good dancer,” he said as she led him closer to the throng.

  She smiled, “No one will care,” she said as she pulled him in her embrace.

  He felt the heat of her body and was entranced by her movement, her scent, and her joy. He lost himself in the moment, hoping the music would never end. Much later, or was it only the blink of an eye, they were outside, holding hands looking at the full moon and golden glow it cast over the city. She turned to him and held his gaze. Slowly she moved closer and kissed him. The softness of her lips and sweet taste of her tongue filled him with wonder.

  She moved away, still looking directly in his eyes, reading his desire. He could feel his heart beating as he tried to catch his breath. “We should go,” he whispered. Lena nodded.

  They drove back in silence, when she pulled into the driveway in front of the farmhouse and turned off the engine, she turned to him, “a nightcap?” she asked.

  They sat in silence on the back porch each with a sifter of Sambuca in their hand. After several moments passed, she said, “My father told me your mother died when you were very young.” He nodded.

  “You were all alone?”