by Vince Milam
“Now, have I left anything unclear, shithead?” Catch asked. The young man remained silent from that point forward, including the four-hour flight back to DC.
The chopper touched down at our pick-up point and, once we boarded, barreled through the valleys of Chiapas’s highlands, headed for Tuxtla. Catch held the flashlight as I removed the blood-soaked field wrap and inspected Bo’s wound. Upper left arm, clean entrance and exit. A nasty wound, but not debilitating. For a member of Delta. I cleaned and wrapped the bullet damage while Bo observed, detached from the procedure.
“You read C. S. Lewis?” he asked.
“A little. Hold still.”
“Each day we become a creature of splendid glory,” he said over the helicopter’s engine noise.
“Okay. Hold still.” Focused, I applied dressing and bandages sufficient for the chopper ride. The DC flight offered time for more thorough treatment.
“Or a creature of unthinkable horror.”
“Okay, Bo. Okay.”
The final act involved a quick transfer to our waiting jet and the flight home. A substantial force of Mexican State Police greeted us on the tarmac as we transferred the hostages from the helicopter. They aimed automatic weaponry in our direction. A semicircle of cop cars, headlights bright, illuminated our movement. Bo pulled a grenade from my front vest webbing and added it to his two. Wounded, adrenaline-driven, and the sheer act of being Bo showcased the scene.
As we hustled the five young people aboard the jet, he approached the bristling contingent of armed cops and officials. Legs spread, wild red hair lifting with the breeze, he began juggling the three grenades. And mimicked the siren of an ambulance, loud and howling and filling the night. He was the last to board. Mission accomplished. Delta Force blended back into the shadows.
Chapter 15
“Plenty of those Mexican officials will remember you,” Catch pointed out. “And no doubt took photos. Of your circus act.”
“And let’s face it, Bo. You don’t exactly blend in,” I said.
“I don’t want talk of the past among you three,” Willa said. “It’s just that. The past.”
She straightened, rubbed Bo’s temples, and spoke toward the top of his head. “Why don’t you stay the summer? No rain. It’s gorgeous and glorious. We’ll rent a place on the coast. You can bring Rainbow.”
Bo leaned his head back and pressed against Willa’s midsection. “Try as I might, it still unfolds. Unfolds and rolls and tumbles.”
“Tumble with Catch and me. Hang.”
Bo, eyes closed, sang and hummed a few bars from an old Beatles song.
“Stop it,” Willa said. “You’re making me sad.”
He gripped her forearms overhead and smiled. “Then let’s shake it don’t break it, madam. Work this fine meal off.”
And so we did. The Bent. Willa’s shake-a-leg club choice. It occupied the corner of an old Portland building. The establishment presented a well-heeled crowd along a 1950s bar, tables pressed against walls, and a DJ spinning mellow hits. I have no inherent problem with dancing as long as others did it. I’ll work my way through the slower songs, shuffle a two-step, and toss in the occasional spin. But pounding modern music and Case Lee don’t mix on the dance floor. The few times I summoned the courage to participate, I feared an observer might reach for their cell phone and dial 911. Let the emergency operator know a man in the midst of a neurological fit needed help.
At first glance Willa’s choice presented a more sedate setting than I’d anticipated. But I was wrong. She slid through the crowd and signaled us to follow. In a far corner, near the restrooms, a steep stairway led to the basement. At the bottom a doorman collected cover fees. Past a heavy old cellar door, house music poured over us. Minimal illumination and concrete walls plastered with an artist’s graffiti. Tiny round tables placed against the back wall. And bodies packed, dancing. House music pounded, reverberated, echoed, and moved.
Willa, Catch, and Bo weren’t burdened with self-conscious dance panic. And Willa could dance. Her hair, released from its workaday tight bun, flung about as she twisted and twirled and shook. Catch gyrated right with her, busting move after move. A jacked-up bear flinging himself about with wild abandon. Bo moved in the midst of the crowd and showcased cosmic gyrations. I envied them from one of the back tables, ordered us drinks, and enjoyed their movement and physical joy.
The music dropped, slowed, the beat signature and volume reduced. A brief breather for the crowd. And an opportunity for Willa to drag me onto the floor. She offered no option, snatching my hand and pulling me upright. Catch demanded I participate, threatened to kick my ass if I didn’t start having fun, and asked if I’d stolen sips of his beer.
“Deep house,” Willa said, dragging me. “This is slower tempo.”
“Okay. Better.”
“So where do you think Bo will go?” She seized my extended hand and placed it on her waist.
“Only Bo knows.”
The other dancers moved in place. I led Willa through the crowd, a two-step shuffle.
“I’ll miss that man. An emotional loss. Real and true.”
I pressed her waist and initiated a slow spin.
“You don’t suck at this as much as you think, Case.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“And what about you?” she asked. “Tell me about Mr. Lee.”
“I’ll visit Marcus on the way back home. The Ace of Spades. Home again, home again.”
“I didn’t ask about locales. I asked about life.”
Willa proved a solid and loving individual. Soul mate for Catch. And a raw, gentle honesty translating into real emotional connection.
“Life’s good. Can’t complain.”
“Don’t make me smack you on the head. Or punch your wound.”
I laughed and smiled. “So what do you want to know?”
“Will you find a woman? Stop the Captain America BS? People want to know.”
“I don’t consider it BS. At least not most of the time.”
“Get your hackles down, cowboy.” She smacked a kiss on my cheek. “I’m saying finding a partner will be tough with your lifestyle.”
“Point taken.”
“And you’d like to fix the price-on-my-head business first.”
“Big part of it.”
“Sounds like an excuse.” She showed a sardonic smile, a teasing intonation in her voice. “In the meantime, you could at least try.”
“It’s a matter of finding the right woman, I suppose.”
True enough, although other factors played a heavy hand. We continued our two-step shuffle, working through other dancers.
“Catch told me about Rae. Horrible. Absolutely horrible.”
“Yeah. Yeah it was.”
“But it’s time to move on,” she said. “Women don’t dig morose.” She winked, grinned, and I spun her again. We laughed at the incongruity of our movement among the house music dancers.
“I keep a happy face painted and an eye open.”
“You gotta do a lot more than keep an eye open, bub. You gotta try.”
“You sound like my mom.”
“I sound like someone who cares for you. Stop the wandering around. Settle.”
“I can’t argue.”
“But you can find excuses.”
“You’re pretty feisty when you dance, Willa.”
She threw back her head and laughed, filled to the brim with life and candor and affection. A conversational break presented; I embraced it and changed the subject.
“Tell me about you and Catch. What’s the allure between you two? The glue.”
“You’re asking why I love him.”
“Well?”
She slowed our movement and pressed close. “Catch may be the only honest man I’ve ever met.”
“He is every bit of that.”
“And he’d lay down his life for me. He’d die for me. Think about the impact of that reality.”
“It’s one big stone cold
fact.”
“And I know millions of guys say they would. For their partner. But there’s one huge difference. Catch means it. I can’t tell you the effect that has on me.”
There was nothing to add. The guy owned two settings. On. And off. And the switch was set full-hammer “On” regarding Willa. We shuffled in silence until she pulled at the nape of my neck and we went forehead to forehead, movement slow.
“Let’s get serious for a minute. About Catch.”
“Okay.”
It came out of the blue. Tears welled and she began speaking but paused to clear her throat, choked up.
“I know he’s a handful,” I said. An attempt at comfort, but I’d headed the wrong direction.
“It’s not that. No.” She shook her head, rubbing against my forehead. “I can deal with that part.”
“I’m sure you can.”
She pulled her head back. Staring into my eyes, she spoke from a well of deep concern. Of fear for the path ahead. But not fear for herself.
“He’s not invincible,” she whispered, just audible above the beat.
“I know.”
“The dumbass thinks he is.”
“I know.”
“The Lone Ranger.”
I stopped our movement. Lifted her chin and thumb-wiped a tear.
“No. There’s always a hidden curtain behind him, and he knows it. A helluva lot different than stand-alone.”
“Hidden curtain?”
“Where his brothers wait. Ready. Twenty-four seven.”
We ceased all movement, frozen in place.
“I need to know that.”
“Know it’s real.”
She delivered a slow nod and worked a half smile.
“And when he rings the alarm—when he needs us—a quick and sure tornado steps through the curtain and enters the scene.” I bore into her eyes. “Then we take care of business, Willa. Know that as well.”
We moved again, dancing until the respite from the pounding beat ended.
“Weirdly comforting, Case. It helps. A lot.”
A final forehead bump, remnants of tears wiped away, and she smiled. “You’re not half bad slow dancing. How about a fast one?” The house beat continued ramping up.
“Can I lick the floor clean instead?”
She and I shared a loving laugh and drifted back toward the table. The night rolled and sweated and moved. Bo joined Catch and Willa, dancing. A joined cluster of movement, and they signaled me, adamant. Sufficient beer and a yearning for tribal movement pushed me onto the floor. It was glorious. The beat intensified, pounding off the concrete walls. Animated movement, connected exuberance, and a total and complete lack of judging glued us together. Our small contingent, our tribe, could have circled a fire pit anywhere from ancient times. Movement and looks and primal yelps connected us—moving, sweating, bound through times past, times future, and unbridled joy.
Chapter 16
Three glorious days, bittersweet wrapped. I reveled in the company of Bo, Catch, and Willa. A calm respite, companionship, a brotherhood offering comfort and recovery. One ending far too quickly. And recaptured God only knows when.
On the third and final day, Catch took off work and the three hombres drove over the coastal range, headed for the Pacific. Windshield wipers beat time, accompanying the wet whine of tires on asphalt. The rain increased as we headed toward the coast.
A good drive, comfortable. We talked PNG. They digested and added their own insights. I appreciated it. My brothers knew the game. A review of recent events with them lent credence to my views. And posed questions sliding into the uncomfortable zone.
“What was the texture?” Bo asked. He meant the feel and sense of PNG.
“Thick, rugged, isolated. Another world. Unknown.”
“Sensation?”
“Dangerous growth and decay. Forest floor littered with ‘leave now’ signs. Unknown flora and fauna. Millennia-old isolation. An uninviting place.”
“So you thought it a bright idea walking right into hostile gold-fever turf,” Catch stated. “Russians, Chinese, Indonesians, Brits. And tribesmen. Brilliant. Freaking brilliant.”
I smiled. “It’s what I do, bud.”
“What you do doesn’t make a lick of sense. You’re not twenty-five anymore.”
“But experience leavens the aches and pains of chronological aging,” Bo said, and squeezed my shoulder from the back seat. “Our driver has limited perspective.”
“And what experience does catching an arrow fit into, you mullet?”
“A totem-gathering experience,” Bo said.
We wound through the hills and mountains, crested, and started our descent toward the coast. I reviewed my PNG impressions and experiences. They listened, nodding. The rain increased. Windshield wipers slapped and Catch reached between his legs onto the floor, producing two bags of pork rinds. He poured several handfuls across his lap and passed it across, tossing the second bag back at Bo. He asked me to check the center console for hot sauce. I pulled three varieties. One, according to the label, contained sustainable heirloom peppers.
“Tunes?” Bo asked.
“You’d be disappointed,” Catch said. “Because I forgot my Andean flute music collection to satisfy your listening habits.”
“A missing musical component of your mental makeup,” Bo said. “But we can develop that. I’m here to help.”
“Wish I found that comforting. Pass the rinds.”
Bo cracked his window. The scent of Pacific rain and wet conifers blew in. “So you had a brief dalliance with the Company,” he said. “Hardly a surprise given the nature of the beast. Or gig. Take your choice.”
“Getting played was a surprise.”
I mentioned the two CIA officers who’d tailed me into Hood River. Provided a few details. Catch went ballistic.
“You could have broken a few bones. At least.”
“A thought never far from consideration,” I said.
“You’re home. They have no jurisdiction. None.”
“Part of a bigger message.”
We discussed our years of work with the CIA. The irritations, mind-sets, and attitudes of our two tribes.
“They’re not all that clever,” Catch said. “Although you’d have a hell of a time convincing them of that.”
Marilyn Townsend balanced on the cusp of receiving a pass from the three of us. Even Catch held grudging respect toward her.
“I’d suggest you call her,” Bo said. “With a purely Machiavellian focus. An approach she would appreciate.”
“For help with the bankroller of our bounty?” I asked. “Already got Abbie Rice on that.”
“The same Abbie Rice who played you? Yeah, she’s on our side,” Catch said.
We toothpicked Abbie’s motives.
“She had a fantasy of working with me. Dynamic duo.”
“From what you’ve told me, I dig her,” Bo said. “Full of verve and fire. Toss her some credit.”
Bo had drilled into the heart of my conflicted feelings toward Abbie. She hadn’t seen her actions involving me as anything but mission oriented. And I got that, to a degree.
“She’s a spook,” Catch said, thumping a large period at the end of the Abbie Rice discussion.
The miles rolled, the rain pelted. We digested, thought, relaxed.
“Those Indonesians are desperate for cash.” Catch opened one of the hot sauce bottles with his teeth and sprinkled drops across a fistful of rinds. “Those new AKs were only a sweetener. From their new partner.”
“So promises made, gifts exchanged?” I asked, trying a few drops of habanero sauce on a fat pork rind. “Not sure supplying JI with armament falls under sound reasoning.”
“We’ve done dumber things.”
“It’s not linear,” Bo said. “No, my brother. It’s a spatial game. Have you forgotten?”
“Our redheaded lunatic speaks truth.” Catch paused and sprinkled green hot sauce on another handful of rinds. “Don’t know
why you think everything makes sense in their world of BS central.”
Bo popped the cap off a local beer. “A fine brew. Artisanal.”
“I’m waiting for the appearance of artisanal toilet paper,” Catch said. “Thin rolls of shaved wood.”
“Allow the consumer to pick their brand of tree,” I said, laughing.
“Sustainable and organic and, perhaps, less than pleasing for the tail end of the end user,” Bo said, chuckling. “But sacrifices must be made!”
We laughed, pork rinds circulated, and hot sauce critique flowed.
“Back to your little New Guinea soiree,” Bo said. “I have a premise.”
“Does it reside in the realm of reality?” Catch asked. “Just asking a qualifier.”
“Our chauffer is a deeply flawed individual. Ignore him.”
“I’m not your chauffer, hippie boy.”
“I do enjoy a surly minion. Now to the premise. Your current occupation will continue placing you in these situations. It is inevitable.”
“Okay.”
“How best to traverse this path then becomes the question.”
“Okay.”
“I would suggest a touch of ecumenical spice.”
“Bo, I’m all ears.”
“Be in it. But not of it.”
Well, he had a point. My current path did create inevitable brushes with the clandestine world. And his suggestion held merit. In it, not of it. A mind-set adjustment, but worth a shot.
A comfortable silence as we wove downhill, hitting the narrow coastal plain and the Pacific. Tillamook, Oceanside, Cape Meares. Bo hummed a Green Day song. We stopped for more pork rinds and a bag of peanuts, then parked past the Cape Meares lighthouse and walked along the beach. Each wore rain gear, jacket and pants, but none of us covered our heads. Intense rain passed through. A hard wind-blown shower, a pause, then another. Our heads dripped, the feeling fine and elemental.
“So you’re leaving tomorrow?” Catch asked.
“Yeah.”
The gravel-like sand crunched underfoot. There were no other wayfarers in sight.
“And you, tree dweller, are also leaving sometime soon?”
“We all leave.”
“Stop the metaphysical BS. You’re moving on, right?” Catch asked.
