by Vince Milam
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
“I’m fine, swear. I’ll call your beau and enlist his help. Please tell me you’re up and moving.”
“As fast as these rickety bones will carry me. Why Pe… my beau?”
“He’ll explain. Please toss things in suitcases and get you and CC ready. Please. And I love you and I’m sorry and I’ll call him.”
“Do what you have to do, son of mine. And it’s you I’m worried about. I’ll say a prayer.”
“Make it three or four. Love you and kiss CC for me. I’ll be in touch.”
I dialed Peter Brooks, Mom’s beau. Retired from the insurance business, he was a good and fine man. He answered after three rings.
“This is Case. Everyone is fine, so don’t worry. But I need your help. Mom needs your help. And as we talk, please don’t use any names or locations. Your phone isn’t safe.”
Peter and I had met several times. He’d read between the career and travel lines and had more than an inkling about the work I performed. And he’d pushed me to consider the insurance business with gentle reminders I wasn’t the spry young man from Delta days.
“Tell me what I can do,” he said.
He’d snapped from slumber and spoke with clarity and alertness. A solid man.
“Go get Mom and CC. Now. And I mean right now. The clock is ticking.”
“Will do. So they’re in danger. What about you?”
“I’m fine. But listen. Drive someplace random. Someplace you’ve never been before. Someplace where you have no ties. None. Either personal or from your business days. That’s critical. And for God’s sake, don’t tell me where. This communication line is hot.”
“On my way. How many days?”
“I wish I could tell you. But do contact me when everyone is away. Gone. But don’t tell me where or infer location or give a hint. Again, we’re on a hot line. Susceptible to eavesdropping. Sorry about being so cryptic and weird. But this is real. As real as it gets.”
“I’ll be out of here in five minutes. I’ll call your mother and let her know. I won’t use their names or mine. Is that right?”
“Right. And turn off your phone’s GPS function. And Mom’s. That’s important. Go old school and use paper maps. Bless you. Throw a dart at a map. Go there. Hunker down until you hear from me. Thank you, thank you. Now please go.”
He hung up, already in motion. All I could do, all I could do. I cast a quick prayer and asked for their protection this night and the coming days, aware my gut knot wouldn’t depart until I heard they were away. Then to business. Serious business.
Payback, retribution, resolution—think about it, Lee. Think. Whacking Krupp at this point wouldn’t stem the flow of mercenaries seeking the ten million bucks. He’d already funded the effort, and his demise wouldn’t stop it. He had fed an informational dump to the person offering the years-old bounty, listing my details and connections. Done deal. Son of a bitch. It narrowed the choices to one. Swim upstream. Capture one of the assassins headed my way and get answers. Which meant three more phone calls, right freakin’ now.
Bo Dickerson, our Delta team’s spearhead. First in, with fierce finality and undaunted courage. His ability to don the cloak of invisibility and track as no other was well beyond spooky. A man who resided in a cosmic construct, filled with a unique worldview. Prone to drifts and floats into the metaphysical except when leading the way into battle. Where he became the finest warrior any of us had ever seen. He was also my best friend.
Bo resided in the US Virgin Islands and lived with a nice person named Julie Johnson—JJ—an FBI agent stationed on St. Thomas. My other Delta brothers and I thought it peculiar, so off-kilter given Bo’s post-Delta background with its expired enemies on both foreign and domestic turf. So strange, except when you considered Bo. Then you either shrugged at the craziness as Marcus and Catch would do or, in my case, smile at the absurdity. Welcome to Bo-land.
St. Thomas was an hour later than Charleston, which meant he slept or stared at the stars or read Camus or Nietzsche. He answered after three rings.
“A bolt of brightness!” he said. “I sense no rip in the cosmic fabric, so affirm my favorite Georgia peach sits upright and well situated.”
We both used encrypted phones, which precluded obtuse conversation.
“Need your help, Bo.”
“When and where, my brother.”
There it was. No questions. No qualifiers. When and where, knife between teeth. Man, I didn’t deserve friends like this.
“Charleston, ASAP. First light. Charter a jet. I’ll pay.”
“No you won’t. I’ll be there. The mission?”
“Mom’s house. Scope it, watch it. Mom and CC have left. But the bad guys will gather. Guaranteed.”
“Done and done. And where might my cretinous goober be at the moment? From a physical perspective. Your mental location requires spelunking, and we have insufficient time for such exploration.”
“Hawaii. On my way, but pretty sure I won’t have a charter flight until dawn.”
I provided him a high-level overview of the situation, the operational overview. He listened without input.
“On it, my brother. Where might you be traveling? Physically?”
“Charleston. It’s where they’ll look first. I’ll meet you there, but late in the day tomorrow.”
“I’ll meet you there, oh heavy-footed one. We shall mouth silent howls at the moon. And hunt.”
“Thanks, Bo. You know I mean it.”
“You’ve presented me with a white knight adventure! And what I’m also hearing is opportunity may rise from this maelstrom. An opportunity to end it.”
Bo, Marcus, and Catch wearied of the bounty. It was an opportunity to, once and for all, end it.
“Yeah. So capture one of them if possible before I get there,” I said. “We require answers.”
“We require an expansive mind and a keen ear. The universe speaks.”
He hung up. Charleston was covered. Assassins who arrived there would meet Bo or ascertain the house was empty and take the next steps along the trail. If the former, they would either die or talk. Then die. If they saw the house empty, and escaped Bo—and me, once I’d arrived—they’d head for Grandma Wilson’s place. Ten million bucks. Wasps swarm.
A phone text from Peter arrived.
Underway.
Excellent and a ton of weight lifted off my shoulders. Mom, CC, and Peter—along with Tinker Juarez—had left Charleston. They’d hustled, taken my request with the seriousness it deserved. Excellent.
Thank you!
It was a simple and heartfelt reply. Marcus was next. Marcus Johnson, Delta team lead. Older than the rest of us, he was one of the very few black ranchers in the hinterlands of Montana. I was a regular visitor at his ranch, often for hunting and fishing trips. Something of a father figure toward Bo, Catch, and me. Beyond rock solid, of indisputable character, he brought operational planning to our past bloody adventures—both during and after Delta days. As with Bo and Catch, he too used an encrypted phone.
“Marcus. Case.”
“Tell me.”
“It hit the fan.”
I heard bed covers whisk away. A Zippo lighter flicked, cigar lit.
“Situational assessment.”
He wanted the details. I handed them over. Included Bo’s mission in Charleston and my thoughts of him and Catch covering Grandma Wilson’s old place.
“And you can confirm your family is mobile?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He paused, puffed. I assumed he was formulating a plan as an adjunct to my request that he and Catch cover Grandma Wilson’s place. I was wrong.
“Why’d you call the cosmic cowboy first?”
Marcus’s expectations were engagement with the initial action. Always. Take control, lead activities. He could accept I made moves to protect the family ASAP, but he never understood my affinity for Bo. Marcus held Bo with the highest respect,
second to none. In combat. Otherwise, Bo drove him crazy.
“He’s closest, Marcus. St. Thomas to Charleston. A helluva lot closer than Billings, Montana. He’s on a charter jet at first light.”
Another short pause.
“Alright. And you’re convinced this Krupp guy has the wherewithal to track those old breadcrumbs?”
“Absolutely. Indicated through the two guys on Hawaii. Both pros. Ex-military. Which military, unknown.”
“Any other indicators?” he asked.
“Wasps swarm.”
“What?”
“An insider tip.”
“You mean the Chesapeake witch.”
A statement, not a question. Marcus viewed Jules with more than a jaundiced eye. Considered her a rogue purveyor of intel, her loyalties questionable, and an aberration among legit clandestine players.
“You mean Jules.”
We’d been through this routine so often it had become tedious. He’d cast aspersions toward Jules; I’d defend her.
“You sure the Hawaii hitters weren’t a direct hire?”
“No. But too many pieces fit. And it opens the door for other possibilities.”
“Not now. First, eliminate the threat. Bo has Charleston. Catch and me in Spartanburg County. Eliminate the bad guys.”
“No, it isn’t that cut-and-dried. They’ll keep coming for ten million. They’ll keep coming for my family. And there’s the one mil on each of your heads. No, we won’t end it by taking out this current crop of bounty hunters.”
Floorboards squeaked as he moved about his ranch house, miles from anyone. An easy picture. A Montana winter so he’d sleep in long johns and socks. Padding into the kitchen to begin coffee prep, confirmed as a coffee cup clanged. Tall, lean, gray at the temples. A cigar chomped in his firm-set mouth.
“Let’s think about what you’re saying, son. Let’s pretend we capture one, if they show up. A big if.”
“They’ll show, Marcus,” I said, interrupting. “Krupp is spooky-good as master ferret.”
“Fine. They will show. And in lieu of the appropriate headshot, we capture one. Get answers. The person who posted our bounty years ago revealed. Then what?”
“Working on it.”
“Work on this. Four over-the-hill ex-Delta operators, armed to the teeth, head off for Colombia. Or Angola. Or Yemen or Afghanistan or Syria.”
“I’m asking for immediate help. I’ll take it from there if we discover the bounty master.”
A heavy sigh as response. Coffee—before it had finished dripping—poured into the cup. The Zippo clacked again.
“You know that’s bullshit. Bo and Catch will race you to the airport. And you three hunyaks aren’t going anywhere without me. Someone who can find our collective ass with one hand.”
Yeah, he was right. Bo and Catch had expressed as much numerous times. So much so, they’d insist I stay behind. Protect the family. And while Marcus felt secure on his big lonesome ranch, he wouldn’t allow his former team to venture out for a poor-odds mission without him as lead. He was built that way.
“One thing at a time, please. I’ll text you Grandma Wilson’s farmhouse coordinates. You’ll fly into the Greenville-Spartanburg Airport. South Carolina.”
“I’m on the first charter jet available. And I’ll contact Catch. Don’t sweat that.”
“No, Marcus. I’ll call him. I appreciate it, though. And one last thing.”
“Tell me.”
“Weapons.”
“I’ll have it covered. Don’t sweat that. Now one last thing for you.”
“Go.”
“Where is your butt headed?” he asked.
“Charleston. If it’s quiet, then Grandma Wilson’s place.”
We signed off. Catch was next. Juan Antonio Diego Hernandez. From eastern Oregon’s high desert, he was now a Portland resident, along with his live-in, Willa. The “Catch” moniker was derived from his innate ability to catch and stop any unexpected violent incursions during Delta missions. He’d cover our backs, and we trusted him with our lives. The finest shot we had experienced, Catch also kept things simple. See a bad guy, kill a bad guy. End of story. He answered, wide-awake.
“You calling me late at night either means you’ve landed in Portland and want to go tear up the town—which is what I’m hoping—or there’s trouble. Which is it?”
“Trouble.”
“Shit. Alright. Where and when?”
I told him. Included details of Bo and Marcus and my travels. And outlined the overall situation.
“First things first,” he said. “I’ll whack the bastards as they arrive. There’s liable to be a bunch. Ten million will draw them out of the woodwork. So I require something from you.”
“Anything. You know it.”
“Rent a backhoe. You can clean up after me.”
With everything that was going down, I still managed a smile. Classic Catch.
“A consideration, for sure. And there’s another consideration. What if we capture one of them?”
“What is this strange word you use? Capture?” he asked.
“We might find the bounty master’s identity. Whoever it is just spread the word about the ten million. Fresh tracks.”
A long pause.
“Possible. I’ll wing one or two for special interrogation. As long as you don’t get in the way, bud. You get all moral and shit under those circumstances.”
“Let’s say we find out. Then what?”
“Then we find the bastard who posted the bounty and kill him. I’m fed up with this thing hanging over my head.”
“What if the bastard is ensconced with a small army as protection?”
“Then we find the bastard and kill all of them. It’s not complicated.”
Not for Catch. And I loved him for it. We signed off after agreeing he’d meet with Marcus in Spartanburg County. I’d head for Charleston at first light. Meet Bo. The trigger pulled, blood brothers gathered, terminal ferocity ensured against any who would do harm.
My role, as much as any—bait. Bait the trap with the potential of taking me down. And I was more than fine with bait status. Because with my family threatened and blood brothers at my back, I wouldn’t go down easy.
Chapter 16
We’re set.
The text message from Peter arrived predawn as I arranged a charter flight at the Kona airport.
I can’t thank you enough.
I couldn’t. The family safe at an unknown location. A location selected at random. Predictive data strings and algorithms don’t do random. The deck cleared, on toward a dark place outside the law and well within our small team’s capabilities and comfort zone. Kill bad guys. Capture one if possible, get answers, then kill him. Cold, calculated, and to be avoided under normal circumstances. There was nothing normal about this situation.
A corporate-chartered jet—a Boeing BBJ Max 7—had delivered a large party to Kona and scheduled a deadhead LA return flight. A wad of Benjamins convinced the two pilots and steward I could hitch a ride. A Gulfstream jet charter would take me from LA to Charleston.
I slept on the flight, caught up on rest I hadn’t gotten last night, but whenever I’d lie down I’d pace then try again. Pieces shifted across the chessboard, my world in flux. My fiery anger at Krupp ceased, replaced with clinical certainty. He’d threatened my family. I’d kill him. Simple, precise, etched in stone.
I could imagine what Mom and Peter thought. Bad, violent thoughts regarding my safety. My butt in a sling. I pondered how hurtful this was for Mom. I’d left her with a huge chunk of unknowns. Hated that. CC would be fine. An adventure for her, isolated from her big-brother-induced maelstrom. The whole thing sucked. And added impetus for ending it so I wouldn’t put them through this again.
Thank God for Jules. She’d plucked signs and signals and, without hesitation, alerted me. She’d often expressed angst over the Clubhouse’s inability to identify the bounty’s source. Man, it was good to have her cover my back.
/> And thank God for my blood brothers. At the drop of a hat, they’d sprung into action, locked and loaded. Few questions asked other than where and when. If I’d stated the bowels of hell had opened, and I needed help against Satan’s hordes, they each—to a man—would have shrugged it off and arrived prepared to kick ass and take names.
Jess Rossi, gone and gone. Smart, attractive, tough, and fun. Gone. Grandma Wilson’s empty place sat fifty miles from Charlotte. Jess’s stomping grounds. A small and screwed-up world.
What a mess. The whole freakin’ thing. Kicked off through a simple gig that involved meeting a MOTU. Well, kicked off through releasing thumb drives into the MOTU’s shop. My doing, my actions. But here it was in all its stupid and ugly glory. Three Grey Goose vodkas helped me slip into a fitful sleep.
The LA plane transfer allowed a moment for collection. Check the battlefield chess pieces. No word from Mom or Peter, so I texted a brief question.
All good?
Mom responded with what you’d expect.
Fine here. How are you?
Good here. Love you.
Love you too.
Never again. Never again put her through this. Cold, cold water ran through my veins. Subsequent actions taken would not be looked at in the Case Lee rearview mirror.
There was word from the ops team.
In situ.
Didn’t require confirmation it came from Bo. For all his out-there attitude, he was one well-read son of a gun. I replied.
Mainland.
He’d understand I meant the West Coast and would time my arrival appropriately. Marcus had also reported out.
Bear collected. Traveling.
Catch was the bear, and looked the part. He and Marcus were together and headed for Grandma Wilson’s place. Wheels in motion. I delivered my current situation.
Mainland. Headed east.
LA represented operational turf, and I acted accordingly. Didn’t know how deep or wide Krupp’s bounty move had gone, but I wouldn’t discount anything, including espionage players joining the fox hunt. I used a fake ID and a misnamed credit card from a Channel Islands bank for the Gulfstream leg of the trip. The money was legit. The name on the card wasn’t. A four-hour trip across country—the Gulfstream could scoot.
