by Vince Milam
“Well said, goober.”
“And there’s a woman,” I added.
I’d revealed Jess Rossi’s interactions to Bo alone.
“Tell us,” Marcus said. “In Hawaii?”
“Yeah, but she lives in Charlotte. I probably blew it on the island when she brushed against me handling those two hitters. But I may give it another shot when I return.”
“You won’t know until you try,” Marcus said. “What about your chosen career? Any changes there?”
“I’ve thought a lot about it. The short answer is no.”
With the bounty lifted and the final funding source soon eliminated, I’d given deep consideration toward career plans. Yeah, I’d still keep an eye on my back, but the incessant scan for bounty hunters would remain a thing of the past. And the small and too often denied thrill button whispered, “Let’s give this a fresh start, bud.”
“Of course,” Marcus said. “The whole normal thing doesn’t work, does it?”
“You’ve become cynical in your old age. I’ll crank it down a notch or three. I’ll talk with the Swiss. Lower the excitement bar on future gigs. And not stride forward with constant vigilance toward my back.”
“Play to your strengths, my brother,” Bo said. “A rocky path, but one well attuned to your makeup.”
“Attuned to kicking hornet’s nests,” Marcus said.
“Attuned to shit-stirring,” Catch added.
“Ye of little faith,” I said. “I might reward this slight directional change and buy a suit.”
“A potent marker,” Bo said.
“To keep us from sliding down that rabbit hole, just know we’re happy to join you on this final leg of the journey,” Marcus said. “I’m the least beat-up and the logical choice.”
“I fear you are mistaken, elder cattle-whisperer,” Bo said. “I possess vast experience regarding island life. I blend in, fit, and bring mad island skills to the table.”
“You don’t blend, period,” Catch said. “And when are you trimming the mess on your face?”
“The point is, again, you don’t have to go it alone,” Marcus said.
“And again, I appreciate it. But this part, this final stretch, is on me. I’ll be fine.”
The conversation faded as we reflected upon the new life ahead for each of us. No bounty. Mercy, what a change. Although even now there was delayed gratification for the new Case Lee worldview. A quick cleanup lay ahead. I’d head out and kill a man.
Chapter 38
During the long flight over, I adopted a headspace usually best avoided. An attitude best relegated to the cold hearts and discarded lives within the world of assassins and contract killers. Not an easy feat having left such a loving environment. But there was no option. Case Lee would make a cold, calculated hit. So be it.
Krupp had involved my family. Placed my family at risk. Accepted my family as collateral damage while after me. That was more than a line crossed; it was a self-inflicted death sentence. So I landed in Hawaii with an executioner’s perspective. Krupp had been found guilty. Justice or retribution soon served. Take your pick.
Two a.m. at Kona Airport’s private plane terminal. The usual Gulfstream and Boeing and Cessna jet aircraft were parked across the nearby tarmac. Nothing unusual. They displayed a variety of paint jobs, insignias, logos. What was unusual, and visible under the private plane outdoor lights, were two jets with no markings. No tail numbers. One painted dull white, the other matte gray. Spookville had arrived. Disconcerting and cause for high alert. I toted my rucksack, Glock in a front jeans pocket covered with the tail of a dark shirt. A rental car, prearranged, waited.
I’d chartered the jet and rented the vehicle under a false name—one matching the offshore credit card used. The two unmarked jets confirmed my inclination for somewhat anonymous travel. Somewhat anonymous because larger clandestine players could monitor flights in and out of Kona. They could backdoor private air terminal camera feeds and use facial-recognition software with my profile embedded. Mine and thousands of others. A stretch, sure, but you never knew. I wasn’t situated high on anyone’s pay-attention list at the moment, but the two unmarked jets kicked off my usual spook-related paranoia.
The flight also afforded time for an operational plan. A plan where I’d take care of business with as little fuss as possible. And with minimal odds Krupp’s death would be traced my way. His house was out, for several reasons. Cameras, for one. He’d have them everywhere. No doubt. I could slip past the guards if one or two were on duty. Bo had insisted I take the Glock’s silencer he’d brought me, just in case. So a midnight visit to Krupp’s bedroom might present an option. But not a good one. He might not be alone. And avoidance of being ID’d by the property’s video logs mandated a face cover. A ski mask. A personal bridge too far. No, I wasn’t going in that way.
Catch had leaned on me hard to take his .300 Win Mag rifle.
“You can shoot,” he said. “Position yourself overlooking the hole-in-the-ground place he works. Take your time.”
“No, thanks.”
“Doesn’t have to be a headshot. Pop the center of his chest. It’ll do the trick.”
I explained it wasn’t marksmanship that nixed his advice. It was the separation. I had a deep urge for an eye-lock with the son of a bitch before pulling the trigger. The same desire eliminated, in part, the bedroom scenario. I wanted the MOTU alert and aware. Aware who terminated his last breath. Memory flashes of Mom and CC buttressed the desire.
Catch had one thing right—Krupp’s data center offered the best opportunity. Or rather, the gate leading into the data center. It had a lot going for it. Middle of nowhere, for starters. Rolling grass and lava rock hills, no traffic, isolated. Video cameras were an initial concern. But I’d driven past the entrance several times, once during daylight, and while the few parking lot light poles held security cameras, the entrance did not.
He worked strange hours, so my plan checked the cover-of-darkness box. Krupp would perform the same routine as anyone else for entrance to his data center. Pull alongside the electronic keypad at the gate, press his badge against the sensor, and the gate would open. In order to perform this simple function, the vehicle’s driver window would lower. I’d step from a nearby hidden spot and approach. He’d know the inevitable outcome once recognition hit him. Recognition of a man he’d thought dead by now. Ten million dollars assured success in his world. Well, welcome to my world, Elliot.
First, find him. Jess Rossi had discovered an elevated spot across the road from his compound. I’d find the same. After a short drive from the airport, I stopped and crawled under the rental car and disengaged the GPS. Parked off a side road a half-mile from his house and hiked overland. I wore hiking boots this time, the nighttime footing treacherous. Bunchgrass hid shifting and rolling lava rocks underfoot. The wounds along my back side hollered, stem to stern. I thought briefly about what had caused the wounds, and about the Company’s Hellfire missile. And the spook planes at the airport. White noise and side thoughts as I negotiated the climb.
Tossed into the mix were ruminations about the future. One hard reality—my depleted offshore accounts required replenishment. Most of my contract pay went to Mom and CC. They were set. But Case Lee Inc. sat near bone-dry and the lone viable path for a financial correction lay with a few more Global Resolutions contracts. Fine by me. For a fact, rambling off on another gig without the bounty component had a strong appeal. Focus on the next mission, drop the over-my-shoulder looks between jobs. And get paid damn well for my efforts. Global Resolutions had already paid my invoice for the Hawaii job, plus expenses. “Well done,” they’d replied to my report’s submission. Yeah, well, it wasn’t done, my friends. But it soon would be.
Night-vision binoculars, a Sudan excursion survivor, focused toward the dim lights of Krupp’s compound. The night was still, the salt breeze warm, his Rolls-Royce SUV missing. He was at work. Fine. A slight deviation from the original plan, but doable. I could catch his depar
ture from the data center if still dark, or I’d wait until the next day and catch him arriving there. The departure scenario added only minor complexity—I’d appear in front of his Rolls, get him to stop long enough for recognition, and while highlighted with his headlights put a bullet through the windshield. If he didn’t depart until daylight, I’d wait for his next data center appearance at night. And while time wasn’t on my side, a twenty-four-hour respite wasn’t a showstopper.
The moon and stars provided sufficient light as I drove without headlights along the empty road. Within a quarter-mile of the data center’s entrance, the illumination from the small parking lot shone on the horizon. I hadn’t seen another vehicle since leaving his compound’s area. The Big Island was asleep.
I opted for a pull-out several hundred yards short of the entrance. A lava-rock utility road. Pulled into it sufficient to hide my vehicle from the off chance that someone drove along the paved road. Glock in pocket, binoculars around neck, I set out once again across ankle-spraining terrain. Made my way overland toward the electronic-activated gate, void of emotion. I’d thought enough about an alternative for this final act. Came up empty. So now the finale—ugly, necessary, without jubilation or relief. Just one last thing. One final death. Then over.
Everything was wrong. You-gotta-be-shitting me wrong. The gate stood open. Farther ahead, the small parking lot held the Rolls-Royce SUV alright. As well as a half-dozen vans and a bundle of large Chevy and Ford SUVs. People shuffled between the data center’s propped-open glass door entrance and the vans. They carried what appeared at a distance to be large black boxes. What the hell?
The binoculars failed to shed much light on the situation. But the vibe, the professional movement and hustle, spelled one thing. Spooks. Loads of spooks. The apple cart was more than turned over. A fire sale unfolded before me. And where the hell was Krupp?
Oh, man. The scene was bad wrong. I wasn’t mentally prepared for the sight and made on-the-spot attempts at piecing the chessboard together. The Chinese? Could be. Krupp may have triggered a Chicom reaction through actions they viewed as dangerous. Had they paid for the Global Resolutions report? I’d detailed his drug use and his volatile nature. The CIA? Flashbacks of Marilyn Townsend. She was more than aware of Alaton’s work with various sections of the US government. Especially the NSA, the CIA’s sister agency. And I’d revealed Krupp’s bounty-raising. Townsend wouldn’t appreciate Krupp’s dabbling in areas he didn’t belong. Not one little bit.
While I leaned toward the Chicoms and Company as the players loaded equipment into vans, no absolute certainty lay there. Could be the Brits or Mossad or Russians. This current act spread before me didn’t fit into a known or understood category. And never would. I’d failed to grasp what was true and what was smoke and mirrors during the Hawaii job. A hard reality.
Decision time. Lay low and wait for their departure. Focus on Krupp after they left. The smart move. But I wasn’t in a smart move frame of mind. Screw this noise. I was here to finish things. After the Janjaweed firefight, and the near loss of life among my blood brothers, I was in no mood for BS. Somewhere between those parked vans and the data center’s interior were answers, including what had happened with Krupp. Once thing was for certain—he wouldn’t be happy with what was taking place at his data center. No freakin’ way.
I stood and tucked my shirt. I headed in, the Glock’s grip visible above the front pocket of my jeans. A personal statement. Mess with me at your peril.
I’d no way of knowing if the current spook collection had knowledge of me. A question that was soon answered. A strong High Noon element struck me as I strode past the gate and headed their way. Men continued loading what now appeared to be sophisticated computer equipment while several others supervised the process. It wasn’t until I approached within two dozen paces that someone noted my presence. Hushed words spread; movement stopped. Mine included.
Low voices were heard from inside the data center, drifting through the open door and into the night. Chinese voices. And American. The outside gang remained frozen except for one individual, Chinese, who scuttled inside. Interior conversation stopped for a moment, then more low murmurs. Seconds later, two individuals emerged.
My old buddy from the Lava Lava Beach Club stepped through the entrance and halted. Expressionless, he stepped aside, stood stock-still, and stared my way. He’d traded the bright Nikes for black ones. No nod, no acknowledgement. I returned the favor.
On his heels, a man in jeans and light jacket appeared and approached. No greeting, no extended hand from either of us. He halted four paces away, crossed his arms across his chest, cocked his head.
“Are you Lee?”
It was a flip of the coin whether this meant “Leave him alone” or “Kill on sight.” If the latter I’d take down a half-dozen of these sons of bitches before I hit dirt. Enough of this spook-filled BS. The last several days had depleted my give-a-shit supply. I’d reached my limit.
“Case Lee. Mr. Lee to you.”
He snorted and gave a half-smile. A “Yeah, right, asshole” look on full display. The loading gang remained still. One of the Chinese contingent lit a cigarette. A smoke break to watch the show.
“Ops informed us you might show.”
I remained silent and eye-locked with the Company spook.
“You have a friend somewhere high up the food chain, Lee.”
Clean the data center out, burn it to the ground, nuke it. I didn’t care. I was there for one reason.
“Where’s Krupp?”
The spook signaled with his head toward the building’s entrance. I took another glance at the assembled gang and headed toward the right, around the Company man and away from the others. A roundabout stroll toward the entrance. I wouldn’t expose my back to any of these clowns. As I walked, eyes left, the Company man spoke.
“Five minutes, Lee. No questions, no answers. Five minutes.”
I didn’t reply. The lone question I harbored would be answered soon enough. As for the other activities, it was now clear. Those were mobile data storage devices toted from the data center into the vans. State-of-the-art, no doubt, with compression technologies allowing massive data reservoir collection. They were cleaning out Alaton. Clearly a deal had been struck between the two adversaries. Americans would hoover up and exit with US data, the Chinese likewise. As for the rest, high odds of a negotiated settlement. You get the Dutch and Scandinavian data; I get Canada and the Brits. They’ll be upset when they hear about it? Too bad, so sad.
Mr. Lava Lava didn’t deign to glance my way as I passed. The short hallway opened onto a massive room of server and storage racks. Fans hummed, AC blew, minuscule lights blinked. At irregular intervals were a scattering of desktop computers as command and control stations. Spooks tapped keyboards; data flowed. A futuristic utilitarian scene. Modern mining. To the right, along the wall, a single office with a large window overlooked the operations. The MOTU’s throne room.
Krupp sat sprawled across the carpeted floor, his back against a wall. He still breathed, but not for long. I approached and squatted alongside him, my forearms resting on my knees. His lips were blue—bright blue. He gurgled as his chest rose and fell. Residual white-gray powder was stuck beneath both nostrils. One leg spasmed nonstop. His eyes, wild and lost, faded in and out of recognition. Recognition of me, perhaps. Recognition of his last moments on this earth, without doubt.
Not a challenge recreating the scene. They—either the Company or the Chicoms or both—had held him down and blown an overdose up his nostrils. Fentanyl, maybe. It would map to his previous drug use if any questions arose. The MOTU had overdosed. A shock and a sad day. Let’s move on.
“It’s me, Krupp. Case Lee.”
His head lolled on top of a shoulder, facing me. He blinked as one arm lifted, reached. I returned a slow headshake. No relief and no sympathy to be found, Krupp. A two-second vignette, frozen, his limp hand extended like Michelangelo’s Adam. Then his arm flopped down, he t
ook two more rattling breaths, and he died. I remained for several minutes, stared, drifted.
He’d made an enemy of me, and it may have inadvertently led to his demise. But he’d danced with the devil. Joined forces with people and organizations who lived behind the curtain where life was cheap and power the singular goal. Combined with his ego, his surety as king of the world, it was a toxic mix.
I exited the data center and turned right, along the building’s facade. I wouldn’t head down the drive toward the gate with my back exposed the entire way. Not with this gang. I passed a tool-filled bucket alongside one of the vans, knowing a chain-link fence with concertina wire along the top surrounded the data center. I lifted a small wire cutter from the bucket with my left hand as my right rested on the Glock’s grip. The Company man who’d spoken with me watched, arms still crossed, as an island breeze rustled his jacket’s light fabric. We exchanged one final expressionless eye-lock. Then I faded into the night.
Epilogue
Escaping winter, the Ace of Spades plowed south across Albemarle Sound where the north wind bit and the surface chop grew into three-foot waves. The Ace wallowed across, the towns of Kitty Hawk and Kill Devil Hills off the port side. I stood in the wheelhouse, windows closed, heater fired. It would be several days before I escaped into warmer weather, Georgia-bound.
Marcus had been the first departure. We’d hung at Mom’s, the four of us, for a week. No signs, not a trace of bounty hunters. It truly was over. Mom remained in hog heaven—periods of instructional Q and A’s for each of us, straight paths envisioned if not shared, and enough food prepared to feed an army. CC relished the time, surrounded with men who would sit and share and interact with love and patience. She got over whatever reticence she had with Catch—a large and intimidating figure—and curled against the bear while they chatted.
“I have cattle to tend,” Marcus said as we stood outside and he smoked. “A neighbor has helped, chopping ice off the stock tanks and throwing hay. But it’s time.”
