Kage: The Shadow

by John Donohue

  I had to swallow a few times. “Good guy,” I croaked.

  He nodded, rolled El Carnicero off me and extended a hand. Behind him, other men looking much like he did were checking out the bodies of the gang members in the arroyo.

  He hauled me to my feet. I was a bit shaky and my thighs burned. I bent over, hands on my knees and gagged. I spit into the dust. The man waited patiently until I had straightened up. He gestured at the unconscious gang leader on the ground. “Him?”

  “Bad guy.”

  He turned from me for a moment to scan the clearing. He had a radio handset clipped to his harness and he spoke into it. It gabbled back and he nodded.

  “That your friend upslope with the sniper rifle?”

  Steve. I had completely forgotten him. I nodded.

  “He’s OK,” he told me. “One of my men is bringing him down.”

  A lean, younger man walked toward us along the rim of the arroyo. He was dressed in the same desert wear as the others, but was no Indian. He stopped and looked down at us.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “Burke,” I stammered.

  He nodded as if mentally ticking a point off some list. Then he grunted, shifting mental gears. “Jackson, can you have your people work the perimeter in case some of these characters got away into the bush? Use the night vision gear.”

  The Indian named Jackson shrugged. “Won’t help much in cutting sign. But it’s sandy enough here. Should be no problem.”

  “Night’s coming on. Watch for rattlers.”

  Jackson bridled at that. “We know our job, and we know our land.”

  The man above us pursed his lips for a minute then nodded. “Point taken,” he said, and then asked who was lying at our feet. When I told him, he gave a low whistle.

  “El Carnicero. The Butcher, huh? So how’d he end up like this?”

  “I choked him out,” I said.

  “You tussled with this guy?” the man asked.

  “He has it in for me,” I explained. It was simplistic and lame, but only too true.

  “Yeah, but you…” I was obviously not looking too impressive. Then he continued. “Well, it’s a shame you didn’t kill him. Guy like this has got a long rap sheet and plenty of wants and warrants. He’ll do time, for sure, but it’s not gonna faze him, ya know? He’ll run the gang from inside, recruit some new members…” He snorted in amusement. “Get some new tats, build on his legend.” He squinted down at me. “I wouldn’t want to be someone he had it in for, though.” His voice had a thoughtful tone.

  A voice called and he turned toward the sound, waved, and then looked down at us from his place on the lip of the arroyo. “Jackson, why don’t you take Dr. Burke here over to the other side of the clearing? We got a medic who can clean him up and check for wounds.” I realized that blood was caking in my left eye, pulling the lid down, and gluing it shut. “Then get your men out along the perimeter to look for strays. We need to police the area and arrange for a dust-off. We don’t want our guest here wandering around—one more loose end, ya know?” He winked at me as we climbed up and moved past him.

  “What about him?” Jackson said, gesturing at El Carnicero.

  “I got it,” the young man said.

  “What’s that mean? You want him secured or what?”

  The lean face clouded. “Jackson, you people are here in a support capacity. I’m calling the shots. Just get the men out into the brush like I told you.”

  I could sense the older man’s resentment swirl up for a moment. The he took a breath, sighed, and shrugged his shoulders. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get you cleaned up.”

  There were men in desert camo everywhere checking the bodies that were humped in random spots around the clearing. Voices crackled over radios. A medic had set up near the adobe building and was swabbing a wound on a man who leaned, grimacing, against the wall.

  But my thoughts were still in the arroyo. “What’s going on?” I hissed to Jackson.

  Jackson held my upper arm and propelled me forward. His grip was gentle, but it was firm. “Not your worry. Not mine either.”

  “Whattaya mean? The Butcher— we’ve got to make sure that he doesn’t get away.” I turned, arching my neck to try to see what was happening. But Jackson prevented me from getting a good look.

  “You just keep moving, mister,” he advised. “Nothing you want to see back there.” His voice sounded sad and resigned, but calm.

  The desert was hushed with the arrival of twilight, a quiet pause before the true dark arrived. It was a false tranquility; in the desert, darkness and danger were linked together. Nighttime was when the predators ruled.

  The sound of the muffled shot from the arroyo, the metallic clink of an automatic pistol’s slide was unmistakable. After a few seconds, the lean man strode past us, holstering his pistol and giving orders. The man named Jackson set his face like stone and propelled me away.

  22 Departures

  The hangar was a vast cavern. Helicopters slumbered in the shadows like immense prehistoric insects. They had dumped us here after the dust off. Steve Hasegawa and I sat in a small, partitioned office with metal chairs and too much paperwork on the desk. There was a small lamp that gave little real light but seemed to feed the shadows. We slumped in the chairs while Jackson’s men and the other team bustled around in the dim hangar.

  “Well,” Steve told me quietly, “that was something.”

  “You ever see anything like it?”

  He thought for a moment, reliving memories. “Not stateside.”

  “Me neither. Who are these guys?”

  Steve got up and peered out a window into the hangar proper, cautiously moving the blinds with his fingers to spy on the goings on.

  “The guys who picked me up on the hill are part of some all-Indian team of trackers—Jackson’s team. They work for the Border Patrol on smuggling interdiction.”

  “What about the other guys?”

  He sat back down, closing his eyes, and rubbing his face with both hands. “I don’t know who they are. But I know the type. Jackson’s guys are trackers. These other people are hunters.”

  “What’s the difference?” I said.

  He took his hands away from his face and looked at me like I was a simpleton. “Trackers follow things. Hunters follow things to kill them.”

  In the stillness of that room, I could once again hear the muffled report of the shot and the clank of the pistol receiver as the lean man had finished El Carnicero in that arroyo.

  We both sat in silence for a time.

  “Did you ever actually get a shot off with that rifle?” I asked.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Are you sorry you didn’t?”

  “Me? No. I figured I was there for insurance…”

  I nodded. “That part at least worked out. When you lit them up with the laser, it gave me a little more time to negotiate. I was worried that they were going to dispense with all small talk and just shoot me.”

  “As it turns out, there was lots of shooting anyway, Burke.”

  I said nothing, and Steve continued. “Those Indians snuck up on me pretty good, I gotta give ‘em that.”

  “The red man is notoriously stealthy,” I said. For a moment, I got a mental image of my brother Micky and Art. It was the kind of comment either one might make. I wondered what it would be like with them when I returned. I hadn’t actually pulled the trigger on the weapon that killed El Carnicero, but we were all complicit.

  Steve broke in on my thoughts. “I think the politically correct phrase is Native American. They got the drop on me good and ghosted me down the hill just as hell broke loose.”

  The door opened and the lean man with the pistol entered. He grimaced at the cluttered desk and slapped a new folder on the pile of papers that was already there. He leaned one hip against the desktop, crossed his arms, and stared at us.

  “Gentlemen,” he said without preamble, “you managed, through ways
that we need not detail, to get yourself into the middle of a classified operation that was targeting some high-profile border smugglers. How you are still alive is anyone’s guess, and your good fortune.”

  “I can explain,” I began.

  The man shook his head. “Dr. Burke, when I said that we need not go into any detail on your involvement, I mean that we don’t need to go into any detail.” The words were spat out with emphasis. “Am I clear? It is buried so deep that, officially, it doesn’t even exist.”

  He addressed Steve Hasegawa. “I ran a check on you. You were in the 75th. You know the drill.”

  Steve nodded. His voice sounded tired. “We were never there.”

  “What about Daley?” I asked. I had glimpsed him in the gloom of the site of the desert shoot-out, so I knew he had survived. But he hadn’t been in the chopper with us.

  “Dr. Burke,” the lean man said, “Daley is another detail we don’t need to discuss. His involvement is completely off the record.”

  I looked from one man to the other. “So,” I said cautiously, “we’re off the hook?”

  The lean man removed some documents from his folder. “The Patriot Act outlines any number of situations where citizens are compelled, under force of law, to maintain absolute silence about anything they may or may not have seen in the course of classified security operations, foreign…” he paused for emphasis, “… or domestic.

  “I’ll need each of you to sign this acknowledgment form, binding you not to reveal any of the events you witnessed, under pain of prosecution.” He clicked a pen. We signed. When it was over he looked us up and down.

  “Hasegawa, there’s a ride waiting to take you home. Burke, you’re going to be escorted to the civilian side of the airport and put on the next available flight to New York.” He put this folder under his arm, gave us one last look, and disappeared into the hangar.

  When a Border Patrol agent came for Steve, he stood up and extended a hand. “Good luck, Burke.”

  “Thanks, Steve,” I said.

  He nodded. “Come visit some time when you’re not in trouble.”

  I smiled sheepishly. “Might be some time.”

  He nodded and shrugged. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  A dour uniformed Border Patrol officer escorted me to the civilian portion of the airport. He handed me off to an equally charming guy in the white uniform shirt of a TSA agent, then stood with folded arms to ensure that I didn’t set the metal detector off and make a break for it.

  I had hours to kill until the flight. I like airports: the suspension of the normal routine and surroundings, the muted wash of crowds flowing up and down the corridors, the endlessly fascinating parade of people in all their varieties. I sat for a time in one of a series of white painted rockers by a huge window and watched planes take off and land. I wandered the aisles of the bookstore and scanned the magazines. The usual suspects smiled at me from the glossy covers: golfers and movie stars and thin, surly-looking musicians with names I didn’t recognize. I browsed the skimpy philosophy section: no Decline of the West—probably not a fast-moving title out here in Arizona, or anywhere else, for that matter.

  Back out on the concourse, I moved aimlessly, filling the time with random observations. I had a mediocre sandwich and a nice beer. I had another drink and watched the television. I didn’t want to have to think too much. Watching the cable station they had tuned in at the bar would probably actually kill some of my brain cells and solve this problem for me.

  Walking back to the gate area, something caught my attention. It was a peripheral glance at a lanky form waiting for his seat number to be called on a flight to San Diego. I took a second look: tanned, clean-shaven, with freshly cut hair and very pale eyes behind rimless glasses. He wore a summer-weight, tan suit and woven leather loafers. His blue shirt made his eyes almost glow. He was finishing an apple.

  Daley watched me as I approached, a crooked smile on his face.

  “On your way back east?” he said.

  I nodded. “And you?”

  He crossed his legs, hiking up the leg of his trousers to preserve its nice crease. “Heading west.”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course,” he echoed.

  “Who are you really, Daley?”

  He shrugged. “I work deals, Burke. Angles. I generate—innovative solutions to thorny problems.” He smiled at that, his long, yellow teeth showing in pleasure.

  “But who do you work for?” I persisted.

  Daley took off his glasses and wiped the lenses while looking at me with those pale eyes. “Probably not a detail you need to concern yourself with, Burke.”

  I sat down next to him. “Know what I think?” He turned toward me, a small gesture of polite interest. “I think you set up that whole ambush.”

  “Now, why would I do that?”

  “The opportunity was too good to pass up,” I said. “You had the manuscript as bait…”

  “And you,” he said, “don’t forget you.”

  “And me. Once I arranged the meet with TM-7, you contacted the Alphas and arranged for them to be there as well.” I paused for moment, remembering the envelope the Capitán had tossed Daley just before everything went haywire. “How much did the Alphas pay you, Daley?”

  He smiled briefly. “Given the situation, not nearly enough.”

  “And you brought in the Border Patrol people.”

  “Slick, wasn’t it? Like icing on the cake.”

  I shook my head. “So what you do, is it just for money?”

  “Burke,” he said quietly, “it’s never just about the money. But if a little extra happens to come my way in the course of my activities…” he shrugged. “I told you. I’m an entrepreneur.”

  The gate agent called his seat and he stood up and offered a hand. “You take care, Burke.”

  I looked at his destination. “San Diego.”

  “Border town,” he said, then winked at me as he headed toward the gate. “Opportunity calls.”

  He ghosted through the entranceway and was gone.

  I spent the flight alternately pretending I was asleep on the one hand, and sleeping and dreaming I was awake on the other. It made for a tremendously restful experience. The cabin was crowded, the engines loud, and my mind was like a vast floor where the pieces of the past few days had been shattered, leaving jagged and disconnected memories.

  He was waiting for me at the airport; I knew he would be. I exited the concourse and walked up to him, saying nothing.

  “Bag?” Micky said.

  “No.”

  He grunted and gestured for me to follow along.

  Outside, he had parked the car in a no-parking zone—old habits die hard. Micky waived to a transit cop on the pavement when we emerged.

  “How’d it go?” he asked. He pointed his remote at the car and its locks chirped open.

  “You know how it went.”

  “Do I?” He moved around the car as if to get in. We looked at each other across the roof of the vehicle.

  I slide the cell phone he had lent me across the car top. “It’s GPS enabled, Mick,” I told him. “You were tracking me every step I took.”

  He shrugged. “So?”

  “And your pal Daley— he’s not some retired INS guy, is he?”

  Micky looked at me and said nothing.

  “You used me,” I said. “Me.”

  He smirked. “Connor, don’t be an asshole. Like you weren’t using me?”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “No? Lemme fill you on a few things.” His finger jabbed angrily at me. “You had those lunatics from TM-7 on your case. What was I gonna do? Nothing?”

  “I thought we had agreed that I would handle it.”

  He cut me off. “Connor, you were so far in over your fucking head, it was a miracle you could see daylight at all!”

  “So you used me,” I repeated.

  “I cut a deal! If we could work a way to nab some high-profile smugglers, I cou
ld get you some backup.”

  “Nab ‘em? Mick, it was a fucking free-fire zone!” Now I was getting hot.

  He shrugged. “Like your plan was gonna be any safer? Connor, when you get involved in these things, it’s always a little iffy.”

  “You could have told me!”

  Micky shook his head. “Nah. You’re not a good enough actor. And we needed an outsider with no connections to the local scene. I needed you strung out and working on the edge for this thing to work.”

  “And did it?” For a moment I was back there, the bodies in the desert, the night falling and the lone sound of a silenced pistol going off.

  “Oh yeah,” he said.

  “I don’t believe you did this…”

  He snorted. “Don’t be so fucking high and mighty. You were going out there to kill someone.”

  “You know why I did that!”

  He waived it away. “Doesn’t change the facts.”

  I slammed the roof of the car in anger. The Transit cop began to drift over, but Micky waived him away.

  My brother’s eyes hardened. His face was tight and focused and cruel in a way I’d never seen before.

  “What is it you don’t like, Connor? The fact that all your martial art skills weren’t enough? That I had to rig something to get your ass out of a wringer?”

  “I didn’t ask you for any help!”

  He snorted. “Bullshit. Every time you need information, you come to me. Every time you need help, you come to me. So accept it and shut up. You take a good fucking look at yourself, you asshole,” he said. “Think about what you’re really mad at. Is it me? Or you?” I started to say something, but he kept right on. “You think this world is so cut and dry? Black and white? Grow up!” He glanced around in fury, gathering more steam.

  “You decided to get into this stuff, Connor. You walked in, eyes wide open. It’s my world, and let me tell you, everyone cuts deals. Everyone uses everyone. Once in a great while, like now, it works out. But nobody walks away clean or comes out whole.” His voice cracked. “Nobody.”

  What was there to say? We glared at each other across a car’s roof, snarling animals, bodies in rigid postures familiar since boyhood. Around us, the bustle of the airport created a jumbled, jerky background, both prosaic and surreal.