by Angel Payne
Colton’s harsh pfft broke into his funk. “Damn, Galvaz. Why’re you still all Bambi tears on me? We haven’t touched a hair on your head, man. What the fuck?”
His pragmatic tone matched the gray matter under the government haircut. As spooks went, Colton was one of the better ones. He’d wisely listened to the advice of his peers—let Archer do his prisoner whisperer thing then stand back and reap the benefits—and now his cocky swagger emulated his triumph in the decision. “It’s time for you to grow a pair, man. You only have a few tiny scratches from where we cuffed you. Keep your wrists covered for a few days and nobody’s going to suspect you’re the one who surrendered the playbook on this shit for tonight. If it makes you feel any better, you saved some lives. Even without the smack on the truck, you know the family who paid the cartel to be hidden in the back would’ve never seen San Diego alive.”
“Save your emo act for a fourteen-year-old who cares, cabron.”
Dan’s answer to that was a soft thwick, the ejection of his pocketknife blade. “I’m cutting you out of these now, Galvaz. I need your hands at full circulation by the time we get you back to town. But try anything weird and we’ll toss you right out of the transport. If you survive that part, you can play man against nature, Sonoran Desert style. Glad to see you don’t like that option because I sure as hell don’t. Your return to the Aragon Cartel is of much better use. You’re clear on that? Sí, amigo? You get back in there and stay alert. We may be coming by for a play date with you again real soon.”
Bernardo took advantage of his physical freedom to wipe the tear-streaked grime off his face with his forearm. “If you bring the centerfold bitch again, you can eat my shit. And I expect to be paid next time, spy man.”
Colton rolled his eyes. “I’m not sure you’re square with how this whole thing works, amigo.”
“Oh, I am ‘square,’ chingado. Make sure your palms are growing lettuce next time or stay home and let them whack you off to videos of your slut sister.”
“Hell,” Ethan spat. He pushed off the tire and slammed his cap back on, expecting to pull Dan’s fist out of Galvaz’s face any second. But again, CIA man impressed him. Though Colton’s chiseled features went tight as stone, all he did was swing his weary gaze back toward Ethan, like they wrangled an obstinate teen together.
Ethan spread his hands and shrugged during his approach back to the shack’s porch. What mental poker would be the best to shove back up Bernardo’s ass? He had a lot to pick from. A childhood of abuse and poverty. Teenage days capped by being blackmailed to make his first drug run, followed by getting tossed out by his grandmother when she’d learned of his involvement with the cartels. The girlfriend who left him when she discovered the same thing. Terrifying, what the mind believed once the heart lost its trust.
Silver lining? Galvaz was trying to do the right thing now. Too bad the dickwad was being a little snotty about the process, including the dramatic sob as Ethan got near. “Get away from me!”
Ethan turned up his hands. “Shit, ’Nardo. You need to chill.”
“Don’t come another step closer!”
“Not a problem.” He let his left eyebrow kick up. “As long as you treat my associates with better respect.” Squaring his stance sent up a small but effective cloud of dust. “To be clear, that’s an ongoing request. If I hear otherwise, I’ll be happy to hop back on the helo and come for another visit. They know how to reach me real quick.”
“Fine. Fine.” Bernardo’s lips trembled as he inched a step backward. “Just stay the fuck out of my head. And watch out for my family. You promised you would.”
“That we did.” He exchanged an affirming glance with Colton. “And that we will.”
“You fuck me over on that, centerfold boy, and I’ll be up inside your head—with the barrel of my pistol.”
The guy stalked away. Colton and Rhett grabbed him by the elbows and walked him toward the dry riverbed serving as their helipad. Soon a Black Hawk helo hovered into view, though the modified bird made as much noise as a pinwheel, allowing Dan and Rhett to exchange a hearty handshake and promises that they’d get together when Dan made his way through Seattle, where their battalion was based out of Joint Base Lewis-McChord. Colton tossed a wave to Ethan as well, before joining more government Ken dolls aboard the helo, who’d already latched Galvaz in.
As the Black Hawk arced away into the sky, Rhett strolled back with a pace that suggested he was about to strip down to a Savile Row suit and whip out a perfect martini. Once they stood together again, he gave Ethan a solid clap on the shoulder. “You,” he uttered, “are a bloody god.”
Ethan feigned swatting at a fly to break the contact. Damn, he craved a shower. “And you’re full of shit.”
He went back into the shack. Wrong move. Bernardo’s tears, sweat, and resistance clung to the air, uploading every hellacious minute of the day back into his mind. Rhett followed him in and started packing the recording equipment from the interrogation, which had fed all the data straight to the big heads at Special Ops Command. By now, they were scrambling a team to seize that truck as soon as it crossed the border tonight, at the time Bernardo had just supplied to them.
“You want to vent?” Rhett ventured.
“No.”
“All right. Re-phrase. You need to vent. So let it rip, asshat.”
He sucked in a hard breath. Shot up half a sardonic smirk. “Seriously? You pulling rank on me, old man?” Rhett had three ranks and two years on him, though the difference was always used by either of them as a joke more than an operating procedure. He really hoped the guy didn’t start that bullshit now.
“I’m pulling concerned buddy on you and nothing else.” Rhett stilled halfway through closing the camera bag. “Look, mate…you were amazing this afternoon. You know all the work that brought us here. Two teams, three continents, and twice that many countries. You may not be digging lead out of your hide, but everyone knows what you did for the cause. You swam into the psychological thick of it with Galvaz so we’d get one step closer to the Aragons, and hopefully to the bigger strings of this thing in Afghanistan and Somalia.”
“Hurray, team.” He swirled a finger in the air. And yeah, he probably should’ve said more after that, pulled out maybe one more stupid one-liner to reassure Rhett this wasn’t the first time he’d been through this. It would’ve diverted the guy from guessing at the sick truth: that his sole attempt at the “venting” thing had nearly caused the brain bashers at Mental Health Services to slam a temporary disability card on his ass. Not going to happen, assholes. He hadn’t defied his parents and given up a cushy ride to college with the promise of a Silicon Valley corner office to be told his head was too fucked-up for living his dream. At the moment, he just needed to scrub it out a little. Some bleach, wax stripper, maybe a few lye pellets, and he’d been right as fucking rain.
“Fine,” Rhett finally said. “Then how about I take you to get some Olympus-type nectar?” The guy curled a suave grin. “Or maybe just a truckload of cerveza?”
“No.”
He bit it out harder this time. He was so damn tired. All he wanted was a transport home, along with the engine drone and ear buds full of an Incubus album as his lullaby.
The second he allowed that hope to blossom a little more, his radio crackled. The line boomed with the voice of John Franzen, their CO. “Double-O, Runway, got the word from Colton that’s he’s bugged with the target. You two pretty boys packed up yet, over?”
Ethan punched the comm button at his ear, connected to the speaker line that was formed to his cheek. “Just about. Advise rendezvous point for the exfil, over?”
Franz’s answer carried a laugh. “That would be the Twisted Iguana cantina, over.”
Ethan frowned. “Repeat please?”
“You heard me right, Sergeant. The Twisted Iguana. La Iguana Torsida. Double-O knows where it is.”
Rhett nodded acknowledgement to that. But before Ethan opened the line back up, he cocked his he
ad in puzzlement, almost pulling a physical double-take. “Er—Franz—”
“Is there a problem with that command, Archer?”
“Uh, well, no. But you called me—” A glance down at the pin on his collar, displaying the double corporal stripes, emphasized how ridiculous he would have sounded through the rest.
You called me Sergeant.
Big fucking deal. Okay, it sounded nice but that didn’t make it true. Nor did pointing out the dick-up make any sense. Franz was likely—probably—just as tired as him, and now compounded that with a very large beer on a half-empty stomach. Thinking fast, Ethan concluded with, “Never mind. We’re nearly wrapped and ready, and will be Oscar-Mike in less than ten.”
“That’s outstanding news, Sergeant. Franzen out.”
Ethan didn’t hide his confusion this time. Only the decrepit walls were witness to his reaction since Double-O was already outside, halfway to the Hummer with a load of equipment. It was only those walls that heard his quiet quip. “Right, Captain. And I’ll just forget about that shit-eating grin you forgot to mask in your voice.”
* * * * *
When Rhett pulled off the main road and guided the Hummer down a road that likely resembled a dusty Candy Land board from the air, Ethan cocked a brow at his friend. “Love the scenic detour, man, but even if there’s a waterfall and fairies at the end, I’m not sucking face with you.”
“Ha bloody ha.”
“Okay, then. If you’re thinking of doing the execution thing, I’ll let you know right now that Hawkins has dibs on my books and Hayes gets all my guns. The engraved pilsner glasses are still up for grabs—”
“Archer.”
“Yeah?”
“Shut it.”
Both words were underlined in arrogance. The next moment, Ethan saw why. They rounded a steep rock corner into a clearing with a parking lot of sorts, filled with every kind of vehicle from their monster military stuff and gas-guzzling clunkers to some new Ducati motorcycles and even a pair of beautifully restored classic Mustangs. The owners of those rides were packed onto about thirty picnic tables tucked beneath a massive lean-to shelter that was wedged between a gutted stake-bed truck and an old VW van with one side shaved off. Atop the stake bed, a DJ adjusted levels on the Pearl Jam tune that throbbed through the air. The van had been converted into a bar. A redhead with a great rack in a tight Godzilla T-shirt popped beers and poured drinks with saucy cheer. Strings of carnival lights were draped between the overhang and the nearby cholla trees. The décor consisted of every groan-worthy pop culture trend from the last twenty years, including Homer Simpson bobble heads, a pirate ship with little Jack Sparrow dolls in nasty positions, Victoria’s Secret model posters, and a bunch of commemorative Super Bowl footballs that “flew” from the ceiling on fishing line.
Positioned in front of all this, with a grin that suggested he’d just screwed all the poster models himself, was John Franzen. Flanking him were two of Ethan’s battalion mates, Zeke Hayes and Garrett Hawkins. Their smiles also widened as he and Rhett got out and approached. Despite that, Ethan threw up his guard, keeping his face neutral. When the CO greeted you, in addition to the two guys who called the shots on most of the team’s missions, it was either a really good thing or a really bad thing.
Franzen gave a fist bump to Rhett. “Nice work, Double-O. You got him here without rope or handcuffs.”
“Damn good thing.” Rhett chuckled and swung his gaze around. “The kinky shit is all yours, my friends. He even thought I was taking him to the wilderness to make out. I felt awful for busting his bubble, but—”
“Fuck you,” Ethan drawled as Zeke and Garrett snickered. Franz didn’t join them. With his newfound solemnity, he slammed a hand to Ethan’s shoulder.
“You look like shit, Runway. You okay?”
Ethan didn’t return Franz’s scrutiny. A string of illuminated GI Joe heads became a perfect diversion for his gaze and an excuse to keep his tone insouciant. “Lid’s on fine, Captain. So does Godzilla Girl have anything besides beer?” An inch or two of scotch sounded really fucking good.
Franzen, damn him, didn’t move his hand an inch. “No,” he declared. “I don’t think you’re fine, Archer.”
He left the Joes behind, sliding a glare over at his CO. “I’ll be fine if everyone stops asking about it.”
Franzen contemplated that before shaking his head and stating, “Uh-uh. You’re still missing something.”
“What the hell are—”
“You’re missing this.”
The man yanked on Ethan’s collar, pulling the fabric taut so he could jam a pin into the triangle panel. Before Ethan could say a word, Franz finished off the business by detaching the pin that had originally been there, bearing the double stripes of his corporal rank.
Garrett cracked a bigger grin. “Now isn’t that prettier’n a fresh drop of dew on a morning glory?”
Zeke rolled his eyes. “Hawk, you’re a serious dork sometimes.”
“It’s okay,” Ethan interjected. He stared at the new pin on his collar. Counted the stripes there for the tenth time. One, two, three. Sure enough, they were all there. “This time he’s right.” The pin was pretty. Fuck, better than pretty. It was perfect. So was the identical one Franzen placed into his palm.
“I’ll let you get the other collar,” his CO said. “And sorry we’re not doing this on a stage in our Class A’s, Archer. Figured you’d appreciate getting the pay step that much faster.”
“You figured right.”
“Oh, yeah. That reminds me. You’re buying first round tonight.”
Ethan chuckled. “Sure thing. And thanks, Captain.”
Franz busted out a wide smile, gleaming in stark contrast to the jet-black hair of his skull cut, before murmuring, “You want to thank someone, look in the mirror. You worked hard for this. Congratulations, Sergeant.” He shook his head, his equally dark eyes glittering in amusement. “I can finally say that without worrying I’ll fry your gray matter.”
“I say we let Serenity take over that chore.” Rhett nodded toward the bar and Godzilla Girl. While Ethan repeated his laugh, this time because he seemed to be the only one noticing the irony of a girl named Serenity with a fire-spewing lizard across her chest, the redhead noticed Rhett and gave him a soft wave.
“All right, everyone,” Franzen announced, “pomp and circumstance is over. Shuck at least the tops so we can celebrate properly.”
Three minutes later, after stowing their jackets in the Hummers, they reconvened at a long ledge, really a faded surfboard affixed atop cement blocks, that formed one side of Serenity’s workspace. Despite her preoccupation with Double-O, the woman had a line of five frosty bottles lined up by the time they got to the bar. After taking his first swig, Ethan jutted his lower lip in respect. Beer wasn’t usually his thing but the microbrewed lager from a California-based outfit was strong and smooth.
“Well, well, well.” Franz tipped his bottle at the bar mistress. “Breaking out the good stuff for us now, Serenity? What happened between last night and now?” He flicked a glance between her and Rhett, clearly following the sparks zipping between the pair. “Or should I ask who happened?”
The woman snapped a towel at him. “Bugger off, Franzie Panzie. I’m tryin’ to be nice.”
“Franzie Panzie?” Zeke’s face, normally the texture of a granite cliff, crumpled in humor. “Damn, why didn’t I some up with that one first?”
Franzen eyed him. “Because you have to put up with me after tonight and she doesn’t.”
Serenity defiantly jerked up her chin. “I noticed you wankers had some kind of special event goin’ down so I broke out the good swill.”
“You figured right,” Garrett offered. “Mr. Dark and Chiseled over there is basking in his first hour as a full-fledged sergeant.”
The redhead’s face lit up. “Brilliant! Nice work!” She swatted the towel at Ethan too, though her intent was playful this time. In two seconds she was full of feisty fire again, a
rching brows back at Franz. “Though I’m happy to get the piss water back out for you, Panzie, if you fancy it?”
Franz held up a hand. “Nope, nope. This is just fine, sweetcakes.” He dropped that hand in order to scoop up Serenity’s, grazing her knuckles with a kiss. “Thank you for the thoughtfulness.”
It escaped nobody, especially Serenity, that Rhett looked ready to punch their CO for the move. The redhead giggled before turning to load up the tabs on more of the bar’s customers, which seemed to be a friendly mix of locals and American ex-pats.
“Shit.” Garrett examined the label on his bottle. “Never thought I’d say this, but some of these California beers are good.”
Rhett huffed. Parts of the man would never acclimate to the rest of the world and his booze preference was one of them. “Whatever.”
“Hmm.” Franz suddenly found the lip of his own bottle fascinating, though his tone was too contemplative for a place where an inflatable Batman in an evening gown was tied to the rafters over the bar. “I hear there’s a lot of good things about California.”
Without missing a beat, Zeke added, “I hear the same thing.”
“Beer’s damn tasty,” Garrett said.
Rhett shook his head. “Hell. I give up.”
“I do, too.” Ethan frowned. “What the fuck with the cryptic California tourism commercial?”
Franz cocked up one side of his mouth. “Because maybe I talked to the high-levels about how my guys grinded their guts to gravel to uncover a new international drug shipment stream, then tracked it across the globe in order to start breaking the assholes’ weakest links. And maybe after that, I also told them one of my boys was about to score his sergeant’s stripe. And maybe after that, I convinced them that because of all this, my guys deserve a few days of fucking around in the land of beaches, babes, bikinis, and,” —he held up his bottle— “really good beers.”
Rhett shifted forward. “Are you bloody serious?”
