Once More to Die

by Jim Johnson

  “Hold it upright behind your head.”

  He did so. María Elena saw a car coming down the casino exit. She continued by the numbers. She took the weapon and stuffed it inside her vest. Better safe than sorry.

  “All right, Tony, here’s your wallet back.” She slipped it into his back pocket under the jacket. “Here’s the deal. I have your license and I know where to find you. Do not, I repeat, do not describe me, either to the police or to your friends. Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You are the messenger. All you know is that some man crashed the car and you heard gunshots and then it was all over. The cops don’t need to know about the licenses, but your friends do. We have a source or we wouldn’t have been able to pull this off.” The lie came easily. “I say again, you describe me and you will die. Get back in the car.”

  The car at the Rampart casino exit turned away from them, but now a jobber’s box truck was headed their way.

  Caputo started to climb into the wrecked Maybach and she hurried into the brush alongside the road. María Elena didn’t take the time to check the cross arms from which the traffic control lights hung; had there been a traffic-cam, Tommy would have taken it out with a silenced shot before the action began. She walked up a small dune covered with grass and started down the other side when a flashlight blinked once. She was grateful for clear skies and bright stars. She could see well enough. Soon she climbed into the golf cart and Tommy sped off.

  “How you doing there, María Elena?”

  “I’m okay. It was a bit unsettling.” She shifted the AR-15 to accommodate her legs.

  “Your first real operation and you handled it perfectly. Do you think the bodyguard will do what you told him?”

  “I don’t know, Tommy. He’s a tough guy. The crash and then Hamilton dying didn’t seem to bother him much.”

  “That’s good,” Tommy said. “That means he’s really professional and we can probably trust him to figure the odds and act properly.”

  Without lights, they sped along a cart path, and then cut across a fairway. María Elena was becoming confused of their location. After three minutes she heard sirens. She wasn’t certain she could get used to this world. Then she thought about Diego and her father and what had happened to her and Tommy since that fateful day. So be it, she thought. She knew she was much safer with him than on her own or with somebody else.

  “Stop the cart.”

  He slowed and stopped. “We got no time to waste.”

  “I don’t care.” She hopped out and, pulling up her dress and pulling down her panties to her knees and squatted alongside a palm tree. When she finished, she stood and adjusted her clothing and took off the vest as quickly as she could.

  When she climbed back into the golf cart feeling much better, Tommy said, “In poetry or song, they’d call that a refrain.”

  She leaned against him and dropped her head to his shoulder for a moment and felt much better.

  Shortly, they returned the golf cart to the cart barn where no one would know they ever used it. They headed into a dark parking lot sticking to the shadows in case of any security cameras. In the pickup, soon they were on their way.

  They drove back and ditched the pickup and got in their Jeep and drove down Interstate 15 to San Bernardino in California.

  They stayed the following night in a roadside motel.

  When they finished making love, María Elena said, “It gets better and better.”

  “You are pumped up on adrenalin and need to burn it off.”

  “Okay, let’s burn off some more.”

  Later, he said, “I knew there was something wrong the first time. You were favoring your side. You got sore ribs, maybe a broken one.” He traced the bullet scar on her shoulder, too. “You have bad luck on this side. Dislocation, bullet wound, now a busted rib.”

  “It’s okay, Tommy.”

  “No, it’s not. Doctor Atkins will fix it first thing tomorrow.”

  “Good, I’m busy tonight.” She snuggled against him. “Querido.”

  * * * *

  In the morning he taped her ribs. “Can you imagine had you not worn the vest?”

  “Thank you, Tommy.”

  They bought a newer and more comfortable Ford Explorer and traded in their Jeep. Tommy explained this might leave a slight trail if anybody could pick it up and point them heading consistently west.

  Then they headed east on Interstate 10.

  It was coming to a head, she thought. They were going to finish it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: THEM

  “Don Diego?”

  “Sí?

  “Susan Quantrell calling for you. Confirm with your caller ID.”

  “Yes, of course. It checks.”

  “Standby, I’ll put her on, sir.”

  Sandy nodded to Susan and Susan picked up the handset. She punched the lighted button and said, “Don Diego, good of you to take my call. We’ve been trying to contact you.”

  “I have been out of the country.”

  “There should be several voice mails for you to call and some emails, also.”

  “Forgive me, Ms. Quantrell, for my inattention to detail. I’ve been so busy, you understand?”

  “Quite frankly, no.” Suzie Q emphasized the no part.

  Linda, listening on a headset, gave her thumbs up.

  Suzie smiled an acknowledgement. “I understand Don Carlos Vasquez passed away?”

  “He did, Ms. Quantrell. We buried his ashes.”

  Okay, Suzie thought. No CSI stuff, no pathology report.

  “And his daughter?” Suzie thought how he answered this one would be telling.

  He paused. “I’m sorry, Ms. Quantrell. What business is it of yours and your joint task force?”

  Got him. “It is the reason for this telephone call. We haven’t received the annual manpower report from you.” Suzie had long ago figured out you can baffle ’em with bureaucratic bull shit. People tend to believe administrative details.

  Don Diego García said, “What has that to do with my wife?”

  “The last half dozen years or so, she’s been the one who submits all the requisite reports.”

  “I do not know these things.”

  “A good leader takes care of details,” she chided.

  He did not answer.

  She had to hit him harder. “There are also rumors, Don Diego, of her demise. She’s an officer in 13 de enero. I was just checking to see before I check with Miami-Dade police.”

  Linda leaned forward in her usual visitor’s chair.

  “Ah, this is quite embarrassing.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I do not know her whereabouts.”

  Suzie grinned. “Your own wife? That is somewhat odd.”

  “It is something for which I am ashamed, no? Let me explain. We have been estranged for many years. Lately our relationship has turned worse, I do not know why, but I suspect another man. In fact, I’ve been trying to hide my humiliation since I think she ran off with that man.” His voice trailed off. He didn’t sound too ashamed to Suzie. He went on, “We do not need her services any longer. Frankly, I cannot get along with her and we will not coexist in 13 de enero.” He paused. “Are you being polite? Perhaps you know something considering all of your resources?”

  Linda nodded her appreciation for Don Diego’s ability to turn things around.

  “No, nothing at all,” Suzie lied glibly. “We follow 13 and update info as things change. We have a proprietary interest in 13 de enero.”

  “I don’t have to report to you, Ms. Quantrell.”

  “Don’t be counter-productive, García. We get reports from you for our investment in 13. Additionally, we get intel, and that’s as far as I go on a non-secure phone.”

  “Madame, the United States government has not given us—or any group like ours—any money for a long time.”

  “Quite the contrary. You are equipped with our surplus equipment and weapons. Also, yo
ur organization exists on our land.” Suzie let some anger into her voice. “True, they stopped funding your groups, but my JTF contributes by paying plenty of money for, ah, assets in place.” Translation: We’re supporting your spies in Havana and in the government of Cuba.

  “Ah, yes, Ms. Quantrell. We thank you for your largesse. We are surrogates for America on the front lines and I am supposed to thank you?”

  “No,” she said emphatically. “Thank the American taxpayer.” She left it at that.

  “Then we have nothing else to discuss, madam.”

  She was going to get nothing further from him. “Please submit the required reports in a more timely manner, Don Diego.”

  “Of course. And if you will give the most beautiful Ms. Landover my regards?”

  Suzie raised her eyebrows and punched the button then hung up the handset. “What did that mean?”

  Linda frowned. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was a shot across our bow.”

  “Should we extrapolate something is going down and he won’t be involved with 13 de enero any longer?” Suzie sat back pondering. “They have good political connections.”

  “It could mean anything.” Linda stood. “I need a smoke.”

  “One might be able to read between the lines that he is threatening me, us, through you.” Suzie checked her coffee and it was cold.

  “What’s our next move?” asked Linda.

  “It is time for the mighty hammer of the entire weight of the United States government to come down hard. Tell Sandy to schedule us an aircraft for in the morning. Full weapons issue. Alert the Miami office of the FBI for on-call assistance, if necessary.”

  “And Mr. Atkins and Miss María Elena?”

  “I don’t know yet, Linda. But they are not integral to our mission—that we know of. We have to go our own way and get involved now. Things are not working correctly and we must fix same. It’ll also fit in our mission review.”

  “I’m interested in why this mobster in Vegas wanted them or him dead. And reward? How much was it and why for starters. This wildcard shit doesn’t fit well.” Linda stood.

  “Perhaps check with Org Crime and see if they have anything new?” Suzie didn’t trust anyone nowadays.

  Ten minutes later, Linda was back. “They hadn’t relayed the info, Suzie. The mob guy in Vegas—Hamilton—was gunned down last night.” Linda explained the circumstances. She finished up, “And the bodyguard, one each Tony Caputo, said he saw nothing, some guy in the dark crashed into them and then ran away. After that came immediate gunshots. Hamilton becomes another good mob guy, dead.”

  “More tears to shed,” said Suzie.

  “Not much evidence,” Linda continued. “The local cops suspect a hitman concealed in a nearby golf course. But no signs of nothing, nowhere.”

  “More extrapolation. We know the guy’s name in Tampa who put out the reward, we go find him and set up surveillance and along will come Atkins and the girl.”

  “For what good that does us,” Linda said. “Though admittedly he is a federal fugitive.”

  “Why didn’t we know right away from our flag in that vaunted FBI system?”

  Linda looked triumphant. “Nobody would talk, but I know plenty of people. It was shortstopped by the assistant Attorney General.”

  Suzie said, “The AAG? Why?”

  “Dunno, but the U.S. Marshal Service was part of the notification.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser, said the cat.”

  “Which reminds me, we gotta get a dog sitter for the damn dog,” Linda said pointedly. “If we can.”

  Sandy came in and cleared her throat.

  Suzie and Linda stopped and looked at her.

  “Something strange,” Sandy said. “I coordinated for the aircraft and got it scheduled and everything. I was finishing up some details and the phone rang. That Deputy U.S. Marshal named Eisenberg wanted to know who it was for and the destination.”

  “I’ll be dipped in spit,” said Suzie.

  Sandy went on. “I told him I was just following orders and if needed to know anything, he should talk to you.”

  “Very good,” said Suzie. “He wants us to call him.”

  “Not exactly,” said Sandy, “he’s waiting on hold, line three.”

  “Ah. And how long has he been on hold?”

  “During your alleged meeting while I waited for an opportunity to break in. Maybe five minutes.”

  “Good move, Sandy. Linda, give her a raise.”

  “Tell that to HR and payroll,” said Linda.

  “Yeah, right.” Suzie swung her swivel chair and picked up the phone, punching line three.

  She put on her sugary voice. “This is Susan Quantrell.”

  “Hey, Quantrell, your raiders won’t tell me what I want to know.”

  “Deputy Marshal Eisenberg?”

  “You already know that.” His voice was controlled anger.

  “Oh, yes, that’s right.” Voice still sickeningly sweet.

  “Where are you going tomorrow?”

  “That’s classified, Deputy Eisenberg.”

  “I’m cleared.”

  “This isn’t a secure line. Besides, need to know rules apply.”

  “The AAG says I need to know and, by extension, the AG.”

  “Is that a threat?” Suzie asked, voice going from soft to steel. She could play these bureaucrat infighting games all day.

  “Okay. Gloves off. Here’s the official message: Hands off Atkins.”

  “This JTF doesn’t take orders from you.”

  “You’ll have confirmation through the deputy director of the FBI and the deputy director of the CIA.”

  “My, my, you throw your weight around, Mr. Eisenberg.”

  She could imagine him rethinking. “Ah, be advised, Ms. Quantrell, that these orders come from the AAG.”

  “Not you?”

  “I do what I’m told.”

  Suzie turned to Linda and spoke so Eisenberg could hear. “He’s throwing his weight around but covering his ass and grabbing your basic deniability.”

  Linda just nodded, knowing the comment was for him, not her.

  “Okay, Deputy Eisenberg. Noted.” She hung up the phone.

  “Jeez,” said Linda.

  “We’re proscribed from contact with one each Tommy Atkins, and involvement with him in any fashion.”

  Sandy scratched her head. “That ties our hands.”

  Linda smiled and shook her head. “Nope. Suzie said nothing about María Elena. She belongs to our portfolio. It might just be coincidence that Atkins is along with her. But we’ll do what we need to.”

  “Right,” said Suzie Q. “We’re on the same page.”

  “All systems go,” said Linda.

  They were perched on the top step to the wooden porch. Two Brentwood rockers sat on the wrap-around porch circled by vintage wooden railing, but the two eschewed the comfort. The Virginia night was clear. The dog was sniffing every tree and bush like it was his first time out in the back yard.

  Suzie Q had a giant mug of coffee laced with cheap brandy; her reasoning for the cheap brandy was if you put it in coffee, what difference did that make?

  Linda L sipped on a Tanqueray martini, more of which she had in a shaker sitting next to her on the porch. “The update after you left is that I talked to a friend in Interpol. The French Foreign Legion is legendary in their personnel security; it’s one of the things which make Legion service attractive. The way I heard it is that when you join, you select a name and that becomes your Legion name. Nobody knows your real name.”

  “So what difference does that make?” Suzie asked, swirling the dregs of her coffee and brandy.

  “Maybe it’s more traditional nowadays,” said Linda. “Back in the pre-information and computer age, it might have been important to remain anonymous—or to hide your past more so. In essence, a man could flat out disappear that way.”

  “Consequently,” said Suzie, “our man Tommy Atkins took a name.�
��

  “Yep. And their military record of service is unavailable, another guarantee of privacy for the same reasons. They are jealous of that security and privacy. That being said, my friend in Interpol did me a favor. He somehow got access to those records. But the records of that era have not been digitalized so he had to read them. He wasn’t allowed to copy information or bring the records out.”

  Suzie upended her cup over the side of the stairs. Fluffy chased a firefly quietly. Were Fluffy a barking dog, Fluffy would not be a part of their family. “That’s a long way to get there, Linda. So he gave an oral report of Atkins’ Legion service?”

  Linda nodded. She sipped her martini. “He gave me an oral summary. And, I might add, he was suitably impressed.”

  “Well, he’s French, isn’t he?”

  “He is.”

  “There you go.” Suzie unscrewed the martini shaker and poured some into her mug.

  “Our Mr. Atkins—”

  “Was that his Legion name?”

  “No. He used Dumas, Alexander Dumas. He was a scout and a sniper. Did the Kolwezi thing and then operations in Zaire and neighboring Angola against the mercenary Cubans and the Popular Movement for the Liberation of Angola guerrilla group, the MPLA.”

  “I’ve read about that conflict,” Suzie said. “Those Angolan MPLA were badass mofos and the Cubans played the game with them against the West backed UNITA. The Cubans and the MPLA were backed by the Soviets.”

  “According to my friend, after Atkins there were a lot less MPLA and Cubans running around cluttering the landscape. When he was a sniper he had seventy-six confirmed kills, even though that wasn’t his normal position. When on patrol or a mission, he was a scout and spent a lot of time hunting them alone, out in the jungle or more appropriately in the areas they roamed through all that dry brush and rock and plains. Not certain, but I’d think Mr. Atkins counted for more than a hundred one on one dead, likely more in firefights. Back in the day they took no prisoners. Those MPLA liked to rape and apparently our boy Tommy took exception to same.”

  “Good for him.” Suzie upended her cup, draining the martini. “Not much has changed in that part of Africa after all these years,” she said, shaking her head sadly. She poured more for herself and offered some to Linda. “I know a guy in French Intel. I’ll check with him, too.”