by Vince Milam
“And why is there an oversized Band-Aid on your cheek?” Mom asked.
“Hit myself with a wrench. I was tugging at a rusty bolt on the Ace, and it snapped. Not to worry, I found a good horse doctor who applied a few stitches.”
“Reason number seventy-seven to ditch your boat. Now stay out of my kitchen while Peter and I cook.”
I did. CC insisted we lay in the backyard grass. I was more than fine with the suggestion and grabbed a cold beer. We stretched out on our backs, the grass cool. CC placed her head on my belly, perpendicular to me. Both of us stared at the predusk sky and giant oak limbs and hanging Spanish moss. Tinker plopped down with CC and nestled his head on her stomach. Puzzle pieces fitting with perfection, glued with love.
“I heard geese last night,” CC said. She turned her head and ensured I understood the import. We cast loving eyes in both directions. “At night! How do they see?”
“Most animals can see pretty well at night. Like Tinker.”
“Tinker Juarez.”
“Like Tinker Juarez. Humans don’t have the same night-vision ability.”
She accepted the answer and moved on. Tinker raised his head at the mention of his name, ensured all was well and that no food was involved. Then he laid his head back down.
“This is the best,” she said.
“Yes, it is, my love. Yes, it is.”
She meant the moment, this exact snippet of time. Snippets most of us allow to slide past without acknowledgement or wonder. We chatted about her special school and the new friends she’d made and the new friends Tinker had made on their long walks around Charleston. Mom’s call for supper drew us out of our reverie but didn’t break the spell. We maintained it throughout the meal.
CC and I both relished fried chicken legs. And prior to either of us digging in, we’d wait for the other to lift their chicken leg. As two wineglasses clinked in a salute, we’d tap drumsticks and share a secret smile. Our private toast. My special CC.
An evening spent with loved ones on a screened-in Charleston back porch. Gentle conversations, the light clink of cutlery on plates, night sounds as insect choruses kicked off. Peter told a funny tale or two, his voice low and slow and loaded with gentle humor. Mom spoke of the small things that constituted life’s binding agents—marriages, divorces, new babies brought into the world, who’d packed up and moved, who died. CC and I tapped drumsticks, she’d sneak Tinker bits of food, and the quiet conversational pauses were filled with contentment, connectivity, love. Sanctuary realized, soul replenished. Necessary, craved, and welcomed with open arms.
Ensconced in the spare bedroom late at night, I checked messages. Only one, but one with violent hooks pulling me back into another world. One with massive implications. From Jules.
Not fresh. Mexico City.
Amsler had poked her head above ground in Mexico. Jules implied it was a less than current data point. A couple of days old. It set off the head claxons, a call to action. The Clubhouse had heard it late, which meant the major players were all over Mexico City, hunting Amsler.
But the major players didn’t know what Kim and Jules and I knew. The boyfriend. Dr. Archer. Amsler was headed north. Private charter flight to Tijuana. She’d cross a porous border into SoCal and hook up with her comrade-in-arms and fellow wingnut. Odds were high that the major players wouldn’t have this bit of information. But I did. A trail, a scent. Swift and sure, Amsler. Swift and sure and somehow final.
Chapter 31
Predawn and logistics loomed. Commercial flights were not an option. Charter jet services weren’t open for business yet. My weapon selection remained on board the Ace of Spades in New Bern. It didn’t matter. A trail sniffed and the hunt active. Coffee preparation stirred thoughts of Team Marcus. It was a solid move engaging him and one no longer edged with a desire to go it alone. Coffee prep stirred Mom as well.
“I take it you are leaving.” She entered the kitchen and nudged me aside. Took full command and control of the coffee preparation.
“I’m sorry to scoot on such short notice, but it’s something of an emergency.”
Her sole response—a silent pad to the fridge and the retrieval of breakfast food.
“I’m not real hungry,” I said and checked the hour for the umpteenth time. A charter jet was my first priority, and I’d already tried calling several outfits. None answered. “Last night’s meal did me in.”
“Sausage, eggs, biscuits, and gravy,” she said, pulling mixing bowls and utensils out of cupboards. “You will not leave here without sustenance.”
It was too early to call Marcus. He was two hours back in the Mountain Time Zone. I didn’t sweat weaponry as he’d equip me. Marcus would foist an HK45 pistol on me in lieu of my preferred Glock but beggars, choosers. Mom rattled a few more pans, fired the stovetop and oven, then poured coffee for us both.
“These emergencies,” she said, blowing across the top of her cup. “They show up more often than you might realize, son of mine.”
“I know. Most fall under the category of nature-of-the-beast. Job related. This one belongs in a class by itself.”
“You know I worry. I try and hide it, but the worry exists. Prayer helps. It helps me a lot. But I’m your mother. So I worry. Do you want your eggs over medium?”
“I know you do and I’m sorry and yes please.”
More than sorry. Unfair and a strain and ever-present. The engagements, yeah, plus the bounty.
For the engagements, I hid their nature as best I could. The wounds and scars I incurred were treated with healing lag time prior to a Mom visit. And she understood the jobs often held a challenging element.
The bounty was another issue. I’d asked her twice to head for the hills when I suspected that danger approached her and CC. Bounty hunters. A special code was well established for emergency communications. You have to take a break, Mom. Today. Right now.
She’d pack up, grab CC and Tinker Juarez, and leave town for her still-spry mom’s place nestled among Spartanburg County’s rolling forested hills, three hours away. Temporary sanctuary with Grandma Wilson who kept a pack of loud, alert dogs nearby and knew her way around a firearm. Mom understood, accepted, and did nothing but warn me about taking care of myself. A world-class mom.
None of the tuck-Mom-and-CC-away exercise negated the requirement to end the bounty issue. A high dollar figure had been stamped on our heads—me, Marcus, Catch, Bo—during Delta days. A million bucks each. Offered by a Yemeni sheik, perhaps. Somalian warlord, Malaccan pirate, Taliban mullah—all possibilities. A burden we’d carried too damn long. We’d come close to discovering the source, the paymaster, during the New Guinea job. Until our informant got himself whacked, right freakin’ in front of us.
Finding the source was a consistent priority one. Jules tried, to no avail. The Company—Marilyn Townsend in particular—knew about the bounty but claimed no knowledge of the paymaster. A possible lie, but there was damn little I could do to wrest the information from her. But bottom line—the bounty placed an added burden on my family. I held tight to one sliver of silver lining. Marcus, Bo, and Catch were each prepared for action at a moment’s notice once the paymaster’s identity became known. Movement and plans and activities directed with a single purpose—end it. Remove the source, eliminate the issue. None of which helped at the kitchen table as biscuits cooked and Mom prepared the gravy.
“It’s not about apologizing. I know it bothers you when I worry.” She stopped the stir-and-scrape gravy ministrations, turned, and addressed me. Slurped coffee and loaded a salvo. “Which leaves a simple solution on the table. A fix we’ve talked about until I’m blue in the face.”
“I try, Mom. You’ll remember the last job was a sedate investigation on Long Island.”
Mom didn’t know the sedate gig included whacking a guy in the Hamptons, a terrorist attack, and the bullet-flying pursuit of a turncoat spy.
“Yes. And I was thrilled to hear about it.” She turned back toward the stovetop and w
aved a wooden spatula as she talked. “But once again you’re carrying an injury on your face and Lord knows where else. What in Sam Hill happened to sedate?” She scraped cooked sausage bits from the iron skillet, then whipped around. “The way I see it, you didn’t give sedate much of a stretch. Were you bored with normal?”
I couldn’t help but smile. She was wound up, and only a fool would do anything but ride these moments out.
“I’m all about normal.”
“Prove it, my son.” She checked the oven and stirred the gravy again. “And another thing. You aren’t a spring chicken any longer. Do you ever think about that?”
“Boy howdy. Which is why I took this current job. A simple search and rescue. Right up my alley.”
“I take it things didn’t pan out as you’d planned. Which is why we sit here before the rooster crows while you prepare to hightail it off somewhere.”
“True enough. But this one is different. We’re talking about preventing harm to lots of other folks. Innocent folks.”
Satisfied with the gravy’s progress, she turned off the stovetop and checked the oven again. Poured us both more coffee and sat across from me.
“Well, I know you’ll do the right thing. You always have, and I do take comfort in that. Just be careful. I worry.”
“I know, Mom. And I’m sorry as can be. And I’m trying for a career redirection. Honest.”
I was. I continued to push for lower-key gigs with Global Resolutions. The Caribbean job had started sedate. And this job had had no indicators it would turn gnarly. It happens. But I’d continue the course change with solid and sincere intent. Although sedate and normal and low-key were out the window when me and my blood brothers discovered the bounty source. We’d land on that son of a bitch like a ton of bricks.
“You and I both know a good woman would help with the proper path. A steady, normal path.” She slurped coffee. “But I know how it riles you when I talk about it, so I won’t. Although it’s several years since Rae passed, and you’re not getting any younger, and I’d like some grandchildren before I’ve got one foot in the grave.”
“Glad you won’t talk about it,” I said, a mile-wide smile plastered across my face.
“I can still reach across this table, young man. And don’t you forget it.”
She rose and started egg prep. Man, I loved her. Greatest mom in the world.
I found an amenable and available jet charter out of Raleigh-Durham. Two factors favored the charter flight: Global Resolutions would pay (they always did for any job-related expenses, no questions asked); and a private jet avoided the hassle of checking weaponry as luggage. Not an issue for most states, but California had the potential of unwanted state official eyeballs. I wasn’t sure, and I wasn’t risking it. The jet would land in Charleston midmorning, and we’d head for Billings, then San Diego. Long flights, arriving at our destination midafternoon with the time changes.
Teaming with Marcus had allowed me ample simmer time the last twenty-four hours, but the reality sunk in with the charter booked. I didn’t mind one iota teaming with Marcus—hell, I looked forward to it—but the act contained a whiff of failure. My failure. Hard to shake the sensation, but there it was. I called Marcus with the jet’s ETA for Billings.
“So the witch delivered a definitive operational area?”
“No. Not really.”
“What does that mean?”
“Our wandering wingnut showed up in Mexico. A day or three ago. It’s not fresh intel.”
The Zippo lighter clacked open, his cigar fired.
“What’s your gut say?” he asked, puffing.
“She’s boyfriend-bound. Or already there.”
The Zippo clicked shut.
“Of any of us, you’ve always had the best gut feel.”
“You may have more confidence than me. But it’s all I’ve got. And I can’t afford not acting on it.”
“Understood. Let’s saddle up. Head toward SoCal.”
“I’m a long way from the Ace. I’ll arrive in Billings naked.”
A complete reliance on Marcus for weaponry. I’d miss one or two personal favorites, but he owned a substantial mini-armory. As we all did. Habit, I suppose.
“I’ll handle it. As long as you don’t whine about selection.”
“Speaking of which, we’ll be operating within an urban environment. Remember those?”
“I have a vague recollection. You’re telling me there’s more people than cattle?”
“Exactamundo. So noise suppression would be appreciated.”
“Yeah, got it.”
“And a wide selection as well. We don’t know how this will go down.”
“Are you really telling me how to prep for an operation? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“How much time you got? And one last thing. I appreciate this, Marcus. It feels right and tight.”
“You’re not carrying any need-help-because-I-screwed-up BS, are you?”
The man could always read me—and the rest of the team—like a book, one of the aspects that singled him out as an excellent leader.
“A little.”
“I expect any and all such attitude long gone when you get here. You copy?”
“Yeah. I copy.”
“And one last thing before we get the ball rolling. If this situation is half as bad as you’ve let on, we end it. No moral musings on your part. Which you tend to do. Sabe?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I get it.”
I did. Marcus referenced my tendency to struggle with violent terminations when other options—such as delivering Amsler to the Swiss client—existed.
“I’m serious as a heart attack, son. I’m not walking into this without confirmation your mindset is adjusted.”
He was right, as usual. The potential for hundreds of thousands killed. Innocents wiped out. This toxin had the capability of widespread annihilation, and heaven knows how much of the stuff Amsler and Archer would synthesize and distill given the opportunity. Marcus, and Jules too, were right. End it. An event shoved into history’s dark shadows. A place I was all too familiar with.
Chapter 32
No caped crusader ruminations, no avenging angel fantasies on my part. Instead, filled with tight-lipped intent, I began my mission. Small remnant doubts nagged me after takeoff, soon swept aside by the onset of an active hunt. I’d never seen or met Amsler, but I knew her, had learned her trails and traits and tendencies. She would meet up with Dr. William Archer. Cook and synthesize the toxin. Seek perverted revenge over perceived slights. Deal death without regard for the victims. I had no idea where the lab work would take place, but my gut said Archer’s house made for a good start.
Charleston, South Carolina, to Billings, Montana. Eighteen hundred air miles. A thousand miles from Billings to San Diego. We lived in a big country. Marcus stood outside the glass door of the small private air terminal lounge. His attire consisted of a Stetson, western-cut jacket, jeans, and western boots. A rucksack lay near his feet along with two large aluminum-sided weapon cases. Marcus Johnson was good to go. While the jet refueled, we reviewed the operational plan.
“When we get airborne, I’ll show you the layout,” I said after handshakes and pats on shoulders and sides. My other blood brothers, Bo and Catch, tended toward bear hugs. Given Marcus’s previous position as team lead, the three of us hadn’t crossed the hug-Marcus line. And Marcus was more than okay with the arrangement.
“Give me an overview,” he said and waved an airport employee away from our rucksacks and gun cases. We’d carry them onboard. He head-signaled toward a small grass plot outside the terminal area. A quieter place, where he fired a cigar.
“We arrive late afternoon, rent a car, drive to Archer’s place. He lives alone. A house in the suburbs on a cul-de-sac. Nice neighborhood. Cedar fences hem the backyard. Single-level house. Looks like a three- or four-bedroom with attached two-car garage. This guy makes a better than good living with the agricultural chemical company.”
“Don’t know. Although high odds he’s a wingnut.”
“Roger that. Weather?”
“Clear, mild. High sixties. Mild breeze north to south.”
“Neighbors?”
“Unknown if they will be home.”
“Alarm system?”
“Unknown.”
“Pets?”
“Unknown. No indications from the aerial view. Single front door. Concrete deck at back door. Back door composition unknown, but street view indicates lots of ambient light inside, so I’d bet on a large sliding-glass door.”
Which provided lots of visibility to the backyard for anyone inside. Not good.
“Garage entrance?”
“Aerial view shows concrete paving stones leading from the back of the garage. Indicates a small door.”
“Good. Neighborhood kids will return from school within this window?”
“Borderline. The timing is close.”
“A consideration. Go on.” He puffed and waited.
“Roof is composition shingles. No chimney. Stucco construction. Small front yard tree, two larger ones in the back. The lot abuts one of those power line easements they’ve turned into a greenbelt. Walking and bike paths. That’s our approach.”
“Good. Bushes outside the fence for cover?”
“Yes. The fences along the greenbelt have hedges. Extra privacy.”
“Do we anticipate him home? Or is he at work today?”
“Unknown. I’ve called his office number. Straight to voice mail. But I do expect she’s at work today. His garage, maybe. Prepping their special presentation.”
He shook his head, stared into the big lost and contemplated a laboratory effort with one of the world’s deadliest toxins within a quiet US suburb. Jaw muscles working, he spit, then said, “I have a sense they wouldn’t cook in the neighborhood. This Archer fellow may have rented a small warehouse. An isolated location.”
