Hunt the Jackal

by Don Mann

His mother had died of emphysema several years ago, but his father was still alive and living in Fairfax, Virginia. Lately, he’d befriended a thirty-five-year-old Gulf War vet named Carla and her nine-year-old son. According to Crocker’s sister, their dad had been giving Carla money—possibly as much as twenty thousand dollars so far.

  Maybe the old man was lonely and she was taking advantage. Or maybe Carla was a good person and meant to pay him back.

  When Crocker was eighteen and constantly in trouble with the police, his father had told him a Cherokee story about a man and his grandson.

  The grandfather, seeing that his grandson was being self-destructive, said, “My son, there’s a battle between two wolves inside us. One is evil. It’s jealousy, greed, resentment, inferiority, lies, and ego. The other is good. It’s joy, hope, humility, kindness, and truth.”

  The boy thought about it and asked, “Grandfather, which wolf wins?”

  The old man replied quietly, “The one you feed.”

  For the past twenty-some years, since joining the navy, Crocker had fed the good wolf. But now he could sense the bad wolf’s hunger. It was a big hole at the bottom of his soul carved out by the people he’d killed in the line of duty, and his anger at life’s injustices, and the wrongs that had been visited on the people he loved.

  Last night he had stopped in Santee, South Carolina, and eaten blackened catfish for dinner, washed down with several Skull Coast Ales. Later he’d parked near the state park, watched the stars, and reminded himself that even they weren’t immortal. Everything in nature came and went. Stars died and broke up into asteroids. Trees felled in lightning storms rotted into mulch. People died and were consumed by worms. Maybe there was such a thing as reincarnation. He didn’t know.

  What he understood was that life went on, mysteriously, hurtling toward something new, like he was now.

  He parked his bike outside C J’s Sports Bar & Grill in Ellabell, Georgia, a few miles west of Savannah. He was minding his own business, sitting at the bar, which was lit by strings of little red-and-white lights. He threw back a shot of Jack Daniel’s with a St. Pauli Girl chaser and considered asking for a menu. The Atlanta Hawks were losing to the Heat on the big TV, which didn’t interest him. The little one to his right was tuned to CNN. Something about another budget deadline in Congress.

  A poster past the bartender’s head listed the Ten Steps to Self-Esteem. They were (1) know yourself, (2) understand what makes you feel great, (3) recognize things that get you down, (4) set goals to achieve what you want, (5) develop trusting friendships that make you feel good, (6) don’t be afraid to ask for help, (7) stand up for your beliefs and values, (8) take responsibility for your own actions, (9) take good care of yourself, (10) help someone else.

  It interested him enough to read it twice and stop at number eight.

  An older, potbellied guy with a long gray beard seated to his right turned to him and asked about his Harley parked outside. The man had gray eyes, badly stained teeth, and a drinker’s nose, and reminded him of some of the old bikers he’d known growing up.

  Crocker found it easy to talk with him about Harley models, engines, and close calls both of them had experienced riding. Crocker’s last had been one night on his way home when he was hit smack in the face by a buzzard.

  He laughed and said, “I don’t know how he didn’t break my neck. I literally got a mouthful of wet feathers and could taste that bastard for days.”

  The old man drained his glass, pulled at his beard, and chuckled. “I remember one Sunday night riding down a deserted country road thinking about the ol’ lady,” he said. “I rolled off the throttle as I crested a hill and sensed someone warning me even though I was all alone. I look up and see this big-ass truck has swung into my lane to pass some guy in a sedan. I had no time to stop. Had to pull my left shoulder back to avoid clipping the truck’s side mirror. Barely squeezed past, and shit my pants.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “You know what I saw painted on the side of that truck?”

  “No idea,” Crocker answered.

  “Dana Mills. My girlfriend was named Dana. Her mom’s maiden name was Mills. She dumped me two days later. Broke my heart.”

  Sounded like the lyrics to a Waylon Jennings song, Crocker thought.

  The old biker bought another round and shifted the conversation to biker movies. Crocker listed his favorites. “Mad Max was good. Knightriders, The Great Escape. I liked The Wild One with Marlon Brando.”

  “You ever see a movie from the seventies called Werewolves on Wheels?” the bearded man asked as though he was a connoisseur.

  “No.”

  “It wasn’t no blockbuster,” he said, “but damn if it don’t have its own sleazy charm. I’m talkin’ female bikers, one of whom is possessed by the Devil and changes into a real sexy werewolf at night. And black-robed monks who worship Satan.”

  Crocker’s interest started to wander. The man moved his stool closer and signaled to the bartender to refill their glasses.

  “You running away from something?” the old man asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You had much experience with Satan?”

  Crocker stared at the amber Jack as it entered the clear glass, considering that maybe the bad wolf and Satan were the same.

  “You hear what I asked ya?” the man repeated, the little lights behind the bar reflected in his gray eyes.

  Crocker downed the drink and nodded as he searched for an answer—one that dodged the question but was respectful.

  “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,” he said.

  “I think you do,” the man answered, his eyes boring into Crocker. “Matter of fact, I got a notion you’re struggling with him right now.”

  Crocker knocked back the beer and looked up at the TV. Anderson Cooper was talking. His face looked gray and pinched.

  “Maybe,” Crocker said. “Maybe not.” It hurt to look inside himself, because every time he did, he remembered Ritchie lying on the ground with his guts spilled out, which opened a Pandora’s box of his own issues having to do with death, the meaning of life, his will to continue living the way he had.

  What had seemed so clear and easy a week ago was now a murky mess.

  He signaled to the bartender to bring him the check.

  “You feel like talkin’ about it?” the man on his right asked.

  “Not tonight.”

  “You see this face? You think I haven’t done my share of wrestling with the Devil?”

  Crocker looked over his shoulder at the exit.

  “You ever hear the Proverb: ‘Avoid it, pass not by it, turn from it, and pass away’?” the bearded man asked.

  Crocker reached for his wallet and shook his head. “No.”

  “It means that if you’re fighting an opponent with sword and shield, and that fellow is about to strike the first blow, what do you do?”

  Crocker checked the tab, which read $26.00. He tossed his Amex card on top of it and pushed both toward the bartender.

  “Do you walk into the blow hoping that your shield will protect you, or do you move out of the way?” the man asked.

  Crocker was about to say, “If he attacked me, I’d wrestle the goddamn sword away from him and slice his throat,” but instead looked at the poster behind the bar. The first of the Ten Steps to Self-Esteem was know yourself. He grinned, turned to his right, and saw a familiar face on CNN. It was a former SEAL Team One member, now senator, Jesse Abrams Clark, standing on the steps of the Capitol facing a group of reporters.

  Crocker waved to the bartender and asked him to turn up the sound.

  Clark, who usually appeared confident, looked anxious and worn out. His distress communicated clearly and stirred something in Crocker’s chest.

  The man beside him said, “You never answered my question.”

  “I’m listening,” Crocker said, pointing to the TV.

  Reporters asked Clark if he thought the event in S
edona was related to the strong position he had taken against the Mexican drug cartels and his repeated calls for more aggressive U.S. action and stiffer sanctions.

  “I hope not,” Clark answered, “and have no reason to believe that’s true at this time.”

  Crocker knew Clark. The two men had gone on a mission together when Clark was a SEAL.

  He’d also been Ritchie’s platoon leader at Team One. He was the guy who came to Ritchie’s defense more than a decade ago when he was arrested for murdering a biker in a bar and the navy wanted to kick him out. Clark not only stood up for Ritchie, he also helped pay for the lawyer who got him exonerated by claiming self-defense. Ritchie was forever grateful and had spoken of him often.

  The man beside him repeated the Proverb: “’Avoid it, pass not by it, turn from it, and pass away.’”

  Crocker reread number ten on the chart of Ten Steps to Self-Esteem—help someone else. He wasn’t a thinker or a religious man, but he had his answer.

  Knowing what he had to do, he signed the credit card receipt and bade good night to the man with the beard.

  “Remember that without the shield of faith to protect us, the Devil can easily strike us down,” the old man said. “But when we stand in faith we can quench all the fiery darts of the wicked.”

  “I will.”

  Chapter Five

  Act as if it were impossible to fail.

  —Dorothea Brande

  Lisa Clark sat watching an old episode of Mad Men, thinking that the character Roger Sterling reminded her of her old friend Henri Gaudier. They had the same kind of hair and shared the same jaded sense of entitlement and need to bend people to their will. The latter was a skill she’d been learning from her husband—the ability to get people to project their power onto you. It involved creating a perception that you were smarter, more attractive, and more in control of yourself than they were, and could make things happen.

  If she’d ever needed to marshal her abilities and influence people, it was now, she thought as vehicles stopped in the driveway below and car doors slammed, making her jump from her seat and rush to the window. From her second-story room, Lisa couldn’t see who had arrived, but her fear spiked dramatically.

  She paced the room trying to harness her emotions, reminding herself that she had a sophisticated understanding of people and was intelligent. An armed male guard entered, followed by the maid with the long black braid and the flat oval face of a Mayan madonna, who proceeded to light candles and turn off the lamps and TV.

  “What’s going on?” Lisa asked the guard.

  He left without answering.

  She turned to the maid and asked in broken Spanish, “¿Porque paga la luz?”

  “The jefe doesn’t like electric light,” the young woman answered in English.

  “Why not?”

  “He believes it disturbs the spirits.”

  “What spirits?” Lisa asked, glancing at the picture of La Santísima Muerte to her right.

  “The spirits of the dead, Señora.”

  “So the jefe is here in this residence, now?”

  The maid nodded. “He is, Señora.”

  “Does he have a name?” Lisa asked politely as the young woman straightened the cover on the bed.

  “People call him El Chacal.”

  Lisa stopped. “El Chacal?”

  “Yes, Señora.”

  “Is that his real name?”

  “In English, you would say the Jackal,” the young woman answered.

  “The Jackal?” The name conjured images of nasty, leering beasts sinking their teeth into wounded prey.

  “Yes, Señora.”

  Clark had told his wife stories about the vicious, out-of-control Mexican and Colombian drug lords with strange aliases who corrupted local officials and acted as though they were above the law. Men like Joaquín Guzmán (a.k.a. El Chapo) of the Sinaloa cartel, who had once escaped from a high-security prison in a shopping cart and started bloody turf wars all over Mexico, and Ismael Zambada-García (a.k.a. El Mayo), who worked as a furniture deliveryman before becoming a gangster; Heriberto Lazcano (a.k.a. El Bronce) of Los Zetas, and Vicente Carrillo Fuentes (a.k.a. El Viceroy) of the Juárez cartel. But she had never heard of anyone called the Jackal.

  In the flickering candlelight, with the full moon rising past the high back wall, she considered what attitude to take when she met him. Outrage? Defiance? Zenlike acceptance?

  She felt it was important to project an aura of confidence to let him know she wasn’t afraid of whatever cult or criminal organization he was part of, because her husband was a highly influential man in the most powerful country on earth.

  But her kidnapper had to understand that already. Aside from the fact that she was a senator’s wife, what did the Jackal know about her?

  If he’d seen her photo, he knew she was tall, thin, blond, and attractive. But what else? Did he know she had fallen out of a school bus when she was six years old and the back wheels had run over her little body, crushing her pelvis? Did he understand that the resulting nerve damage and dozen operations had left her with an unusual ability to endure pain?

  Did he know she had killed someone?

  Lisa almost jumped out of her skin at the sharp knock on the door. The maid answered and someone in the hallway handed her a gray business suit on a hanger, a white silk blouse, and black high-heeled shoes.

  She laid the clothes on the bed and said, “Señora, please put these on.”

  “Why?”

  “Because El Jefe wants you to join him for dinner.”

  “Where?” Lisa asked.

  “Downstairs in the dining room.”

  The label in the suit read ARMANI and the fabric was a supple silk-wool blend with pinstripes. Skirt, jacket, and white silk blouse. The shoes were patent leather, designed by Jimmy Choo.

  “The Jackal has good taste,” Lisa said.

  The maid nodded.

  Lisa stood in a dark corner of the candlelit room and undressed while the young woman watched. The skirt and blouse fit perfectly.

  “How did you know my size?” Lisa asked.

  “El Chacal finds out,” the young woman replied.

  “How?”

  “I don’t have that information, Señora.”

  An older, heavier woman entered and did Lisa’s makeup and combed her hair as thoughts and worries flooded Lisa’s brain.

  Whoever the Jackal was, he had an appreciation of style and beauty, which should have given her hope. But instead it unnerved her, and brought back memories of another sensitive, twisted man she had known—someone who understood how to manipulate people far better than she did.

  She heard another sharp knock on the door.

  The maid said, “It’s time, Señora.”

  As Lisa stood, she steeled herself for what lay ahead and reminded herself that she wasn’t an innocent girl anymore. She’d learned a tremendous amount in the past twenty years about power, influence, and determination.

  She’d fight tooth and nail if she had to. Whatever happened, she’d do what she had to in order to survive.

  I’ve gotten this far on guts, drive, and instinct, and I’m not gonna change now, Crocker reminded himself as he parked his Harley in the SEAL Team Six compound. The changeable April weather had turned cold, so he wore an old brown leather jacket over his habitual black T-shirt and pants, and a black wool cap on his head. Since he’d driven all night and was dirty and tired, he stopped in the bathroom near his cage to wash up. Ritchie used to call the team room the testosterone pit of America.

  He wasn’t wrong. The guys on Team Six were the elite of the elite—highly motivated individuals constantly trying to improve themselves and give themselves an edge. As much as they trusted and respected one another, the competition between them to be the best shooter, jumper, diver, or boat crew leader was intense.

  Outside he passed a young African American operative from Blue Team, who offered him a big purple jar of Iso Mass nutrition powder,
which he said was packed with free-flowing glutamine and BCAAs for building muscle mass. Crocker thanked him for the offer but turned it down. He lifted and worked out as hard as anyone on the teams but preferred to keep his body lean.

  Someone had written a quote from soccer player Mia Hamm on the blackboard: “I am a member of a team, and I rely on the team, I defer to it and sacrifice for it, because the team, not the individual, is the ultimate champion.”

  Last time he was here, he had joined Cal and Ritchie at the shooting range as they tested a new variant of the Heckler & Koch MP7A1. When he passed Ritchie’s cage, he noticed that his gear had already been cleared out.

  It was almost two weeks since his death, and the tenacity of Crocker’s grief surprised him. He carried it with him as he crossed the concrete grinder where Green Team was doing push-ups with loaded packs on their backs.

  Still burdened with guilt over the decision he’d made in the helicopter, he climbed the concrete stairs to HQ and heard his footsteps echo down the hall to the CO’s office. Captain Sutter sat behind his desk studying plans for a new team mess with a young lieutenant from the Special Operations command.

  Crocker knocked on the doorframe, then ran a hand over his stubble-covered chin, removed his hat, cleared his throat, and said, “Excuse me, sir. Can I have a minute?”

  Sutter glanced up at him and turned to look at the digital clock on the wall. “I’ll give you five,” he said, nodding at the lieutenant, who saluted and left.

  It was a big room done up in a quasinautical theme. Crocker settled into one of the brown leather chairs and laid his jacket across his lap. “Thanks, sir,” he started. “What’s the latest on Cal?”

  “Cal’s better. How are you?” Sutter’s Kentucky drawl filled the space between them.

  “Fine.”

  The CO always cut to the chase. “What’s bugging you, Ritchie or the incident with the Israelis?”

  “Both,” Crocker answered. “Ritchie and I were close. We had history.”

  “I know.”

  “I miss him.”

  “I do, too. It’s perfectly natural.”

  Crocker nodded, then cleared his throat. “I know you’re busy, so I’m gonna make this quick. It relates to Ritchie. I’m sure you’ve been keeping tabs on the situation with Senator Jesse Clark and the kidnapping.”