by Peter Telep
“Why did you do that?”
Senecal began to answer. “Because—”
“—because your son got beat up? Jesus Christ, Eddie, do you understand what we’re talking about here? Jesus Christ!”
Senecal grabbed Dresden by the shirt collar and spoke through his teeth. “Listen to me. What happened to my boy was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. If you want to pretend that we haven’t been sitting on this for years, then you go ahead. You make yourself feel better about it. You do whatever you have to do to make peace with your new found God. But the game is on, and you’re on the team—because you know what happens if you’re not. Everything we’ve built is gone. Our legacy goes up in flames.” Senecal shoved Dresden back into the wall, then raised his palms, as though the violence contained within his hands was not his own.
Dresden tried to imagine the chain of events that was about to unfold, but the horrors flashed like pieces of abstract art created by those aforementioned flames. “Why didn’t you come to me first? I’ve been your partner for over thirty years!”
“You’re right. And I’m sorry for that. But I know you, Nick. You wouldn’t take the bet. You won’t ever take the bet. So I took it for you.”
Dresden began to choke up. “Dear God, Eddie. Dear God.”
Chapter Three
“It all started with Johnny’s brother, and it’s weird how different they were. Johnny was always closer to us, so you could see why he had his doubts.”
—Willie Parente (FBI interview, 23 December)
Johnny drove his pickup along a dirt road that meandered through a wiregrass ridge shaded by longleaf pines. These were the Holly Shelter game lands, with over 48,000 acres of hunting and hiking grounds situated a few miles northwest of Johnny’s home on Topsail Beach, North Carolina. In the back of his black Tundra, protected by an insulated cap covering the flatbed, were Bomber, Musket, and Rookie, his three Gordon Setters. The dogs were a large breed and coal-black, with distinctive markings of rich mahogany on their lower legs, paws, and muzzles. They paced and wagged their tails fiercely in anticipation of the hunt.
Quail hunting in the late afternoon, especially in early December, would be a real challenge. Johnny preferred to arrive just before sunrise to catch the birds while they were still on the roost. An even better strategy was to scout them the night prior, homing in on their calls as they linked up with the covey. If he hunted them too late in the day, they would be scattered, decreasing his chances of bringing home a limit bag. Consequently, Johnny had planned to go hunting in the morning, but no plan ever survived the first enemy contact—or obligations at work. He, Corey, and Willie had been wrestling all last week with a new proposal at the Triton 6 office in Sneads Ferry, and the entire project needed its final red team scrub. An independent group known as a “red team” had been hired to find flaws in the proposal, and now Johnny and the others were making their revisions. Red teams were used throughout the military and civilian communities to challenge organizations’ effectiveness. Unfortunately, their work often nixed any chances for taking a Monday off. Johnny could not complain, though, because life after Operation Iraqi Freedom and the Corps had become both productive and gratifying in ways he could not have imagined.
Once he retired from the Marine Corps, Johnny had linked up with Willie and Corey to form Triton 6, a company that provided maritime instruction, equipment, and support to the defense and law enforcement industries. For the past eight years, they had been awarded and had completed government and private sector contracts all over the world. It was interesting and exciting work, and Johnny loved it because his twenty-three years in the Corps were a valuable commodity and put to good use. He and the boys could pick up government contracts here and there and procure a few consulting opportunities in order to pay the bills. Collectively they could provide a service unmatched in any industry. Johnny would remind potential clients that they had the experience of traveling to far off lands to infiltrate, close with, and destroy any enemy; if they had accomplished all that armed with creativity and a small force, then why not offer the same knowledge and expertise to private businesses and the government? Smaller, more agile forces, brought less required communication, red tape, and tactards into the equation of making decisions. For larger contracts, they would partner with companies like Warrick Marine (where Josh had become vice-president), Dillon Aero, and DOS, Inc., who had the infrastructure to support them.
A second way they did business was to develop and shape company pursuits by predicting and recognizing global requirements, such as identifying the need for security at large sporting and entertainment venues, along with other gatherings in the U.S. and abroad. They would collect intel from news sources to identify trouble areas and present solutions to international clients. Securing those foreign deals was much more complicated and involved establishing a strong relationship with a local agent who would get them through the door to meet with flag officers and staff. The real trick was to find a reputable agent (whose fees were dictated by his own success rate). However, even after securing this go-between, meeting with the clients, and making the best possible presentation, some large deals fell apart because of deep corruption and nepotism within that foreign government. There was no way of determining why a contract was lost because of those unknowns. If a deal was secured, then the U.S.’s Foreign Military Sales Office served as a facilitator between Triton 6 and the purchaser to ensure that all business was completed legally and that Triton 6 was not willfully or accidentally supplying weapons or training to enemies of the United States. The sales office also made sure that all International Traffic and Arms Regulations (ITAR) were being followed. These regulations involved items found on the United States Munitions List (USML) and dictated that if Triton 6 wanted to share defense-related information or equipment with persons outside the United States, they needed authorization or special exemption from the Department of State, which they had obtained many times in the past.
As Johnny and the others had been putting their final touches on the proposal, Daniel had called with an invitation for a late lunch. Johnny had not spoken to his brother for nearly a month, even though he lived nearby in Holly Ridge and was a professor and program director at the University of North Carolina Wilmington. Daniel headed up the NC State Engineering 2+2 Transfer Program and was “the resident rocket scientist and chief pogue,” according to Johnny. Daniel admitted that he felt guilty for not calling in a while. Johnny said he was nearly finished at the office and still itching to get out in the woods, even if they never saw a bird. If Daniel wanted to meet, he ought to join him at Holly Shelter for a few hours. They could grab a burger on the way. Daniel had reluctantly agreed.
This was not the first time Johnny’s brother had come hunting, and as usual he had balked about carrying a shotgun and said he would rather observe. With that attitude, he would never get any better and continue to make wild shots like “Granny” on the old Beverly Hillbillies television show. Shaking his head over that, Johnny climbed out of the pickup truck and took a deep breath. The air smelled like winter, reminding him of apple cobbler and hot chocolate and bonfires. Being out here in God’s country was pure joy, even if only for a few hours. He met Daniel at the tailgate.
“Why don’t you put on your man pants and take a shotgun?”
Daniel made a face and adjusted his glasses. “All right, Johnny, if it makes you feel better, I’ll put on these man pants you’re always talking about. Do you have an extra pair lying around?”
Johnny narrowed his gaze. “Look here, you watch the news? You hear about all those burglaries at the Cottages? They just had another one last week. You got no choice. Every man should own a gun.”
Rolling his eyes, Daniel tugged open the tailgate. The dogs leaped out and began sniffing around the truck while Johnny pulled forward the gear and handed Daniel a hunting jacket with bright orange patches on the chest and sleeves. Next came a similarly colored ball cap. Johnny donned his jacket and
hat, then handed Daniel a Winchester 20 gauge shotgun and some boxes of #8 birdshot. He reminded his brother to keep the muzzle pointed skyward. Johnny’s shotgun of choice was a Ruger Red Label over-and-under 20 that the boys had given him when he retired. He absolutely loved the shotgun’s cut-checkered American Walnut stock and opted to run a skeet choke on the first chamber and a full choke on the second. The skeet choke allowed for a close range shot that opened the pattern. The full choke was meant for a tighter long-range second shot.
As they started away from the truck, the dogs fanned out. They were already dressed in their orange vests and wearing their electronic collars. Johnny made sure he was tracking them with the GPS-enabled touchscreen remote. He could monitor the dogs’ direction, distance, and speed, and he could even tell when a dog was pointing or had treed some prey; in fact, it was a lot like watching troops on the ground during a search and destroy mission. Between all the maps, saved trails, and other settings, Johnny had yet to exploit all of the system’s features. Technology like this made hunting a lot more fun and ensured his dogs would not get lost.
Satisfied that the system was up and running, Johnny regarded his brother. Daniel’s graying beard now extended more than two inches from his chin, while Johnny remained clean shaven after all these years. “You know who you look like?”
“No, Johnny, I don’t.”
“Like Charlton Heston come down from the mountain.”
“Give me a break. Professors wear beards.”
“Because you think you look smart?”
“Because we hate shaving.”
“You look like you’ve turned on your country to go fight a holy war.”
“So which is it? Am I a jihadist or Moses?”
“Shave it off. You’ll look younger. I bet Reva would love it.” Reva was Daniel’s wife of over twenty years. She was born in Delhi to an Indian mother and British father but raised in the United States for most of her life. She had stunning blue eyes, and Johnny often flirted with her to get his brother’s goat.
“It’s become increasingly difficult to make that woman happy.”
Johnny snorted. “Viagra.”
“No, that’s not it. Ever since the girls went off to college, she’s retreated into her insurance business, and I’ve taken on more responsibility at work. I see her for an hour a night, and then we’re in bed, watching TV until we fall asleep.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“That’s no life.”
Johnny stopped and faced his brother. Behind him, the pine trees formed an elaborate maze across the pale yellow grass, and somewhere in the distance, a shotgun boomed. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Remember the proposal you guys did for that contract in Brazil?”
“I’m trying to forget it.”
“You remember how you asked me to proofread it?”
“Yeah, so?”
“So I never told you, but that meant a lot to me.”
Johnny drew back his head. “We just wanted to get an opinion from someone on the college side of the house, somebody outside the military.”
“That was the first time you ever came to me for help.”
Johnny stood there, wondering where this conversation was heading. He thought back across his life, trying to recall a moment when he had sought Daniel’s assistance or advice, but it was true—the only thing he could remember was that damned proposal. Sure, there were times when Daniel had volunteered to help Johnny with his homework, but Johnny always said that if he could not grasp the material, then he deserved to fail and would take his licks like a man. Besides, older brothers were supposed to be the stronger ones. Why couldn’t Daniel just accept that? “What the hell’s the matter with you? You’re bringing up this old shit, getting all sentimental. You sick or something?”
Daniel grinned. “You’ll never change. Subtlety’s not your thing. Cut to the chase. Get busy. You’re on the train or under it.”
“I’m serious,” Johnny said, sharpening his gaze. “You okay?”
Daniel nodded and started off. “You’re right, Johnny. I need to put on my man pants. Let’s go hunt some birds.”
“Dan, wait. Something you want to tell me? Something you need?”
“I can’t spend my whole life coming to you for help. I got everything covered.”
“You and Reva okay? I mean, really? Is mama cheating on you or something? You cheating on her?”
“Jesus Christ, Johnny, no. I just... sometimes you think you know somebody, right? But you don’t know them at all.”
Johnny thought about that. “I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again... there’s only three kinds of people in this world: wolves, sheepdogs, and sheep. I’m a sheepdog. Always have been, always will be.”
“And what am I, Johnny?”
“Look, whatever’s bothering you—”
“Say it.”
Johnny hoisted his brows and spoke more emphatically. “I said whatever’s bothering you, I’m sure you’ll work it out. The old man didn’t raise no dummies.”
Daniel made another face.
Johnny frowned. “What?”
* * *
Northern Bobwhite quail were distinguished by the feather coloration on their heads. Males had a white patch under their necks and white lines above their eyes. The body feathers of males and females were a combination of brown and black, and buff and white, affording them perfect camouflage. The name “Bobwhite” originated from the sound produced by the male, who seemed to be whistling the words, “bob-white,” but to Johnny, the bird’s call sounded like a squeaky wheel.
They hiked for an hour across a ridge line and descended into a field with native grasses whose seeds attracted the birds. The dogs led them away from sections of thicker grass, since the birds were too small to push through those, and they also avoided any open areas that made the quail feel too exposed. If Johnny caught the dogs getting a bit “birdy” after spotting their prey, he would blow into his hawk caller; the shrill cry would trick the quail into believing that danger was wheeling overhead. The bird would freeze in his tracks.
As they neared a woody draw with last night’s rainwater streaming down into the depression, Rookie froze and leaned forward, his tail thrust skyward. Bomber and Musket locked up like PFCs at attention on Parris Island. Near the top of the draw stood a thick, weedy area, and Johnny hunkered down and squinted in that direction, his breath coming heavier on the air. It was one of those perfect and rare moments during a hunt when everything lined up according to plan. They had approached the dogs from behind. Rookie, the youngest and least experienced of the three, had located the birds. He had gained that experience and had behaved beautifully, turning off his natural instincts to attack and waiting for his master.
Johnny caught Daniel’s attention and motioned his instructions. They would approach the weeds in a straight line, always aware of the dogs. Daniel nodded his understanding. Johnny indicated with his free hand that Daniel’s range of fire was from his center line and off to the right, while Johnny’s was off to the left. Hunters never crossed mid-point to shoot a bird flying on their partner’s side; it was poor sportsmanship and dangerous. Also, they never took a shot lower than the horizontal plane because they could hit one of the dogs. Johnny pointed to the safety on Daniel’s shotgun, and Daniel waved him off and mouthed that he was ready. Johnny gave him a curt nod, then slowly rose and stepped toward the dogs, ever wary of the grass crunching beneath his boots. The wind was in their faces now, which had helped Rookie find the birds. Johnny’s hackles rose. He paused and glanced at his brother, who skulked forward, his gaze never more intense. Something had come over Daniel. His jaw was set and his eyes had bugged out as though they were patrolling the bombed out streets of Fallujah. The pencil-neck boy was long gone. He appeared angry, even bitter, but over what?
For just a second, Johnny saw himself in his brother’s eyes, and he related to that bitterness. After more than two decades in the Marine Corps, J
ohnny was finally up for promotion to master gunnery sergeant. But when the promotion list for E9 had come out, Johnny learned he had been passed over. In that instant, he decided he was done making the rest of those men look like HE-roes. He was better qualified than those who had leapfrogged over him, but kiss-ass politics, along with his brutal honesty, had screwed him over big time. He would adhere to the words he always shared with his Marines: it’s either up or out. You’re either climbing the ladder or getting in the next guy’s way. With just five months left on his enlistment, it was the perfect time for his EAS, End of Active Service. Most Marines in his position would have waited until the next promotion board and used the year to transition into civilian life—but not Johnny. He would practice what he preached and lead by example. After all, how could a senior Marine Corps NCO spend all of those years teaching his charges how to be Marines and then ignore his own words? That would make him a two-faced politician. Admittedly, shedding the uniform felt like crossing a swamp of unknown size, armed only with his experience in the Corps. Did he have enough planks for what lay ahead? He had no choice but to find out. He was a Marine. A sheepdog. Easy day. No drama.
He resumed his pace, and as they neared Rookie, Johnny gave the command for all three dogs to flush the birds. What might have been a magnificent explosion of feathers and thumping wings became a lone quail bursting from the weeds.
Daniel swung his shotgun in the wrong direction, right past Johnny’s face. Johnny ducked a second before the shotgun boomed.
“Die!” his brother shouted. He fired again. “Die!”
“Dan, what the—”
“Holy shit, I got him!”
“You almost got me!” Johnny turned and picked up the Garmin from where he had dropped it while ducking for his life. He rose and glared at his brother. “What were you thinking, cowboy?”
Daniel struggled to catch his breath, his face glowing like a plum. “I was thinking I’m the sheepdog now!”
