by Peter Telep
Once Bandar had finished bathing, Johnny told him there was a change of plans. He hired a cleaning service to come do the house, and the outside contractor would arrive in the late afternoon to haul away the debris and provide estimates for replacing the garage door and rebuilding the front porch. There was no reason for them to remain home, so they were heading out to Junior’s Barbershop, where the owner himself would break out the chainsaw to do battle with Bandar’s beard and locks.
During the drive over, Bandar confessed, “Okay, Johnny. I’ll go high and tight. I’ll get clean.”
“You do that. And make it stick.”
“A couple days after you’re gone, when I’m sitting all by myself, I’ll just fall off the wagon. It’s happened a hundred times. I’m a drunk, and changing that is... man, it’s a hard day.”
“No one can help till you’re ready. It all starts with you. You have to think you’re worth it. We already think you are. We believe in you, you fool. Okay?”
“I’ll remember that, Johnny. I’ll remember everything.”
“If you can get yourself cleaned up, and you can walk the straight and narrow and do like I told you at the marina, I might have some stuff for you at Triton 6. But you can’t even go near that shit till you’re sober and ready to rock star that world.”
“Now you got me excited, Johnny.”
“Good.”
Abruptly, and before he had time to think twice, Johnny reached into his inner breast pocket and produced the note he found in Daniel’s office. “Here. Do me a favor—translate it.”
Bandar read the note and frowned. “Where did you get this?”
Chapter Thirteen
“In the Art of War, Sun Tzu said, ‘To know your enemy, you must become your enemy.’ And we did. That’s how we realized that smuggling cocaine was just the tip of the iceberg.”
—Josh Eriksson (FBI interview, 23 December)
Reliance Tactical Supply Company was on Highway 172 in Sneads Ferry, just a stone’s throw away from the True Value Hardware store, the used car dealership, and the real estate agency. Arthur McNeil, a former Operational Detachment Alpha sergeant that Johnny had run into a few times in Iraq, co-owned the place with a few Army buddies. McNeil and his associates had purchased about an acre of land where they had constructed a 10,000 square foot manufacturing facility, offices, and an 800 square foot storefront. They offered tactical nylon gear to hunters, law enforcement, military personnel, and anyone else seeking high quality products made in the USA. McNeil told Johnny that up to seventy percent of his business was now online, but he kept the storefront open because his web customers liked to see that they were purchasing something from a brick-and-mortar shop and not some mysterious warehouse. Johnny and McNeil had discussed the possibilities of a partnership with Triton 6, wherein Reliance would supply the tactical gear on a given contract. McNeil said he would jump at such an opportunity. The right contract had yet to present itself, but Johnny had felt certain that a joint venture was definitely on the horizon.
He pulled into Reliance’s dirt parking lot and consulted his watch: 1530. The place was open until five. Several other pickup trucks were parked in the lot, and a few, Johnny knew, belonged to the college-aged help. Taking a deep breath, Johnny opened the door and stepped out. He remained there with the truck door shielding him from view. He tugged his 1911 Ultra from the door pocket and clipped the pistol’s holster onto his waistband, the .45 now effectively concealed inside his pants. He tugged down his shirt, zippered up his jacket, and slammed shut the door. With a chill breaking along the base of his spine, he headed toward the shop.
An electronic beep signaled his entrance, and immediately the scents of rubber and nylon and even a trace of gunpowder reached his nose. Thousands of pieces of gear were stacked on shelves or hanging from pegs jutting from the walls. An entire section of backpacks towered off to the left, with another area featuring dozens of dropleg pouches and holsters. Taco pouches, magazine pouches, and medical and ordinance pouches of every kind formed row after row, with colors ranging from black to tan to olive drab and multi-cam. Rigger and duty belts, along with gun and range bags, crammed a few more displays. Camouflage netting was festooned across the ceiling to complete the effect of being downrange.
Two silver-haired hunters dressed in orange vests stood near the gun bags, discussing one, while a knot of guys with crew cuts, off-duty cops perhaps, were at the glass counter along the back wall. They were inspecting a half dozen holsters spread out before them.
Johnny tugged down his ball cap and drifted off to the right, feigning interest in the pistol mag pouches, sifting through the triples and quads with their side release buckles. There was only one kid behind the counter, a string bean in a black polo shirt with the Reliance “RTS” logo on the breast pocket.
Five minutes later, the kid finished helping the men at the counter and approached Johnny. His name badge read: KYLE. He offered a perfunctory greeting, barely looking up from his phone. “You looking for some mag pouches?” he added, demonstrating his keen-eyed intellect, the future of America right here.
“Yeah, I was wondering if LaPorte could help me.”
Kyle flinched. “You mean, Randall? He doesn’t work here anymore.”
“Really, when did he leave?”
“A while ago.”
“How long?”
“You’re not another detective, are you?”
Johnny drew back his head. “Hell no, something happen?”
“How do you know Randall?”
Johnny lifted his palms. “I was just in here before and he helped me. Seemed like a nice guy. Must’ve been your day off or something.”
“Well, he’s gone now.”
“He get into trouble?”
“Who knows? Ten thousand in tactical gear missing from the inventory, and he just vanishes. We’re not sure he took the stuff, but...”
“Wow, that’s too bad. I didn’t hear about it. Was it on the news?”
“The boss kept it quiet. Not great for business, you know?”
“I hear that. Anyway, I’m looking for some mag pouches for my brother, but I’m not sure these are the right ones. He was in here, too, maybe you helped him and you might remember him.” Johnny tugged out his smartphone and showed Kyle a picture of Daniel.
“I remember him. I think Randall helped him.”
“Well, that’s my luck.”
“Why don’t you call your brother and ask him?”
“It’s his birthday. I want it to be a surprise.”
“Well, all right, I think the doubles are good. Not sure he’d be real comfortable carrying around four magazines unless he was planning to get real busy, you know what I mean?”
“Roger that. Tell you what, I’m going to take off, and I’ll be back tomorrow. I might be able to find out what he wants instead of playing guesswork here.”
“Sure.”
“Thanks for your help today.”
Without glancing up, Johnny left the shop and hustled back to his truck. Within thirty seconds, he was back on the road and trying to catch his breath. He played back the conversation in his head and swore that he had asked for LaPorte instead of Randall. If he had really been helped by LaPorte, then he would have known the kid by his first name, which would have been on his badge just like Kyle’s. Johnny hoped that Kyle had not noticed that.
Johnny reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the paper on which Bandar had written his translation. He read it again:
Go to Reliance Tactical Supply Company. Speak to a man named LaPorte. Tell him you want the keys and gate card. When you’re ready for distribution, contact the next courier.
Bandar, of course, had asked about the note, and Johnny had answered, “You never saw this. We never talked about it.”
“Maybe you’re the one in trouble, Johnny.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
They had taken Bandar for his haircut, and he had entered the barbershop as Tarzan an
d come out looking like the Middle Eastern version of Clark Kent. Even Junior, the rotund black man who sang Stevie Wonder songs while he worked, had marveled over his own handiwork.
With the grooming complete, Bandar and Johnny had met Elina and the girls for lunch at Buddy’s, after which Johnny had driven Bandar home. There, he had a quick consultation with his contractor buddy, who gave him a great deal on rebuilding the porch and replacing the garage door. Following that conversation, Johnny had driven to Reliance.
Now, as he drove away, he spoke into his smartphone, “Search the web for Randall LaPorte, North Carolina.”
He found a Facebook account under that name, one with the photo blocked, along with a Twitter account that had LaPorte’s picture: he had blond hair that reached his shoulders and the trace of a beard on his narrow face—or at least that was his appearance at the time of the photograph. He looked more like a guy in search of hellacious waves than hard drugs. His Facebook said he attended UNC Wilmington and could very well have been one of Daniel’s students. Johnny clicked on the Twitter photo and saved it to his camera roll, then he called Norm Mack.
“Hey, it’s Johnny, where are you?”
“I’m on campus.”
“Look here, I’m going to text you a picture of a student. I want you to tell me if you recognize him.”
“I’ll try.”
Johnny pulled over into a gas station and parked near the air pump. He worked his thumb over the phone and listened for the upload chime.
“I don’t know, there are so many students here,” Norm began. “Wait I got it now. Okay, this kid, yeah, he looks kind of familiar.”
“Was he one of my brother’s students?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you can go online and get a hold of his records.”
“Go back. You said he looks familiar?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Wait. I know where I’ve seen him. He used to work with the professor across the hall from Daniel. I saw him in that guy’s office a few times. That’s where I know him from.”
“Who was the other professor?”
“Tall guy. Swarthy-looking bastard. Beard. Thick accent. Not sure if he was Middle Eastern or not. I think he only worked there for a year. Not a regular. I remember trying to buy some books from him, and he was a rude son of a bitch.”
“Okay, Norm, I can’t go up there myself, if you know what I’m saying. I need you to gather intel on this other professor. Can you do that without making it look obvious?”
“Johnny, you’re talking to the king of bullshit artists and a veteran Marine. I’ll head over there right now. I’ll call you back when I got what you need.”
Before Johnny could respond, the old man hung up. There was a breathless edge in Norm’s voice, one that unnerved Johnny. If that old codger made one misstep that tipped off Daniel’s assistant, then all bets were off.
With his pulse mounting, Johnny pulled out of the gas station and drove until he was on highway 210 and within a quarter mile of East Coast Storage. He slowed to twenty-five mph and cruised by the facility. Business office just outside the six-foot tall rolling main gate, with a couple of golf carts parked out front. Storage units lined up in rows out back. The climate controlled building on the right. Fence and barbed wire perimeter. Security cameras. Motion-activated lights. Just your run of the mill storage facility and convenient distribution hub for the Colombian cocaine market.
* * *
Johnny returned home, where he found Kate and Isabelle in the living room, watching old episodes of the Kardashians on Netflix. He pointed to the TV and told them that these people, their friends, and the producers of the show represented everything that is wrong with America. They scowled, then Kate cleared her throat and said, “Uncle Johnny? We’re ready to go back to the house now.”
“Really.” Johnny regarded Elina, who was at the Keurig, making herself a cup of coffee. “I guess the counseling worked.”
“We wish you were there,” she said. “But you did a good thing today, Johnny.”
“You want to run over there now?” he asked.
“But you just got home.”
“So what?” He faced his nieces. “Y’all ready?”
“Yeah,” said Isabelle. “And for your information, one session with a therapist hardly changed our lives. We just decided to be brave like you.”
Johnny’s cheeks warmed. “Tell you what, I’m not feeling very brave right now.”
“How come?”
“Oh, it’s a long story.”
“You hear anything from the police?” asked Kate.
“Nothing yet.”
“This is bullshit! When are they going to catch the guy!”
“Whoa, Kate, watch your mouth,” Johnny snapped.
“I wonder where she gets that from?” asked Elina, locking her gaze on him.
“All right, everybody out,” Johnny ordered. “We’ll shoot over to the house, then we’ll come back and figure out dinner.”
Johnny grabbed his keys from the countertop as his phone rang. “One second,” he told them, heading toward the stairwell. “Just need to take this.”
“Johnny, all right, get yourself something to write with,” Norm said. “I have everything you need.”
“You were good? She didn’t suspect anything?”
“Look, are you going to trust an old Marine—or ask more stupid questions?
Johnny sighed. “All right. What do you got?”
Chapter Fourteen
“I’d be lying if I said it was an easy decision. When we were downrange, we wouldn’t even think about it. You fight for your brothers. But after being away for so long and starting a whole new life, you think, I could go to jail. I could die. But then you remember who you are, who you’ve always been, and there’s nothing that can change that.”
—Corey McKay (FBI interview, 23 December)
Johnny, Elina, and the girls reached Daniel’s house by twilight, and for some reason the long shadows and grainy light reminded Johnny of an old console TV he had as a kid. The TV’s picture tube was beginning to fail, but the old man would not purchase a new one until the set officially died, and so for nearly a year they had squinted at the dark, low contrast images, and Johnny often speculated that his brother’s eyesight had been ruined by their father and by quality control engineers at Zenith.
“You okay, Uncle Johnny?” Kate asked from the backseat.
“I’m fine. Let’s go.”
They neared the front door, and Johnny glanced back before inserting the key into the lock. Isabelle shifted her weight from leg to leg, and Kate shivered through a breath. “You’ll smell the new grout and all the cleaning chemicals,” he warned them.
“Okay,” said Isabelle. “Come on, hurry up.”
“I thought you guys were worried about this.”
“I want to see exactly where it happened,” said Kate.
“Oh, we don’t need to be so morbid,” Elina said.
“Uncle Johnny, tell us more about that night,” said Isabelle.
Johnny shook his head. “Come on, we don’t need to drag through that.”
“But you never told us,” she argued. “You can’t remember?”
Johnny pushed opened the door. He stepped aside. “Who’s first?”
Abruptly, the two brave college girls with attitudes were shaking in their running shoes. Kate’s eyes were already gleaming with tears. She tugged at the collar of her jacket and stepped inside, glancing immediately to her left. “My father died in here, didn’t he,” she said.
“Yes.” Johnny flicked on the light, then came up behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders. The wood floor shimmered.
Isabelle pressed him again. “Tell us everything, Uncle Johnny.”
Johnny’s throat began to tighten. “I can’t.”
Kate lowered her head and began to cry. Isabelle pushed past them and strode toward the kitchen, with Elina rushing up behind her.
“I guess we’re not
brave,” Kate said, turning to face him and bury her head in his chest.
“Yes, you are. You’re here, right?”
“I guess so.”
Once she had composed herself, they walked back toward the kitchen, where they found Isabelle and Elina standing near the island. “I can’t tell where he fixed the floor,” said Elina.
“Great job, right?” asked Johnny.
“So she died in here,” said Kate.
Johnny nodded.
“One of the knives is missing,” said Isabelle. “See it? Right here.” She pointed to the block of knives on the countertop.
“We’ll get that back from the police,” Johnny told them.
“Not sure we want it,” said Kate.
Isabelle began to hyperventilate. She looked at them, wide-eyed, then hunched over and vomited all over the kitchen floor.
“Awesome,” groaned Kate.
“I’ll take her to the bathroom,” said Elina.
“I got this,” Johnny said, grimacing at the floor. He grabbed some paper towels and turned on the faucet.
“Don’t worry, Uncle Johnny, I won’t throw up like her,” said Kate.
“Thank you. You never know how you’ll react. You think you can handle something, but then you need more time.”
“When you were in Iraq, you had friends die.”
“Way too many.”
“How did you deal with it?”
“There’re all kinds of things you tell yourself. But in the end you just try to make your life worth their sacrifice. You try to make them proud every day, because they’re looking down on you, and they’re watching, okay?”
She choked up. “Okay.”
“Let me ask you something. Did your father give you any gifts? You know, like a big check or something?”
