Blaze

by Andrew Thorp King

  “You need to be home more, helping me with the kids and the house. It’s good for you. I know it’s awkward and unnatural for you, but you’ll get over it.” Diem leaned over and gave him a kiss on his forehead as she ran her loving fingers through his slicked back, black hair. Blaze hadn’t had an oil change for his pompadour yet that morning and his scalp was screaming for a fresh tube of Brill Cream. His hair cream preference was as outdated as his hairstyle. He had been sporting a fifties style rockabilly greaser look since he left the CIA, but it was starting to become a bit too high maintenance. Made him think about going high and tight again.

  “It’s definitely not my natural modus operandi. And I’m not so sure it’s good for me to be honest.” Blaze was actually increasingly very sure that his current life was not good for him at all. The only thing that caused him to resist that feeling was the happiness in Diem’s eyes every time she spoke of his newfound regular presence in the home.

  Diem was not taking him seriously at all. She reached down to grab her keys from the basket by the door as she said, “Don’t forget to pick up some two percent milk on the way home. Half gallon. Oh, and also, remember Shane has swimming tonight.”

  “Got it. Get two percent milk. I guess that’s the closest to a mission I’ll get for now.”

  Diem continued smiling and Blaze granted a reluctant grin knowing she did not appreciate his sarcasm or perceived negativity. Diem left the house to begin her day and Blaze McIntyre retrieved the remote from the counter and flicked on the news on the kitchen TV and poured himself some more coffee.

  As he watched the self-important talking heads blabber on with their redundant rhetoric, he was struck with the feeling that the rest of the world was beginning to really suffer economically in the way that Detroit had been for years. The economy had been ever worsening and increasingly unpredictable long after the impotent era of hope and change had dissipated. Not a great time to be selling mutual funds and annuities. People thought 2008 was bad. Over a decade later, it was worse. Blaze was making a living but, given the financial climate, sometimes he felt like he may have been better off grabbing an AK-47 and joining the Somali pirates. Piracy seemed to be the only growth sector these days. The only real skill set needed seemed to be some nominal trigger experience and a penchant for brazen nautical hijackings. If a nine year old kid in sandals can hang and bang on the high seas, why not me?

  Blaze’s thoughts were interrupted by the persistent chirp of his cell phone.

  “What do you want, you German scam artist? You lose your lederhosen?”

  It was Bernhard Miller, Blaze’s partner at the firm. Working as a financial advisor with little time under his belt, Bernhard was the perfect business partner for Blaze.

  Blaze was fighting many internal distractions by way of lamenting his past profession as a warrior. This had caused a need for him to be under one’s constant mentorship at the office. Bernie Miller was the right man for that job. He was loud, obnoxious, and constantly interrupting people in conversation. Emotionally, he was about as sensitive as a cactus shoved where the sun don’t shine. Blaze loved him. Somehow.

  “What do I want? Are you ever gonna get your Mick self into work today? My books are looking light and I need you to fill them. You ain’t good for much else.” Bernie loved to remind Blaze constantly who was driving their business partnership.

  “Yeah, I’m making my way. Your old lady just left, Bernie, so I can come in now.”

  “She happens to be my ex-old lady and if the divorce was actually real, it would’ve been the best thing that ever happened to me. Unfortunately, the broad won’t stop stalking me and running interference on me dating my secretary.” Bernie had no shame about the complicated nature of his personal life.

  “Life’s tough when you’re a cocky German pimp in much demand. Good thing you’re a Midwestern farm boy, cuz east coast broads wouldn’t stand you for a millisecond with your Luke Skywalker grin and Smallville stupidity.”

  “I hear you, buddy. Finish your potatoes and put your pot of gold in the safe. Then, get your double-grape fruit arse in here so we can make some loot.”

  “Double grapefruit? More like double boulder. I’m still in rock solid shape pal.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA, OFFICE OF CIA DIRECTOR

  Chuck Gallagher stood at his desk—a stand up desk that had become his trademark workstation. His colleagues chalked him up as a glutton for self-punishment. To Chuck, the tenacious director of the clandestine services, the stand up desk was a symbol of diligence. It reminded him that literally and figuratively it was his job to never sit down. It was his job to stand and be counted. To stand and fight. To remain steadfast.

  Chuck’s heart rate was up. He had just finished his morning calisthenics. He felt particularly energized from the vigorous jumping jacks he had performed. As he stood at his work desk, he felt a twitch in his right calf—his muscles were still reeling from his exercises. He wiped the sweat off his brow with his right forearm. He lifted the cup of steaming black coffee to his mouth from his left hand. The black liquid warmed his throat and the caffeine shot quickly into his system. His synapses were firing. He had a lot on his mind.

  In a nutshell, it was Iran. The same old unnamed head of the snake since 1979. Their defiant, messianic-driven obsession with obtaining nuclear weapons—and a viable missile system to deliver them—kept Gallagher up at night and angry in the morning. The details of his recent briefings were swimming in his head. He began scratching notes on his yellow notepad. Stuxnet 2.0—it was almost ready. The Israeli scientists were working around the clock in the Negev desert for the sequel to the ongoing cyber weapon franchise. Neo Iranian Nazi Party—another puzzle piece. This group was on the rise. They co-opted uber-Persian Aryan nationalism and married it with cultish Twelver Shia Islamic eschatology. Arash Jafari—a new recruit who was a friend of the CIA’s best Iranian spy asset, Reza Kahlili. Reza introduced Arash to Chuck and recommended him for recruitment. This op would be a perfect fit for Arash since he was an IT guy at the Natanz nuclear plant. Yet another likely piece of the puzzle. Esfahan, Busheher, and Natanz—the nuke plants. The targets. The objective was to find a way to neutralize these three Iranian nuclear sites as much as possible to buy time and delay the production trajectory. But how? Gallagher wasn’t yet sure. He needed to assemble all the intel pieces, find the right agents, and get a plan solidified.

  He scratched his head and then tapped his coffee mug with his pencil several times as if he was trying to force an insight. The right team. He shook his head in frustration. These young agents don’t have the instinct. They have the training, the technology, but they’re soft. Anaesthetised by modern life. Pampered with misguided politically correct training. Gallagher was always fighting an uphill battle with the powers that be over the protocol for the agency’s new recruit training. He wished he had his top dog back. Blaze McIntyre. There would be no hesitation to place an operative like Blaze on a mission like this. He wasn’t as seasoned as Gallagher, but his spirit was that of the old school agent. He used his training, but he succeeded because of his heart. His track record made him the rock star of the agency. Until he left. A day Gallagher still wished never existed. Gallagher took the last sip of his coffee as he stared at his notes. The last note he wrote was written in all caps, circled and trailed by several exclamation marks—BLAZE!!!

  I have to get him back in the game. Gallagher fantasized—no, he strategized—about a way to persuade Blaze to come back to the agency. He had kept in regular contact with Blaze since he left. Mostly phone calls, but periodic visits as well. They usually went to a shooting range in the Detroit area, fired off some rounds, and then went to a pub and grabbed a pint while shooting the breeze. Sometimes they went to Blaze’s boxing gym, O’Conners. Chuck had always jokingly begged Blaze to come back, but never with any serious pleading. That was about to change.

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��ll have to slowly put the bug in his ear over a few visits. Looks like I’ll be doing some shooting and boxing in Detroit over the next few months. It was settled. This part of the picture was becoming a bit clearer. What about the rest of the team?

  Chuck knew picking the rest of the team would prove more difficult. There’s always Zack Batt...nah. He’s been too reckless lately. Can’t stay out of trouble. Chuck wrestled over the thought of using one of his most complicated covert mercenaries. Zack was a piece of work and he and Gallagher had a very close but tenuous relationship. If his head is on even slightly more straight than when I first recruited him, he’d probably adapt perfectly to this mission. Chuck was still unsure. He resolved to re-visit the idea later. He decided to hammer out the strategy for the op first, then finalize the team.

  But that would have to wait. He had a conference call in three minutes. He scribbled the word TRINITY at the top of his page of notes. He then ripped the piece of yellow paper off of the pad and carefully folded it into a square and placed it in his pocket. I think I got something here. He walked away from his desk and opened his office door. He needed to take a quick leak before the call started. He stood at the urinal losing water weight with one thing on his mind—how to get McIntyre back on the job.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  FIRST BAPTIST CHURCH OF DETROIT, DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  Sometimes Blaze didn’t know who appeared to be more afraid of him—the terrorists that had the pleasure of meeting his fury in the heat of an operation, or average citizens who gazed upon his appearance as if he was a terrorist himself. It was around eighty-five degrees in mid May and it was beginning to feel slightly humid. It was one of those rare Midwest weather days when spring flirted with summer earlier than June. This was an anomaly that Blaze could deal with. He had changed into camouflage cargo pants and a tight black tee shirt before leaving the gym. He had completed a tougher than usual morning workout, complete with TRX training and an intense kettle bell regimen. Given the unexpected warmth of the day, he now wished he had been wearing camo shorts instead.

  He parked his worn 2010 Cadillac CTS sedan across two parking spots in an obnoxious and diagonal fashion. He opened the door of his cherished vehicle with a slow push of his hand. As he stepped out of the sedan, he took the final puff of his Perdomo Patriarch cigar. He tossed the stogie onto the hot tar of the church parking lot asphalt. He watched it bounce and twirl for a second or two. The cigar then met its fate under the heel of his black combat boot. As he hurried toward the church building, he used the lower part of his tee shirt to wipe the sweat from his face and neck. Despite a good shower, it was typical for Blaze to expect some residual perspiration within an hour after a good workout. This usually happened as a result of his motor having been just revved up and still running with high voltage. He was still as lean of a machine as he ever was. This particular day, the extreme vascularity in his arms made his physique pop.

  Blaze admired the ethereal look of the ornate stained glass designs on the church’s front doors as he opened the one to his right. He loved the imagery of the angels. He had a habit of visualizing the reality of attending angels that he sensed had helped him through many hairy battles in the desert. Angels that watched over him during many lonely nights in dark places where he sat awake waiting to strike an enemy. Soon after he entered the church, he caught the horrified face of the new church secretary. It wasn’t everyday that a tattooed, muscle-bound secret soldier wearing combat boots waltzed in.

  In Detroit, such an intrusion could very well invoke a legitimate sense of fear and imminent danger. That being said, the church never locked the door. Pastor Liam wouldn’t hear of it. He was old school. No cell phone, no home security system, just his shotgun and his Bible. He was the quintessential bitter clinger. When former president Obama had unintentionally branded those who took comfort in guns and religion with that label during his first campaign, it was folks like Pastor Liam he must have had in mind. In regard to the Church doors in particular though, it was more of a welcoming thing for the Pastor. In his mind, God didn’t close His doors to anyone, criminal or not. Besides, truth be told, there ain’t no criminal in Detroit that would not soon regret trying to mess with Pastor McCardle. There are some skills that nothing can stop—be it the cloth of the pastorate or the drag of the whiskey bottle. And it was those skills that the good Pastor possessed that would halt any criminal dead in their tracks long before their intentions could be made known.

  After a few speechless seconds, the secretary continued her deer-in-the-headlights stare and waited for Blaze to speak.

  “I’m here to see Liam. Is he in?” Blaze smiled.

  “Umm, well, umm. Could I, umm, let him know who wishes to see him?” She was horrified as she stared at Blaze’s muscles and ink. She was clearly in her early to mid seventies, or possibly older, and was not at all used to seeing so much indelible art on a man’s arms. Her expression did nothing to hide her lack of ability to assimilate what she was looking at.

  “Please just let him know that Blaze is here, ma’am.”

  “Um, why, certainly.”

  She walked with a cautious step down the hall a bit and quietly let herself into Pastor McCardle’s office.

  “Pastor Liam, um, there is a man here, um, looks like an army man, or something. He calls himself ‘Blaze.’ Do you, I mean, were you, expecting him, sir?”

  Pastor Liam made a quick note in his weekly planner, doggy-eared the page he was currently reading in a biography on Abraham Lincoln, and slowly closed the bottom right desk drawer with the tip of his loafer. He closed that drawer just before his secretary could see the bottle of Bushmills Irish whiskey that hid in there with the cork barely secure. McCardle always favored the protestant whiskey and left the Jameson to the Catholics.

  “Why, yes, he’s a bit early. But, um, yes, you can tell him to come in. Thanks Betty.” McCardle was looking forward to his meeting with Blaze. But, as always, he wasn’t quite sure if he was ready for it.

  After being retrieved by the hesitant secretary, Blaze walked back to Pastor McCardle’s office. He gave two light knocks to the slightly open door and decided to just walk in before Pastor gave him permission. Waiting for permission to see what was behind a door was not Blaze’s modus operandi given his past line of work.

  “Top of the mornin’ to you Pastor.”

  “Hello, Blaze, have a seat, my friend. It’s good to see you.” Liam smiled.

  “You too Liam. As usual, once I sit my ass down in this seat, I’m sure I’ll discover a whole new unopened bag of issues for us to dig into.” Blaze could not hold back on his tendency to lay it all out on the table instantly.

  “Blaze, please my friend, I’ve told you before about the language.” Liam was really not offended by the nominal use of foul language, but he knew that sometimes Blaze used it liberally in his presence for the explicit purpose of trying to get a rise out of him.

  “I know Pastor, you’re right. I’m taking baby steps. I’m weaning off the f-bomb and employing damn, hell, and ass like it’s a nicotine patch. It’s tough to quit cold-turkey.” Blaze chuckled lightly.

  Despite Blaze’s faith, his practice of that faith still had many gaps. Control of the tongue being one of them.

  McCardle smirked and waived his hands dismissively. “Enough of that already! Please, tell me, how are things? How can I help today?”

  Blaze kicked his booted feet up on the Pastor’s desk and leaned back a bit on the chair as he began to exhale after a very telling deep breath.

  The Pastor’s eyes widened slightly at Blaze’s audacity in making himself so comfortable. After a moment, he then relaxed in acceptance of Blaze’s boldness. For Blaze’s part, it was hard enough for him to open up as it was. It certainly wasn’t going happen if he couldn’t kick his feet up, kick back, and get fully comfortable. Taking ownership of his immediate environment was Blaze’s most unfettered instinct.
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  “Well, first off Pastor, this whole civilian thing is tearing me up inside. I swear I’m living in another person’s body. Like I’m enacting another person’s daily routine or completing the drudgery of someone else’s boring suburban life. Sarcastic and negative enough for you?” Both men laughed.

  “You certainly must think high of yourself to assume you’re so special and above the mundane. Is this merely a matter of you needing more time to adjust or is it something else entirely? You’ve only been out for a year.” Liam thought best to start off with a soft challenge.

  “It’s something else entirely. It’s a rhythm deep in my veins that is signaling to me that this ain’t right; that I’m destined to return to the service of my country. I’ve been trying very hard to enjoy the normal life and go about the business of work, family, and the rest of it, but I can’t ignore what’s tugging at my soul. You know why I decided to retire and come back to civilian life. Diem was incessantly worried. She ragged on me to get out to no end. Then, you compound that with the perpetual guilt and conflict I deal with about the things I’ve done.” Blaze sat quiet for about thirty seconds as he pondered his past.

  Then he continued, “You know that I’ve seen carnage that no one should ever have to see at such proximity. I’ve held the lifeless bodies of dead friends in my arms so many times that the last incident barely ignited any emotion in me, except guilt—guilt because I couldn’t feel emotion. And where is God in all this? My faith has gotten me through many difficult times, but many difficult times have also weakened my faith. It’s a paradox that still applies now. Some days I have tremendous trust and I know where I stand. Other days, darkness takes over, I curse humanity and feel abandoned by the Almighty. Sometimes to the point where I doubt His intentions. It makes me feel very, very violent. My mind often plays tricks on me.” Blaze began to shake as he revealed the dark terrors of his soul.