by Brad Taylor
Getting my ass kicked by a bunch of thirteen-year-olds, now about to get my ass kicked by Jennifer.
“What are you doing? Are you playing that stupid game?”
Show apparent innocence . . . no proof . . . give up nothing.
“What? What do you mean? I’m studying. Just like when you left.”
Jennifer leaned against the door and shook her head, giving me her “disapproving teacher” face. I would never tell her this, because it would only encourage her, but the look really worked. I felt a little ashamed before she even opened her mouth.
“Pike, come on. This is our one shot at a real archeological expedition. You need to know this stuff, if for no other reason than to protect the cover. There won’t be any Taskforce oversight helping us out here. You need to look and sound like you know what you’re doing on this dig.”
Jennifer and I were partners in a cover company called Grolier Recovery Services, which camouflaged Taskforce activity. Ostensibly, we specialized in facilitating archeological work around the world. In reality, we used the company to let us penetrate denied areas so we could put some terrorist’s head on a spike. The cover had worked well so far, because it gave us a plausible reason to travel anywhere that had something of historical significance, which was basically any place on the planet with solid ground—and a few places underwater.
The difference was that we’d really been hired for this job. No Taskforce paycheck on this one, although it was the Taskforce that had linked-up our company with the project. Jennifer was really, really looking forward to the trip, because she was a pencil-neck at heart. A scientist torn between being a plant-eater and a meat-eater.
I said, “Jennifer, we aren’t leaving for at least three months. The Syrians aren’t going to approve a visa for either of us until they’re convinced we aren’t some secret James Bond organization. I’ve got plenty of time to study this boring shit.”
I saw her eyes cloud and knew I’d blurted too much from the heart.
“Wait . . . wait . . . that didn’t come out right—”
“Boring shit? Is that what you think? Well how about you do it because I asked for a change? I’ve done everything you’ve asked for the Taskforce. Don’t mess this up for me. All you have to do is a little studying. I promise, you’ll like it. Bloodshed and death. Right up your alley.”
We’d been asked by an American university to help reestablish archeological work at a place called Hamoukar in northern Syria, right near the border with Iraq. The site had been discovered in 1999, with digs conducted every year since then. In 2011, with the upheavals in Syria, the digs had been discontinued. Now, the university was headed back to re-open the dig and had hired us to provide the coordination and on-site security for the work.
The find was apparently one of the oldest cities ever discovered, a treasure trove of artifacts that sent shivers down my spine. I couldn’t wait to see the broken pottery shards and old bricks. Okay, that’s a little uncharitable, I suppose. There was one cool thing about the place: The city itself had apparently been destroyed in the first recorded occurrence of urban warfare.
I spread my hands, attempting to salvage the night. “Okay, okay. I’ll study it. I promise. I get it’s important. We still going out tonight? Or am I grounded?”
She squinted for a second, then said, “Maybe I should have you take a test. If you pass, we’ll go out.”
I smiled. “Fire away. I know more than you think.”
“Oh, please. You’ll just make up something and claim I’m wrong. Let’s go. Where’d you decide?”
Tonight was the one-year anniversary of the establishment of our business. We’d tossed a coin to see who’d get to pick and I had won. Which meant we weren’t going to some wine bar.
“Blind Tiger. On Broad Street.”
“Do they serve anything besides hamburgers?”
“Yeah. You’ll like it. I promise.”
Chapter 4
I dropped Jennifer off out front and found a parking spot a block and a half away on Church Street. The Charleston weather was perfect, with a warm breeze and the will-o’-the-wisp smell of pluff mud hanging faintly in the air. I passed a wedding reception and had my short walk marred by a rowdy group breaking free and following me down Broad Street. As luck would have it, they came right into the pub with me, apparently deciding that paying for their liquor was more fun than drinking for free.
I scanned the inside of the pub for Jennifer, came up empty, and moved to the backyard patio. I spotted her at a table at the rear of the deck, two drafts of Guinness in front of her. I couldn’t fault her taste.
I pulled out a chair. “Great choice on the beer. Did I sit at the right table?”
She grinned. “I keep my word. You won the bet, so it’s your beer.”
She snaked a hand across the table. “How was last night?”
I knew why she asked, and was a little embarrassed at the attention.
“Fine. He didn’t come.”
Jennifer knew exactly whom I meant. She knew everything that had occurred with my family, and I’d poured out my soul about the dream when I’d returned back to Charleston two months ago. The stalker had shown up a few times since, but only once with my family. Jennifer prodded me every day about it, and I was sure she was going to recommend some psycho-babble therapy if it happened again. She stared at me like she was surveying my conscience for a lie, as if I was a chick who needed to vomit my feelings in a social group, which did nothing but piss me off.
“Quit that. You’re going to ruin the night. Can we talk about something else?”
She considered me for a moment, squinting her eyes. I waited her out until she finally shook her head. She held up her phone. “Our contact with the university called,” meaning the Taskforce. “Our visas have been approved. We can go as soon as we’re ready.”
Before I could answer, one of the drunk groomsmen rammed into the back of my chair, knocking me forward. I whirled around to see him standing with his hands in the air.
“’Scuze me. Sorry.”
His four other buddies and the two women with them were all laughing like they were watching a stand-up routine, drinking out of plastic cups that had been decorated for the wedding reception. I felt Jennifer grab my wrist, getting my attention.
“Let it go. They’re just having fun.”
I told the guy it was no problem, and sat back down.
“What did Kurt say?”
“Apparently the Syrian government is keen to get this dig going again. Prove to the world that they’re returning to normal. The Ministry of Culture pushed through the visas. The university isn’t prepared to deploy yet, but they want us to go over and do a site survey. If we say it’s good, they’ll follow.”
Site survey. Right. Chickenshits are afraid. Kurt must be laughing his ass off at the Syrian government helping the Taskforce penetrate their state.
“What about Knuckles and the crew? They’re supposed to go with us.”
Before she could answer, another drunk groomsman was standing by our table, swaying slightly.
“Hey, I want to apologize for my friend there. Let me buy you guys a beer.”
I smiled at him. “That’s okay. We’re fine. Thanks.”
“I want to. I really want to.” He listed forward, spilling some of the beer from his ridiculous pink cup onto our table.
I stood up. “I said it’s alright. Please leave us alone.”
My tone was nice, but my glare wasn’t. Jennifer saw the challenge going out and stepped between us, looking at me.
“Let’s go somewhere else.”
Why the hell should we leave? I thought about it. About the trouble we’d get in. About our trip coming up and the unwanted attention I’d draw if I mopped up the deck with all five of these assholes. And about the fac
t that Jennifer had asked—which meant more than the other considerations combined.
“All right. You get to pick this time, but walking distance from here.”
She took my hand and led us through the throng of the drunken wedding party. We were on the far side of the group when one of the men reached out and pinched her ass, then ducked back into the protection of the pack, giggling.
I couldn’t believe the audacity. Jennifer and I still didn’t know where we stood with each other, whether we were business partners, friends, or something more. One thing was for sure, though, our relationship had gone way beyond me letting anyone treat her like that.
I plowed into the group and snatched the culprit by the front of his shirt, ready to rip him apart. Before I could do anything, Jennifer was on us.
“Pike! Don’t! It’s not that big of a deal. Let it go. He’s drunk.”
I stared into his eyes. “You’re fucking lucky. If you apologize I won’t ruin the fun you’re having tonight.”
His friends closed in around us. Jennifer, having seen in the past where situations like this would end up, pulled me, saying, “I don’t need an apology. Come on. Let’s go.”
I hesitated, then pushed the man back, putting a cap on the anger and shame I felt at walking away. I knew they thought I was afraid of their numbers. That they’d won. I turned without a word and walked away. Jennifer took my hand again and grinned. “Thanks. You’re getting better at asshole control.”
Her smile took some of the sting out of my humiliation. I started to reply when one of the drunks groped Jennifer’s ass again. The ending was not exactly what he expected. Before he could withdraw his arm and get away, Jennifer had locked it up, causing instant compliance. She swept his legs out from underneath him, and he hit the ground hard, cracking his head. She fell with him, rotating around and stretching out his arm with her legs over his body. He began to scream like a child at the pain she was giving him.
Now who needs some control?
I could hear the wedding girls shrieking at what Jennifer had done. Probably wondering how they could learn to do it, too. One of them began dialing a phone.
The problem with Jennifer’s choice of submission was she couldn’t do anything to defend herself without letting go of the man on the ground. But she knew she didn’t need to.
She shouted, “Pike!” as one of the men reached for her hair. He got a handful before I landed a perfect uppercut. He was bent slightly at the waist, his chin forward. I felt his jaw slam shut as his head snapped straight back. He collapsed onto the deck, unconscious.
I spun around and faced the group, Jennifer’s tussle to my back.
“Anyone else want a piece of us?”
The women just stared slack jawed, but I could tell the men realized they had tangled with more than they had bargained for. Even in their drunken state. They were all looking for something interesting on the ground or in the trees. Anywhere but at me.
I caught flashing lights in my peripheral vision. The bridesmaid must have called the police. Out of time.
I slapped Jennifer’s hands, shouting, “Time to go!”
She released his arm and I jerked her to her feet, saying, “Can’t go out the front door.”
Jennifer looked at the ten-foot brick wall at the back of the patio and started sprinting.
Great . . . acting like a monkey to evade the law. No damn dignity whatsoever.
I sprinted after her and we hit the wall at the same time, me coming off a table and her running straight up it in a toe-kip. We landed in the parking lot behind it and kept going, Jennifer laughing like we had just thrown water balloons at a car.
Driving back over the Ravenel Bridge to Mt. Pleasant, I said, “You talk about me losing control, what the hell was that back there?”
She looked a little embarrassed, then indignant. “Enough was enough. I didn’t try to hurt him. I was just subduing him. If it had been you he’d be in the hospital.”
She tried to show how serious she was, but a grin leaked out.
“Well, what were you going to do after you subdued him?” I said. “With all those other guys around?”
She didn’t respond, because we both knew the answer. I was going to step in.
“Look, I’m good with it. Those assholes deserved it, but if there’s a learning point here it’s that you can’t go around doing that sort of stuff.”
“What? That’s what I’m always telling you.”
“No, no, I don’t mean because I think it’s wrong. I mean because you’re a woman. I can run around kicking ass all day and it won’t raise an eyebrow.”
She started to wind up and I rushed out, “It may be chauvinistic, but that’s just the truth. Word’s going to get out about that little scuffle, and people are going to wonder how a pencil-neck anthropologist managed to kick someone’s ass that was twice her size. You have the skills now, and you need to protect them. Protect what we really do. Sorry, but that’s just the way it is.”
I expected her to blow up, but instead I saw her reflecting on what I had said. I decided to drop it.
“Hey, in the end I’m just glad you’ll only take so much shit before you blow your top. I was beginning to wonder if you had to have a gun at your head before you’d defend yourself.”
She grinned again, and I knew we were beyond it, lesson learned.
“You never finished about Knuckles. Is he coming with us, or not?”
“Not. Apparently he has his hands full doing something else.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Brad Taylor, Lieutenant Colonel (ret.), is a twenty-one-year veteran of the U.S. Army Infantry and Special Forces, including eight years with the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment–Delta, popularly known as Delta Force. Taylor retired in 2010 after serving more than two decades and participating in Operation Enduring Freedom and Operation Iraqi Freedom, as well as classified operations around the globe. His final military post was as Assistant Professor of Military Science at the Citadel. His first two Pike Logan thrillers, One Rough Man and All Necessary Force, were national bestsellers. He lives in Charleston, South Carolina.
