by J. B. Havens
“Where did you get that, Mic?” Pierce asked, gesturing for me to hand it over. He stepped over Flynn like he wasn’t even there, which was really the best way to deal with him.
“I know people. If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” I shrugged as I gave him the knife. He did the same trick I did, stabbing Flynn with it, but in the side this time. His shirt was already ruined, so a little more blood wouldn’t hurt it.
“Ok boys, enough dicking around,” I said, moving back to the maps, pointing out their positions as I continued explaining the plan. “Jordon here is going to stab Linc ‘by accident,’ resulting in his tragic death. Meanwhile I will stab Mateo with a real knife, dealing out real death. We need to stage it so that whoever finds Mateo thinks the deed was done was one of his men. That same red herring will be the one blamed for Linc’s death as well.”
This is where it got complicated, blaming the deaths on someone else was going to be tricky. I needed for one man to find Mateo dead, with a wounded and dying attacker, along with a dead Lincoln Adams. Then we had to get back in there, grab Linc, and get out without being seen.
“Jordon will grab Linc, toss him on his shoulder, and follow me out, as quietly as we went in. Jones when you see us at the door, you pop off a couple guards on the opposite side of the compound. Phillips, you pick off one or two also. This will confuse them; we want them thinking a palace coup happening and that they are being attacked. Pierce will push the button on his charges, and under cover of a big boom and chaos, Jordon and I will beat feet out. We’ll meet at the pick-up LZ and we’re home free. There will be a secondary pick-up LZ site in case we get separated. Secondary pickup will be the next morning. The jungle around the compound is going to be crawling with Mateo’s men. It will be too hot to come back in any sooner than that.”
I looked up from the map to the faces around me. Everyone was paying close attention and nodding along, memorizing the maps and everyone’s positions. This was it. Mission was a go.
“Okay guys, that’s enough about the mission for now. That was the bad news; good news is that we get to hit the town tonight.” The room erupted in a chorus of shouts and stomping feet. If you keep five men cooped up on a compound in the middle of nowhere, they tend to go a little stir crazy. I whistled sharply, drawing everyone’s attention. “We’re leaving at seven. Be primped by then. And yes, I am talking to you, Flynn. You spend more time in front of a mirror than I do. It’s a wasted effort, my friend.”
“Oh, burn!” Laughed Pierce, as he punched Flynn in the arm.
“At least I look in a mirror once in a while, Mic. You should try it sometime.” I gave him the finger.
“Who’s the DD?” Piped up Jones, ever the practical one.
“We’re permitted to take our own vehicles, but Jackson wants us to ride together as much as we can. Try to keep it to two cars. If we need a driver, he’ll send a couple guards out for us. Sound good, everyone? I’m taking my Jeep, so I can take one other person. The rest of you can figure it out amongst yourselves. Who wants to ride with me? And Flynn, the answer is no,” I said, pointing at him as he mouthed “what?” and shrugged like he was an innocent party. After the last time I had him in my Jeep, I swore never again. He got so fucking drunk he puked all over the floor and seats. I had to replace the entire interior on his dime. I would not risk a repeat performance.
“I will,” Jordon said. That was surprising. I couldn’t quite contain my shock. “So where are we going, anyways?”
“Finnegan’s Pub. In a town full of Germans and Pennsylvania Dutch, we have one Irish transplant. The bar owner isn’t even named Finnegan, he’s just a huge Dropkick Murphy’s fan,” Jones said. This was a speech for him.
“We done here? I’ve got to make a phone call,” Jordon said, walking backwards to the door, pulling out his phone as he went.
“Yeah, we’re done. We’ll meet in the mess hall at 6:45. Dismissed.” They all trooped out, shoving and talking about who was riding with who. Sounded like Phillips was going to drive since he had the biggest truck with the most leg room. The four of them trying to fit into Flynn’s Z-28 would work as well as a clown car. Jones didn’t allow anyone in his truck, ever, unless I made him. Phillips was telling Flynn that if he tied one on too bad, he’d be riding in the truck bed. That was washable at least.
They all took up various spots in the rec room. I didn’t have much to do at the moment, but I wasn’t feeling it. I needed some alone time so I left them to their video games and bullshitting in the mess hall. Flynn and Pierce were playing a vicious game of air hockey, slamming the puck into each other’s knuckles. Jones and Phillips were playing something on the Xbox. Jones probably had to threaten Phillips’s life to get him to play. Phillips was not a fan of video games, to put it mildly. Judging by the curses pouring from his mouth, his skill had not improved since the last time he was forced to play.
Jordon was standing next to the doors engrossed in a phone call. He was propped against the wall on a massive shoulder with the phone tucked between his shoulder and ear. As I watched, he crossed his arms and tucked his hands into his armpits. The stance drew his shoulder and back muscles taught under his black cotton shirt, those tattoos playing peek-a-boo under his t-shirt. With his arms and ankles crossed, it was impossible not to notice he was built. I’d seen him in less, but something about his stance struck me. I ran my eyes up the long lines of his legs and up his broad back. He was a seriously beautiful man.
I shook the thought off and the images it evoked. I needed to get a grip. Going out tonight was just the thing. It’s not just the guys that needed to blow off some steam. Maybe I’d find myself a certain Irish boy to have some fun with.
I walked past him without a word not trusting what would potentially come out of my mouth. Nothing that would benefit either of us, I’m sure.
****
Jordon finished his phone call and watched Mic as she walked past him. She was an enigma. The very definition of Steel, you could see the core of hardened resolve in her spine. She was a woman that didn’t let anyone get one over on her. She possessed an inner strength that he could only grasp at having for himself. He admired the fortitude and wit that shaped her very soul. If there was ever a woman that could make him forget the pain of war and the loss of his friends, it was her. He knew that she had the same pain inside her, the same loss haunting her dreams. Her hands were as bloody as his own. As were the hands of the men behind him. The blood was what bound them together.
At least now he had his own wheels on the way. That was the garage company that had been storing his baby and taking care of her until he was settled enough to have her delivered. She’d be here in a few hours. Jordon had been counting the days until he could have her shipped up once he’d been accepted into Steel. Before, when he was just a regular enlisted man, his Uncle Stephen had taken care of her. Once he had a pretty good idea that he would have to more or less cut ties with his entire remaining family, he’d arranged for a private garage to take her on. He was ready to have her wheel under his hands again. It had been too long. Mic seemed to have a thing for cars, so he’d see how she liked his baby. The thought made Jordon’s face split in the first genuine smile in days. He couldn’t wait to see the expression on Mic’s face when his car came rolling in on a flatbed. On that thought he had better notify the guard shack so they didn’t shoot the driver. That would be a quick way to ruin their night out. Jordon walked through the compound with a bounce in his step. There would be no riding shotgun in Mic’s Jeep tonight. He’d bet anything she’d be begging him for a ride.
Chapter 11
Lincoln Adams shut his guest bedroom door and crept down the plush carpeted hallway as quietly as he could. He was surrounded by priceless art and statues in little alcoves spaced regularly down the hall. Lights shown down on Greek gods and goddesses, as well as sprites and beautiful marble nymphs. Mateo Fernando had a serious god complex, along with being completely nutters. It made for some scary stuff. It was best to let
Mateo and his thugs think that he was a complete pansy. He couldn’t have them finding out that he really wasn’t all that scared of them and had been feeding information on their movements back to MI-6 for months.
The end was in sight. His handler had gotten a message to him that in three days, he was to die. In three days he would be free. He’d be free in America to start a new life. He would miss the sound of the bells from the church down the street and the chatter in different languages from the tourists. He’d miss his favorite tea shop and their blueberry scones. He’d probably never get a decent Guinness with his mates again, or see his favorite girl. These were all things he knew he’d have to sacrifice when he decided to do this.
One last task: there was a meeting in three days between Mateo and his French contact. He was finally going to sit in on a meeting. Even if it was just as a server. He needed to get the name of the Frenchman and if possible a picture of that damn frog during the party following the private meeting. Up until now he had been working on getting them to trust him. He letting them think that he wanted in on the action; that he wanted out of his tea shop and instead a piece of the cartel drug pie. His old life wasn’t glamorous or fraught with excitement beyond the occasionally drunk tourist stumbling into his shop, but it had been his life. At last the cartel believed him, trusted him; not knowing that he was about to sign their death warrants. All because of one overheard conversation and a glimpse inside a bag he never should have had, he was trapped to see this to the end.
He stopped outside Mateo’s study. He knocked softly and entered the over-decorated, pretentious room. Three walls were lined floor to ceiling with mahogany bookshelves filled to the brim with thick, leather-covered volumes that had never been opened. The remaining wall was taken up by a large bay window with heavy red drapes blocking out the harsh Colombian afternoon sun. In the center of the room was a large-claw foot desk, its shining expanse empty of everything but a phone and a humidor.
Mateo was seated in a large, red leather chair behind the desk. Stupid wanker probably thought it made it him look distinguished. Mateo acted like he was the bloody king of England and expected others to treat him as if he was. In fact, he was a portly man with a pock-marked face he tried to hide with a large greasy mustache. Where some would think he was unfit, that man was anything but. Linc had seen him nail a man’s hands to a table and proceed to cut them off with his damn machete that was forever at hand. His own palms started to sweat a little at the memory. The man was completely mad. It would be a privilege to help rid the world of this piece of filth.
“You wanted to see me El Jefe?” The respect Linc forced into his voice choked him every time.
“Si. You know the meeting is tomorrow. It is most important. I want my French friend to see that I have an English bloke under my thumb,” Mateo said in his gravelly voice, mocking Linc as usual. He just loved that he had such a traditional sounding Brit in his house. It made him feel superior to look down on him. Soon enough it would be Linc looking down on this bloke. His lips twitched at the thought, taking all of his will to keep the mirth off his face.
“Yes, sir. I will be there.” With bells on my wire you fucker.
“Just make sure you are nice to my French friend. If you displease my friend, I will cut off your hands and add them to my collection.” Mateo’s ugly face was coated in sweat even in the air conditioning. He chuckled at his own joke, making his jowls jiggle nauseatingly. He reached for the humidor with manicured hands, and flipping the lid open he revealed it was full of cocaine, not cigars. Retrieving a razor blade, Mateo tapped out a line and Linc took his cue. Being around Mateo was bad enough; being around a high Mateo was dangerous.
Linc nodded like a dutiful pet before backing out of the room and closing the wide double doors behind him. He couldn’t wait to get out from under this man’s thumb. He couldn’t wait until this nightmare of subterfuge was behind him. He would use his tiny camera concealed inside a pen tonight and get the evidence MI-6 needed. Linc could almost taste the future just beyond his fingertips.
He went back to his room and lay on the bed. He sank deep into the thick blankets with a sigh as heavy as his heart. Letting the softness surround him he gratefully closed his eyes. He finally let himself dream for the first time since he got to Colombia. He dreamt of his new home. Dreamt of a future finally within his grasp, a future filled with light and peace.
****
I jerked awake from my nap suddenly. It took me only seconds to discern what had awakened me, the sound of a large diesel engine. A very large truck was pulling up outside of the cabins by the sound of it. Quickly throwing on some clothes and shoes, I stepped out onto my porch and was greeted by a rollback with a wet dream on the back.
Jordon was stepping out to meet the truck. Must be his car. Car wasn’t a good enough word to describe this beautiful machine. It was the Judge, a ghastly orange example of American muscle.
I stepped next to Jordon and bumped him with my shoulder. “Nice car,” I grudgingly muttered. There was so much more to that statement. This wasn’t just a car. This was a 1969 Pontiac GTO Judge.
“Does it have the RAM Air III or IV?” I asked Jordon. He showed surprise at my knowledge. Humph.
“The IV.”
I walked closer as the driver began lowering the bed and slowly sliding the car off. It had the hood mounted tach and Hurst t-shifter. The air vents in the hood and grill could be closed against rain using a knob on the dash. I saw that he did not, however, have the hidden head lamps. I walked slowly around the car, admiring the sleek lines and wicked fast back. A muscle car with a fast back had always got me right in the gut.
“Very nice Jordon. I’m impressed. How long have you had her?” A car like this, as with a ship, was always a “her”.
“Since high school. I found her in a neighbor lady’s garage, rusting out. I bought her for a thousand dollars and fixed her up. All original parts too. Still want to drive tonight?” He was smirking at me. Thinking he had my answer pegged. One thing you can count on about me though; as soon as you think you’ve got me figured out, I change like a chameleon.
I wanted more than anything to get into that car and feel the rumble of the engine and hear the beautiful music she would make. I wanted to feel the slickness of the leather seats slide against my bare legs. This car was sex on wheels. I also didn’t want Jordon to have the satisfaction of getting one over on me. It was petty of me to think that way, not to mention childish. I could see this becoming a game of one-upmanship that I wasn’t sure I was willing to start; but I would finish it before it ever began.
“No. I can’t deny you the privilege of driving this. Feel free to drive yourself tonight.” I so wanted to ride in, or better yet, drive that car. Sometimes it’s better to take the high road and stave off further childish antics. I needed to cut off at the knees whatever this was developing between Jordon and me. There was no room for this angst in our lives. We needed to be focused on the mission, not what’s in our pants.
I walked away, leaving both Jordon and his beautiful car behind.
****
Back in my cabin, I raided my closet for an outfit. Skin tight Levi’s were a must, especially when I had an Irishman in mind who would no doubt appreciate them. Smiling at the thought, I paired the jeans with a green fitted t-shirt with a deep -neck and ankle boots with three-inch heels; just enough heel to add that sway to my walk. It really was better that Jordon drove himself, because now if I decided not to come back with the rest of them, I didn’t have to. I don’t do sleepovers, but I’m not a fan of sex in the back room of a bar, either. I needed a bed for what I had in mind. Smiling at myself, I went to the mess hall to meet the guys.
They were all grouped together, leaning on the tables and sprawled in chairs, trying to act casual and cover the excitement we all felt. Flynn was looking at his reflection in a window, smoothing his eyebrows and tugging the collar of his short sleeved button-up shirt. He was the only one who made a fuss. The rest of u
s were in jeans and t-shirts. Sure the room was boiling over with testosterone and eagerness, but we at least made the effort to mask it.
“Flynn, no one is going to notice your eyebrows unless you want me to make them more noticeable,” I said, pulling out my pocket knife and flicking the blade out with my thumb. None of us were armed. We had an unofficial agreement with the local PD. No weapons in public, no fights in town, and they ignored the strange vehicles and occasional explosions. They didn’t like us much because they didn’t know anything about us. The local sheriff thought we were radicals playing at a militia. They had no clue as to our real purpose. I wanted it kept that way.
“Who are you trying to impress, anyways?” Jordon asked Flynn. Flynn opened his mouth to answer, but I beat him to it.
“He’ll tell you he’s looking for his one true love and Disney happily ever after. Someone to save him. In reality, he’s looking for anyone with two sets of lips who can stand him long enough for him to get his dick wet.” I smiled as sweetly as I could manage and enjoyed the sputtering denials from Flynn and guffaws from the others.
“Well I guess she told you, huh Flynn?” Pierce said, still wiping tears of laugher from his face.
“Like you have any room to talk. You’re just as fucking bad.” Pierce opened his mouth to deny it, but shrugged instead.
“Ok, boys. Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said, and walked away without waiting for a response.
****
We arrived at Finnegan’s in time to take the last available parking spots. It was packed tonight. Good for all of us. It’s easier to blend in when we’re in a crowd. If we walked into an almost empty bar, we’d stand out worse than Jabba the Hutt at a Star Trek convention. And probably go over about as well.
“Alright boys, best behavior until we’re out of the bar. If you hook up, great, but everyone needs to be back on base by zero nine hundred tomorrow, no exceptions. Anyone who rolls in late gets smoked by Jackson. Hungover or not. And for fucks sake, use condoms.” With that, I pushed my way into one of my favorite bars on this side of the globe.
