by Gavin Reese
Rural Compound. Niobrara County, Wyoming.
Michael knelt in prayer on his rolled-up towel and participated in Father Harry’s morning mass. And now that the stable-turned-classroom turns into ‘Our Stepmother of Perpetual Suffering,’ as John named it, for about an hour, anyway. He privately smirked just before rising back to his seat when the monsignor ended his prayer. Michael smiled pleasantly at the elderly man and worked to ensure he conveyed no unintended information to him. I’ve seen him four times now since he first asked about U-W, and he’s specifically offered to hear my confessions every time. John hasn’t acted any different toward me, but Father Not-Harry is still suspicious. Strange that the monsignor-shrink is more upset about anything I might have done than John. Maybe there’s more to their relationship, or Harry’s playing a more significant role than I understand.
“May Almighty God bless you, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
Michael crossed himself, as did the other trainees. “Amen,” they responded in near-unison.
Father Harry spread his arms out toward the small crowd. “This mass is ended. Go forth and glorify the Lord by your life and your good works.”
“Thanks be to God,” the trainees replied.
“And,” Father Harry continued, “I’ll be available for confessions, should anyone be in such need of me.”
Michael noticed the monsignor glanced at him before walking past the trainees and on toward the house.
“Alright, shitheads,” John announced as he moved to the front of the room. “How’d everybody like the distance run today? Fifteen miles, right? Everybody make it back alright? I didn’t do a remaining body count on the way in.”
“Good times, John,” Sergio answered for the group, as had become his habit when John asked about the PT regiment.
“Today’s gonna be a little familiar to everyone from the U-W exercise. This time, though, we’re not working on foot, unless you have no other choice. I want you primarily working out of vehicles. With ten of you left, we’re gonna divide you up into five cars. I only got five anyway that’s sold here in the U-S, at least that you assholes can use. Wouldn’t make much sense to have you roll around small-town Wyoming in cars imported from Mexico, Europe, and Africa. That shit’d be noticed right quick.
“So, today’s assignment,” John continued, “is gonna have you surveilling your instructors. Each two-man team will get an intel package. The targets do not know who is coming for them, or what you’re driving. They do, obviously, know what you shitheads look like, though, so you’d best bear that in mind. Much like when you fail, the instructors will have to answer to me for every one of you that completes your intel assignment without being identified. All they gotta do is be able to tell me what you’re wearin’ and drivin’, and you’re done, so they’ve got an advantage any real-life target shouldn’t ever have. Easier for them, harder for you. Trading sweat for blood today, gentlemen, sweat for blood. You will get some location info in the intel packets, maybe some vehicle info, maybe some other intel on your targets. It’ll also provide you with a list of intel I want you to collect on your target. Everybody’s got the same deadline, which is supper time, 1900 hours tonight.
“Every team’s going after a different instructor,” John continued, “so, if you see one that ain’t your target, leave ‘em alone. If you see one of your classmates, leave them alone. You might accidentally tip off their target to their presence. Ignore ‘em. The instructors are gonna report to me when they think they’ve spotted the surveillance team assigned to them, and, if they’re right, you’re done. You fail today. If they’re wrong, then we’ll all just carry on like nothin’ happened. Questions, comments, concerns?”
“What is the goal, once we find our target,” Matthias asked.
“That’ll be in your intel packet,” John reiterated, “and everybody’s got something different. Anyone else?” John looked around the room and understood the silence as adult-speak for “no questions.”
“A few final thoughts before you head out. You will mostly be engaged in stationary surveillance today. In general, this offers the same problems you faced with the mobile surveillance exercise, but you now have the added difficulty of tryin’ to look non-threatening while sittin’ in a car with another dude. I’ll leave it up to each team to decide how to overcome that. In certain cities and places around the world, that can help get you mistaken for a cop. The plus-side to it is that most people won’t mess with a cop. The down-side is the ones that will are gonna have a lot more guns and friends than you’ll have. Hell, in most places you’ll work, you’ll be lucky to have a damned Buck knife. The trouble here, of course, is that there’s only fifteen-hundred-and-some-odd souls in the Lusk, Wyoming, metropolis. You can expect they all grew up with every cop that works in this entire county, so, if someone thinks you look suspicious and kinda cop-like, they’re gonna call the real cops over to deal with it. And, normal rules of engagement, that gets you bounced. All the rest of the usual R-O-E’s apply, as well. If no one’s got anything else, y’all oughta get your dumbasses moving.”
“What’s the teams, John,” Phillip called out.
“Right, thanks,” John replied and retrieved a handwritten note from his shirt pocket. “Jude and Matthias. Thomas and Zeb. Andrew and Z. Phillip and Matthew. Alpha and The Baptist. I don’t care which of the five cars each team takes, so first-come-first-served in the driveway.”
Michael made eye contact with Z and nodded toward the driveway. His partner seemed to understand and hustled along with him out the door. “Wanna have first pick in case there’s only one car that doesn’t stand out.”
“I’m good with it, you wanna drive?”
“Sure, but that means you’ll be on foot if we hafta break up.”
“No problem,” Z replied. “Think it’s suspicious that each car’s already got a target assigned to it?”
“Maybe. Wanna trade packets with someone else?”
“Yeah, I do. I don’t trust it. I think they’re lookin’ for a crushin’ win after U-W.”
“Kay.” Michael slowed his pace just a bit and let Sergio catch up to him. “Hey, Jude, we’re worried the targets might already be looking out for specific cars. Wanna trade packets?”
“I like it,” Sergio replied. “A good friend once told me,” he flashed a quick, knowing smile at Michael, “if you’re not cheatin’, you’re not tryin.”
That was practically our mantra in Ecuador, Michael thought and stymied his own smile. Michael and Z picked an older white Honda Accord and swapped its intel packet with that from Sergio and Matthias’ dark blue Dodge Minivan. Z opened their packet and grimaced at Michael.
“Sorry, Andrew, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.” Z held up the intel packet contents, and Michael saw they now had to follow Double-Time.
“Doesn’t matter. Even if he’s really got it in for me, he’s still gotta earn it. Let’s grab some extra gear and see if we can’t make this hard on him.”
“What’re you thinking?”
“Let’s talk about it on the walk back to the basement,” Michael offered. “Still not sure these cars aren’t bugged.”
“Paranoid, aren’t you? I’d call myself an avid conspiracy theorist, but you may be worse than me.”
They stepped from the Accord and, en route back to their quarters, discussed the tools and tactics they thought might help them carry the day. When they finally emerged, Michael wore a bright yellow, long-sleeved, zip-up running shirt and Z wore an orange Baltimore Orioles t-shirt. John poured himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen as they passed through.
“You boys pick up crossin’ guard shifts for extra money?”
“Nope, just hiding in plain sight,” Michael dead-panned. They continued straight on to the driveway and found theirs was the only car left.
“Everybody else’s in a damned hurry to fail,” Z offered.
“Can’t ever miss fast enough to win.” Michael got into the driver’s seat and, as
soon as they stowed their gear in the rear floorboards, he piloted them toward Lusk and Double-Time. “If this gets done early, you wanna hit the local watering hole for a pint or two?”
“Sounds like a damned fine idea, whether we’re mournin’ or celebratin.’ Long as they got Bud heavy on draft, I’m good.”
Fifteen minutes later, Michael passed the Town Limit sign on US Highway 20. His apprehension grew as they entered the small town. Feels like some kinda ominous consequence, a foreboding presence, maybe? Like I’m about to get everything I deserve for the few minor transgressions since my arrival here. As planned, he pulled off on the shoulder, and they both removed their high-visibility tops. Each of them had worn a neutral t-shirt beneath.
“Alright,” Z enthusiastically offered as Michael merged back onto the road, “it’s now 8:45 in the mornin’, and our sum-bitch is supposed to be drivin’ a 1998 Buick LeSabre, white, Nebraska plates. The intel packet claimed his car had often been seen parked in the vicinity of the Niobrara County Sheriff’s Office in the mornings. By chronology, we’re to find out where he goes in the mornings.”
“So, the intel is that we know where the car is, but not where he is.”
“That’s right,” Z confirmed. “What’s the name-a that little café across the street?
“The Blue Bonnet?”
“Yeah, I think that’s a good place to start. I’d avoid driving by the building if we can.”
“Since that’s the only two-story building in that part of town,” Michael suggested, “I think we oughta drive somewhere around the back and see if that gives us a look up onto the roof.”
After Z agreed, Michael drove them two blocks south of The Blue Bonnet’s building. His passenger looked at the roof through binoculars, but couldn’t determine if Double-Time was up there or not. “Looks like there might be some kinda wall up around the edge of the roofline. Ain’t no drainage or vent pipes stickin’ up like there oughta be. The actual roof’s gotta be below what we can see from here, and, from this far back, we oughta be able to see at least a few of the pipes even if it’s a flattop. There is an access ladder on the back, though, on the south wall by the back, kitchen door, looks like.”
“That could be good to know for later,” Michael replied.
“You plannin’ on doing some sniper work, Andrew?”
“No, but we’ve already been in Lusk on a few field trips, and I bet John sends us back a few more times. Oughta be good to know how to get to the high ground.”
“You ready for the drive-by?”
“Yeah, let’s go ahead and get that over with. If you’re right, Z, and this works, then we’ll know the game was rigged to begin with. We just won’t know exactly how.”
“It’s not unusual for me to find myself in the unique position of hopin’ I’m wrong.”
After several turns, Michael drove their aging white Accord north and passed along the east side of The Blue Bonnet Café. Because that building’s only windows and customer entrance were on the north side, neither of them could see if Double-Time was there.
“Even if he is in there,” Z surmised, “he’s sittin’ in the far back corner so we can’t see him without stickin’ our ugly mugs onto the glass, anyhow.”
“The real point is to see how this shakes out from here.” Michael continued north another eight blocks until he saw a used car dealership, Western Skies Auto Sales. He pulled the Accord onto the commercial property and parked next to the office.
Before they exited the sedan, a tall, thin man with a grey, wispy comb-over, red western shirt, jeans, and worn brown boots stepped out to greet them. He donned a grey felt cowboy hat and put his hand out to Z. “How you boys doing this fine morning,” he asked and enthusiastically shook both their hands. “Can I help you get outta that import and into something red, white, and blue today?”
“Well, actually, sir,” Michael replied, “we’re not lookin’ to buy anything today, but I do have a kinda strange request.”
“I’m all ears, son.” The man’s grin completely concealed any uncertainty or apprehension he might’ve felt.
“My wife and I are separated, and—”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he offered with a more sympathetic smile. “Unless, of course, that’s a good thing!”
“That’s just it, I don’t know. I do know she’s here, in Lusk, and I think she’s cheating on me with an old boyfriend.”
“Uh-huh,” the salesman grimaced, “and just where do you see me fittin’ into this?”
“She’ll recognize my car, well, really, it’s her car, so she’ll definitely know it if she sees it. I hoped I might be able to rent a car from you for the day.”
“You’re right, son, that is a strange request. I’m not in the rental business, unfortunately, though, so I don’t see how I can help you out.”
“I’d only need it for a few hours,” Michael pressed, “and I don’t care which car it is, as long as it’s not a white Accord. I’ll take the worst car on the lot, the one you know for sure you’re not gonna sell today, and I’ll give you a hundred bucks for your troubles.”
The man looked them both over and met Michael’s eye contact. He slowly nodded his head. “Alright, I tell you what. I been divorced three times, never gonna get married again, and I only had one of them good-for-nothings cheat on me. So, I know how ya feel, son. How’d a Ford Ranger strike you boys?”
“That’d be great,” Michael replied and shook his hand to solidify the agreement, “can’t tell you how much this means to me!”
“Don’t thank me yet, this piece of shit’s held together with bailin’ wire and bubblegum! Got stuck with it on a trade-in and this damned little truck’s worse’n the clap! I just, cannot, get rid of it! Step on inside and let’s get somethin’ down on paper that won’t get neither of us in hot water later today, whaddayasay?”
Twenty minutes later, Michael and Z drove back toward The Blue Bonnet to commence their actual surveillance efforts.
THIRTY
Training Day 70, 1832 hours.
Rural Compound. Niobrara County, Wyoming.
As Michael piloted the aging white Accord down the compound’s rough, rutted driveway, he and Z both donned the high-visibility clothing they’d worn on their way into town earlier that day.
“Now we get to see how honest all these training exercises’ve been,” Z surmised as he adjusted the shoulders and collar of his orange Orioles shirt.
“Maybe,” Michael countered. “It’s possible we went through all this extra trouble for nothing, and he didn’t make us until we changed clothes and rented the pick-up.”
“Well, even if we lost fair-n-square, I’ll be pretty impressed with Double-Time. As arrogant as he is, I think, if he’d made us, he woulda made sure we knew about it.”
“Yeah, I can agree with that,” Michael replied as he pulled the sedan to a stop near the other training vehicles. All the other teams are already back. We’re the last out and last in today. Wonder if we’re the only winners? “Let’s go take our lumps.”
Z scoffed and smirked at the truth of Michael’s assessment. “One way or another, you can rest assured John’ll find a way. Can’t let us feel too successful, now.”
Michael collected his Mountainsmith bag and checked to ensure it still held his small monocular, Multi-Cam baseball hat, and black watch cap. If I had one of my cowboy hats and a button-down shirt, I could’ve put a more complete disguise package together.
Z led their way to the porch and into the main house, where they saw John and the rest of the trainees had gathered to finish the evening meal preparations.
“’Bout time,” John announced from his seat at the head of the large wood table. A yellow legal pad sat on the table in front of him, and Michael saw handwriting scrawled across the top page in black ink. “You two must love pushin’ deadlines. Supper’s just about ready. Grab a can of suds, pull up a seat, and console your sorrows, shitheads.”
“Sorrows,” Michael asked. “What happ
ened?”
“I’ll break the news to you after you’re settled, unless you got some need to take your fate standing.”
Z looked at Michael, saw his tacit agreement, and spoke for both of them. “I think we’d prefer to hear it now.”
“Alright, it’s your funeral.” John leaned back in his chair and almost looked disappointed in their outcome. “Your target called y’all boys in right about 8:45 this morning. Switching out the intel packets didn’t make up for bad tradecraft. You two shitheads got made almost twelve hours ago, but you wasn’t even sharp enough to realize it. Where you been, anyway? Decide to skip town and go find some happy ending massage parlor somewhere in the mean streets o’ Cheyenne? Maybe ya figured this line of work just isn’t for you, so you dropped some job applications at all the Stop-n-Robs and pizza joints ya drove past?”
“No, we were following our target around all day,” Michael explained. “Got all the requested info for the intel packet, and, I think, quite a bit more.” He set the intel packet on the table and slid it across the smooth surface to John.
“Bullshit,” their lead instructor protested. He leaned forward, roughly grabbed the manila envelope, and tore it open. “How’d y’all manage that, he made your car first thing in the morning?”
Michael shrugged. “I dunno, John, I guess that’s a good question for him.”
“Doesn’t matter, anyhow, he called you two in twelve hours ago.” He skimmed through the intel packet pages, and his expression darkened further.
“What did he call in,” Z hesitantly asked.
“Got it right here,” John pulled the yellow legal pad closer and pointed to a line of handwritten text that Michael saw started with 0845. “White accord, driver, long yellow jacket, male passenger orange shirt. It’s right there, just like you’re wearing now.” He pointed to them and their clothing before carelessly dropping the intel packet on the table.
Michael looked at Z, who nodded and quietly took a deep breath. Let’s step off into this and see if we ruin our pants from the top or the bottom. “Well, that’s just it, John,” Michael cautiously explained, “we ditched these clothes before we got to town and didn’t put ‘em back on until we started back down the driveway. We wore totally different clothes in town, so, there’s no way our target saw us in these shirts.” Michael pulled the front of his yellow shirt up a bit to reveal his tan shirt beneath. Z did the same and showed his light gray graphic tee.
