Bitter Tide

by Jack Hardin

She easily recognized one as her boss—TEAM 99’s director. Mortimer was a wide, pear-shaped man who, in spite of the extra weight, had a distinguished appearance: strong cheekbones, well-placed nose, and low eyebrows that were set over piercing eyes. The other man she knew by reputation only, having never met him in person. He was Scott Reardon and served in a leading role at the Directorate of Mission Services for the Defense Intelligence Agency, a position that had him coordinating the dissemination of counterintelligence to the DIA in particular and to the Department of Defense in general.

  Both men acknowledged Ellie with a nod as they passed. No words were exchanged.

  It wasn’t the first time Ellie had seen a high ranking member of the government walk these halls. As it was, the compound was located at the north end of an airplane hangar at the U.S. Army Garrison at Benelux, just five minutes from NATO headquarters in Brussels. On top of that, TEAM 99 was engaged in the most clandestine of operations sanctioned by the U.S. government, and it wasn’t a strange event to see the men making decisions come to speak with the team’s director in person.

  Ellie walked into her economically decorated room and shut the door behind her. A small desk was on the wall opposite her bed. She pulled the chair out, sat down, and fired up her personal laptop. For the thousandth time her eyes went to the picture pinned to the wall: her father, Major, and her younger sister Katie huddled together down at The Salty Mangrove, holding half-empty glasses, the three of them making goofy faces. Katie had sent Ellie the picture earlier in the year. Ellie’s family didn’t know where she was stationed, but they had an address at Langley where they could send things to her. From there, the mail would be forwarded to her here at the compound.

  She missed them all. Deeply. One day, she knew, she would leave all this and go home and be with her loved ones. But that day wasn’t now. And it wouldn’t be tomorrow either. For the foreseeable future she was doing exactly what she had been made to do. Not only was she exceptional at it, she loved it as well. There were missions, of course, that were more challenging than others. And they didn’t always go as planned. Sometimes the wrong people were caught in the crossfire or the bad guys got away. It was rare, but it did happen. Even the members of such an elite group as TEAM 99 were human. Sometimes you did everything right—trained, planned, strategized, researched—and the dice just didn’t fall in your favor.

  Her laptop chimed, and she navigated through her browser to her Gmail account. She had a new email from Major. They wrote to each other at least once a week, sometimes more, never less. She heard from her father and sister as much too. Katie had recently broken the news that she was pregnant. The baby’s father, it seemed, had no interest in hanging around. It wasn’t ideal, but that baby would have everything it needed in its grandfather and Major, the two best men on Earth in Ellie’s opinion. Ellie was going to be an aunt, and she smiled every time she thought of it.

  She read Major’s email, clicked reply, and started typing.

  Mortimer walked into his office and shut the door behind Scott Reardon. The two men had cordially shaken hands on the helipad three minutes prior but as yet had not spoken. Neither man had a reputation for initiating or enduring small talk. They had each gotten to where they were, respectively, because of their repudiation of trivialities and formalities. Both were company men and, as such, were swift to get down to business. Mortimer walked behind his desk and sat down. He extended a hand toward a chair. “Have a seat.”

  Reardon did not have a seat. Instead, he walked to the expansive window behind Mortimer and looked out, his hands clasped lazily behind his back. He was of average height, his brown hair peppered with gray. He looked down on a double barbed wire fence that formed the perimeter of the Army garrison and then beyond, where a forest filled with elms and English oaks grew tall.

  Mortimer waited for him to speak. Reardon’s visit to the compound was unusual; unexpected, although not completely out of the ordinary. The men represented the interests of two different agencies: Reardon, the DIA, which was the principal source of foreign intelligence for combat related missions; Mortimer, the CIA, which, historically, had been focused on providing intelligence to the President and his Cabinet. In the upper echelons of the agencies, such lines became fuzzy, if non-existent. The two men’s paths did cross from time to time, as intelligence exchanged hands, when personnel or information needed to be shared across agency lines. There were very few within the CIA who even knew of TEAM 99’s existence. Reardon was one of the even fewer outside of the Agency who was privy to that knowledge.

  Reardon unclasped his hands and casually slipped a large photo from his suit jacket. He turned it upwards and laid it on the desk, pointed to one of the three people in the picture. “That’s you, isn’t it?” was all he said.

  Mortimer was now fifty-nine years old, and during his distinguished intelligence career he’d held positions at the Pentagon, the NSA, and, for the last twelve years, the CIA, opting four years ago to head up TEAM 99 over an appointment as the Deputy Director of the National Clandestine Service. Ever a pragmatist, less a politician, he ended up choosing the former on the principle that he would be more effective in the field. Now, the color crawling up his neck and reaching for his hairline matched the red in Reardon’s tie. “Where did you get this?” Mortimer growled, not taking his eyes off the image.

  “I’m not sure that matters.” Reardon, now that he had Mortimer’s attention, walked around to the front of the desk. He sat down in one of the two armchairs. He crossed a leg over the other. He folded his hands and rested them on a knee. “The way I see it is that you don’t have many options. There are a couple more of those too. Different dates, in case you’re wondering.”

  Mortimer didn’t glare at him, although he wanted to. His expression was flat, unreadable. Unfortunately, in this circumstance it didn’t matter. He knew it didn’t matter. He was now in the inescapable net of the most politically ruthless American he had ever met. “So what do you want?”

  It was the question Reardon had come all this way to hear. His expression, too, was flat and hard eyed, but inside he held a slight smile. “I have a proposition for you.”

  Mortimer stood. It was his turn to look out the window. His throat felt constricted. He wiggled a couple of meaty fingers behind the knot in his tie and pulled out on the collar. There was no sense in getting emotional about the photos. What was done was done. He couldn’t go back and change it. And Reardon, in cases like this, was not to be bargained with. If Mortimer knew anything about the man, he knew that much.

  He turned back around, his face set hard, his eminent career—his life—now in the hands of one who was surely more viper than human. “Let’s hear it.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Ellie rapped her knuckles against the cabin door and immediately heard a shuffle from inside. “Ronnie, it’s Ellie.” Silence, and then the door cracked open, and all she could see was an eyeball set against the darkness of the interior. “See? Just me,” she said.

  “You’re alone?”

  “I am. Your mother wanted to come out, but she just had her foot surgery and can’t drive right now. That, and she’s planning for the mango festival. It’s her busiest time of the year, you know.”

  The door swung open. “Come on.” She went in, and Ronnie took a lingering and nervous gaze outside before stepping back in and quickly shutting the door behind him.

  The only light was a gas-burning lamp set on the small table in what could be deemed the kitchen area. “You need more light in here, Ronnie. You’re going to go crazy without it. At least keep the door open.”

  “I’m fine,” he shot back. “I’m not keeping that door open. Not taking any chances if Oswald figures out where I am. He looked at Ellie’s empty hands. “I thought you were bringing me some stuff.”

  “I did. The bags are in the car. I can bring them in if you decide to stay.”

  “I told you when you were here the other day that I’m not leaving. Oswald don’t know about
the place.”

  Ellie pulled the only card she had. The only one she needed. “You know, Ronnie, you say that, but wasn’t Dawson going to meet you here?”

  “Yeah. That’s what I said. What’s it matter?”

  “Well, if I go along with your suspicion that Dawson got nabbed by this Eli Oswald, then isn’t there a chance that your buddy might talk, might give you up?”

  A connection registered behind Ronnie eyes. His shoulders visibly straightened. “Ah, hell. I hadn’t thought of that.” He rubbed the back of his neck and started pacing.

  “You’ve been here nearly a week now, so maybe Dawson hasn’t talked...yet.”

  Ronnie groaned.

  “Look. Come on back. It’s probably not best that you stay with your mother if they really are looking for you. You know The Salty Mangrove, don’t you?”

  “Sure. Who doesn’t?”

  “My uncle is the owner. I had a talk with him about your situation, and he’s agreed to let you stay at his place.”

  “Your uncle is Warren Hall? The Warren Hall?”

  “Yes.”

  His mouth unhinged, and he stared at Ellie like he now considered her to be from royal descent. “I can stay at his place? Really?”

  “He’s a good man and doesn’t have anyone living with him. He’s happy to help you lay low until all this blows over.”

  “But what if Oswald finds out? Does your uncle have a house alarm?”

  His naiveté forced Ellie to contain a laugh. From all that Ronnie had said about Eli Oswald, it didn’t appear that he might be the kind of person who would allow a standard residential security system to stop him. “He won’t find out, Ronnie. The only people who will know are myself, your mother, and my uncle.”

  “You swear?”

  “Yes. I swear.”

  He chewed on his bottom lip, thinking. “All right. Fine,” he conceded.

  Ellie motioned to the couch. “Have a seat, Ronnie. Just for a second.”

  “Um, okay.” He went over to the couch and sat into it. Ellie took a chair next to him. “So here’s the deal. I need to tell you something before we leave. Something you should know before you agree to come back with me.”

  “Okay…”

  “Let me say first that your mother trusts me. So let’s get that out there.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “I’m getting there. But I want you to know that I’m here because, more than anything, I want to help as a friend. With that said,” she paused and watched his expression, “you need to know that I’m a contracted investigator for the Drug Enforcement Agency.”

  Ronnie bolted from the couch like the cushion had just morphed into a red hot eye of an electric stovetop. “What? You’re with the DEA?” He let out a string of curses. When he turned back around he wore a menacing glare. “You said I could trust you!”

  “Ronnie. Calm down. I’m not here because I’m DEA. It just so happens that I work for them. But I wanted you to know before we got a week or two down the road and you found out from someone else.”

  “But I didn’t do anything.”

  She extended a reassuring hand. “I know that. But in the interest of full disclosure you needed to be aware. If your old group of friends are in fact still moving drugs, then I’ll need to notify my office of that. As long as everything you’ve told me is the truth, then you have nothing to worry about.”

  It took five more minutes for Ellie to calm Ronnie down, another five to get him to gather up what little he had and get into her truck. They put the little cabin behind them and bumped along the sandy road for a half mile before turning right and heading in the direction that would lead them to Route 27 two miles ahead. In the distance Ellie saw the bright glare of the sun winking off what she assumed to be a windshield. Soon the vehicle was near enough for her to see that it was a car. An orange car. Ronnie, who had been squinting down the road, suddenly tensed. “Is that a Mustang? Can you tell?”

  “It looks like one from here. Why?”

  “Curtis has a supercharged orange Mustang.” Ronnie’s breathing quickened, and his voice went shrill. “Oh man. Oh man, they found me. They found─”

  “Ronnie!” Ellie’s quick, harsh tone shut him down. “Relax, okay? It’s all right. My truck sits a lot higher than the car. Just duck down by the floorboards. They’ll think I’m alone. Now hurry before they get close enough to see your silhouette.”

  He nodded frantically. “Yeah. Okay.” He unbuckled and slinked down and tucked his head below the seat.

  “What does Curtis look like?” she asked.

  “Uhh...creepy. Got his brow pierced and a few gold teeth. Got one of those expressions that makes you think he’s in deep with the devil. Which he is,” he added, laying emphasis on each of the last three words.

  The Mustang continued its approach, and Ellie slowed and moved as close to the edge as she could. The road was narrow, fringed on either side by forestry and shrubs. Her windows were rolled down, as were the ones in the Mustang. She locked eyes with the driver and gave him a short but polite nod as they slowly passed each other. He had bleach-blonde hair, a stud piercing his left eyebrow, and a couple gold teeth glimmering behind a curled lip. He wore a gray wife-beater, and a tattoo swept down his neck. With her truck riding as high as it was, the passenger was out of view. He smiled at her—more like a menace—and Ellie brought the Silverado back to the middle of the road.

  “Was it him?” Ronnie asked.

  “Yes.”

  Another groan. “Oh, Jesus on a donkey. They found me. Dawson, he...he must’ve talked. That must mean they have him.”

  Ellie kept her eyes latched on the rearview to see what direction they would turn when they arrived at the end of the road. Ronnie stayed down near the floor but lifted his head. “Where’d they turn?”

  She waited. “Left. They turned left. They’re gone. You can get up now.”

  When Ronnie returned to his seat, his hands were trembling. He didn’t seem to care that she noticed. “The only place down on the left is my cabin.”

  “I know. But you’re not there, okay? Relax. I’ll get you back safely, and they won’t find out we’ve got you at my uncle’s. Just be glad I didn’t show up a half hour after I did.”

  Then Ronnie said, in a moment of hopeful, if not naive, optimism, “Maybe they won’t know I was there, and it will be a dead end for them.”

  “The lamp will be warm. It doesn’t matter. Buckle up.”

  “What did they do to him to make him give me up?” he asked himself out loud.

  Ellie turned off the dirt road and drove south on US Route 27. Saint James City was nearly two hours away.

  Chapter Twelve

  If you asked the locals where you could get the best cup of coffee around, they’d hit you with The Perfect Cup, nine times out of ten. The nine would, of course, be right, and the one could be properly accused of possessing taste buds that had never quite fully matured. Ellie sat at a corner table in the small, cozy restaurant and took down her last spoonful of seafood chowder before nudging the bowl to the other side of the table. She stood up and went to the self service bar at the back wall to refill her coffee. Selecting the blonde roast, she added cream and went back to her table. The empty chowder bowl was gone. She looked at the time on her phone. She had arrived here a half hour early for her meeting with Mark and Garrett. The three of them had a meeting at the office set for earlier this morning, but Garrett ended up having to push it back a few hours and offered to come closer to Ellie.

  She picked up the copy of the Pine Island Eagle she had brought in with her. The cover featured stories on hurricane preparedness, some road construction in Bokeelia, and a lead article remembering the life of Jim Dodgers, a long time resident who had fought with the 23rd Infantry/Americal Division in Vietnam and had been deeply involved with Post 136 of the American Legion. Jim had a fondness for the water, and on several occasions Ellie had chatted with him down at the marina. Jim had been one of t
hose rare people who, after spending only a few minutes with you, had you walking away believing that he really did like you, whoever you were. And of course, he did. Jim could make you feel like a million bucks because he thought you really were a million bucks; he just didn’t discriminate. Ellie remembered him telling her once that love is what made the world a better place. Not a hippie kind of love, but true affection that was grounded in a belief that sometimes all a person needed was for someone else to believe in them. Men like Jim Dodgers weren’t replaceable. They could only be missed.

  Ellie opened the paper. Page two featured a full list of vendors for Mango Mania and a map of where each one would be positioned at the south end of the island. The adjacent page was dedicated entirely to Jean Oglesby and her art. A captioned picture of her smiling next to a bright painting of Jimmy Buffett acknowledged Jean as the queen of exhibitionist art in these local waters. Ellie had set the painting she had purchased for Major in her guest bedroom closet. Citrus was a good dog, but he was still a dog, and the last thing she needed was to come home one day and see bits of canvas hanging from his lips. Katie and Chloe would be back next week, and they all planned on having a small family party for Major soon after their arrival. Ellie was happy to say that the painting was from all three of them.

  An older couple stood up from their table and waved a thank you toward the counter as they walked out of the restaurant. They spoke to each other too loudly, their hearing in dire need of assistance, and were commenting to each other how much they loved this ‘cute little town’ and that, of course, Ruth, we can come back next year, and yes, Harold, I have my purse, and do you want to try and get in a final view of the sunset on the pier tonight before we head on back to Amherst in the morning? Ellie watched them fondly as their clamorous voices waned into the parking area. Maybe one day she would have someone like that to grow old with. She had to agree with them. Matlacha was indeed a ‘cute little town,’ a serenely colorful coastal village that served as a perennial gateway into Pine Island.