THE ORCAS ISLAND JOB:

A CASE LEE NOVEL

Book 6

 

 

By Vince Milam

 

Published internationally by Vince Milam Books

 

© 2020 Vince Milam Books

 

Terms and Conditions: The purchaser of this book is subject to the condition that he/she shall in no way resell it, nor any part of it, nor make copies of it to distribute freely.

All Persons Fictitious Disclaimer: This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.

 

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Other books by Vince Milam:

The Suriname Job: A Case Lee Novel Book 1

The New Guinea Job: A Case Lee Novel Book 2

The Caribbean Job: A Case Lee Novel Book 3

The Amazon Job: A Case Lee Novel Book 4

The Hawaii Job: A Case Lee Novel Book 5

 

Acknowledgments:

 

Editor—David Antrobus at BeWriteThere -   bewritethere.com

Cover Design by Rick Holland at Vision Press – myvisionpress.com.

 

As always, Vicki for her love and patience. And Mimi, Linda, and Bob for their unceasing support and encouragement.

Chapter 1

 

It started with a call from the world’s top spook. It ended with murky answers and ugly questions and a wavering belief I’d done the right thing.

“Mr. Lee. Let’s discuss further details.”

Marilyn Townsend, the CIA’s director of clandestine operations. We shared a long and rocky relationship. Our last communication entailed her refusal to help me and my ex-Delta teammates with a long-odds mission. A mission that ended when she blew my butt off a Sudan mountaintop with a drone-delivered Hellfire missile. So yeah, a rocky relationship.

“I had an inkling it was you, Director.”

I did. My usual client—a low-profile Geneva, Switzerland, outfit called Global Resolutions—had offered me another contract. An open-ended contract without particulars other than “Further details to follow.” A first, and language lit like neon. It had set off mild alarms. Spookville alarms.

 “Are you willing to meet?” she asked.

A solid question and the make-or-break offer. She wouldn’t discuss particulars on the phone, even though we both used secure 256-bit encryption. It was face-to-face with Marilyn Townsend. Understandable, but an ass pain.

“Let me mull it over first.”

She wouldn’t buy it. I would appreciate the opportunity to weigh the pros and cons regarding this gig now that the broader context was established. The Company—the CIA—had contracted me through Global Resolutions as a layer of separation. No fingerprints, no dirty hands. Fair enough, but Townsend’s call as confirmation that the Company desired contracting me opened the floodgates of questions and concerns for Case Lee Inc.

“Perform any requisite mulling during the flight. Where do I send the plane?”

The director’s finger snap grated; my hackles rose. I’d dealt with her my-way-or-the-highway attitude through the years and you’d think, by now, I’d be inured to it. I wasn’t. On the flip side, I needed a gig. The coffers were low having been near-drained during the Sudan engagement. While I’d committed to more discernment with Global Resolutions contracts after the last job, hard cash dangled. I could always refuse the job after meeting Townsend.

“Jacksonville, Florida,” I said. “Tomorrow.”

A fish swirled nearby. I conversed with Townsend from the throne, a glass of Grey Goose vodka in hand. The throne—a well-used recliner patched with duct tape on the Ace of Spade’s forward deck. The Ace. My old wooden cruiser, diesel-driven, that plied the Intracoastal Canal from Virginia to Florida. I’d fled south, avoided winter, and was anchored up a small slough near Amelia Island. An egret eyeballed me from the water’s edge. Spanish moss hung from overhead oak limbs, moving with the breeze. A fine and pleasant evening in the middle of nowhere. But opportunity knocked and beggars/choosers and Jacksonville was the closest airport that could handle a Company jet.

“Fine,” she said. “I shall assume you still refuse to meet at Langley.”

“Correct.”

There would be no Daniel into the lion’s den performance from yours truly. The few times we’d met since she’d been elevated to her current position within the Company had been set in public places. I preferred the outdoors, although she balked at those locales unless the weather was warm.

“A nearby restaurant, then. I shall text you the jet’s arrival time. Do not be late, Mr. Lee.”

“One last thing, Director. Well, two things. First, this isn’t a done deal. I maintain the right of refusal.”

“Understood.”

“Second, I assume a Jacksonville return flight—whether I take the job or not—is part of this package.”

Silence. Townsend bristled easily with mere mortal concerns.

“Do not be late tomorrow,” she said and hung up.

Was it weird having the world’s top spook make an out-of-the-blue call to a chewed-up ex-Delta operator? Not really. We went way back. During Delta Force days our tight team of five operators worked often with the CIA. Four of us still lived. The Company would craft an overall mission, we’d coordinate a defined approach with them, and execute. The hammer for their pointed-out nail. Marilyn Townsend, then a field officer, was often the Company’s lead for our small group’s endeavors. She was damn good. While us operators retired and moved on, she climbed Company ranks. Director of clandestine operations wasn’t a political appointment. Few—very few—knew her identity. It was better for everyone involved if she remained among the deep shadows.

Retirement from active duty had severed my relationship with Townsend. Delta was a young man’s endeavor. We, my teammates and I, had left that chronological category.

I’d settled down in Savannah, fell in mad love, married. Rae Ellen Bonham—about the finest woman who’d ever walked this good earth. A Memphis girl, a University of Tennessee grad. She’d worked at a Savannah design company when I’d met her. The connection had been instant. I worked a steady job and blended into the community hand-in-hand with Rae. Life was fine and good as Delta days faded, a closed and locked-away chapter.

Until Rae was murdered. I hadn’t taken the rumors, the underground whispers, with adequate seriousness. With adequate precautions. Word had it we carried a bounty on our heads. The five members within our Delta team. A million bucks each. Could have been a Yemeni sheik, a Somali warlord, Malaccan pirate, Taliban mullah—all possibilities.

My fault, my failure, entered my life with an internal scream and a seared scar. A bounty hunter had arrived in Savannah seeking me. He killed Rae inside our little suburban bungalow and waited for my return. I snapped his neck, but he’d shattered my life. I moved Mom and CC, my mentally challenged younger sister, to Charleston. Mom took back her maiden name as an added protective layer. I purchased the Ace of Spades and wandered the Intracoastal Canal—the Ditch as locals called it—and entered the shadow world of high-risk contract gigs. Dusted off the Delta skill sets. Investigated revolutions, conspiracies, and general mayhem around the world. It paid well, with Mom and CC receiving the lion’s share of the money. And it afforded me the opportunity to slip away, fade into a hidden world where spooks, mercenaries, and killers held court.

Years passed, the pain bundled into a tight mental closet. Regular Mom and CC visits helped. A lot. As did visits with my ex-Delta blood brothers. Marcus Johnson, former team lead. A rare black rancher within Montana’s big lonely. Solid, astute, no-nonsense. A father figure for my teammates. There was Juan Antonio Diego Hernandez, aka Catch, who lived with a fine woman named Willa amid Portland, Oregon’s drizzle. And Bo Dickerson, cosmic cowboy and metaphysical philosopher and best friend, ensconced in Albuquerque, New Mexico, with an FBI agent girlfriend. Only Bo would end up in that situation.

My rough-and-tumble contracts reintroduced me to Company assets, Company players. Seldom for my benefit. During the New Guinea and the Caribbean jobs, the Company—under Marilyn Townsend’s direction—had played me like a freakin’ Stradivarius.

My latest Sudan adventure with Marcus, Catch, and Bo had contained several seminal moments. One was eliminating our bounty’s source. A great, great thing. The other—the Hellfire missile delivered by the Company—that had either saved our hides or tried to kill us. Take your pick. I’d never know.

But I wasn’t without my own assets, beginning with experience. I understood how the Company, and spookville as a whole, worked. Townsend contracting me through my regular Swiss client pointed toward one direction. A domestic issue. They wouldn’t contract me for an overseas venture. They had a large spook stable for those efforts. This smelled like domestic concerns. The CIA wasn’t allowed, by law, to work US turf. Nope, that fell on others—FBI, Homeland Security, and a mishmash of more government acronyms than you could shake a stick at. So something was cooking inside the US intelligence world that bothered the Company. Something they would investigate without sharing with their alleged domestic partners. An act driven by paranoia, no doubt. But paranoia was the Company’s stock-in-trade. It was weird and strange, sure, but shadowland reveled in weird and strange. I never dove into the whole mess even when actively engaged. I’d adopted, by way of a Bo revelation, to be in it but not of it. Sound advice.

Another asset was Jules. Jules of the Clubhouse. A provisioner, for a price, of clandestine information. Unique and insightful and with her own personal web of informants, ne’er-do-wells, and leverageable secrets. I considered her an old and reliable friend. Sometimes. But the Clubhouse focused on global movement, global undercurrents. A domestic case wasn’t Jules’s typical bailiwick. But she never ceased to amaze, so an ace in the hole, for sure.

Then there was Jessica Rossi. Jess. An ex-cop private investigator from Charlotte, North Carolina. We had an on-again off-again personal relationship. It didn’t help that I cruised the Ditch and visited her irregularly in Charlotte. So far, I’d made the efforts traveling in her direction. She’d proven less than enthusiastic about joining me on the Ace for a short cruise. Something about the vessel’s shower facilities involving a bucket. At least that was the surface reason. My relationship radar picked up other signals, sea clutter, which lacked definitive translations for a Jess Rossi read. But I tried. And to her credit, so did she.

Jess was sharp as hell, and an excellent investigator. I wasn’t too shabby either, although we worked different realms. Her focus remained divorces, missing persons, unsolved murders, inter-family issues. I’d attempted a move toward her career direction, having ceded that flying bullets and stone-cold hitters and rubbing shoulders with spies wasn’t a long-term game plan.

If Marilyn Townsend’s contract pointed toward domestic activities, I could recruit Jess’s help. Cut her in on the contract’s payment. And, just maybe, move our relationship forward.

Dusk, and activity among the aquatic dwellers and insect life, picked up steam. I slipped downstairs for another Grey Goose as the Ace shifted under my weight. Back on deck, I stood under a million emerging stars and extended a big “Thank you” overhead. Mom and CC were healthy and happy. Bo, Catch, and Marcus were doing well. I had an opportunity to work a paying gig with Jess—a first, and a potential open door for solidifying our relationship.

I’d worked through major life potholes and traumas and crises. And carried more than a few physical scars, eliciting even more creaks and unsolicited groans each morning. But a helluva lot of folks had it a helluva lot worse than me. Life was good, and I was thankful. As for tomorrow—I’d don personal waders and ease into spookville’s swamps.

Chapter 2

 

“I’d like the bottle opened at the table, please.”

Townsend and I locked eyes before she shook her head, delivered a small snort, and asked for the New Zealand white wine, unopened. The small Merrifield, Virginia, seafood restaurant was crowded, due in part to the tables surrounding our isolated corner spot being occupied with Company security personnel, each armed with small tucked-away submachine guns.

“Would you prefer we eat from the same plates, Mr. Lee?”

“That would be good.”

A wry half-smile and another headshake returned. Her appearance had changed little since our last sit-down. Short gray hair, hooded eyes, long dress, and matching jacket. Her cane—a life accoutrement since she took a field-operations bullet years ago—rested against the table. I’d arrived wearing slacks and a blazer. It afforded me the opportunity to carry my .40 Glock inside a legitimate holster instead of its usual placement in the waistband of my jeans. And afforded an opportunity for the usual BS with her security detail. They despised my refusals regarding unarmed sit-downs with the director. Townsend, years earlier, had laid down the law about my exception to their concrete rules. I had a pass, which didn’t temper one little bit their overt displeasure.

When I’d entered the restaurant they’d stood, en masse, and eyeballed my approach. Their routine hid Townsend from my view.

“Just so we’re clear,” one said with their typical display of badassery, “if we see either of your hands slide below the table, we’re taking you down.”

“Just so we’re clear, scooter, there aren’t enough of you to make that happen.”

The usual staredown commenced, followed by the black-suited seas parting. Townsend gestured toward the chair opposite her at the small table. I sat.

“How have you been, Mr. Lee?”

“Fine as can be. And you?”

“Time is my greatest enemy these days.”

No mentioning the Sudan event a few months earlier. An event that had damn near killed me and my blood brothers. Water under the spookville bridge, I supposed. Since she had become the world’s top spy, our rare interactions fed my heavy skepticism toward the Company. How it framed her outlook toward me would remain unknown. But she’d asked for me, offered a contract through my Swiss client. So an element of trust existed, at least on her side of the ledger.

Her reference to time’s passage as the enemy highlighted life’s strange paths. She and I and my Delta Force team had shared tents and hovels and abandoned buildings around the world. Colombia, Angola, Yemen, Afghanistan, Indonesia. And plenty more. I was “Lee” during those days. She was “Townsend.” When the rare field downtime arose and a cold beer or three were consumed, we became “Marilyn” and “Case.” Days long past. Now we communicated as “Mr. Lee” and “Director.” Such formalities did little to whitewash the past field-ops realities but did establish a current situational baseline. She was the planet’s most powerful clandestine player. I was a contractor.

“Do you enjoy oysters?” she asked as the waiter uncorked the wine bottle.

“I do.”

“And fish?”

“That would be fine.”

She ordered two-dozen oysters—on one platter—and a whole roasted sea bass, also on one plate. Acknowledging my same-plate preference went without further comment. Although unsaid, she got it. I wouldn’t eat or drink anything that had the remotest opportunity for Company-applied drugs. I had no desire to wake up curled on concrete in a Langley basement with her security detail as my keeper.

“We shall start with the basics,” she said after a sip of wine.

“Okay.”

“You are to communicate with me alone. Period.”

“Cart before the horse. What’s the mission?”

“The immediate mission is your full understanding that you will communicate solely with me. I will provide an encryption key for written reports. Voice communication will be kept at a minimum.”

I slid my wineglass away, stood, and plucked an unused one from an adjoining table filled with her protection detail. You never knew what had been smeared around the rejected glass’s rim. She observed the routine without comment.

“Roger on the communications,” I said. The wine was cold and crisp. She waited. “If I take the job. A big if, at this point.”

“Outside the unknowns,” she said, “what are your concerns?”

“Working with the Company. Working in the clandestine realm. I’ve made a concerted effort to walk away from those contracts. You know me about as well as anyone. Square peg, round hole.”

“Which is why you fit the bill so well for this contract. No one will mistake you for an inside player.”

A security detail individual stood, phone in hand, and approached. He informed Townsend she’d received a call from a “particular individual.” Townsend took the call and spoke with low tones and brief declarative statements. No names, and high odds unrelated to our current conversation. Another day at the office as the top spook handled immediate business.

I now leaned toward gumshoe gigs and avoided engagements with an espionage flavor. It was a combination of personal preference, shadow-games weariness, and fatigue at shifting into their mindset. A mindset of indirect innuendos and the constant pursuit of leverage points. I sought straightforward contracts now. Good guys, bad guys, with few shades of gray.

The oysters arrived while I waited. The Company officer who’d delivered the phone stood over us and waited as well. He pulled the tough guy routine as we locked eyes, exploiting his stand-versus-sit position. I lowered my right hand toward my lap, under the table, and smiled. He pretended to scratch his nose with his middle finger, shooting me the bird. Childish stuff, sure, but I wouldn’t yield an inch in the intimidation game. Townsend wrapped up the call, returned the phone, and continued our conversation.

“Eat, Mr. Lee.”

She plucked a raw oyster with her small fork, dunked it in sauce, and enjoyed. I joined her.

“So, given your engagement reticence with the clandestine world, why did you agree to meet with me to discuss this contract?” she asked.

“Because it’s you.”

Her fork halted movement, suspended over another oyster. The look we shared covered years passed, gritty remote spots around the world, and more than our fair share of bullets and blood and death. She returned a small, sincere nod as acknowledgement. My statement covered fifty percent of my personal reasoning. I failed to toss on the table my immediate need to restock the money larder. She wiped her mouth and took another sip of wine.

“And yet you exhibit precautions best defined as paranoid as we break bread,” she said with a half-smile, waving a fork over the shared oyster platter and shooting a quick jab toward my replaced wineglass.

“I gotta stay real, Director. I’m sitting with you, here and now, surrounded with armed spooks shooting Rasputin-like glares my way. I’d say it pulls things from the paranoid and smack-dab into the real.”

She chuckled—a rare and appreciated human display from her.

“The contract calls for a thorough investigation of an individual. He resides in Seattle.”

She maintained a contract focus with no conversational “I’d like…” or “The Company would appreciate…” This was a contract through my Swiss client. A degree of separation.

“Okay.”

“He is a US citizen.”

There it was. Townsend didn’t trust domestic law enforcement regarding this cat’s activities. Which opened the door for a helluva lot of possibilities. Federal law prohibits the CIA from collecting information on US citizens or US corporations. The CIA collects intelligence information only on foreign countries and their citizens. Some might accompany this standard definition with skeptical eye rolls. Me included.

Townsend was back-dooring her operational parameters. With yours truly as the mechanism. Thin ice and way, way under the radar. My Swiss contractual client provided Townsend with plausible deniability. And provided me with a buffer. She wasn’t spying on an American citizen. I was. As a contractor working for the Swiss.

“US citizen. Understood,” I said. An eye lock and short pause spoke volumes.

“Foreign entanglement with this individual is suspected,” she said.

A statement made to buttress her contractual request. A rationale, perhaps, more for her than me.

“The contract calls for the creation of an extensive dossier regarding this individual,” she continued. “Family, friends, contacts, activities. Is that clear?”

“Okay.”

“What must also be made clear are the contract’s unwritten expectations.”

“Such as?”

“Specifically, it is expected you will rein in your personal proclivities.”

The sea bass arrived. We remained silent while the waiter cleared dishes. He offered to serve. I declined and asked him to remove the individual plates. I scooted the platter between us as an indicator of our communal eating arrangement while Townsend poured us both more wine.

“Personal proclivities?” I asked. The fish was excellent.

“The Case Lee wake of destruction syndrome, for one. As an adjunct to such proclivities, should you encounter situations fraught with danger, with extreme violence, you will walk away. No exceptions.”

“Given all my personal failings, it raises the question, Why me?”

She wiped her mouth and lifted her wineglass.

“Trust, Mr. Lee. Trust.”

Made sense. She didn’t trust federal authorities with this investigation. She didn’t trust her fellow national security resources. So she’d turned to someone she did trust. In her weird world it made sense, even though her chosen contractor didn’t trust her or the Company enough to eat a fine meal without overt precautions. Welcome to the world of deep espionage.

“I’m pricey.”

“I believe the contract offer you received stipulated a high reimbursement rate for your time, efforts, and expenses.”

“Could take weeks.”

“It this contract requires a month or two for fulfillment, there will be no argument over the invoice.”

I leaned toward a commitment. But a full disclosure element remained. Disclosure fraught with deal-killer possibilities.

“There are resources I use on my contracts. Helpful resources.”

She knew about the Clubhouse, no doubt, and Jules was acutely aware of her. Hell, the CIA remained a Clubhouse client. And the Clubhouse was my next stop if the contract was accepted.

“Keep those at a minimum.”

Yeah, she knew. And understood Jules had informational access others, including her, didn’t. Townsend continued picking at both the fish and the contract.

“Understand this, Mr. Lee. The wider your net, the higher the likelihood you endanger yourself. You are to keep this mission tight. Restrained.”

“What exactly are you looking for with this individual?”

She wiped her mouth, and poured the remaining wine into my glass.

“That is not your contractual concern.”

“It’s damn sure my concern if this involves a high pucker factor. I’m just asking for a little heads-up.”

“Create a detailed dossier,” she said, her stare unblinking. “Walk away from violent engagement. Communicate with me and me alone. That, in a nutshell, is the offered contract.”

Seconds ticked past as we locked eyes. Normal lives continued around us—people chatted, laughed, enjoyed their meal. The surrounding enclave of black suits remained silent. She wouldn’t reveal more, other than this dude’s name. And then only after I’d accepted the gig. A gig that constituted a large chunk of change in anyone’s book. Or bank account.

“Alright, Director. I’ll accept the contract.”

She fished within a jacket pocket and produced a business card. As she slid it across the short tabletop distance between us, her fingers remained pressed against it.

“Deliver a thorough dossier. The encryption code for communiqués is handwritten on this card. And stay away from trouble. Any questions?”

“Nope.”

“This is not West Africa or the Straits of Malacca or the mountains of Colombia. This is domestic territory. Seattle, Washington, to be specific. Remember that.”

I didn’t bother responding—no point—and waited for her fingers to lift from the small card. She removed her hand and leaned back. I plucked it up and memorized the information. We both knew I wouldn’t leave with physical data, even a business card.

Devon Chapman. Senior Analyst. ODNI.

The ODNI—Office of the Director of National Intelligence. Great. Just freakin’ great.

Chapter 3

 

She placed the sawed-off double barrel shotgun back onto the desktop, lifted her chin, and blew cigar smoke toward the ceiling. Her fingertips glistened with sealant—a long-standing paranoid habit preventing the spread of fingerprints. Her one good eye remained focused on me, eaglelike.

“My, my,” Jules said.

“Yeah. My, my.”

I slid into an uncomfortable wooden chair across from her desk.

“It lifts this wretched creature’s spirits knowing you have attained the dream of working in an espionage-free zone.”

Jules cackled, shook her head, and adjusted the still-black eyepatch. The patch’s color would change on occasion—her rare hat tip toward anything that might resemble fashion, although she had, once, added white hair color to the tips of her short DIY haircut. The effect had been disturbing.

“Funny.”

“It is, dear boy. What a world we live in.”

Fair enough. I’d bemoaned espionage affiliations on enough jobs to fill a gunnysack. Yet here I was, full tilt boogie under contract with the world’s head spook.

“At least I know what I’m getting into.”

“Do you?”

I’d sent Jules of the Clubhouse a deep web message, encrypted, after meeting Townsend.

Devon Chapman. ODNI. AM meeting?

Her response was returned as I slipped into sleep at the shabby Chesapeake cash-only motel room. Shabby also meant obscure, and from this point forward it was low profile, baby.

10

A typical Clubhouse response. I never could figure when Jules slept. I didn’t know where she lived or a single item related to her personal life. Other than she owned the small building in a run-down section of Chesapeake. The Clubhouse was upstairs. A Filipino dry cleaner occupied the ground level. The Filipino family received their space rent-free. Besides collecting cell phones and weaponry from Clubhouse clientele prior to them ascending rickety stairs, they would perform cleanup duties for Jules if she used the shotgun. I knew for a fact it had happened on more than one occasion.

I’d stayed up late and searched the internet, reading, studying org charts. The ODNI was overseen by a cabinet-level Director of National Intelligence. This guy’s team assembled the President’s Daily Brief (PDB), a top-secret document including intelligence from all the various agencies, delivered each morning to the President of the United States.

A bundle of intelligence communities reported to the ODNI. Well, “reported to” overstated things. There were sixteen agencies and departments that fed the ODNI information. Information the agencies plucked and filtered, suiting their needs and requirements. They included the CIA, FBI, NSA, Homeland Security. The DEA, DIA, NGA—more intel communities than you could shake a stick at. Sixteen of them. Man. And I had no clue which ODNI section Devon Chapman worked in. But the Seattle locale wasn’t a surprise—the ODNI had fifteen offices around the US.

While I’d figure it out, with Jules’s help, one reality stood out: these were bureaucracies, and playing well together wasn’t a given. Marilyn Townsend had sniffed something among her fellow intelligence organizations. Something she didn’t like.

“Sorta,” I said in response to Jules questioning if I knew what I was getting into. “I mean, my deliverable is an extensive dossier on this guy. Gumshoe stuff.”

“I rather doubt she’d request you for such a simple endeavor, Sam Spade.”

I hadn’t mentioned Townsend, or the CIA. But Jules knew about our relationship and pieced together the contract’s source. She was a whole lot better than good at connecting dots.

“Alright. I’ll buy that.”

“Speaking of which, and before we progress, allow us to sully ourselves with a transactional event,” Jules said.

She took another puff and blew a smoke ring. Message received. I plopped the rolled wad of Benjamins onto the desktop. Five large. I asked Jules to count it. She responded with the waft of a fingertip-sealed hand and moved a bony finger toward her abacus. Two balls slid on separate rails. The Clubhouse accounting system.

The old desk drawer rasped as she opened it, dropped in the roll of bills, and extracted an index card, sliding it across the desk. It contained an address and “ODNI - S&E Directorate.”

“Your Mr. Chapman’s Seattle home address,” she said. “And his department within ODNI. In case your client hadn’t revealed this detail.”

“What’s an S&E Directorate?”

“Strategy and Engagement.”

“Okay. What do they do?”

“One would hope they strategize and engage, dear.”

She chuckled, propped a foot against a desk drawer handle, and leaned back. The old wooden desk chair squeaked.

“Can I get my five grand back?”

She continued smiling and scratched under her chin. Several cigar puffs failed to produce smoke, so she fished inside a work shirt pocket, found a kitchen match, and struck it along the chair’s arm. Cigar smoke flowed. I glanced around the windowless steel-walled room. The usual Casablanca movie poster with Bogart and Bergman remained the room’s lone adornment.

“There are two prime items for consideration,” she said. “Items you should internalize. Please do so prior to your unappealing habit of focusing on personal endeavors.”

“You mean focusing on stuff that keeps me vertical and healthy?”

“Precisely.”

“Pretty important subject, that.”

“One which we shall dwell upon later. For the moment, this new little soirée highlights more than ever item number one. The one big thing.”

Things were never as they seem—the one big thing. A mindset and worldview I avoided. It was a spookville perspective. False motives, leverage points, lies and misdirection. A world of muck and mire best avoided. But Jules had a point. As always. I’d be wading deep into the shadow world, and my tendency toward a mission-oriented focus—A to B to C—neglected shadowland’s realities.

“Okay. Yeah, I’ll keep it in mind.”

“A wholly insufficient approach. It should dictate your every move.”

“I’m not capable of that. You and I both know it.”

“A fair point. But you entertain reflective moments more than you would admit, dear boy. During those mental musings, view future activities through the lens of the one big thing.”

“I’ll try.”

“Do more than try. The possibility exists your engagement is much deeper and dangerous than surface appearances would indicate.”

“The goal is keeping things near the surface. Actions, activities, information collection. Then pass it on.”

“She did not contract you for this.”

It was weird neither of us would mention Marilyn Townsend’s name. Protocol, perhaps, or violation of an unspoken rule. Hard to say.

“It’s exactly what she contracted me for. According to her.”

Jules puffed and shook her head. Then emphasized her next statement with a bony finger pointed my way.

“A perfect example of the one big thing, Sherlock. What you were told isn’t what it seems.”

“How so?”

“You are the rented bull in her pointed-out china shop.”

“She was pretty damn explicit on behaving down-low. No violence.”

“This has become tedious. Shall we continue a circular argument or move on?”

“Move on.”

Irritation snuck its nose under the tent. Both Townsend and Jules reveled in three-dimensional chess games. I couldn’t stand that crap.

“Item two for your consideration. Internecine warfare,” Jules said. Her tight-lipped pose indicated annoyance at not being afforded the opportunity to pontificate on why Townsend hired me.

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning interagency cooperation. Or lack thereof.”

“Okay.”

“Your client has sniffed something awry among the US intelligence community. It may be as simple as a lack of information sharing. Your Mr. Chapman’s position would indicate as much.”

“Speaking of Devon Chapman, I did root around on social media.”

“How contemporary of you.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a Harvard Kennedy School graduate.”

“Hmm.”

“And a couple photos show him with a sweater draped on his shoulders, the arms crossed across his chest.”

“Uniform of the day. He’s a club member, dear.”

“The intel community. Yeah, I know.”

“Not that club. I would rather imagine he has parental contacts going back years in the State Department as well as the intelligence community. The Harvard Kennedy School, the appropriate relationships, family ties.”

Jules hadn’t imagined jack. She’d researched his family. How much research, unknown. She kept her playing cards close to her chest.

“What’s he doing in Seattle?” I asked.

“Paying his dues in the hinterlands. Rest assured, he will return to DC in the not too distant future. Club headquarters and all that.”

I imagined Jules had nailed it. From social media, Chapman owned the Martha’s Vineyard look—haircut perfect, pants hemmed at the appropriate length over deck shoes.

“I discovered the guy is in his midforties. Signs point to him being single. And he likes boats,” I said.

“So?”

Hell, I didn’t know. I was tossing darts at the Devon Chapman target, hoping Jules would provide additional insight. Clearly, I was barking up the wrong tree.

“So I’m spitballing. And you’re not feeding me any insights. With acknowledgment of the one big thing and departmental conflict, what else have you got?”

It was time for a peek at a few of her close-held cards.

“Your Mr. Chapman came to the ODNI from the DIA. The Defense Intelligence Agency.”

“Nothing weird there, Jules. The ODNI draws its personnel from the sixteen agencies it oversees. Including the DIA.”

“A simple data point, dear, for your consideration. He will favor his original tribe.”

“Okay. What else?”

“Suffice it to say your client suspects something more nefarious than an information-sharing issue.”

“Such as?”

Jules shot me a sardonic half-grin and said, “That’s your job, Poirot.” She blew cigar smoke toward the ceiling. “Now, let us discuss your amour.”

The conversational misdirection away from the contract’s operational parameters was part and parcel of these meetings. She knew about Jess Rossi because I’d spilled the beans about our relationship during my last Clubhouse visit. Jules would circle back toward Devon Chapman at some point. Or not. Welcome to the freakin’ Clubhouse.

“I don’t think amour is the appropriate term. We’re sort of circling each other now. Sniffing things out.”

“How feral.”

She tilted her head, puffed the cigar, and remained silent. So did I. An unseen vent blew warm air as the dangling pull-chain of the single exposed overhead lightbulb shifted with the air movement.

“She may be of use on this endeavor,” Jules continued. “Amour or not, you may require domestic informational resources the Clubhouse lacks.”

A decent point. Jules had her fingers in the global pie and could provide solid information and contacts for the world’s most obscure places. Home turf, while still on her radar, wasn’t a Clubhouse focus.

“Okay. You may be right.”

“I am right. And working together would buttress your personal relationship with her. Unless, of course, you return to your habit of littering expired bodies about the operational terrain. She’s a former police officer, and such activities would not sit well with her.”

“Yeah, I know. We dealt with that in Hawaii.”

The Hawaii job had included taking out killers on the Big Island. Jess had been aware of the event, and it presented a major relationship roadblock.

Jules leaned forward and rested her cigar-hand forearm on the desktop as the other hand scratched her head. Empathy replaced her usual cryptic and on occasion acidic countenance.

“I bring this up because I care. You’ve entered a new phase in life. One without a bounty hanging over your head. An opportunity now presents for a more normal life.”

“Yeah. I’ve thought a lot about it.”

“An opportunity for permanently parking your Queen Mary. A solid first step.”

“Her name is the Ace of Spades.”

“Her?”

“Her. And I’m in no rush to retire her. And we’ve ended that train of thought.”

“And Ms. Rossi’s perspective regarding your watery abode?”

“She has expressed concern about using an above-deck bucket as the shower.”

“I’m stunned.”

“And yes, I’m aware permanent residence on board a meandering boat doesn’t flash ‘stability’ in large letters.”

“I understand Charlotte is a lovely town.”

She smiled. I returned it.

“Yeah. It is.”

She puffed, shot me a light headshake, and adopted a business posture. The desk chair squeaked again as it tilted back. I appreciated her efforts. Jules had a soft side. Buried deep, for sure, but she and I had clicked since day one. She claimed I was her favorite client. I might have been. Or not. Either way, her relationship advice was sound, and she made a genuine attempt to help. And I appreciated it.

“One can but attempt assistance,” she said. “Allow us to move on and return to your contract. Shall we address items related to your well-being?”

“One of my favorite subjects.”

“Fine. You have never entered this world before.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Don’t be flippant. Your past forays sent you rummaging among the clandestine world. You were not fully immersed in it, brave Ulysses.”

“Umm, Jules. Those little rummages involved professional hitters, contract hitters, Company hitters, and run-of-the-mill bounty hunters. I’d call that immersed up the wazoo.”

“Not like this. Yes, you have dealt with such past confrontations admirably. Huzzah for Case Lee. But those were, by and large, solo players. Or collections of solo players.”

“Okay.”

“If events escalate—and let us admit they often do with you—large and lethal organizations, not individuals, will come for you. We deal with a different kettle of fish, dear boy.”

“The Russians want me dead. The Iranians want me dead. The Chinese, well, they vacillate on the subject. So it’s not the Boy Scouts I’ve been dealing with, Jules.”

“Your encounters were due, by and large, to factors causing them to invade your space. Your prepared space. You reacted appropriately.”

“Okay.”

“Now you will invade their space. The largest and most powerful collection of clandestine players on the earth.”

We locked unblinking eyes for several seconds. Man, she had a helluva point. Clubhouse perspective.

“Got it. Got all of it, Jules. Thanks. Sincerely. I’ll focus on keeping things low key.”

She wafted a dismissive hand, ignored my comment, and triggered an unseen switch. The steel door’s lock clanged open. Our meeting was over.

“You now have a credit with the Clubhouse. Use it. I am here to help,” she said as I headed toward the door. “And please do think of the playing field and your place in it.”

I turned and shot her a departing smile.

“I’m just a benign ex-Delta dude performing a gumshoe gig. No worries.”

She squinted her eye and became graveyard serious.

“Listen to me. If you disturb the anthill this time, there is very little I or anyone else can do for you.”

Chapter 4

 

Early springtime and Pacific Northwest drizzle draped Seattle. No surprise there. The traffic was a bumper-to-bumper mess as my tires, when rolling, hissed on wet concrete. Saltwater hung in the air, the night sky blackish-gray. People walked past without eye contact, heads lowered, focused where they were going, headed for dry shelter. The atmosphere afforded decent anonymity, and I couldn’t ask for more.

I’d flown commercial—Jacksonville to Atlanta to Seattle’s SeaTac airport—and arrived early Friday evening. Flew under a false name with accompanying ID and credit card. One block from the rental car terminal I pulled over, crawled under the vehicle, and disabled the GPS. The rental car company wouldn’t be tracking me. Nor would any other interested parties. The plan was to park near Chapman’s home and observe for several nighttime hours. The next day I’d track him as he went about Saturday activities.

He lived in a nice West Seattle townhouse among a neat row of similar homes. Nothing ostentatious, solid upper-middle class. I parked across the street, several townhouses away, and waited. No lights on at his place, traffic minimal within the residential neighborhood. I confirmed the telephoto camera’s batteries were up to snuff. Alongside it on the passenger seat were a ball cap, rain jacket, and a burger I’d picked up. The .40 Glock remained inside a waistband holster. The jacket would cover it when I exited the vehicle.

The burger disappeared along with any initial excitement about performing a domestic surveillance gig. I was bored spitless and called Jess Rossi back in Charlotte. It was late Eastern time, but she stayed up at night reading.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” she said.

“Sorry about the late hour.”

“I’m in Denver. It’s not so late.”

“Denver?”

“I’m working a job. There are concerned parents in Raleigh with a runaway kid. Last they heard, he desires a Rocky Mountain high as a near-term life plan. Where are you?”

“Seattle.”

“Sleepless?”

“Sitting inside a rental car outside this guy’s empty townhouse at the moment. And bored outta my mind.”

“Oh, for those halcyon days with gunfire, explosions, and flying shrapnel, eh, Rambo?”

Delivered with a North Carolina lilt and a teasing fun element—a good thing. Our first encounter in Hawaii had contained similar questions, asked in earnest. Relationship-breaking earnest.

“Tomorrow morning before dawn, I’ll return to track the guy’s Saturday activities. While again parked in a rental car. Watching drizzle droplets coalesce and ease down the windshield. Pretty cool, that. Maybe sing myself a song or two.”

As I spoke, a young woman strode along the sidewalk, walking her dog. The midsized critter wore a canine raincoat and didn’t appear enthused about the situation, its tail drooping low and head down. They passed my vehicle.

“So, without coming across as too incredulous, what in the world did you expect with these types of contracts? Car chases with Ferraris? Seductive young ladies at high-end hotel bars?”

“I was going to ask you about that. How do I get those gigs?”

“Your highest odds of success would be a James Bond transformation. It would require trading your jeans for a tux. And elevating your suave and debonair game.”

“It may require a crane to elevate that,” I said, chuckling.

“It may indeed entail heavy lifting,” she said, laughing. “Otherwise, welcome to my world. Did you remember the camera?”

Jess had edified me about several tools of the trade. The domestic sitting-in-your-car trade. A high-end camera, for one. It made sense. Other things like digital scanners, GPS trackers, and beaucoup listening devices were still absent from my arsenal.

“Have the camera. It’s alongside my raincoat. Did I mention it’s drizzling in Seattle?”

“What you are performing is called surveillance. Or plain-sight work. If it helps, pretend the camera is a scoped rifle. It may help ease your transition.”

“You are a tad prickly tonight, madam.”

“Do forgive me. I’m still internalizing you career refocus. Remember to take more photos than you think you need.”

“Gotcha.”

“You didn’t bring any other tools, did you?”

“There’s a .40 caliber tool in a waistband holster.”

“Please make an honest effort not to shoot anyone. At a minimum, it breaks your cover.”

Delivered with less levity. Not such a good thing.

“I may ask for help with this contract,” I said, remembering Jules’s admonition. “Background checks, use of those special databases you talked about, yada yada.”

“Yada yada? Really?”

“Sorry. You know what I mean even if I don’t.”

“I’m afraid the yada yada work is pricey. But as you appear to be a man of means, I’m happy to help.”

“Are you worth it?”

“What do you think?” she asked. A car horn beeped in her background.

“Yeah. Probably. Are you sitting in a car too?”

“I happen to be cruising the streets. I’m on a quest, checking where my little Raleigh party-boy might be hanging out.”

At least she was actively engaged. Trailing her quarry, nose in the wind. I was sniffing rental car deodorizer.

“I’ll let you go,” I said. “When are you back in Charlotte?”

“Are you proposing another date, tall, dark, and bored?”

“Yeah. I am.”

“I’ll keep in touch and let you know.”

It was about all I could ask for. We signed off, and I chalked up another Jess encounter that was not bad, okay, and maybe more than okay. I’d take it.

An hour later a late model SUV parked down the street. Devon Chapman, recognizable from his social media accounts, exited and strode toward his house. I grabbed the camera, lowered the window partway, and snapped photos. He wore a raincoat and khakis and kept his head hunched against the rain. Once inside, I caught glimpses through townhouse windows as he moved about. Three hours later the townhouse lights went out. I drove off to find a stiff Grey Goose vodka on the rocks somewhere near my hotel.

I returned the next morning, and an hour past dawn he exited the townhouse with a travel bag and computer backpack. I followed as he drove away, interest level cranked, my target on the move. A short time later he entered a marina parking lot along Elliott Bay, not far from the ferry terminal to Bremerton. I parked and hung back after he exited the SUV, ensuring he was well on his way toward the marina office.

Low clouds with breaks of blue sky pointed toward halfway decent weather. Rain jackets and jeans and ball caps clearly constituted the dress of the day as more folks pulled into the marina parking lot and made their way toward the water. I strolled toward the berthed boats, the camera tucked inside a casual backpack thrown over one shoulder. My personal comfort blanket, courtesy of Glock, rested against the small of my back. Recreational boats of all makes and sizes were tied in boat slips with plastic bumpers squeaking against piling-supported walkways. Beyond the docks lay Puget Sound, Puget Sound islands, and the Olympic Peninsula. The city of Victoria, British Columbia, was seventy nautical miles distant. And beyond it all, the great Pacific Ocean.

Chapman, tall and lanky, made his way from the marina office onto a middle pier. Thirty yards later he scampered onto a sixty-foot motor yacht. A million-dollar ride. This wasn’t a government employee vessel. Nossir.

I worked my way along a parallel pier past sailboats, cruisers, and a sprinkling of other motor yachts. New Dawn Rising was his yacht’s name, and I snapped several photos. Chapman had disappeared into the vessel’s interior. He prepped for departure, leaving me high and dry, so I focused on positioning and gathering what intel I could.

I imagined Jess would whip out a remote listening device—a handheld dish thing. Yeah, well, I had water. Lots of water. And sound carries over water, big time. So I hustled back toward the main walkway and meandered down the pier adjacent to Chapman’s boat as one among many Saturday morning boating enthusiasts. I boarded a sailboat berthed among a string of empty vessels, eased into the open cockpit, and pretended to talk on my cell phone, one leg casually crossed over the other, face toward the sky. I displayed occasional head nods as if listening with intent, phone to ear.

I maintained the ruse for five minutes, shooting glances toward the New Dawn Rising. Chapman fired the engines, letting them idle. He appeared on the lower deck, twenty yards away, and shoved iPhone earbuds into his ears. He pressed a speed dial key and spoke as he walked the lower deck, untying his vessel. I shifted position and turned sideways, focused on my fake phone call.

“Fred,” he said, his voice carrying over the engine rumble and across water. “Let’s make this quick.”

He untied another line. Two more lines and he’d disappear inside and ascend to the yacht’s enclosed bridge, out of hearing.

“So, in Douglas tomorrow night?”

He paused, listened to someone named Fred, and checked an expensive wristwatch. He turned to untie another line, his face pointed away from me.

“I’m just confirming Alex will be there to supervise the shipment. One of our partners may ask.”

At least I think he said Alex. Could have been Alice. Either way, it was an “Al” name. And I was halfway confident with the supervise the shipment and partners part.

He untied another line and turned again, facing my way. A young couple headed down the pier I’d used, creosote boards creaking as they approached.

“Good, good. You know how much this means,” he said.

Chapman untied the final line and moved inside. I lost all voice contact. Standing, I hustled off the sailboat as the couple approached and passed. We exchanged nods, and I headed toward the marina office. The parking lot became crowded, a Saturday on the water planned for these boat owners.

Douglas had to be a place, not a name. The only Douglas I knew was in Arizona. Smack-dab on the Mexican border. Which jibed with supervising shipments. Drug shipments. Well, alrighty. This could get interesting.

Chill, Case. You don’t know that.

No, I didn’t. But something paid for his yacht other than a government paycheck. The watch he wore was likely a couple grand as well. And his SUV was this year’s model. And he’d mentioned partners. Distribution partners. It added up. Maybe.

I did have two names. Or at least one and a half. Fred, for sure. Plus either Alex or Alice. And a place and timeline—Douglas, Arizona, tomorrow night. Maybe, again. I wandered back toward the parking lot and lost myself among a group of parked vehicles. Watched as the New Dawn Rising headed out to sea and considered options. This marina wasn’t the type that offered rentals so I could follow Chapman.

I could chase the Douglas, Arizona, lead. Supervision of a shipment meant drugs, human trafficking, or gun-running. Smart money would bet on drugs. One thing for certain—hot on an opaque trail after someone named Alex or Alice in a border town might afford the opportunity for a few answers.

Admit it, Case, ol’ buddy. It affords the opportunity to avoid sitting in a car, waiting for Chapman’s return.

Yeah, it did. I acknowledged it could be a wasted effort. But my gut said otherwise. I made one final shot at Chapman’s destination, if he had a destination, before I started Douglas wheels in motion. Low clouds had returned, and a light rain began as I went back toward the marina office. The door’s hanging bell jangled as I entered. A dozen folks meandered about as they bought sundries, coffee, and chatted. Several people worked the counter, and I focused on an agreeable-looking young man. I caught his eye and approached.

“Hey. I guess Devon already left,” I said with a smile.

“Devon?”

“Devon Chapman. The New Dawn Rising.”

“Oh yeah. Mr. Chapman. Yeah, he just left.”

“Okay. Good, good. I didn’t want him waiting. My cell phone died, and I couldn’t contact him to let him know I couldn’t go with him this morning. So I hustled down here to catch him. I’m glad he didn’t wait.”

“I can call him on the marine radio if you’d like.”

“That’s okay. I’ll head to a coffee shop and recharge the phone. I’ll call him in twenty minutes or so. Can I get one of those?”

I pointed toward several granola bars under glass. I didn’t want the kid to fixate on contacting Chapman.

“Sure.”

He fished out a breakfast bar while I laid a ten on the counter.

“I wish to heck I could have gone this morning. Never been there before,” I said and turned toward the water with a wistful expression.

A roll of the dice. Chapman may not have had a destination other than a day cruising.

“Me, either,” the young man said. “Orcas Island is supposed to be pretty cool.”

“Yeah. So I’ve heard. Maybe next time.”

“If you get your business taken care of and can get away, you could drive to Anacortes and take the ferry,” the young man offered. “And there are commercial flights with small planes during the summer. They may offer services to Orcas now as well.”

“Thanks.” I smiled and left a nice tip on the counter. “I’ll think about it.”

Back in the vehicle I considered next steps. A part of me pushed toward the ferry route. Two hours drive, two hours on a ferry. Or maybe charter a small plane. Either way, I’d end up at Orcas Island searching for Chapman. In the rain. And do what? Watch him futz around some vacation house? Log insignificant details for his dossier and mention a Douglas connection in passing? That’s exactly what Jess would do. The right thing. The hard and tedious work. But I wasn’t Jess Rossi.

I would ask for her help. Get more background on Chapman and ascertain his yacht’s registry. The registry would list the owner in case it wasn’t him. Access to those records varied state by state, and I wasn’t familiar with Washington State’s regs. If boat registries weren’t public, Jess could dig around. She understood which rabbit holes to enter. I didn’t. But I’d research Orcas Island—wherever it was—and get a feel for the place.

Arizona called, wild goose chase or not. But this required enlisting the help of my best friend in Albuquerque, New Mexico, with his FBI girlfriend. I’d assemble a small team and root around.

Did Townsend suspect an intelligence community member was running drugs? Not likely. At least not only drug-running. She would have handed such an activity off to the FBI or DEA. Something else had put a bee in her bonnet. But if this cat smuggled drugs to pay for his lifestyle, it would go into the dossier, and Townsend could do what she wanted with the intel.

As for my performance so far, I was checking the wrong boxes. A wild-hair excursion along the Mexican border to find either an Alex or Alice—check. Expand the circle of people engaged on this gig—check. Townsend had requested the contacts I used to perform this job be kept small. Jules-only small. Now I’d included Jess and would soon include Bo and maybe JJ, the latter an FBI agent. Whoops.

And a low-key approach, avoiding violence? Well, so far, so good. Planting my butt in a car had ensured that. But Douglas drug-runners smelled like a helluva lot more than sitting. Fine by me. More than fine by me. There was person named Alex or Alice who associated with Devon Chapman. And perhaps also associated with a Mexican drug cartel. Game on.

Chapter 5

 

“You want to saddle up for a little adventure?”

“Hi-ho, my Georgia peach. Every moment is a small grand adventure.”

Bo Dickerson—best friend, cosmic cowboy, and former Delta teammate.

“Well, a few of those moments might be a tad grander than others.”

“Perspective, goober. Situational perspective. Where might you be, in the physical sense, at this magic moment?”

“Seattle. Headed for Douglas, Arizona.”

“Have you begun collecting moss in those dripping environs?”

“Not yet. I have collected a sore butt from sitting.”

“Perhaps you should develop a yoga practice while you wait for nefarious activities to occur.”

“I don’t know, Bo. Performing downward dog while on a stakeout might not work out too well.”

He and JJ had lived together on the Caribbean island of St. Thomas for a while. JJ, the lone special agent in the American Virgin Islands, had looked for a transfer back to the mainland. An Albuquerque assignment was right up her alley as she hailed from northern Arizona’s arid turf.

“Then speak to me, brother. Tell me a tale about high adventure within the Case Lee super sleuth realm.”

I did. I implied Townsend as the client—he connected the dots without comment—and filled him in on current events.

“You’re heading south in the immediate future?” he asked.

“Next call is a charter flight to Tucson, ASAP.”

“Count me as an exploratory team member,” he said. “It is a six-hour drive for me, so I’ll scoot ASAP myself.”

“I’m not diverting you from your day job, am I?”

Bo’s St. Thomas job was as a snorkel guide. When we last talked, he hadn’t found gainful employment in New Mexico. But then again, Bo never lacked for money—a mystery for me and the other members of our ex-Delta team.

“Adventuring is my day job,” Bo said, the statement filled with surety.

“I don’t know what the hell that means.”

“Nor should you. But the universe requires plodders. You and your ilk set the stage for the likes of me.”

“I’m sure.”

“Does this adventure require additional toys?”

He was enquiring about weaponry. Now, my other Delta brothers, if asked, would arrive anywhere with a litany of high-caliber rifles and pistols and shotguns. Plus silencers and suppressors. Not Bo. Oh, he’d arrive with most of the same, but he was prone to include additional special kit. Argentinian bolas, aboriginal boomerang, Guatemalan blowgun—you just never knew.

“Couple of rifles would be good.”

“Loud or soft?”

He was enquiring about the necessity for noise suppressors for the rifles.

“Soft. We can always remove them for big bang.”

“Done and done. See you this evening.”

“There’s one other thing, Bo. Is JJ handy? I’d prefer to talk with her on your phone.”

I didn’t want any record of the call on her FBI line.

“She is. Are you inviting her to this soirée?”

“Nope. I need her intel more than anything.”

“Roger that. She’s in the garage, painting. She set up a little studio out there, filled to the brim with Georgia O’Keeffe inspiration. It’s pretty cool.”

“Good for her. And one last thing. Have you settled yet on the cosmic question of red or green?”

Red or green chile sauce—the official state question and a major cultural demarcation in New Mexico. Both were fine—beyond fine—and I’d never understood why Tex-Mex became ubiquitous across half the world while New Mexico’s superb chile concoctions didn’t. One of life’s mysteries.

“After much deliberation and prayer,” he said, “I’ve settled on either.”

“You wuss. Make a stand. I’m green all the way.”

“You have chosen to close doors, amigo. A poor example for dealing with the universe.”

After a short delay, he put Special Agent Julie Johnson on the line. A stunning woman—jet black hair, nut-brown skin, high cheekbones due to Apache blood mixed with Hispanic and Anglo and who-knows-what tossed in. “Classic American mutt,” she’d once told me. She and Bo fell into the odd couple category. His wild appearance and cosmic worldview were the polar opposite of JJ’s button-down hard-charging FBI officiousness. Go figure. But they were in love, and I was nothing but thrilled for them both.

JJ had also passed through the fire with me on St. Thomas during a massive terrorist attack. She stuck with me and Bo, covered my back, fought like hell—giving a lot more than she took. I’d take JJ in a foxhole any day. But she was also a no-nonsense FBI agent. A line, a barrier we danced around as best we could.

“Hey, JJ. I understand you’re getting your artistic bent on.”

“Hi, Case. What’s going down in Douglas?”

“You could use some work on your social niceties. Where’s the hail-fellow-well-met?”

“Tucked away for the moment. Bo mentioned Douglas as he came into the garage. And now I’m hearing the click-clack of semiautomatic weapons being checked out inside. An activity prompted, clearly, through Case Lee sounding the trumpet.”

“Maybe he’s going quail hunting.”

“Maybe you and him have another wild hair up your respective asses.”

I laughed. JJ and I had a bond, one forged under death-dealing stress during the St. Thomas terrorist attack. I didn’t mind one little bit her giving me a ration from time to time.

“I have an anonymous tip and I’m hoping, on a fine Saturday, you’ll help with it.”

“Who’s the anonymous tipster?”

“Me.”

“Of course.”

“There’s a person named Alex or Alice. He or she is overseeing a shipment of something—drugs or people or weapons—in Douglas. It’s going down tomorrow night.”

“What else?”

A legit question and one that set me back. There was no what else. Just Alex or Alice in Douglas tomorrow night.

“Umm, that’s about it.”

“You and Bo go have fun. I’d tell you to avoid trouble but that’s wasted breath, for sure. I’ll go back to painting. I’m working with oils, although watercolors hold strong appeal.”

“C’mon, JJ. Have a gander at those special databases you folks use. Give me something. Give me an Alex or Alice.”

“It’s Saturday. Illegal shipments cross the border 24-7. You go find Waldo.”

“Alex. Or Alice. You’re getting cranky on home turf. It’s the Apache coming out, isn’t it?”

“Shut up. And does it help to remind you the last little adventure you dragged Bo into required a significant convalescence? He came back to me with bullet holes and shrapnel wounds and a concussion and God-knows-what-else.”

“We eliminated a major issue. A big-time weight lifted off the four of us.”

I was defensive on the subject of our last adventure and no apologies. It was a big deal. We’d wiped out the bounty. Eliminated the bounty master along with his tribe of Janjaweed killers. But JJ was being protective of Bo. An admirable trait, and one I’d failed to consider because, well, I could be a moron from time to time.

“How weighty is Douglas?” she asked. “You know he’s open to any high-torque adventure you propose. Do you ever think about that?”

“Not as much as I should. You’re right. I’m sorry. No excuses, except I could use his help. Two sets of eyes and all that. As for weighty, I don’t know.”

The line remained silent except for a sigh from her end.

“Alright. I’ll have a look at our database. Are you sure it’s either Alex or Alice?”

“Pretty sure.”

“What about Alden or Alicia or Ragnar the Magnificent?”

“Let’s stick with Alex or Alice.”

Another short pause on the line.

“I’ll set a few parameters and winnow the options for suspected or known drug distributors named Alex or Alice. That should reduce the results to a manageable number. And I’m traveling with Bo. Don’t you say a damn thing about it, either.”

“I’d love to see you, JJ. Seriously. And thanks. I mean it. I’m on a job, and this will help a lot.”

“You really piss me off sometimes, Case.”

“I know. Sorry.”

I was. Bo was no longer footloose and fancy-free. He was part and parcel of a couple. They were partners. I made a mental note, a reminder for the future.

A small older Gulfstream was available at SeaTac for an afternoon haul to Tucson. I found a coffee shop—not a challenge in Seattle—and researched Orcas Island. It was part of the San Juan Islands, and it nestled alongside Canadian waters. It lay about twenty miles from Victoria, British Columbia. A tourist spot, accessible via private boat or small plane or the Washington State Ferries. It was also a getaway for high net-worth individuals, including celebrities, industrialists, and old money.

I called Jess and asked her to check Chapman’s background, including his family. If he came from old stock, as Jules suspected or knew, his family might be wealthy. Which cast doubt on the whole drug-running thing. Unless he engaged in it for another reason. I also asked Jess to check the New Dawn Rising’s registry and for land or residence ownership on Orcas Island associated with the name Chapman.

“Anything else?” she asked. “And this will cost you.”

“It’ll be well worth it to me.”

“There’s one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“These are endeavors you should be doing,” she said.

Her voice lacked admonition. Very matter-of-fact.

“I’ve suddenly become pretty busy.”

She offered up some Jess intuition.

“I take it you can’t be bothered because you’re hot on a shiny object’s trail. Something where you have a decent chance to mix it up with bad guys. Right?”

Man, it was almost like people were reading me like a book.

“To a point, Jess. And you’re right. I should learn how to do the other stuff.”

“Spoken with as much enthusiasm as a root canal appointment.” A pencil or pen performed a background staccato beat against a desk surface. “This domestic line of work is just that. Work. And you may want to chew on this, Magnum P.I. At least you aren’t immersed in a world of spies and clandestine players you complain about.”

“Yeah, well, there may be a few spooks in this sauce.”

Silence. Her tone changed to businesslike. Not a good thing.

“I’ll do what you asked. I require a five-thousand-dollar retainer.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll call you when I have something. Try not to get shot.”

She hung up.

The drive to the airport, with traffic less miserable on a Saturday, allowed for a person-by-person job assessment. The client, Marilyn Townsend, would chew my butt if she got wind of Jess and JJ’s involvement. Especially JJ. And JJ was pissed over my casual request for Bo’s help, knowing he’d jump at the opportunity. Yeah, I hadn’t considered their relationship in the calculation. Guilty as charged. Meanwhile, Jess was less than impressed with my lack of commitment to shifting gears and focusing on the hard work—and drudgery—that constituted domestic gumshoe tasks. Fair enough.

On the flip side, I had several hot trails. Orcas Island, for one. An obscure player called Fred. A shady Douglas, Arizona, transaction with the mysterious Alex. Or Alice. Altogether, not too shabby. And a helluva lot more than a shiny new object. That one hurt. Yeah, I needed to up my game regarding interpersonal considerations as well as bend to the plow on other stuff.

But enough browbeating and doubts. I was Case freakin’ Lee. This job had shifted, with one overheard phone call, into the potentially gnarly world. And regardless of others’ opinions and reprimands, I was more than okay with that.

Chapter 6

 

Douglas was a two-hour drive from Tucson. I headed east then down through Tombstone and Bisbee. Drove through Cochise County’s arid ranching country—empty, desolate turf with desert mountains looming in the distance. I rolled into Douglas, a town with about fifteen thousand hardy souls, and cruised downtown. The old stone-and-brick buildings were cool enough with cafés and a saddle shop and a sprinkling of lawyer’s offices, although the look and feel and empty windows said better days were in the rearview mirror.

A town road took me along the border with Mexico. Springtime in this neck of the woods meant hot and dusty. There were no green lawns in front of the houses. Rock gardens, cactus, and the occasional well-watered tree were the common landscape preferences. An older vertical steel post fence—dilapidated and about fifteen feet high—defined the area. It ran along the border between Douglas and the town of Agua Prieta, Mexico, population seventy thousand.

I eyeballed Agua Prieta through the see-through fence. The town was run by the Sinaloa Cartel, the most powerful, ruthless, and dangerous drug trafficking organization in the world. And that was saying something. The cartel used Agua Prieta as one of many launch points for its US business. Border-beating tools in their arsenal included tunnels, compressed-air cannons, rope ladders, and human mules—anything to get product and people across la frontera.

Several newer Agua Prieta houses were but a few yards from the border fence. Cartel houses, each built in a style best described as narcotecture. A few displayed a modernist style; others had a Spanish revival look. And a few weird ones displayed a Middle Eastern design, including domes and minarets. No accounting for taste, I supposed, and given the amount of money generated through their illegal activities I half-expected to see a Taj Mahal variant or two. Each narco-house had high walls and at least one man on the roof, armed with a modern automatic weapon. I had an itch to stop and wave at a few of them, just for the hell of it, but reined in the temptation.

Shadows lengthened, and I headed for the hotel where Bo, JJ, and I would gather. I hoped it had a decent bar. Regardless where you land in the world, you can’t beat a good bar as a base of operations. At least in my line of work. I wasn’t disappointed.

Off the old Gadsden Hotel’s ornate lobby—replete with a white Italian marble staircase and four marble columns—sat the bar. I passed a massive Tiffany style stained-glass mural and walked under the lobby’s stained-glass skylights that ran the full length of the place. My first impression was discordant decor, but a quick halt and look around the lobby lent a feel, a visceral reaction, of a bygone era still hanging in there. All in all, pretty cool.

A long and comfortable bar top with a padded armrest provided a backdrop for Bo and JJ. The former stood and leaned across the bar in intense conversation with a young Hispanic female barkeep, his wild red hair and unkempt beard evident across this or any other room. The barkeep shot me a “Thank God someone else has walked in so I can break away” look. JJ saw me enter, tilted her head toward the Bo conversation, and rolled her eyes. They were the establishment’s lone occupants.

“I’ll have a Grey Goose on the rocks,” I said, striding toward them and giving the young barkeep her opportunity to escape. “And I’ll work with him,” I said, pointing toward Bo. “Drink selection within such an auspicious locale is no small endeavor.”

“A man who grasps the weight and import associated with such a decision,” Bo said, grinning ear to ear. A tight hug ensued; foreheads bumped several times. His breath smelled of lime.

JJ rose and extended both arms. Her hug was tight and warm and came with an “I’m still pissed at you” ear whisper.

“It’s because I’m a moron,” I said, smiling back.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

But at least she delivered it with a smile.

“It’s the cup we must start with,” Bo said, still focused on the drink selection. “A hammered copper cup. It reaches back, old son.” He extended an arm and grasped air. “Way back.”

“This was once big-time copper mining country,” JJ said, perching back on the padded barstool. “Although it should be noted my beer, served in a pedestrian beer glass, has not suffered one iota from a historical disconnect.”

“Have you guys checked in?” I asked.

“Yes,” JJ said. “Why’d you pick this place? It’s haunted. Famously haunted.”

“Ignore the ghosts,” I said. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

“We can’t ignore them,” Bo said. “It would be rude. Plus, they’re here, now, in this room.”

“Please stop with that, Bo. It creeps me out.” She took a firm grip on a fistful of red hair and pulled him close and kissed him. “I mean it.”

The young lady brought my drink and assumed a defensive position across the bar, arms crossed, staring at Bo.

“Okay, Bo,” I said. “Copper cup. Gotcha. How about tequila?”

“How about mescal?” he said. “More grounded.”

“Fine. With lime. A classic.”

“With lime and local water. Agua Vida. The water of life. Not to offend the other-dimension guests among us, but yes, yes, we’re getting there.”

“I’ll add maguey sweet sap,” the barkeep pitched in, seeing a light at the end of the tunnel. “It’s from the agave plant, like the mescal. It’ll round out the lime.”

Bo locked eyes with her, assessed her sincerity.

“We have a winner,” I said. “One, please. On ice. In a hammered copper mug. Thanks.”

“Sweet Jesus,” JJ muttered.

“She doesn’t understand,” Bo said with a head tilt toward JJ. “Which is a surprise given her old soul. But she has cast her lot with me, which, as you well know, goober-boy, is no small feat.”

“Amen,” I said.

“Double amen. There’s an outdoor terrace upstairs,” JJ said. “When Bo gets his concoction, let’s head up there and talk business.”

We did and passed back through the lobby. JJ had done her research on the place—which identified the ghosts—and explained in its heyday during the early 1900s that the place had hosted cattle barons and copper-mining magnets. The current owners had made a valiant effort to modernize the place, but an air of Miss Havisham hung about—a bit used, ragged around the edges, a cobweb or three expected. Still, a cool place. And haunted to boot.

The terrace offered solitude and a view. Streetlights and an occasional car headlight marked the US side. Across the border, the much larger town of Agua Prieta was lit with gaudy neon signs and traffic aplenty. JJ opened her backpack and produced four manila folders.

“Let’s get something straight,” she said, placing the folders on the small table. “This is by the book. I’m not acting as a rogue special agent. I’m not risking my career.”

“Understood,” I said.

“And I’m here to keep this wild thing currently fixated with his copper mug from getting hurt. Or worse.”

Delivered with a laser-like eye lock. I returned the expected level of seriousness and a tight nod. Bo placed his copper cup on the table, fished around inside his backpack, and produced a tiny pipe and small jar of weed.

 “So, I contacted my boss, on a weekend, and let him know I had an anonymous tip regarding a possible operation in Douglas,” JJ continued. “He’s allowed me to come here in a professional capacity.”

“Good,” I said. “I want it straight up. I’m gathering intel. Any other activities aren’t my concern at the moment.”

“As a courtesy to the Phoenix and Tucson offices, I called them both and let them know. I asked if they wanted to participate. On a Sunday, chasing an anonymous tip about a person of interest named Alex or Alice. You’ll be shocked to learn they declined. Now, tell me how you acquired this information.”

Her hand remained planted across the folders.

“I overheard a conversation.”

“From who?” she asked.

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Bo said you were in Seattle.”

“That’s not necessarily where I overheard the conversation.”

 “You both struggle against the flow.” Bo packed the pipe and produced a lighter. “Let’s not strut and fret on this moment’s stage. Forward is our direction, undaunted and brave, riding the celestial slipstream.”

He lit the weed and took a deep inhale. JJ and I exchanged stares, mine accompanied with a broad smile. She broke eye contact with a sigh, shook her head, and took a long draft of beer.

“I’m sorry about the officialdom bit, JJ,” I said. “I didn’t anticipate you having to go through all that.”

“It was the right thing to do. The Tucson office suggested I engage the DEA if I required weekend participation. I didn’t bother.”

Bo exhaled through his nose and said, “The adventure awaits, bubbling beneath the surface. A mysterious traveler. Drug cartels. A physical and cultural divide well-delineated. Ghosts long past and soon created abound. I would suggest the playing field is set.”

“While I’m glad you played it straight, JJ, I’d appreciate it if you don’t get involved once we figure it out and find Alex or Alice,” I said. “I’m not here for a bust. Intel only.”

“If it’s US turf, I’m not overlooking a major smuggling operation. And Bo, stow the whole ghosts-yet-created thing.”

Bo smiled her way, an angelic expression on full display. It reminded me that when it hit the fan, Bo Dickerson’s actions were anything but angelic.

“Okay, fair enough,” I said. “But the overheard conversation implied our suspect is here to supervise the shipment. I doubt he or she is a mule. I’m looking to tie him to a shipment and ascertain what the shipment is.”

Several gunshots echoed across the landscape. They came from Agua Prieta.

“Do not wander off, Bo,” JJ said. She focused back on me. “So what I’m hearing is you aren’t going to tell me any more information about the source of the overheard conversation.”

“You’re hearing right.”

Another sigh accompanied the four manila folders sliding across the table.

“I’ll run downstairs and order another round,” she said. “Have a look at those. Each is a known or suspected regional drug runner. Four Alexanders. No Alices. Maybe—and that’s a big maybe—one is your Alex.”

She left, rubbing Bo’s head as she stood.

“She’s amazing,” Bo said. “Filled with concern for others.”

“Concern for you, for sure. Along those lines, help me with insight and footwork, Bo. But leave the rough stuff off the table. She’ll have my ass if you get injured again.”

Bo cast a wild-eyed grin in my direction, fired the lighter, and took another hit. Oh, man. Bo was Bo, and if he decided to call on the drug cartel’s head knocker across the border to discuss current events, he’d go do it. Come hell or high water.

“You want to have a look at these?” I asked him, picking up the top folder. Several wall sconces provided sufficient light for reading.

“Already have.”

“Maybe we can figure out the highest odds of which one it might be.”

“Already have.”

“Good. Give me a few minutes and we’ll compare notes.”

Four Alexanders. One was based in El Paso. The Ciudad Juárez Cartel across the river from El Paso was operated by an offshoot or different organization from the Sinaloa Cartel. It depended upon your outlook and who had recently murdered who. Either way, our cat wouldn’t double-dip with two different and competing organizations. Unless he had a death wish.

Among the other three, one stood out. Having observed Chapman, I had an advantage over Bo. The type of person Chapman would deal with, or be comfortable dealing with, was a valuable perspective. Alexander John Whittle fit the bill. The other two had the drug-runner look and feel. Slick, rough, tough. Several photos highlighted bling around their necks and wrists and rings on fingers. Neck tats, angry eyes. They drove this-year SUVs, black and polished and tricked out. Both men were from Phoenix.

Alex Whittle was another story. The dude looked like a middle-aged accountant or salesman or small business owner. A regular guy. Rimless glasses, thinning hair, no bling or tats evident. Full body photos of him presented a person a little overweight but not soft. It was in the freeze-frame motion shots. There was a commitment to his stride, a sense of power underneath the oxford button-down shirt and khakis. He drove a plain vanilla-white five-year-old Toyota Camry. This cat stayed below the radar. The kind of guy Devon Chapman would deal with. He lived in Tucson, two hours away.

JJ returned, followed by the young barkeep with a tray of drinks and chips and salsa. Two rapid pistol shots echoed across the border, followed by a machine gun’s distinctive rip.

“Jeez,” JJ said as she sat and addressed the barkeep. “Is that a regular thing?”

“You get to where you don’t even notice,” she said and tossed a smile our way before heading back downstairs. The terrace remained empty except for us three.

“This place is creepy,” JJ said. “And I’m not talking about the gunfire, although that’s plenty disconcerting. But I used the restroom and had the feeling I wasn’t alone.”

“I paid extra for the experience,” I said. “One of the higher-end Gadsden Hotel amenities.”

“You are not funny. At all. So what do you think about our Alex collection?”

“Alexander John Whittle,” I said.

“Agreed,” Bo added.

“Look and feel.”

“His aura.”

“Drives an older nondescript vehicle.”

“A sense of hidden intent within his energy field.”

“Yep.”

JJ munched a chip dipped in green salsa. Halfway through chewing, she said, “That’s grand. I’ll put it in my report. The suspect exhibited auras, hidden intent, and energy fields.” She plucked another chip and inspected the red salsa. “You know, the bureau could sure use insightful guys like you two. I’ll see if I can swing a couple interviews.”

“Ye of little faith,” Bo said. He squeezed her arm and smiled before digging into the chips.

“We can eliminate one. The Alex from El Paso. Different cartel,” I said.

“I’ll buy that. But we can’t be sure.”

“Which raises the question, how do we find this guy?”

“Old school,” JJ said. “We look for him.”

“Seek and ye shall find. This, my bosom buddies, is fine, fine stuff.” Bo lifted a corn chip loaded with salsa for all to see.

“Drive around?” I asked. “Look for his vehicle?”

“We look for all those four vehicles. Just in case the El Paso suspect is double-dipping. Or in case Alex Whittle’s aura was sending false signals. Douglas isn’t that big.”

“Tonight?”

“Did you line up a hot date this evening, Case?” she asked, scooping more salsa. “Would our endeavors interfere with your social calendar?”

Delivered with a smile. I returned my own half-smile.

“Did you happen to try tagging these guys for tracking? Hidden GPS on their vehicles. Or cell phone triangulation. Or whatever you people do besides munch donuts. And chips.”

“Those require a court-ordered warrant,” she said.

“Which hasn’t happened,” I replied.

“Which hasn’t happened. Judges love issuing warrants on anonymous tips about an Alex or maybe Alice, last name unknown.”

“It’s better this way,” Bo said. “A loose hand along the tiller, riding the universal currents. And there’s a sleuthing framework for us to revel in. If it weren’t for the temperature, I’d recommend trench coats. You’d look fine in one, my love.”

JJ smiled and patted his leg. I downed the rest of my vodka.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s ride.”

Chapter 7

 

Douglas, unlike Agua Prieta, was slow and quiet. Car windows lowered, desert air no longer warm. JJ drove, Bo in the back seat, I rode shotgun. JJ strapped on her holster prior to departure. It contained a 9mm Sig Sauer. She also hung a lanyard with an FBI badge around her neck.

“Are you both armed?” she asked. “Those untucked shirts could hide anything. Please tell me it’s legal weaponry.”

“Armed in oh so many ways,” Bo said.

“Do any of them go bang?” she asked.

“Indeed,” Bo said. “And there are additional tools behind my seat. They also go bang.”

“I’m good, too,” I said. The .40 Glock nestled in its holster against my lower back. “And thanks for those rifles, Bo.”

“You never know.”

“True enough, my brother. You never know.”

 “Let me share what I know. The goal—and I can’t emphasize this enough,” JJ said as she started the car. “The goal is to not draw our weapons. Let’s just find this guy and see what happens.”

“Roger that,” I said.

It was a fruitless evening. Either Alex Whittle hadn’t arrived, or he had and his vehicle hid inside a garage. My gut said he hadn’t shown. As the shipment’s supervisor, there wasn’t any need for his appearance until the transaction, the smuggling event, took place. We did spot an older white Toyota Camry but the license plate was wrong. Still, we hung around until a mom and two kids exited the small bungalow it was parked in front of, climbed into the Camry, and drove off. We cruised a bit more as gunfire continued echoing across the border. Random single shots interspersed with serious automatic gunfire exchanges. As it approached midnight, we also heard strange loud popping sounds close along the border fence.

“Compressed air cannons,” JJ said. “They launch drug packages over the wall.”

“Our guy won’t deal with that,” I said. “I’d bet on a tunnel.”

“Maybe.”

We called it a night. At predawn we gathered over coffee. I asked JJ how the night had passed in the old Gadsden Hotel.

“I heard noises late at night,” she said. “And once, around two a.m., I saw something. I’m not going to claim outright it was a ghost, but there was a shadow, a discernible shape at the foot of our bed.”

“Did you wake Bo?”

“I did. He sat up, looked around the room, and said, ‘Pass quietly, my friend.’ Then he plopped his head back down and started snoring. My hero.”

“There was little to discuss,” Bo said, tasting the mesquite honey before adding it into this coffee.

“Pass quietly, my friend. I have high hopes my intrepid lover doesn’t apply the same tactic if our Albuquerque house is broken into during the middle of the night.”

“Well, JJ, if it’s any consolation,” I said. “This guy staring with great intent at a jar of honey is about the last person on earth a robber would want to meet in the dark. I speak from vast experience. So, what’s the day’s game plan?”

“There are three roads into Douglas,” JJ said. “If we eliminate the back road from El Paso, we’ll split up and cover the other two. It’s a risk, but we’ll have to take it.”

“You mean hang near the highways and scope vehicles as they enter Douglas?” I asked.

“That’s exactly what I mean. Do you have binoculars?”

“A static endeavor,” Bo said, sipping coffee and nodding approval at the mesquite honey. “Within a fluid situation. Is such a stationary approach wise?”

“I’m with you, bud. Hang out all day playing squatter near the highway and watch incoming traffic. It’s not very proactive.”

“We could enquire among the Douglas ne’er-do-wells,” he said. “Gather their insights into our mysterious Alex.”

“Scratch the beast’s belly. Maybe bend a few uncooperative arms.”

“Both of you shut up.” Her heavy coffee mug thumped the table. “We’re doing this my way. The professional way.”

“We could talk with the Cochise County Sheriff in Bisbee,” I said. “See if he knows anything about an Alex.”

“He’s another law enforcement resource I bothered this weekend,” she said. “As in yesterday. And he had no insights into an Alex, last name unknown. His tone indicated how much he appreciated the Saturday call from a Fed who appeared to not know her ass from a hole in the ground.”

“She’s feisty,” Bo said with a wide grin.

“And consistent. No luck with the sheriff. No luck with other FBI offices. Do you take any of this personally, JJ?”

“I’m beginning to, believe me. We will split up and cover the roads into town. Take your pick, Case.”

“We’re going to yield to her, aren’t we?” I asked Bo.

“As an ancient tree on an ocean cliff yields to the storms.”

We ordered three large burritos from the hotel kitchen for later in the day. Two green chile and one red. And snagged a case of bottled water.

“No outdoors fooling around between you two while standing watch,” I said before climbing into my vehicle.

“I fear the outdoor boudoir is filled with cacti,” Bo said and shot me a wink. “Such impediments may inhibit our activity.”

“Everyone enjoy your Sunday,” JJ said. “Heaven knows I will. In the heat and dust while searching for an Alex among the tumbleweeds. Look for all the vehicles, Case. I’m serious. And turn on the radio. Listen to music or a talk show. Do some yoga stretches.”

“As I have been advised by another party. Okay. Cell phones on, we’ll be on hilltops, so no problem with signals, and let’s spot our guy.”

They took the northern highway and let me know they’d settled near the optimistically named Bisbee-Douglas International Airport. There was no air traffic and little road traffic. I took the western highway coming from Bisbee. Crossed a rancher’s cattle guard and parked below a low rise, keeping the vehicle hidden from incoming traffic. Ascended the small hill and partway down the other side so I wouldn’t profile against the sky. And waited with water, burrito, and binoculars at my side. Near noon, JJ called me.

“Anything on your end?” she asked.

“Nada.”

“Same here. Except that Bo’s gone walkabout.”

“I’m shocked.”

“I called him an hour after he wandered off. He said, and I quote, ‘A midday sashay among the spiked flora. While daydreaming of you and me in a hammock under a large shade tree with the scent of lilies in the air.’ He is so sweet.”

“Heart of gold, since day one. You two make a great couple, JJ. I couldn’t be happier for both of you. Just do me one favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Love him for what he is. Special beyond measure. My best friend deserves nothing less.”

“I know, I know. In my defense, he and I interact a lot differently when I’m not on the job.”

Hours ground past. A scorpion crawled past my feet; desert songbirds flitted among the rabbitbrush. Traffic on my highway was minimal. Several white sedans, none of them Camrys. A couple of black SUVs, older models. I checked their license plates through the binoculars anyway. JJ called again late afternoon.

“Let’s hang in here until dark,” she said.

“Agreed. Then another cruise through town. Our Alex has to be here. I’m thinking Bo’s idea of approaching the local rough stock for intel might be a solid bet. Or a last gasp.”

“Speaking of Bo, he called a couple of hours ago. He said he had taken an elevated position and was scouring the terrain for anomalies. Whatever that may mean.”

“It means he’s doing his thing. And you’d be surprised at how effective he can be.”

“Yeah, maybe. Sorry this didn’t pan out, Case. I know you meant well.”

Another white sedan approached, a half-mile away. I raised the binoculars.

“It was a dead solid lead. A valid trail. Something is going down today or tonight.”

A Toyota Camry, several years old.

“These things don’t always go as expected,” she said. “Part of the deal, I’m afraid.”

“Hold on, JJ. Gotta focus on a license plate.”

It was him. Alexander John Whittle. I scrambled while signing off with JJ.

“Gotta go! It’s Whittle. I’ll call you when I’m on his tail.”

A mad dash to the vehicle, tires spun, dust flew, and the cattle guard rattled as I flew over it and onto the highway. Whittle’s vehicle was a quarter mile ahead and I closed the gap gradually. Ensured my appearance as just another fellow traveler along a lonely highway, not an ex-Delta operator stoked and on a hot trail. Nine miles away, across high desert turf, JJ would be punching her own vehicle, pedal to the metal, headed for Douglas. Game on, baby. Game on.

Chapter 8

 

Whittle cruised into a neighborhood near the border, below the speed limit. JJ called and I kept her informed of my mobile location. Whittle pulled over and parked in front of a small nondescript brick house, single level, with an attached single-car garage. I parked a half-block away and slid on a ball cap, grabbed the vehicle’s rental agreement, and pretended to read it with head down and eyes up, peeking below the cap’s visor. We were no more than a hundred yards from the Mexican border.

I rang JJ and gave her my location. She arrived from the opposite direction and parked farther along the street. The day cooled, the shadows were long, dusk approached.

Whittle opened the sedan’s trunk, checked up and down the street, and removed a substantial duffel bag, carrying it into the house. He didn’t knock. Another nondescript sedan was parked in the house’s driveway near the garage door. Two more sedans, dusty and at least five years old, were parked nearby.

“You’re parked too close,” JJ said.

“Don’t think so.”

Silence. Then she pulled a potent hole card.

“There is weaponry in my vehicle.”

Point taken, soft spot leveraged. I eased from the front seat and strolled along the sidewalk toward JJ’s SUV. And past the house Whittle had entered. I spotted Colorado license plates on the driveway vehicle. Walking past the house, I clocked that the other two sedans displayed Nevada and Utah plates. Mules, lined up and ready to tote drugs north. I slid into JJ’s passenger seat.

“He took a large duffel bag into the house.”

“It is a cash business,” JJ said. “You wouldn’t believe how much cash we’re talking about.”

“Where’s Bo?”

“I haven’t talked with him for a while. This would be a good time.”

I wanted Bo with me. On official duty, JJ’s hands were tied. Probable cause was an iffy proposition for making a bust, with an overheard Seattle tip as the baseline and a guy with a duffel bag entering a house the cause. Bo and I had no such restrictions. He answered after two rings.

“Can you feel it?” he asked. “The transactional tension?”

“Yeah. I feel it. It’s a helluva lot more pronounced here at the transfer house. Join us.”

“Interesting happenings across the border, amigo.”

I put him on speaker.

“I’m sitting here with JJ. Figuring out next moves. Where, from a current time and space dimension, are you?”

“Bo, where the hell are you?” JJ added.

“I’ll tell you where I was. On our hotel’s rooftop. With excellent binoculars. Those Germans know what they’re doing when it comes to optics.”

“Let’s do an Amazon review at a later time. Where are you?” I asked again.

“While perched on high, I noticed a small tire shop across the border. A bit run-down and rough about the edges. Specializing, I would surmise, in repair more than new sales.”

“Okay.”

“It’s Sunday. A whole mess of the folks in old Mexico remain quite religious. This is an ecumenical day. A church day. All the shops are closed.”

“Except for the tire shop,” I said.

“It, too, is closed for regular business. Irregular business, on the other hand, appears to be booming.”

“How so?”

“Bo, there is nothing we can do about that side of the border,” JJ said, looking through her binoculars at the brick house. The light continued to fade. “Please tell me you are still in the US.”

“Arbitrary lines on a Mercator map, my love.”

“Not for the Sinaloa Cartel,” she said. “Because on their side of the arbitrary line they rule with ruthless authority. Which includes torture, murder, and machine guns. So, where are you?”

“The tire shop had a substantial van pull up to its back door. And a half-dozen men unloaded well-wrapped packages. Shrink-wrapped, taped, and of a uniform size and shape. Beaucoup packages.”

“How far from the border?” I asked.

“Three hundred yards.”

“We’re at one hundred. A four-hundred-yard total distance. Tunnel?”

“Great minds think alike, goober-boy.”

“That’s one helluva tunnel.”

“Not for billionaire drug dealers,” JJ said. “So okay, Bo. That’s great intel. Now get your rear end back here where we’re parked. We might need help.”

“Adventuring, you and I. What a treat!”

“C’mon, Bo. Join us,” she said with an undercurrent of desperation.

“As soon as I saw you, I knew an adventure was going to happen.”

He hung up.

“Shit.” She shook her head and stared through the windshield at the big lost. We sat in silence for a while.

“Sorry, JJ. But let’s face it. Bo is being Bo.”

“The last thing he said?”

“Yeah?”

“A Winnie the Pooh quote. It drives me crazy. I get so pissed at him sometimes. But how mad can you stay at someone who quotes Winnie the Pooh?”

“He’ll be alright.”

“You don’t know that.”

“He’s entering a world you’ll never understand. No offense, and I mean it. But he has special skills.”

Boy howdy, did Bo Dickerson possess special skills. Delta Force is the elite of the elite. It doesn’t officially exist. But we stood second to none, including Seal Team Six. And Bo was our small Delta team’s spearhead. First in. A warrior unmatched on this good earth, fearless beyond imagination. With the ability to approach, sneak, and suddenly appear that baffled his Delta teammates, including me. I worried about him, sure. You never knew in a firefight what could happen. He was in Mexico, messing with the Sinaloa Cartel. Messing with one of their drug shipments. Bad, bad news. On the flip side, it was Bo. I cast a quick prayer and focused back on the issue at hand.

The brick house’s garage door slid open. The sedan with Colorado plates was driven in and the overhead door rolled shut. Our windows were rolled down, and in short order the muted sounds of power tools emanated from the garage.

“They’re prepping the vehicle,” JJ said. “They will remove panels and cut into the undercarriage. They’ll shove the packages in and seal it back up. A cursory inspection won’t find any drugs. Why would Bo go over there? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“What about drug-sniffing dogs?” I asked.

I avoided a response to her question because it was rhetorical, whether JJ knew it or not. Why Bo did things was an area best left in the unanswerable category.

“The cartel has learned, big time. They wrap with Mylar, dip packages in liquid sealant—you name it, they try it. But those dogs are pretty amazing. Their best bet is to drive the speed limit in a plain vanilla sedan and not get pulled over.”

The noise continued for thirty minutes. JJ attempted to contact Bo twice more without luck. When the garage door rolled open again, the vehicle backed out and parked along the street. Gone were the Colorado plates, replaced with Arizona ones. They drove the second sedan into the garage, and the door shut. From our angle we were unable to glimpse the number of people inside the garage, and had no clue about the number of additional people in the house.

Full-blown nighttime, the air cool, a couple of neighborhood dogs barked. A screen door slammed shut farther down the block. I had a couple of options—sit tight and call it good, or take it to the next level. While I was confident Chapman’s guy, Alex Whittle, was overseeing a major drug shipment, I didn’t have absolute confirmation. Contracts offered to me over the years were steady and very well paid. For one primary reason—I’d go the extra mile. This was no different.

“We sit tight until I get backup,” JJ said. “I’ll bring in the Sheriff’s Department, Border Patrol, DEA. They’ll scramble when I tell them what’s going down. The license plate switch will do for probable cause.”

“Okay. But I may sneak around back and have a look.”

“Great call. I can have a dozen armed law enforcement personnel here and yell, ‘Freeze, FBI!’ when we bust through the front door. Or you can bust through the back door and yell, ‘Freeze, Case Lee.’ That ought to work.”

“That’s the Sinaloa Cartel in there, JJ. They’ll shoot at the FBI before they do me.”

We locked eyes in the night air until she pulled her phone, satisfied I wasn’t going rogue. I weighed options while she dialed for backup. A bundle of law enforcement personnel arriving was a valid approach. They’d capture Whittle… and the drugs. JJ could fill me in once the dust settled. She already had backup on the phone, and an appearance by the law would happen fast. Then one of the mules pushed the issue.

The front door opened, and a young man headed for the drug-laden sedan with the recent addition of Arizona plates.

“One of their guys is headed out,” I said. “You going to let him go?”

“We’ll stop him on the road.”

“You sure?”

She remained silent for a few seconds, weighing the next action.

“It would help to confirm the make and model and the license plate number,” she said. “We can’t see it in the dark.”

“I’ll stroll past.”

“That’s all you’ll do. Then stroll right back here. Are you clear on that?”

“He’s getting into his car. Hold my beer.”

“Funny. Between you and Bo, it’s a regular laugh riot. Try not to light any fuses out there. I’ll turn off the interior lights.”

I cracked open the SUV’s door. The interior remained dark. I strolled off, staying in the street. A local out for a walk, catching a little night air. The mule started his vehicle, headlights and taillights on. I approached from the rear. As he pulled away, I noted the make and model—an older gray Ford Taurus—and memorized the license number. I was left directly across from the front of the house. The sound of the mule’s vehicle faded, replaced with muted yells and commands from within the house. Something had just changed. Something they weren’t happy about.

I continued my walk for a dozen steps and jumped the neighbor’s chain-link fence. JJ would be seething, having watched me do it. But something was going down, right freakin’ now, and it would be a couple of minutes before the cavalry JJ had called would arrive. I hustled along the side of the drug house’s garage, listening.

“Hay un problema en el túnel.”

There was a problem in the tunnel. They continued speaking loud, excited Spanish.

“Has it collapsed?”

“No, no, you idiots. There are sounds of an attack coming from our side. Get your asses down there and take care of it!”

“The Federales?”

“Who gives a shit? Get your stupid asses down there and handle it!”

I hauled it back toward JJ, leapt the chain-link fence and dashed her way. Oh, man. Not a doubt in my mind what was happening. Flung open her SUV’s back hatch while she demanded answers.

“What the hell is going on?”

I pulled a weighty duffel bag toward me. Gotta hustle. No time, no time.

“There’s a problem in their tunnel. They seem to think they’re under attack.”

Gotta move, gotta fly. The adrenaline pump fired up, triggers soon enough pulled, death imminent for more than a few of those cats. Sinaloa Cartel cats. Oh, man.

JJ leapt from the vehicle, draped her lanyard with FBI badge over her head, and snagged her backseat jacket with large yellow FBI letters across the back.

“So they’re escaping down the tunnel?” she asked, checking her 9mm pistol.

I snatched a rifle from the duffel bag. The other remained and told me that whatever Bo was up to he was armed with only a pistol. And his Bundeswehr fighting knife. I held a Barrett REC7 carbine with iron sights. Not the best tunnel gun, but a fine weapon. It would do for up close and personal work. Grabbed an extra thirty round magazine and a small penlight. No time for anything else. Gotta run, gotta get down there.

“They aren’t escaping,” I said. “They’re going after whatever is causing the ruckus.”

“What are you doing with the rifle? What aren’t you telling me?”

A quick check of the weapon’s receiver. Locked and loaded. No time, no time, gotta move. Rock and roll, Lee. Hit them fast and hard. The adrenaline pump redlined.

“Case! What is going on?”

“It’s Bo. He’s coming after them from the Mexican side.”

Chapter 9

 

Straight through the freakin’ front door—no other option. The weird and well-honed prebattle calm settled fast—emotions shunted aside, complete commitment, all fight. Burst inside, hit them hard, head down the tunnel. Go after whoever was moving through the tunnel toward Bo. I’d be at their backs. Bushwhack the SOBs. Not a complicated op, if Bo still lived. I raced like a banshee for the drug house and, prior to cutting up the front walk, slammed the brakes. JJ was on my heels.

“No. I mean it, JJ.” I shot her a hard glare, started toward the front door, and tossed over my shoulder, “The cavalry will be here in minutes. I’ve got this.”

I leapt up the three steps to the wooden front door—aware I would be entering what would soon become a Sinaloa Cartel killing floor. Too damn bad for them. I turned the doorknob and burst inside. The explosive rip of a machine gun met me. Wood chips from the doorjamb and drywall particles flew. I hit the carpet and rolled forward, removed from the line of fire. My initial glance captured five bad guys, all armed. No telling how many had already headed down the tunnel toward Bo. I stopped at the entryway to the small dining area, pressed against a large Spanish-style wooden TV console. Protection. Bullets thwacked the other side of the wall as the cartel members cut loose with wasted shots. The cacophony of massive gun blasts filled the small area, the noise deafening. But the bullet bombardment ID’d the opposition’s weaponry. Two full-automatic submachine guns. Three pistols.

“Freeze! FBI!”

JJ at the open front door. Within a single second, her declaration was met with several pistol shots fired her way. I snatched a glance as she ducked behind the outside front door. Pressed, I prayed, against the brick outside. Sirens howled, backup not far away. Backup for JJ. I couldn’t be seen as part of this.

Down the hallway from my position a backlit shadow moved, coming from the kitchen—the source of the bad guys. I could have waited for the cat to show and pop him. But Delta doesn’t wait. I rose, took five quick silent steps toward the kitchen doorway. Pressed against the wall in time to watch a submachine gun barrel poke through the opening. My left hand grabbed it, now controlling the weapon’s aim. Swung my right rifle-filled hand upward and put a bullet in the narco’s head. As he collapsed, two pistol-armed men in the kitchen opened fire on us. On me. I dropped to one knee and popped the nearest one twice in the chest—double tap. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Several bullets issued their angry bee-buzz whine past my head. I snap-aimed at the second man as he kept slapping his pistol’s trigger. He blasted volumes of lead, not relying on aim. Too bad for him. I did. A headshot ended his return fire. Three down.

I dashed back to my original position behind the wooden console and dropped. Flung myself forward, belly-flat, and aimed into the kitchen through the small dining room. Just in time to see a Sinaloa thug’s head disappear down a hole in the floor inside the kitchen pantry. The lone remaining cartel member popped up from behind the kitchen counter and raised his submachine gun, taking dead aim at my floor position. Before either of us could fire a shot, there were two then three massive blasts at my back from the front door. The first two hit my guy’s torso, the third, a half-second later, was a headshot. JJ, covering my back.

Four dead, one down the hole, plus the narcos already sent into the tunnel before I burst in. Alex Whittle was nowhere to be seen. Tires screeched outside, sirens howled, blue and white and red lights flashed through the house’s front window. JJ stepped inside. Behind her, car doors flung open, orders barked. I scrambled and slid across the floor toward the tunnel, staying below anyone’s outside line of sight and avoiding the expanding blood pools across the kitchen’s tile floor.

“You got this?” I asked over my shoulder, flicking on and shining the small penlight into the hole. Fifteen feet straight down, a stout built-in wooden ladder was mounted against one wall. More light shone from somewhere else below.

“Got it!”

Cries of “Sheriff’s Department!” and “DEA!” filled the night air. JJ had backup. Bo didn’t. I started down the ladder. As my shoulders reached floor-level, JJ spoke.

“Bo.”

One word, no elaboration, and none needed. We locked eyes, I returned a tight nod, and scrambled, the rifle in one hand. Dropped the last eight feet and spun a one-eighty on the ride, rifle to shoulder when I landed on the hard-packed ground, finger pressed against the trigger. I sought targets. Anyone or anything that wasn’t Bo Dickerson would die. No hesitation, no regrets. But there was nothing. Nada.

It was a well-built tunnel, seven or eight feet high and the same wide, reinforced with timbers. A string of lightbulbs ran along the ceiling toward Mexico, the power line tacked to overhead timbers. Multiple packages of tight-wrapped drugs lay scattered near the ladder I’d descended.

It wasn’t a straight path. Ten paces and the tunnel veered right then back left. The tunnel diggers had bypassed a large boulder, opting for softer dirt. The pattern continued with a slight turn, a deviation, every ten or fifteen paces. The tunnel serpentined through the earth. The air—cool, musty, with the sharp, pungent smell of dry desert soil.

I had one narco immediately ahead, and more beyond him. Gunfire ahead rumbled and reverberated along the tunnel. Sharp cracks, declarative single shots, were intermixed with ripping strings of machine-gun blasts.

The single shots were Bo’s. Gotta go, gotta fly. I did. Dashed from bend to bend, prepared to fire when I turned each angle. At the fourth bend, the back of the narco who’d shimmied down the ladder ahead of me appeared. He crept cautiously toward the tunnel battle. I paused, aimed, delivered a headshot. I dashed again, leaping over his body.

My shot alerted those farther ahead, evidenced by barked orders—fifty or so yards away—to backtrack and see what the hell was happening. Alerted cartel members were now positioned between me and Bo. Those didn’t bother me. It was the unknown quantity of machine-gun-bearing narcos at Bo’s back that had chased or followed him from the tunnel entrance at the tire shop. Intense battle sounds continued farther ahead.

Three more tight tunnel bends, and I crossed into Mexico—a demarcation marked with a small Mexican flag nailed to overhead timbers. I kept a fast pace—long quick steps, rifle against shoulder, finger pressed against the trigger. At the next turn, I ran into a half-dozen narcos aiming their weapons in my direction. I slammed the brakes and dove back around the bend as automatic gunfire exploded in my direction, the noise horrific, dirt and dust filling the air where the bullets slammed into the tunnel’s wall.

Good. Their focus on me provided Bo a measure of relief. The sound signature of their muzzle blasts said they no longer pointed his way. And it waved a Delta battle flag for Bo stating I’d joined the fray.

Shots continued farther along the tunnel as my immediate group of cartel fighters figured out what to do. I helped them with that decision. I belly-flopped onto the dirt floor and edged toward the tunnel bend. Pulled the Glock pistol and exposed a portion of my right hand, blasting blind along the tunnel toward the enemy. A few rips of machine-gun fire were returned as dirt chunks fell from the walls and dust obscured sight. Rapid scrambling footfalls indicated they’d taken a prudent repositioning toward the bend at their backs. It left a fifteen-pace tunnel space of no-man’s-land between us.

Stay static and die. I wasn’t about to participate in a very real Mexican standoff. I performed a fast, fast walk, avoided the footfalls of a run, and positioned on my side at the tunnel’s angular turn, the Glock again holstered. Around the bend, no more than six or seven feet away, were a cluster of narcos. Believing I remained at my original encounter position, hushed orders were given. One would belly-drop and edge his machine gun around the turn at ground level. The other would stand and deliver fire from a higher elevation. At the sound of the first one scraping along the ground, I eased the rifle against the dirt wall and pulled the Glock again. Transferred it to my left hand and squatted low.

His weapon’s barrel eased around the corner. A quick glance upward confirmed the second shooter hadn’t positioned himself yet. Facing the tunnel wall, I shifted my still-squatting left leg toward the enemy’s approaching weapon and thrust my body to the turn’s angle point, staying low. His head, two feet away, received a bullet. I began firing upward without true aim, popping the second shooter in the leg, torso, and chest as the pistol raised. Then a quick duck back around the corner. Futile fire blasted past my corner position, kicking up more dirt and dust as the tunnel walls received a zip line of lead. My ears rang, and hearing became problematic at best.

Then one of the dumb bastards decided this was a fine time to lob a grenade around the corner. Inside a freakin’ dirt tunnel. With my adrenaline pump redlined and all motion slowed with hyper-acute focus, I watched the frag grenade arc through the air, headed for a spot ten feet away. Rational thought vanished; pure instinct ruled. I dove toward its anticipated landing spot. The grenade landed with a dense thud, my hand grasping it a quarter-second later. I flung it back toward the tunnel bend and kissed dirt, spread-eagled, face smashed into the tunnel floor.

The explosion lifted me an inch off the ground. I may have been hit by fragments but no time for assessment. Whoever got to their feet first lived. They didn’t. I scrambled up, ran five paces, and flung myself around the corner. One was dead, one wounded and rolling, screaming, in the dirt. The other two stood dazed, one supporting himself with a hand against the wall. I killed them first, each with a double tap to the chest. Then I put the wounded narco out of his misery.

I performed a quick personal damage assessment. Nothing life-threatening, although a couple of throbbing bites across my back side indicated I hadn’t escaped the grenade unscathed. No time, gotta move. A brief respite from the gunfire down the tunnel as everyone paused to internalize a foolhardy grenade blast in such close quarters. I snatched up my rifle and dashed forward, passing several blown timbers along a wall and one support timber overhead dangling and swinging by its wooden splinters.

I dashed around the next turn and encountered two offshoot tunnels. One on my left, one to the right. Both were also well built and clearly provided access to two other US houses. The cartel operated this place like checkout lines at the grocery store. But the action continued ahead in the main tunnel as the echoed gunfire blasts began again. Several shots rang from way farther along the tunnel, from Bo’s back side. A few more were closer but facing away from me. Narcos were still positioned between me and Bo, firing in his direction. No time to think or plan. Time to attack, move forward.

Then the tunnel lights went out.

Chapter 10

 

Black, black—pitch-black. All firing ceased. The narcos wouldn’t have thermal sights on their weapons—their aiming gambit was much more spray and pray. Which left us all on even ground. Well, not quite even. Realization sunk in, a half-smile in the darkness. Bo had cut or shot the single electrical line feeding the lights. And now—regardless of the odds or numbers or firepower—it was advantage Bo Dickerson.

In Delta, his uncanny, preternatural ability to move and hide without being seen never ceased to amaze. It instilled a deep hidden sliver of fear—whether we’d admit it to ourselves or not. Day and night, rain or shine, Bo owned the mystical ability to slip from view or, better yet, never be seen at all. My Delta teammates and I would kid him about his secret cloak of invisibility. He’d deliver a tight smile in return. Borderline spooky stuff.

The narcos were screwed. They just didn’t know it yet. Hurried voices drifted through the tunnel, questions and brusque answers whispered loud. My mission was to keep the pressure on. I had a penlight, if needed, although I was more comfortable feeling my way along the walls, silent. Not as silent as Bo’s ghostlike movement, but unheard by my enemies. I laid the rifle against the dirt wall as a marker, pulled the Glock, and with my left hand tracked nearby dirt with fingertips. Eased forward, silent. My fingers brushed against support timbers as I continued following the tunnel’s contours.

No telling how many cartel killers were at Bo’s back from the Mexican side. A handful were collected between him and me. He’d make his way in my direction, an unseen specter, with pistol holstered and Bundeswehr fighting knife pulled. The enemy—men who tortured, murdered, raped, and ruled with terror over vast areas of Mexico. I had no remorse, no regret. Nor would Bo.

The tunnel shifted direction toward the left. My fingertips crossed rough rock, the reason for the tunnel’s diversion. Hushed voices, a few paces away. I froze, assessed the situation.

“Where the hell is Flaco?” a tight voice whispered in Spanish.

“He’s gone back. Him and Manuel.”

“Those stupid bastards. We need to stay together. C’mon.”

The next three seconds would tell the tale about which direction this collection of narcos moved. If they crept my way, I was confident I’d be aware of them before we touched. In anticipation I slipped the penlight from a pocket and placed it in my left hand, pressed alongside the Glock in my right. Left hand finger pressed against the penlight on/off switch while my right trigger finger maintained big bang pressure. Breath through nostrils, shallow and even and silent.

I smelled them. Fear, adrenaline, sweat as a moving wall of odor washed over me. They’d opted to head my way. Could see nothing, nothing. Neither could they. I flicked on the penlight and fired the first shot milliseconds later. Into a man’s head, three feet away. Another headshot took out the man behind him, and the third one began firing his submachine gun as he lifted it toward me. Two rapid chest shots halted his attempt, a third shot to his forehead ensured he’d remain silent. I flicked off the penlight. Still nothingness returned. Spent gunpowder—reminiscent of exploded fireworks—lingered and hung within the confined space. There had to be a large fan at the tire repair shop entrance blowing into the tunnel, but no air moved this far in.

I ejected the Glock’s magazine, shoved home a loaded one, and slapped it with the heel of my hand, ensuring it was properly seated. Thirteen rounds in the mag, one in the chamber. It would do. It would have to do. I detoured around three bodies and continued forward, fingertips again tracking against a dirt wall. The brief moment of combat had afforded me a view of the tunnel. Another ten paces or so, and it shifted angles again. My senses remained in hyperdrive, hair standing at my neck and forearms. My fingertips brushed a support timber, then back to the earthen wall. I’d continue until I met Bo or more narcos.

Still silence ahead. Bo would use the knife, slip upon one poor bastard at a time, and carry out each execution with quiet efficiency. Man, you wanted him on your side in a fight. I approached what should have been near the next tunnel turn. Stopped, frozen, and listened. Kept my breath shallow, no breathing noise. Heart rate high but not jacked. My senses, redlined. I turned my head several times in the hope of picking up a sound, any sound. Or smell.

“‘I’ve got to keep movin’.’”

Bo, singing an old blues tune with a soft voice. Coming from behind me.

“Shithouse mouse, Bo.”

He’d slipped past me during the last sixty seconds.

“‘There’s a hellhound on my trail.’”

“You’re gonna give me a freakin’ heart attack.”

“‘Hellhound on my trail…’”

The last “trail” tapered off, song complete. I flicked on the penlight. It provided sufficient illumination for this short section.

“And to think some folks find you not right. Hard to believe.”

“How’s my favorite goober?”

“Is any of that mess yours?” I asked, approaching and lifting a chin toward his shirtfront. It was soaked with blood.

“All of it is all of ours. You don’t appear worse for wear.”

Translation—it was narco blood. I handed him the penlight and turned my back toward him.

“Anything gushing back there?” I asked. “A grenade had my name on it.”

He performed a quick poke and prod.

“A shallow one across the upper back. A furrow, sprouting little. And”—he lowered my waistband—“an in-and-out across your left butt cheek.”

“Well, they haven’t started barking yet. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Both are potent totems. Tunnel totems.”

“Out of here, Bo. Let’s go. Are there any more behind us? Coming this way?”

“Not unless they have a rapid recruitment program at the tire shop.”

I recovered the penlight and passed him, headed north. Toward the US.

“Is there any chance you ran into Alex Whittle?” I asked over my shoulder, voice low. “I know you never saw him in person, but he hauled it down the tunnel once firing started at the house.”

“I do not believe so, kemosabe. But then again, it was rather dark.”

“No shit.”

“How is JJ?”

“Up to her butt in paperwork for the next month. Otherwise, okay.”

I backtracked rapidly, plucked my rifle from its resting place, and informed Bo of the layout.

“There’s a Mexican flag ahead. It marks the border.”

“How subterranean.”

“Yeah. But before we get there, more tunnels on the left and right.”

“These are industrious drug dealers.”

“I’m thinking Whittle took one of those and popped up again on the US side.”

We covered distance at a rapid pace. I wanted nothing more than to exit the bloody tunnel. As we approached the two side tunnels, voices sounded farther ahead. In English—DEA, sheriff’s deputies, maybe JJ. Hard to say. But they’d descended the ladder and their voices echoed in our direction. They wouldn’t cross the flag-marked border, and would be preoccupied with piles of undelivered drugs and a collection of cartel bodies. A dim light came from their direction as a half-dozen flashlights worked their area.

At the intersection with the two offshoot tunnels I halted, squatted, and lit up the hard-packed dirt floor. Dozens of minute partial footprints sprinkled the area. There was no point saying anything, so I handed the penlight up to Bo. He took over. Thirty seconds later he announced, “This way,” and pointed toward the tunnel headed east.

“You sure?”

“I can cast oracle bones if you’d like reassurance.”

I retrieved the penlight, handed him my rifle, and turned east. This tunnel followed the same zigzag pattern while angling north. I halted at each boulder-driven turn before thrusting forward, pistol drawn. Bo strolled behind me, humming an old Beatles tune. After a hundred fifty yards, dead-end. With another well-built wooden ladder headed up.

“Douse the light,” Bo said and handed my rifle back.

He climbed without a sound. No light from above, the environment once again pitch-black. Then dim illumination overhead. Nighttime illumination, minimal, but a helluva lot more than tunnel darkness. Bo had, half-inch by half-inch, raised the tunnel’s entrance—wooden flooring as in the pantry of the other house. I climbed, much slower than him, and ensured each wooden rung held my weight without protest. He and I remained silent. Footsteps above and nearby. Pacing footsteps. The house was dark, no lights, but someone paced about in the darkness, waiting.

Then the front door opened, closed. Bo shoved the tunnel door aside and ascended. I met him inside the house’s kitchen pantry. We hunkered down and whispered.

“I’ll check the rest of the house,” Bo said. “You check out the front area, boo.”

I did. And edging up to the large front window, I captured a glance of Whittle sliding into a sedan’s front passenger seat. With the car door open, the interior light was on. But the driver’s face, male, was partially blocked by the roofline of the car. What I did recognize was the unmistakable flash and reflection of a badge and ID hanging from a lanyard across the guy’s chest.

Chapter 11

 

“See anything?” Bo asked, approaching at my rear.

“Yeah.” I wouldn’t elaborate. Bo and JJ weren’t wading into this mess any deeper. My mess, my cleanup. “He drove off. Just missed him.”

We stood in silence and stared into the dark night. A few streetlights shined along the street, and traffic was zilch. A quiet moment.

“Why’d you go in?” I asked. “That bordered on dumbass, bud.”

“Limited options were presented. I stood and stared down the tunnel entrance from the tire shop’s small office. A number of what appeared to be angry pharmacists arrived without an invitation and began unloading another van.”

“You didn’t consider they’d head into the tunnel?”

“Oh, I did consider it, my brother. Most assuredly.”

He didn’t elaborate, and long experience told me there was no point pressing. To do so required a solid grasp of Bo’s personal logic. And that was a spelunking expedition best held over strong drink.

“I’ll go get the car,” Bo said, his voice low as we stood inside the dark house. “Got my own key fob.”

“Thanks. Oh, and take this.”

I stripped off my shirt and handed it over as he pulled his sticky wet mess of a shirt off.

“Yours has blood across the back, goober. Your blood.”

“Yeah. So you could walk up to your parked vehicle with a bloody back while every cop within twenty miles mills around, or keep your shirt on and approach them walking backward. Your choice.”

“You’re becoming surly in your old age,” he said and slipped into my button-down shirt.

“I’m becoming concerned in my dotage. Concern for you, my brother.”

He eased against my shirtless back, his wispy red beard on the top of my right shoulder.

“And I for you. Gopher games may not be your forte any longer.”

I had to smile. Gopher games, indeed.

“Not too sure what my forte is anymore, Bo. I don’t have your fallback position of cosmic traveler.”

“Which can be corrected.”

“Maybe. When you bring the car, pull into the driveway. We’ll haul our rucksacks inside and you can patch me up.”

“Did you pack your tux?” he asked.

“Yeah. You?”

“Always. We’ll find a spot adequate for two debonair dudes, sup, sip, and wait for JJ.”

“A man with a plan. I like it.”

He eased out the front door. When he returned with their SUV, we both pulled field medical kits from our rucksacks, went into one of the house’s bathrooms, and Bo administered to my medical needs. The fragment wound in my rear end stung like hell but wasn’t serious. The upper back was little more than a graze. Wound wash was applied, and—once the bleeding stopped—I was patched. Good to go. Fresh clothes for us both and we pulled away, headed toward downtown.

I’d made reservations at another Douglas hotel at JJ’s request. It was nice, clean, and lacked the Gadsden Hotel’s soaring lobby. It lacked ghosts as well. Bo and I walked a few blocks from the hotel to a quiet, dark bar/restaurant and settled onto the tiny empty outdoor patio. The air was cool, and a dry high-desert breeze carried brittle smells.

“Did you call JJ?” I asked.

“Did indeed. I’ll text her our location so she can get a ride here from a fellow law enforcement honcho.”

“Is she pissed?”

“At you.”

“I bet.”

“I fail to understand it. It was my path, my adventure.”

“She’s pissed because I do tend to pull you into these things, bud. That’s a fact.”

Russian spies, New Guinea headhunters, bounty hunters, terrorists… Bo was always game for an adventure.

“That is not a fact. Cosmic winds billow my sail.”

We drank—Grey Goose vodka for me, a local craft beer for Bo—and noshed on appetizers. We spoke of worldly events within Bo’s and my context—arcs of joy and violence and regret. People and battles and heartbreak. Times past, present, and future. But we didn’t dwell on the past or even the present. Instead we simply acknowledged and accepted the shared fabric of events. Part of our warp and woof. Too much killing, for sure, and not enough love. But what love there was pulled powerful and formed the bonding glue for us both. In the end, it was all that mattered.

JJ arrived. She swept in, Bo stood, and I had a ringside seat to their wild hug and passionate kiss. Both her hands maintained a death grip on his red hair. She admonished him and told him she loved him, and he returned the sentiment. Then she turned toward me.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” she said, one eyebrow raised.

“Then don’t.”

She shook her head, focused again on Bo, and ordered a beer when the barkeep approached. JJ and I were well past the don’t-be-blunt stage.

“What was the stuff?” I asked her.

“Fentanyl. Pure fentanyl. We captured several hundred pounds of the stuff.”

I knew a bit about the drug. A synthetic opioid. Eighty to a hundred times stronger than morphine. More than seventy thousand Americans died from drug overdoses the previous year, and a growing number of those deaths were attributed to fentanyl. As a street drug, it now killed more Americans annually than any other in US history. It was also much more lucrative than heroin. Due to its potency, smuggling one kilogram of fentanyl was roughly the equivalent of smuggling fifty kilograms of heroin into the US.

“One helluva haul,” I said. “What about the loaded sedan that took off before it hit the fan?”

“The highway patrol got him. I was able to give them enough of a vehicle description.”

“Chalk one up to the good guys,” I said and raised my drink.

She clinked her beer glass with my cocktail glass.

“Where’s it from?” I asked. “Is the Sinaloa Cartel making it?”

“Most of it’s from China. They ship it to Mexico, and the cartels handle distribution. We’ve never cracked the Chinese/Mexican relationship in terms of business model, partnerships, alliances—the usual stuff we try and map.”

“The Chinese and Mexican cartels,” I said. “Strange times.”

“Yes, strange times. I received a call from my boss a little while ago. He’s proud of the job I did. What with the anonymous tip and all. Did you see any sign of Alex Whittle while you two pretended to be twenty-five again?”

“We’re both still pretty doggone spry. Just ask those expired cartel members.”

She raised a single eyebrow again and asked, “Whittle?”

I lied. Had to. First and foremost, revealing a crooked federal agent would put JJ in someone’s crosshairs. This was dirty, serious business. The Company, Marilyn Townsend, would handle it. They had specialists for such things. Secondly, I had a contractual obligation to share only with Townsend. It was better for everyone at the table if I kept Whittle’s crooked federal connection hidden.

“No. Bo tracked him to another tunnel originating on the Mexican side. It also comes up in the US. Another house, another kitchen pantry. We followed but came up empty.”

“Which house?”

I gave her the address. At least they’d close another avenue for the death-dealing drug. For a while. Consideration in those terms was damn depressing.

“Any issues on your end?” I asked.

“You mean like dead cartel bodies all over the place? Yes, I’d say there are a few issues.”

“Anything you can’t handle?”

“It’s already handled. Including the issue of spent brass, .223 caliber spent brass, in the living room and hallway. And a great number of holes in sheetrock and doorframes. Some of my peers thought the firing angles were, well, peculiar if they were shooting at me.”

“Attributable to mayhem and chaos,” Bo said. “The human critter performs strange things under intense pressure.”

“Please speak about strange things in the past tense, lover. Never again. I mean it.”

“I strive for the narrow path, JJ. But cosmic winds intercede.”

“Ignore those winds in the future. Lower the sail. Please.” She turned back to me and took a deep breath. “Thanks for the rathole dive. Seeing you head down the tunnel brought a huge sense of relief. Let’s just not go through anything like that again.”

“Fine by me. And thanks for covering my back once again. It was nip and tuck with the narco you nailed.”

She waved a dismissive hand and shot me a sly wink. We were back in calm waters.

“Thank God the front doorjamb was well built,” she said, changing subjects. “They tore the sucker up shooting at me.”

“Who was the cavalry?” I asked.

“Sheriff Department, DEA, even several Border Patrol.”

“Any other FBI agents?”

“Nope. The closest was Tucson.”

“So, just out of curiosity, who wears lanyards with ID and badges other than the FBI and DEA? I mean, tonight, among the cavalry.”

“Only the FBI and DEA. Why?”

“Future reference. Knowledge gained; life enriched. A universal plus.”

“You were in the tunnel too long with Bo. Let’s order food, and I’ll share the crime scene details. Blood, gore, green chile. What could be finer?”

We began to relax, foot and auto traffic light. A few desert insects flitted around the light string above the patio. Douglas fell calm again after a massive shootout at a drug-runner’s house. The locals would talk about it for months. Or not. I wasn’t sure how often such occurrences happened on the US side.

I sipped Grey Goose, laughed and kidded, and considered the contract might be over. Devon Chapman was involved with running fentanyl into the US. A huge deal for someone in the intelligence services. I had the name of the distribution organizer—Alex Whittle. And another name, Fred, who was involved at some level. And I had a visual of a DEA agent helping Whittle. Townsend might pat me on the head and send me home, job complete. Fair enough. I could have done without the tunnel fight, but you play the cards you’re dealt. All in all, a good gig. I’d log whatever info Jess Rossi had found and include it in the report. Put a bow on the thing and send it to Townsend via the encrypted code she’d given me.

“You’re looking self-satisfied, my Georgia peach.”

“It’s the green chile. And the fact this job is likely over.”

“Good, I suppose,” JJ said. “Although you’ve hidden the contract’s intent, Mr. Man of Mystery. So now go chase lost dogs and inheritance claims. Start engaging with normal contracts. And normal contractors. Bo tells me you have a girlfriend.”

“Bo may have exaggerated.”

“A burgeoning relationship, as I understand it,” Bo said. “Filled with promise and hope.”

“Filled with land mines and skepticism, I’m afraid. But we’re working on it.”

“Tell me about her,” JJ said. “Include your convoluted and no doubt wrong opinion on what her viewpoint of the relationship might be.”

“I see a bright future for you in couples therapy if the FBI gig gets old.”

“Are you sleeping with her?”

“Jeez, JJ. Gimme a break.”

“Well?”

“Well, let’s say we’re building a relationship framework.”

“A construction analogy. How romantic.”

“Does she do this to you?” I asked Bo.

He’d closed his eyes, slouched across the chair, face upward with a calm smile displayed. Bo was entertained by our conversation. Or he’d taken a cosmic trip. Hard to say. He opened one eye.

“It’s not a matter of doing.”

“Your inner Yoda is coming out, Bo,” I said.

“You both fight the flow.” He closed the eye and returned to his happy place. “A loose hand on the tiller is the best policy. The universe will guide.”

JJ and I locked eyes. We both launched smiles, which quickly turned into chuckles and escalated into outright laughter. Man, I loved that guy. And was learning to love JJ.

Insects flitted overhead, and the high desert sky filled to the brim with stars. And three insignificant people cloistered around a table in Douglas, Arizona, were cocooned with a bond woven from adversity and comradeship and something much, much deeper.

Chapter 12

 

A text message from Jess Rossi greeted me before dawn.

Call when you get a chance.

My back side bit as I moved about. Two more scars. Two more totems. Man, at some point it had to stop. I knew the solution. I could simply whack the thrill switch. Eliminate the internal drive to participate in those adrenaline-pumping situations. But a small slice of me still craved it. A fact acknowledged and accepted. Maybe it was time I stopped such casual acceptance. Maybe. A shower, shave, and second cup of coffee from the lobby urn fueled activity. I called Jess.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” she said. “How’s Seattle?”

A white lie perched on the tip of my tongue. I could open the door for her Douglas activities critique or play it safe and claim Seattle as my current location. But I couldn’t build a relationship on deceit.

“I’m in Douglas, Arizona.”

“Of course you are. Hold on.”

Fingers flew across a keyboard in the background.

“Well, let’s have a gander at local events in Douglas,” she said. “There’s a news blurb about a drug bust and a shoot-out. It would seem Sinaloa Cartel members were involved. Does any of that have a familiar ring?”

“Yeah, it does.”

“Wouldn’t it be more appropriate to nuke it from orbit? It’s the only way to be sure.”

“Have you had your coffee this morning? It might help.”

She chuckled and tossed one more light dig my way before moving on.

“Remind me to pick and choose the location for our next date. Our individual concepts of a fun venue might not match up. Now, I have some information for you.”

“Tell me.”

“Your Mr. Devon Chapman comes from old money, it would appear. Old East Coast money. He won’t be scraping together pennies anytime soon.”

Then why the hell was he involved in drug-running? It didn’t make a lick of sense.

“Okay. Thanks.”

“As for the boat, the New Dawn Rising, it’s a Washington State registration. The owner is listed as the CAC Corporation, a Cayman Islands company.”

The Caymans were famous, or infamous, for their secrecy regarding corporations, registrations, and bank accounts. I used a Cayman bank with a fake ID and associated credit card.

“Any idea what CAC stands for?”

“I’m afraid not. The Caymans are a tough nut to crack.”

Which was why I used them as a financial and identification vehicle.

“Yeah, so I understand. Thanks, Jess. It helps.”

“Tell me that after you see my invoice. It’s in your email inbox.”

“I saw it before I called you. Are you behind on your Rolls-Royce payments?”

“It’s the Lear jet. But a poor girl needs her amenities. So when is our date night?”

“Tonight?”

“I’m still in Denver. And again, I choose the venue.”

“Good. I’ll be there this afternoon.”

We arranged logistics and signed off. I stood and stretched and viewed the morning across an old Wild West cattle and copper town. I liked it. The isolation, rugged individualism, remnants of the old Western days writ large. Quiet time, and I reflected on how a recent string of people, a string of women, had in their own individual and semi-loving way poked and prodded the beat-up critter called Case Lee. Mom. Marilyn Townsend. Jules. Jess and JJ. Perhaps they viewed me as a malleable person, someone who required the appropriate guidance. Guidance toward a settled-down lifestyle and a relationship, a partner, which would stabilize things and remove a few of my perceived deficiencies. Hard to say.

I booked a flight and ran a property records check on Orcas Island. Devon Chapman didn’t appear on any searches. What I did find was a property owned by the CAC Corporation. Satellite photos revealed a large compound near Deer Harbor. It was tucked within a small cove with docks, outlying bungalows, and a sprawling main house. Isolated, insulated from locals, and plenty impressive. It also lay fifteen miles from Canadian waters, and about twenty-five nautical miles from Victoria, British Columbia.

I figured between the yacht and the Orcas Island property, CAC was a shell company run by the Chapman family’s estate. Old money, expensive lawyers, tax havens and low-key holdings. It made sense. What didn’t make sense was Devon Chapman’s engagement with drug-running and a dirty DEA agent.

After breakfast I said my goodbyes to Bo and JJ and headed for Tucson. I’d booked a Denver commercial flight and prepared for the rigamarole of shipping my Glock inside a small, locked hard-sided container as checked baggage. I understood the rationale and had no issue with it, but it did emphasize the convenience of charter flights. Walk on, walk off.

The midsized Tucson airport—with tall saguaro cactus landscaping and distant severe desert mountains—afforded me the opportunity to sit at a coffee shop and work on Townsend’s report. Realization settled—the gig was over. Yeah, there were a few holes. Why would Chapman engage with drug smuggling, was the Orcas Island compound anything other than a vacation spot, and what was the CAC Corporation? I doubted Townsend would ask me to explore those things. But covering the bases, I tossed out a Clubhouse request regarding CAC. Jules might unearth a tidbit or three. I shot her a dark web message.

CAC Corporation? Cayman Islands?

It would take her time to root around, and even then it might prove fruitless. Meanwhile, I filled Townsend’s report with everything. Well, not quite everything. I left out JJ’s name. Couched her identity as an “FBI special agent at the scene.” JJ was in the news anyway. I wasn’t kidding myself that Marilyn Townsend wouldn’t connect a few dots, being aware of JJ and my relationship from the terrorist attack on St. Thomas island. And odds were high she’d know about JJ and Bo’s relationship. If not, she would poke around and figure it out. I did elaborate personal observations and Douglas experiences, including a “hot firefight” reference. The report also covered Alex Whittle, a guy called Fred, an unknown dirty DEA agent, the Sinaloa Cartel, and fentanyl. Truckloads of fentanyl.

Widening the net to include JJ ensured Townsend would be mightily pissed. I left no bread-crumb trail regarding Jess, and Townsend already knew about Jules. Townsend would also be bent out of shape over the Douglas violence. On the flip side, I was handing her a juicy pile of dirty laundry. She, and the Company, could take it from here. Case Lee Inc. had delivered the goods.

I checked into the same Denver hotel as Jess and met her in the lobby. We strolled toward a nearby steak house. It was great seeing her again, and she indicated the same sentiments. She looked fine—shortish hair, turquoise blouse, black slacks, and a light jacket against the mile-high spring weather. I’d packed slacks and a blazer, so I wasn’t a mismatch. She draped an arm through mine, old style, as we walked.

“How’s the search for the runaway kid going?” I asked.

“I’ve got the little miscreant cornered. There’s a crash pad I’ll visit in the early a.m. At the moment, all roads lead there.”

“What do you do if he is there?”

“I’ll explain he has two options. Travel with me, right then, to the airport and back to Charlotte, or I’ll have the Denver cops there inside ninety seconds.”

“Is the second option BS?”

“Pure and unadulterated, I’m afraid. I’ve talked with the local cops. They might hold him for six hours or so, but they’d release him. He’s sixteen, and they have more pressing issues.”

“Do you think the kid might know that?”

“He might think he does. I have found it helps to toss in a few assertions that he’ll be booked for criminal trespass, criminal intent, and interstate trafficking.”

“This kid is one badass desperado.”

“All hundred and forty pounds of him. I’ll explain he’s looking at two years in juvie followed with a big house transfer where his love life will flourish among large hardened criminals. I’ll wait five seconds or so, and we’ll be off to the airport.”

“Why not have him call his parents?”

“In my experience, it doesn’t work well. They’ll rehash old issues and reopen familial wounds. It’s much better to plonk him down at their front door.”

“Pizza delivery.”

“Perhaps a bit more elevated than that.” She squeezed my arm as a friendly gesture. “In most cases the door opens, the kid stomps past the parents, they thank me, and I hand them my invoice. Which is payable upon receipt. I have taken to mentioning this while standing at their front door. A check usually arrives within minutes, and voila, job over.”

“Remind me to never owe you money. Speaking of which.” I slid a thick envelope from my jacket pocket and handed it over. “Payment in full. Cash. Hope that’s okay.”

“In my limited experience with high finance,” she said, “cash is more than okay. Dinner is on me. I insist, and no arguments, please. This affords me the opportunity to pay with large bills. A rare event.”

We laughed, strolled, and enjoyed the night air. The steak house was crowded, the drinks excellent. I ordered a nice bottle of wine with dinner.

“My gig is pretty much over,” I said, digging into a blue cheese and walnut salad. “There’s one small piece I may or may not receive intel on, then the report gets shipped.”

“Well, I hope it was a roaring success. You played footsie with spies and mixed it up with a few bad guys. Good times, good times.”

“Exactly. Couldn’t ask for more.”

Somewhat thin ice, but she smiled during the exchange. Whether it was the two dirty martinis she’d downed prior to dinner or a lightening up of her perspective on my, well, proclivities—as Jules and Townsend asserted—it was hard to say.

“So where are you headed next?” she asked.

“The Ace of Spades.”

“Would you care to be more definitive regarding your tub’s location, or is it a state secret?”

“Florida. And while you are more than free to point out my glaring deficiencies, you are not allowed to cast aspersions on the Ace. She’s sensitive.”

“And tears fall like rain. Then what? Is a Charlotte trip in the near future?”

A more than legit question. Jess desired a semblance of logistical commitment.

“How about a week from now?”

“In Charlotte, right? It’s not that I mind the five-hour coast drive. But there better be a soaking tub and room service when I get there.”

“In Charlotte, no worries. What’s next for you? In the private investigator world?”

Jess explained she had become more engaged with domestic issues. Interpersonal conflicts among family members and friends that included deceit, theft, mental and physical abuse. And on occasion, murder.

“Sounds like Dr. Phil with a .45,” I said. “Are you packing?”

“I never leave home without it. An ex-cop thing, I suppose. Why did you ask? Is there someone in the restaurant you have a strong urge to whack?”

“The waiter, if the food doesn’t show soon.”

“It seems I’ve gotten the reputation as a specialist within the interpersonal crime and skullduggery field. The upside—it pays well and there’s plenty of work. The downside is the ugliness. Brutal psychological ugliness sprinkled with the occasional physical ugliness as well.”

The steaks and side dishes arrived. Man, nothing like the aroma of grilled beef. We both dug in as the waiter poured the wine. We chatted about life and family—a fine and pleasant evening. She explained that the Rossi clan, of Italian descent, was a large one and how one day I should meet them.

“We are a loud and raucous bunch,” she said. “So be forewarned. Issues and perceived slights are verbalized. Several hand gestures are used as well. But there’s a great deal of love in the mix, always. It’s our inter-tribe communication style.”

I felt a sudden pang for personal family connectivity with Mom and CC. I’d drop in once I’d cruised north. It had been several weeks, and I was due for a visit. In my small tight family, Mom ruled the roost. Which was both fine and entertaining for me. Mom’s beau, Peter Brooks, had the same attitude as I did. Peter was a retired insurance agent and a good and fine man. I viewed him as part of the family. CC, my mentally challenged younger sister, was a joy and guide for the small and recurring miracles I, and most others, passed by. Her dog of indeterminate lineage, Tinker Juarez, rounded out the family. Every man should be so lucky with such a collection.

All in all, Jess and I had a successful date. Smiles, laughter, the quick passage of time. Progress made, knowledge gained, hope staked out. We walked back hand-in-arm again and stopped short of our mutual hotel. We turned, held each other, and kissed. We were tentative at first, then embraced with rising passion. Until she pressed a hand against my back-shoulder wound. I flinched.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

I tried initiating another kiss. She wouldn’t have it.

“I felt a large bandage. It most definitely didn’t feel like nothing unless you’re morphing into a guy who hangs around Notre Dame’s bell tower.”

“It’s a minor wound. Now, back to street passion.”

“Any other areas I should be made aware of?”

“Not at the moment. By the way, you’re a helluva kisser.”

“And we’ll leave it at that. Two adults smooching like teenagers on a Denver street. Don’t plan on any romping in my, or your, room.”

“Fair enough.”

We embraced again. I wasn’t ready to cross the romping line either, and felt an element of relief she’d aired the subject.

“Get a room, for God’s sake.”

It came from a passerby, a young man who had strolled past. Jess and I broke off the kiss and laughed and held hands and headed into the hotel lobby. An appropriate end to a fine evening.

I checked messages back in my room. There was one from the Clubhouse.

CAC. Chinese American Cooperative. Tread very very carefully, dear.

Alrighty, then. Jules had uncovered the full name of the yacht and Orcas Island property owners. She’d also sniffed something larger. Much larger. Well, Marilyn Townsend could and would sort it out. I’d put the Clubhouse intel in my report and shoot it out in the morning. I booked an early flight to Jacksonville, Florida. By late afternoon I’d be on board the Ace of Spades, cruising north. All good—or so I thought.

Chapter 13

 

Springtime along the Ditch’s southern stretch, azaleas awash with vibrant color. It would only last a couple of weeks, but man, what a show. Cruising through unpopulated hemmed-in stretches of the Ditch, the dogwoods bloomed, tucked among the massive oaks. The weather was fine and boat traffic light. The Ace rumbled its reassuring resonance as we plowed our way north.

I’d sent Townsend my report the day before and hadn’t heard back. Not unexpected—she’d digest and assess and shift a few chess pieces. High odds my position as a pawn wouldn’t require further use. I was wrong.

Location for pickup?

Her encrypted text message was a summons, not a request. Damn.

Savannah. 0900 tomorrow.

Townsend didn’t deign to reply to my text response. Translation—make sure my butt was at the Savannah private air terminal at nine a.m. tomorrow. Our communications soured the day. I gave the Ace a bit more juice, the speed kicked up, and we wound our way near Savannah where I’d dock for the night. A small and favorite bar squatted uphill from the docks.

I was Charleston-bound where Mom, CC, and Peter expected me. A Townsend DC trip would delay me. I’d ensure it was a there-and-back excursion, courtesy of a Company jet. Townsend’s finger snap for a pickup location wasn’t an issue. What bothered me was the meeting’s agenda. My personal performance. Was this for the purpose of telling me I’d blown it? Engaged too many other players? Participated in unnecessary violence? High odds it was a combination of the three. Oh, well. But another distinct outcome was possible: she’d ask me to continue the investigation.

Jules’s message about treading carefully had spookville written all over it. The Chinese American Cooperative. CAC. It wasn’t a challenge to identify billowing gorilla dust around that puppy. Townsend may have known about it. Or not. Pretty good odds the latter. As for what CAC was about—it was anyone’s guess. But if Townsend had been unaware of CAC and her nose smelled clandestine engagement, well, that wouldn’t do. At all. So yeah, I’d tread carefully.

The unmarked jet waited the next morning. Tight nods exchanged with the crew and we took off. I’d accept the meeting’s ass-chewing aspect with aplomb, aware she knew her words fell on deaf ears. Townsend could use me as a whipping boy for her displeasure. Fine. We’d been down that road numerous times. Then we’d get to business.

We landed at Reagan Airport and taxied into a large hangar where several other Company jets were arrayed. A jet-black SUV sat parked inside as well. Two Company men stood alongside the vehicle in black suits, arms crossed, wearing sunglasses. Inside the hangar. I held back an eye roll, fatigued of the we-bad shtick. If they wanted an opportunity to display their badassery, I knew about a Mexican tunnel where the two could strut their stuff.

I wore jeans, a button-down shirt, a light jacket, and a Glock. These two men knew about the hidden fashion accessory but didn’t mention it. A directive from Townsend, no doubt.

“So, where we headed?” I asked.

“Just get in,” one of the spooks said, headed for the front passenger door.

“It doesn’t work like that, Jeeves.”

The other spook hadn’t moved a muscle and spoke next.

“Get in the damn vehicle, Lee.”

“Have you had your muesli today? You appear a tad constipated.”

We stood silent as I cocked my head and displayed a pleasant smile. Ten seconds later the driver said, “A McLean coffee shop.”

I returned a nod, and climbed into the back seat.

“I like mine black,” I said as we exited the hangar. “But I’m pretty sure they can whip up a couple soy frappe hazelnut mocha chai macchiatos for you boys. Maybe even add a few sprinkles on top. If you’re nice.”

We didn’t speak another word during the drive. A little over ten miles and fifteen minutes later, they pulled in front of a nondescript coffeehouse. I exited; they stayed. Townsend occupied a small corner table—one of a dozen—and nodded my way. I made a quick stop at the counter for black coffee and asked the barista to choose a different clean mug for me. One I chose at random from a large stack. Over the top? Yeah, maybe. Or not. A sea of black suits parted, and I sat.

“You appear sufficiently mobile, Mr. Lee. No ill effects from your little border altercation?”

An opening salvo regarding the violence she’d insisted I avoid. An expected conversational gambit and one among many I’d rather slap the table with early so she and I could get to the heart of this meeting.

“Fine as can be, thanks for asking. And you?”

“Cranky. A condition exacerbated by one Case Lee.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“How is Special Agent Johnson?” she asked.

First the violence and now my warned-against expanded circle of contacts. Townsend wasn’t beating around any bushes.

“She’s fine. Enjoying her new assignment in Albuquerque.”

Townsend took a sip of coffee.

“And our inestimable Mr. Dickerson?”

A show of clandestine prowess—my report hadn’t mentioned Bo. She’d connected the JJ dots to him. But given long-ago field association with our Delta team, she held Bo with the highest regard as a warrior.

“Bo is still Bo. A stand-alone truth among the universe’s swirling winds.”

We both smiled. She emitted a light chuckle and shook her head. She stared out one of the small coffee shop windows for a moment.

“I am torn,” she said. “What you delivered is highly valued.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“How you went about it upsets me.”

No point responding, so I slurped coffee.

“It upsets me a great deal, Mr. Lee.”

“We both know an ops can go sideways at any time. This was no exception.”

“Oh, it was.” A red flush climbed the sides of her neck. An often-viewed display going back years. “It was, indeed. Due to the simple matter of this not being an ops. Your contract calls for intelligence gathering. Period. What contractual aspect of that do you fail to understand?”

We locked unblinking eyes.

“I covered a teammate’s back, Marilyn. No apologies.”

The storm passed. We sipped coffee, and I joined her staring out the window.

“I’ve decided the term ‘disruptor’ is the most appropriate term for you,” she eventually said. “Which would not be an issue if this wasn’t on US soil. But it is, and I do not have sufficient resources to gather around your whirling dervish routine and capture valid intel as you fling it about.”

She meant this operation was tight. Tight and small—her and me, except for the other resources I’d introduced. And of those, only Jules knew the whole picture. Good. And it meant she wanted me to continue the contract. She would have told me it was terminated by now. Hell, she’d have told me two sips into my coffee.

“You’ve got more than enough to bust this guy, Director.”

The neck blush started again.

“I will make one item crystal clear for you. This is not about arrests. The disposition of Devon Chapman is no concern of yours. None whatsoever.”

I shrugged in response.

“Have I left any gray areas with regard to this particular item, Mr. Lee?”

“None whatsoever, Director.”

Translation—the Company would handle things when it came time to bring down the hammer. They could engage the FBI for an arrest. If Chapman was involved in Chinese espionage—a possibility highlighted with Jules’s warning—there were high odds the Company would attempt to turn him. Make him a counterintelligence asset. It’s what they did. The odds Townsend would send a wet-work specialist after Chapman, a specialist whose job guaranteed the need for a toe tag, was borderline off the table. It was US soil. Even Townsend had limits. Maybe.

“Describe your activities in granular detail. Begin with the flight to Seattle.”

I did. Jules was described as “an asset.” I left Jess out of it. Her footwork was something I could lay claim to have performed without Townsend lifting an eyebrow. JJ’s enormous help was outlined and with no apologies. Bo’s actions were couched as an incursion at the tunnel’s Mexican entrance. Townsend didn’t blink an eye at that one.

“Are you aware of the fentanyl’s street value?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“Tens of millions.”

“Okay.”

“With the decided effect of killing thousands of US citizens.”

“Glad we stopped it.”

I was. There’s little or no save-the-world streak in my makeup, but it felt fine and good to know I’d had a direct hand plugging one hole in a leaky dike.

“Are you certain Alex Whittle entered a DEA agent’s vehicle?”

I reviewed the lanyard with badge and ID situation.

“Would you be able to identify the individual again?” she asked.

“No. Too far distant, through a windshield and without a clear view of his face.”

“I take it following him was out of the question.”

“We were on foot. And required patching and a change of clothes.”

“Of course.”

She slid her mug toward the protective coterie arrayed around us. One of them stood, retrieved the mug, and returned with a fresh fill of steaming coffee. Townsend took her time adding cream and sugar, and more time stirring as we sat silent.

“How tight is your asset regarding information gathered on the Chinese American Cooperative?” she asked.

“She’s tight. You know that.”

Townsend nodded back. Neither of us used the Clubhouse occupant’s name.

“Would you like something to eat?” she asked, a signal we would enter the future plans phase.

It was barely discernible, but Townsend’s body language shifted into operational mode. I doubted if she was even aware of it. But due to her past and mine—and regardless of her admonitions about this gig as simple intelligence gathering—she still thought in operational terms. We entered the planning phase—next steps, outcomes, constraints.

“Yeah, I could eat. Can I get you something?”

“A blueberry muffin would be excellent. I have a deep and abiding fondness for those. Perhaps it harkens back to my youth during the late Pliocene.”

Delivered with a wry smile. I returned the same and, in a few minutes, brought banana bread and a blueberry muffin back to the table while her security team watched like hawks. Townsend’s mood improved.

“Continue the contract,” she said, eyes closed as she chewed.

“Happy to.”

I was. The gig at this point wasn’t a huge moneymaker for my depleted coffers.

“Back to Seattle, then.”

“Well, I don’t see much point until the weekend.”

“You don’t see much point? You have a peculiar perspective on client-contractor relationships.”

“I’m a peculiar guy.”

“No, you are an individual with little patience and utter disdain for the hard work required for intelligence gathering.”

“My butt gets tired sitting in a car. And I’m carrying a new souvenir from our Sinaloa friends, delivered to my delicate posterior.”

“Shall I break out the world’s smallest violin, Mr. Lee?”

“I didn’t know you played.”

We both took bites of our respective baked goods, chewed, and sipped coffee. A new coffee shop patron strolled in, eyeballed by a half-dozen spooks armed with hidden submachine guns. Townsend had a point regarding my client-contractor perspective, but any time spent in Seattle prior to Friday meant hours of drudgery as I sat and watched. In the rain.

“You have the guy’s office email,” I said. “Why not have one of your spooks email him an innocuous correspondence and see if he has an out-of-office response set up. If not, I’ll get to Seattle on Friday.”

We shared stares, which she broke to take another muffin bite.

“I’m stunned,” she said after chewing. “A viable suggestion from my contractor without a single expired body to be seen.”

“Perhaps you should take another gander out the window and see if pigs are flying.”

“Perhaps you should consider that this conversation only continues due to the fact my human resource options for this project remain quite limited. And limiting. Otherwise you, at this moment, would be arranging logistics for your Savannah return. I understand hitchhiking offers new and exciting thrills these days.”

“Would you like another muffin?”

“I would like you to listen. I will back-channel his work email. Not for content, which is well locked down. But our intelligence organizations require individual calendar access. Again, not specifics, but busy and free times. All-day events are noted with a header.”

“So if he works a regular week, no point for a Seattle trip until Friday.”

She took another bite and sipped coffee. The establishment’s doorknob bell jangled as one of the patrons departed.

“Orcas Island, Mr. Lee. I am quite insistent on that. Answers to CAC may lay there.”

“Agreed.”

“I will contact you with our subject’s work schedule.”

“I’m on board, Director. Anything else?”

“Yes. You may note Orcas Island is a quiet place. Any reenactments of the Tet Offensive will be noticed there. Do I make myself clear?”

“Abundantly clear.”

“Good. Do not force me to treat you as a minion.”

“You go there and this contract’s over.”

A five-second staredown ensued. It was borderline perfunctory—she and I had been through too much together for any sort of pissing match to hold water.

“You may return to Savannah. Report out with regularity. I will be in touch.”

The return flight was uneventful, and five hours after departing the coffee shop I fired up the Ace and continued toward Charleston. Near Daufuskie Island I received an encrypted message from Townsend.

A normal work week. Next week, vacation time taken W,Th,F.

I’d work logistics and pack appropriately—a ten-day stretch on the job lay ahead. Take a peek and poke around, with low expectations regarding any big reveal. But the bits and pieces I could capture would feed Townsend’s interest and interpretations. She’d place my gathered intel into the Company grinder and create clandestine sausage. While I faded out of the picture.

Man, was I wrong.

Chapter 14

 

“Lots and lots and lots of baby seeds.”

“Lots and lots,” I said.

CC blew the dandelion flower and released hundreds of tiny parachute-like seed stalks. The spring breeze caught them and sent them on their way.

“How do I know they will grow when they land?” she asked.

“You have to believe.”

We lay in Mom’s backyard, side by side, and stared up at the old twisted limbs of a water oak as its Spanish moss shifted with the breeze. Tinker Juarez, CC’s dog, pressed against her side on his back, spread-eagled. He delivered a large sneeze.

“Bless you, Tinker Juarez. I believe the baby seeds will land and grow.”

“I do too, my love.”

I’d spent a day and a half with Mom and CC, then off tomorrow for Seattle. The spring breeze carried hints of the coming summer heat, but at the moment fell squarely into the perfect category. Tinker sneezed again.

“Bless you, Tinker,” I said.

CC giggled. “You always forget his last name.”

“I could call him Mr. Juarez.”

I chuckled; she laughed out loud.

Tonight marked the going-away meal. The previous night we—Mom, CC, Peter Brooks, and myself—dined at a good Charleston seafood restaurant. Getting Mom to agree was akin to pulling teeth. She didn’t feel right eating out when her son made a visit. Tonight, however, was pull-out-the-stops time. Mom would cook and end of story.

“Can we take a boat trip?” CC asked.

“When I get back in about two weeks.”

“Then we can take a boat trip?”

“Promise.”

“With Tinker Juarez?”

“Of course.”

“Do you still help people?” she asked. “That’s what Mom says. You help people.”

Mom explained away my travels to CC with the claim I had to go help people. Which didn’t answer CC’s question. Did I help people? Maybe, sometimes. It certainly wasn’t a life of giving back, commitment toward individual struggles, easing burdens. Yeah, I’d taken actions that had alleviated pain and terror and, in some cases, death. My latest trip to Sudan flashed—me and my ex-Delta teammates had wiped out a tribe of genocidal maniacs. For the moment. For a while.

“I try, CC. I’m not always successful.”

“Mom says trying hard is the best thing. That’s what she tells me.”

“Mom is pretty smart.”

“Yes. She is.”

CC pursed her lips and stared at the sky. I squeezed her hand and said, “You are pretty smart, too, my love.”

She smiled and shot me a wide-eyed look of affirmation and returned to staring at the sky while scratching Tinker behind his ear.

“Mom says you sometimes stop bad people from doing bad things.”

“I try,” I said, and poked a finger into her ribs, tickling. She giggled and pushed my hand away and squirmed before settling down. Tinker rolled onto his side and watched, his tail slapping the grass.

I supposed I did try and stop bad people on occasion. With actions too often predicated on survival without an ounce of altruism. Getting through the day, addressing evil when encountered, surviving. By any stretch of the imagination I was a far, far cry from Mother Theresa. But I made conscious decisions to do the right thing, helped folks when possible, addressed the wrongs and the people that committed them when possible. Not a great legacy, but not a completely benign player, either.

I relished the four- or five-day trips with CC on board the Ace. We’d meander along the coast, explore inlets and small rivers, visit islands both inhabited and not. Easy times, great times, and on occasion perfect times. Moments where CC would light up with amazement at the small miracles occurring around us and ensured I participated in the wonder. An experience I could use on a more regular basis.

“Mom says you have a new friend. I have friends at school.”

CC attended a special-needs school for adults. All indications were she enjoyed it thoroughly.

“I understand you do. It’s good to have friends.”

“Mom says your new friend is a girl.”

“That’s true.”

“I’m a girl.”

“That’s also true. But you’re different than a friend. You’re my special love. That’s much, much better than a friend.”

I found her hand in the grass and squeezed it again. She squeezed back, digested my statement, and turned her head toward mine. She was greeted with a mile-wide smile. And a wink. CC loved winks. It implied something special, something perhaps secret. She winked back and moved on.

“I like springtime,” she said.

“Me, too.”

“What’s your favorite part?” she asked.

“All the new things. Flowers bloom, baby animals arrive, and the trees and bushes turn bright green.”

“I like the people changes best.”

“Which people changes?”

She’d lost me, but that was okay. CC’s wanderings often revealed gold.

“People changes.”

“Like what?”

“People have more smiles and more waves and more happy faces. Springtime faces.”

Well, of course. People changes.

“You are so, so special CC. Did I ever tell you that?”

She giggled.

“All the time, Case!”

The evening’s Lowcountry feast entailed okra soup, crab rice, collards with fatback, and cornbread. A towering hummingbird cake perched on a kitchen counter and warned us not to overindulge with the main meal. Peter Brooks, mom’s beau, joined us.

“You’re getting too thin,” Mom said as we passed around plates and bowls on the screened-in back porch. She’d set the table with cloth and created a small centerpiece of yard-collected pansies and violets and snapdragons. “Have more crab rice. You’re not serving yourself enough.”

“Saving room for the cake.”

“Hummingbird cake!” CC said. We exchanged appreciative smiles.

“Now about this lady friend of yours. Jessica. When are you going to introduce us to her?”

Mom had recently backed off on her matchmaking endeavors due to futility. She’d introduced several very nice ladies, but there had been no connection, no spark. My reveal of Jess Rossi the previous night had gestated for twenty-four hours, which was more than long enough for a thorough discussion.

“We’re not at that stage yet.”

“What exactly does this mean, son of mine?”

“We’re still feeling for solid ground.”

“Peter, pass him the cornbread, please. He’s eating like he’s on Jenny Craig. Solid ground? Signs point toward her willingness to put up with you and your ways. Lord knows that constitutes solid ground.”

Peter passed the cornbread, and I shot him a “Help out, bud” look. He returned a half-smile indicating “You’re on your own.” Tinker, blocked from participating in the meal, whined from outside the screen door.

“Honey, tell that dog of yours to hush. So, you two met in Hawaii. Aren’t there active volcanoes there? I wouldn’t think hot lava would be much of a vacation draw.”

“Yes, Hawaii. And I’ve traveled to see her in Charlotte.”

“How many times?”

“A couple.”

“And she hasn’t shooed you out the door yet. That’s good.”

“That’s good.”

“So when do we lay eyeballs on her?”

“When we’re on solid ground.”

“Don’t make me reach across this table. I’d like to meet the person who might become a family member.”

I couldn’t do anything but smile and appreciate her concern and angst over her son, a strange creature at best. The greatest mom in the world, bar none.

“How’s your current contract working out?” Peter asked, tossing a life ring into Mom’s roiled waters. I appreciated it even if Mom didn’t.

“It’s going well, and it’s kind of boring. It’ll take a week or two in the Seattle area to wrap up.”

“It’s a pretty city,” Peter said. “I’ve visited once for an insurance convention.”

“It is. And green, green. A Pacific Northwest green. The whole Puget Sound area makes for some spectacular views. I haven’t met many folks there, but they seem nice enough.”

“Well,” Peter said, “people sure want to live there. I’ve read it’s grown a lot.”

“I sorta get why—it’s a unique environment, although the traffic has grown as well.”

“Well, I appreciate you not having to work in places I can’t even pronounce,” Mom said. “Seattle. Yes, it’s the other side of the country, but at least it’s in the country. Do you remember Melissa Watkins? Martha Ann’s daughter? She just had a baby.”

The rest of the meal focused on the real—who’d given birth, who’d passed, celebrations and heartaches among friends and family. Grounded stuff, and I reveled in it.

The southern pause between the meal and dessert arrived. Peter and I cleared the table and washed dishes. Fifteen minutes into it, I could hear Mom chatting on the phone with a friend who had family issues. I peeked onto the porch. Mom was engaged with her friend, and CC had stretched out along the thick cushions of the porch swing. Tinker was curled between her legs. CC’s eyes began closing.

“Could you do me a favor?” I asked Peter over the sink’s running water.

He followed me into my bathroom, and I stripped off my shirt. I could change the dressing on my butt wound through a severe torso twist, but the upper back wound was unreachable. I produced antiseptic, gauze, and adhesive tape.

“Seattle must be a rougher town than I thought,” he said and pulled off the old dressing. He inspected the relatively shallow wound. “What created this little injury?”

“Will you roll your eyes and give me another time-to-settle-down speech if I tell you it was a fight?”

“No. Because if these other scars you carry are any indication, it would be wasted breath on my part.”

“It was a freakish deal, Peter. The entire event. Thanks for keeping it on the down-low.”

“You do realize we, myself included, worry about you? And while I’m no expert, I doubt your new friend Jess would be impressed. A freakish deal or not.”

“Yeah. So I’ve gathered. Now, move fast, please. We have to get back into the kitchen.”

He did. And assured me the patching would remain between us two. The night turned cool, and neighborhood noises drifted through the open kitchen windows. Screen doors slammed, kids yelled, and the occasional car eased along the street. Normal, regular, nurturing life. Peter and I finished the dishes, Mom remained on the phone, and CC and Tinker both snored lightly.

I buried the used bandages deep in the kitchen garbage. Helluva way to live.

Chapter 15

 

A charter jet to Seattle ensured my carry-on luggage remained private. Pricey, but worth it, and an on-the-job expense. I’d get reimbursed. The rucksack and large duffel bag contained clothing, toiletries, and tools of the trade. My camera with telephoto lens, now part and parcel of this gig’s bag of tricks. And a combination GPS tracker and listening device. The size and shape of a small garage-door opener, the GPS tracker could be accessed through a phone app. I’d know where Chapman’s New Dawn Rising was at any time once I’d hidden it on his vessel. The listening component held promise. To enable stealth audio monitoring, I’d call the tracker’s phone number, enter a password, and the one-way microphone would activate. It was a pretty cool addition to my arsenal, and it helped me alter one of my old-school perspectives. I took an unproductively dim view of any tool that smacked of a gee-whiz toy, a perspective requiring change. Change is inevitable, so get on board, Lee.

Packed items well outside the gee-whiz toy category included a silencer and extra ammo magazines for my Glock. A Colt AR-style semiautomatic rifle with suppressor. An Elcan Specter riflescope wired for night vision. And several loaded rifle magazines plus high-powered binoculars, German made. Real deal tools, baby. Or my personal version of a comfort blanket. Hard to say. But either way, I was loaded for bear or James Bond, whichever was called for.

The flight afforded reflection time regarding Devon Chapman’s doings. The cat ran fentanyl into the US. Fentanyl from China. His initial overheard conversation at the docks mentioned other players who had an interest in the drug trade. High odds it was Chinese drug manufacturers, with the Chinese American Cooperative as cover. But why establish a cover such as CAC? It made no sense. The yacht and Orcas Island property were under CAC’s ownership. Did Chapman figure this provided a layer of separation between himself and the Chinese drug operation? And why would he engage at all? He came from a wealthy family. Something wasn’t right.

This return trip had at its core a more detailed painting of the bigger picture. Townsend thought along the same lines. Dig deeper, figure it out, report the findings. Provide Townsend intel to leverage within shadowland. The Douglas drug disruption would shake a few trees, create blowback. Which opened the door for a deeper dive. Plus, this contract phase mandated a week among the San Juan Islands. Cool by me. After the Mexican border battle, signs pointed toward a lower-key Orcas Island experience. The dangerous part was over… although a small annoying voice whispered, “Don’t count on it, bud.”

The yacht club where Chapman parked his vessel bustled on a late Friday afternoon. All good. A ball cap and light raincoat and small daypack ensured I blended with the crowd. Folks either prepped for a weekend marine jaunt or planned a Friday night booze cruise. Chapman wasn’t there, so I sauntered along the dock toward his vessel with nods and smiles at other boating enthusiasts.

After a nonchalant climb onto the New Dawn Rising, I was met with a locked deck-access door. We’d trained on picking locks in Delta years ago, and while my small lock-pick kit remained in fine fettle, my skills weren’t. It took five or six frustrating minutes, half-hidden against the lower deck bulkhead, while the-weekend-is-here voices and topsider footfalls passed along the dock. One bit of luck—Chapman had berthed with the bow forward. I was at the vessel’s stern. The door lock finally succumbed to my rusty ministrations, and I scooted inside.

Nice digs. White couches and exotic-wood tables lined the starboard side, a well-equipped stainless-steel galley along the port side. Farther forward, two captain’s chairs. The one on the right provided access to the vessel’s controls, which included a nice array of electronics. A step down between the chairs led toward the head, which no doubt would have both a toilet and shower. The interior was spick-and-span. Chapman ran a tidy yacht. It made it a greater challenge hiding the GPS tracker device, but a row of small cushions behind a couch, nestled against a window, would do. I applied a light adhesive to the device’s case and planted it. Not ideal—the pillow might muffle the microphone’s ability to pick up Chapman’s side of any phone conversations—but it would at least remain undiscovered. Placement against a window ensured it had overhead satellite exposure for tracking the vessel’s movement.

I gave a final look around and back outside, locking the door behind me. It was difficult not making comparisons between his sleek yacht and the Ace of Spades. Yeah, this was a fine and new and tricked-out vessel. But the Ace, long in the tooth and short on adornment, had soul. Which trumped a litany of creature comforts in my book, although I acknowledged people’s mileage on the subject might vary.

A nonchalant traipse back along the dock, again with a smile and nods toward other boat owners, then get the hell out of Dodge. I’d committed to a sore-butt sitting performance at Chapman’s townhouse during the night. Because, according to Jess, it’s what I was supposed to do. Fine. Before that, though, I headed a few miles north toward another dock where my rental boat waited.

It was a thirty-one-footer, open configuration, nothing fancy. A sport-fishing vessel. It had decent electronics and would handle rough seas should the weather turn. The big appeal was the two 250 hp four-stroke outboards. This boat would flat scoot. I completed the paperwork using my real name and was handed the keys.

Before heading toward Chapman’s townhouse, I checked the planted tracker and microphone. Sure enough, my phone app showed Chapman’s yacht docked at the yacht club. When I called the number and activated the microphone and cranked the volume, the muffled and indecipherable passing dockside conversations could be heard. I was good to go.

There was no guarantee he’d head for Orcas Island the next day, Saturday, although odds were high. I was confidant he’d head there the middle of the next week for his five-day vacation. The thought of him hanging around Seattle for the weekend had no upside in my book. If he stayed put, the best I could hope for was Chapman getting out and about, allowing me movement.

The day had been overcast and dry. It changed as night fell, and I sat across from his townhouse. It slipped up on you. The misty rain, hard to discern unless backlit with streetlights, made no noise as it fell. A silent entry into the environment as the street took on a sheen and the windshield held droplets. My butt hurt, and I was hungry. I flicked through radio stations, the volume low, turning it off after a couple minutes channel surfing. There was bound to be a bar nearby. A place where a man could get a Grey Goose on the rocks and relax, standing, one foot on the bar’s brass rail. I imagined they served food as well. Anything would do. I finger-tapped the steering wheel for far too long, and called Jess.

“Still in Denver?” I asked.

“No, I’ve returned the prodigal son. His parents were happy, at least for the moment. I’m in Charlotte, making decaf tea and preparing to curl up with a good book prior to hitting the hay. I’m also attired in, and this should get your motor running, flannel pajamas. I suppose I should have texted you my movement and activities. I understand it’s standard operating procedure these days.”

“No worries.”

“Yes, worries. As I understand it, the current cultural guidebook for relationships is based on texting each other incessantly. And if you don’t reply within minutes or, God forbid, hours, well, it’s grounds for a major blowup. How’s that sound, Romeo?”

“I’d rather you drive a railroad spike into my head.”

“You might consider getting with the program. Try and update your social skills.” The teapot whistled in the background, quickly turned off. “It will require you to download a massive emoji file for my viewing pleasure. Entertain me, cowboy.”

I chuckled and added, “I don’t do emojis.”

“I would say there are a lot of things you don’t do, but the good people in Douglas, Arizona, might disagree. Besides, it would lead to a list of things you do do, which I’m not fully prepared for. On oh so many levels.”

“You sure that’s decaf you’re drinking?”

“With a wee dram of spiced rum,” she said. “I’m living large, Mr. Lee. Living large. And where might your strangely appealing person be at the moment?”

“I’m back in Seattle. It’s drizzling.”

“Alert the press. Anything interesting happening with your Mr. Chapman?”

“Nope. Not yet. I rented a boat.”

“You rented a boat. I may have to recline on the fainting couch with the news. Did you find any more information about CAC?”

I was a little surprised she remained engaged with this gig. Maybe as a conversational touch point, maybe because she lived and breathed the private investigator stuff. Hard to say.

“Yeah.” I weighed a larger reveal and figured it couldn’t hurt. “The Chinese American Cooperative. I don’t have a deeper dive than that.”

“You do have a thing for the Chinese.”

“I do not have a thing for the Chinese.”

“Remember the first time we met? The Hawaii beach restaurant? I walked up on you engaged with a Chinese spy.”

“We weren’t engaged. It was a short ground-rules session. Then he left.”

“You can call it what you want, but there’s something going on there. Should I be jealous?” She slurped the tea and rum mixture. “Goodness, that’s fine. It warms the cockles. So, still short on CAC information, right? Other than the name.”

“Yeah. Although I’ve been warned to tread with care.”

“Warned by who?”

“Someone I work with on a regular basis.”

I wouldn’t open the Clubhouse door any further.

“I’ll assume you mean someone from the clandestine world. I get it. Why did you rent a boat?”

“The gig’s on Orcas Island.”

“I thought they had a ferry system in the San Juan Islands.”

I should have been surprised she knew about the San Juan Islands, but I wasn’t.

“They do. But I’d be constrained by their schedule.”

“Is there an airport there? On Orcas?”

“Yeah. For small single-engine prop planes.”

“Which won’t do, clearly. So you require a boat. Preferably one with a large engine.”

“Two large outboard motors.”

“Of course. Do you want me to join you?”

Man, was that out of the blue. While it appealed big time, it wouldn’t work. Still, it was beyond great hearing her suggestion.

“Yes. Without question. But it’s not a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“I may have to nuke the place from orbit.”

Silence. Was I too glib? But while the reality of Orcas Island being a benign job presented high odds, there was still the possibility things could get gnarly. An ever-present possibility and one reinforced with our Chinese spies discussion. I wouldn’t expose Jess to the possibility.

“You are aware I can handle myself, right?” she asked, taking another slurp. “In case that’s what you’re worried about.”

She was damn near too sharp. An attribute both appealing and, well, a little daunting. Sure, she could handle herself, no doubt. An ex-cop who always toted a .45. But the sad reality was I seldom ran into run-of-the-mill criminals and miscreants. My jobs exposed me to professional hitters and assassins and clandestine wet-work specialists. A far, far cry from your average bad guy with a gun.

“How about joining me when the job is over? I’ll extend the Airbnb reservation. I’d love it if you flew over here.”

I meant it. A romantic rendezvous with Jess on a gorgeous Pacific Northwest island would be about as good as it gets.

“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “I may be working another contract then. Or not. So let’s play it by ear. I know—we can text each other! That’s the ticket!”

We both laughed, a graceful rain check offered and accepted. I appreciated her ability to pull it off without further back and forth. And it gave me something to really, really look forward to once this job wrapped up.

Devon Chapman parked and strolled into his townhouse early evening. I hung out another two hours and watched windows as his shadow moved about. Then I found the appropriate bar. Where I stood, foot on the brass rail, ate bar food, and thought about Jess and life and how, all in all, things were going pretty doggone well.

Chapter 16

 

Chapman left early for his yacht, weekend luggage in hand. I followed and confirmed he turned into his yacht club’s parking lot, then shot north toward where my rental boat waited. I’d checked out of the hotel, intent on hanging at the Orcas Island Airbnb for a week. The day was mild, wind low, and the sun peeked through low clouds here and there. An occasional passing cloud dropped light rain before it moved along. A Pacific Northwest springtime.

I waved and smiled toward the small clapboard office at my docks and boarded the smallish rental vessel. Checked the GPS tracker and watched as my small phone screen displayed Chapman’s track. He headed north along Puget Sound with his throttle clearly firewalled. At his rate of speed, he’d make Orcas Island in under two hours. I fired the large twin outboards and followed suit northward, along with dozens of other vessels that had gotten an early start on the water. I traveled at Chapman’s speed, leaving a two-mile distance between us.

Cruising past Port Townsend, we entered the Salish Sea. The air was fresh, cool, and salty. Cobalt-blue water, cold and life-filled, sped past. Forested islands were scattered across the horizon, and seabirds soared overhead. A fine day. A gorgeous day. There was a chop on the water’s surface, but the vessel’s high speed kept me skipping above the waves. Chapman’s New Dawn Rising wouldn’t ride as high, but it wasn’t required. It had the length and weight to provide a yacht’s expected smooth ride. I extrapolated his course and judged he’d head between San Juan and Lopez Islands, skirt Shaw Island’s west side, and cruise into Deer Harbor at Orcas Island. So I course-corrected eastward and pushed the throttles forward. My route would take me east past Lopez Island and then onto Orcas. My intent was to arrive at Deer Harbor first and dock at the small marina at the head of the inlet. Anyone bound for the marina passed Chapman’s compound and docks. I didn’t want him observing me cruise past.

Orcas Island was unique: horseshoe-shaped with several fjord-like sounds or inlets with Deer Harbor the smallest. The island was sixty square miles, with a few thousand folks, and black-tailed deer aplenty. Orcas contained a surprising amount of vertical terrain—the highest point was twenty-four hundred feet above sea level—which worked to my advantage. My Airbnb was perched well above Chapman’s compound, a quarter mile away. There were farms, fields, and temperate rain forest—red cedar, Douglas fir, alder, maple, and underbrush covered the place. It clearly rained a lot. The non-rainy season was approaching, but it was still too early for the tourist crush. A fine setting for certain skill sets, which I excelled at. No brag, just fact.

I snagged a few groceries at the marina and caught the island’s current lone taxi. It hauled me around Deer Harbor and to my Airbnb. It was a small, clean, comfortable place with an extended outdoor porch overlooking Deer Harbor sound. It also overlooked, from a fair distance, Chapman’s compound. He cruised in soon after I arrived at my lodging, tied off, unloaded, and went into the property’s largest house.

I waited, observing, for an hour or so. There was no activity at the compound, and my eye drifted toward the scenery. The view was well beyond stunning. San Juan and Shaw and Crane Islands a few miles south, planted as upright emerald-green disruptions on a dark blue canvas. A pod of humpback whales surfaced a mile or so away, my binoculars capturing their blowhole exhales and surface lolling. The silver salmon run was underway and I kept an eye peeled for orcas. They’d be cruising these waters. Along the inlet’s other side, a small sea lion collection sent their growly roars across the water and uphill to my elevated perch, more than a half-mile away. The place teemed with cold-water life.

I prepared to slip downhill through the forest toward his place and get the lay of the land as well as capture Chapman’s movement within the compound. Foot-traffic patterns, outbuilding usage, the ebb and flow of someone living there. Boots, jeans, and a drab raincoat would do. The Glock joined me more from habit than perceived necessity.

I eased downhill through thick forest, the air thick with damp coniferous growth odors, fresh and clean. Calm deer clustered in small herds browsed and eyeballed me as I passed, unconcerned. It was apparent they were seldom if ever hunted. I paused within a small clearing when the sound of a large inboard engine warming up drifted through the thick trees. Minutes later, I checked the planted GPS on Chapman’s vessel. He was on the move.

Two choices—continue and check the compound without being spotted, or scramble back uphill and wait for a taxi ride to the rental boat. I continued forward. I could track Chapman via the planted GPS and catch up with him.

I stood, hidden, at the edge of the compound’s clearing and ensured there were no caretakers or guests around. The place was well kept, the buildings’ paint fresh, the lawn areas mowed and flower beds weeded. I started with the boathouse and peeked through a window at a collection of the usual suspects—tools, rope, life jackets hanging on dowels. Extra gas cans lined one wall’s section. A look inside the guest cottages revealed clean and modern amenities. The main house, built on a slope, had a massive wraparound outdoor deck on the ground floor, elevated over the lawn area. The house was locked, and I hadn’t brought lock-picking tools, so I poked around for a decent hiding spot, pausing to check New Dawn Rising’s location. Chapman had headed south and, once past Orcas Island’s southern tip, headed northwest. Weird. Where the hell was he going? The northern tip of San Juan Island?

I committed to no more than another fifteen minutes scouting the area. I’d contact the taxi from the compound and scramble uphill. In twenty minutes I’d meet him at my place. Here’s where the beauty of a fast boat came into play. I couldn’t handle rough seas as well as Chapman’s vessel or travel in style or cook a gourmet meal on board. But I could fire both those massive outboard engines and scoot. I wasn’t worried about catching him. Besides, he may have opted for nothing more than a midday cruise and enjoy the day. Can’t say I blamed him.

Beneath a side section of the wraparound deck was a concrete foundation where firewood was stored. At least two cords of firewood were neatly stacked with a large tarp over the lion’s share, protecting against the rain drips from the overhead deck. It was set three feet away from the house with a large gas grill blocking one end of the small chute. The other end held excess tarp, crumpled and piled. I slid into the small space and arranged the tarp’s tag-end section for more cover and shifted firewood pieces to allow a sight slot. The position allowed for a view of both the turn-around drive and the boat dock. There was also the possibility of overheard conversations from the deck above me, which was small consolation for lacking a listening device I could plant inside the house.

An honest assessment returned one answer—my hiding spot sucked. Too risky, too much exposure. And too uncomfortable for all-day observation. The GPS tracker and its listening device was an option. Plant it inside. Which left me with no clue about Chapman’s water movement. Should have listened to Jess and procured more high-tech doodads. Shoulda coulda.

I contacted the taxi—he said it would be thirty minutes—and checked the route of New Dawn Rising. It was still headed northwest. A gull called overhead, and sea lions barked across the inlet. Otherwise, dead quiet. I hustled uphill, slowing halfway as the back wounds began to bite with the exertion. I grabbed my rucksack and toolkit duffel bag. Overkill, sure, toting a suppressed rifle with extra magazines for both the rifle and Glock, but force of habit and you never freakin’ knew. The rucksack was much lighter as I’d unpacked its contents at the rental house, but it still held large quantities of cash and other essentials if an overnight stay was required.

Forty minutes later I fired my vessel’s outboard engines and checked Chapman’s position again. He approached the cut-through between San Juan and Spieden Islands, now headed on a more westerly course. He was approaching Canadian waters, five miles distant. I roared around the tip of Orcas Island, pedal to the metal, and followed his track. Past San Juan Island, he turned southwest toward the Haro Strait. His course made good pointed toward the small city of Victoria, British Columbia, on Vancouver Island.

I throttled back a mile behind him and continued following. This was all wrong. I was tailing a guy who had a good, and trusted, job within the intelligence services. A guy who ran drugs. Floating in the background was a Chinese connection. His suppliers. Which had prompted Jules’s warning about treading carefully. And now this little foray into Canada. A tourist day trip? Or something a lot different. My gut said the latter. And my gut was seldom wrong.

Chapter 17

 

I’d visited Victoria years before. British Columbia’s capital, it was a clean and pretty city of three hundred and fifty thousand wrapped around an inner harbor. Nice folks, loads of summer tourists, stunning landscapes, good food and drink. A laid-back place, removed from the bustle found in the mainland city of Vancouver.

But it was Canada, which presented several problems. From a tactical perspective, they would frown, big time, on a simple Savannah boy’s arrival on their turf with high-powered semiautomatic weaponry. Weaponry accompanied with illegal suppressors. Yeah, you couldn’t joke your way out of that.

From a spookville perspective, using my real name and passport opened the possibility of others backdooring the Canadian immigration system. The “others” included the CIA, China’s MSS, Russia’s SVR, Britain’s MI6, and Israel’s Mossad. I was high on the shit list of at least two of those, and Marilyn Townsend could flip a switch in a heartbeat to make it three.

As Victoria Harbour approached, I dug out a small tool kit and removed a thin interior bulkhead panel. The armament and Case Lee IDs were shoved into the tight space and the panel screwed back in place. A fake passport and driver’s license were deposited into a front pocket, along with casual cash. Semi-good to go. Semi because I’d be naked without a weapon. A situation far removed from my standard operating procedure.

I’d reviewed both a Victoria map and Canadian immigration protocols while following Chapman. Vessels entering Canada from foreign waters reported to the Canadian Border Services Agency, the CBSA, before they dropped anchor on Canadian soil. A quick internet search revealed most boats cleared customs utilizing the dedicated phone on the Raymur Point CBSA Boat Dock. Fine. But Victoria was still quiet this time of year, the tourist season a month or more away. Which translated into less boat traffic. I hung back, a quarter-mile behind Chapman while he pulled into the CBSA dock, and watched through binoculars. A short conversation and he was good to go. As he pulled away, I pulled forward. He never bothered tossing a glance behind to check his back trail. Amateur. A freakin’ drug dealer rich boy amateur playing a game well over his head.

My conversation with CBSA went off without a hitch, fake passport number included, and I was given an eight-hour pass. Easy-peasy. Several marinas dotted the inner harbor, and Chapman had chosen one nestled against downtown. I used the same and docked a dozen berths away. One bit of good news—he futzed around on board and allowed me time to tie up, meet the dock master, and pay. I considered removing the bulkhead panel and slipping the Glock into a slim carry-holster inside my jeans’ back waistband. But there were no mental alarms ringing, no sense of unease, so I opted to forgo weaponry other than a pocket lock-blade knife. Far removed from my comfort zone, but this was Victoria, Canada. Calm, peaceful, benign.

With a beige non-logo ball cap slapped on and a nondescript raincoat, I would be hard to pick out of a crowd. Chapman strolled away wearing Dockers and a sweater draped across his back, the arms crossed at this chest. A burgundy raincoat in one hand completed his ensemble.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and locals were filtering into downtown for food and drinks. We joined the foot traffic. A Victoria vibe permeated the place. Tidy, orderly, lower key. Folks were pleasant without being loud, few extremes manifested in either speech or social interactions. A society with the rough burrs sanded down. Not my type of turf—I appreciated some wild and wooly with a pinch of crazy tossed in the mix—but it had an appeal I fully understood.

This was also operational turf, which played to my strengths. No futzing with electronics. Me and my quarry, with the immediate mission focused on his purpose being here. A short distance from the docks, Chapman strolled into a harborside bistro. A small timeworn brick building, it must have once been a clearinghouse or chandlery for marine traffic. Remodeled, it made for a cool setting.

I held back and waited for Chapman to get situated, then sat at the bar with a side view of him ordering food. He’d cruised over here for lunch? Jeez. Well, at least I got to sit at a bar on a nice day in a nice town while the Case Lee Inc. cash register rang. I ordered grilled seafood and asked the bartender what she’d recommend as a drink for a passing tourist.

“Have you had a Victoria shaft?” she asked, smiling and leaning forward on the bar.

The lunch rush had long passed, and only a dozen diners occupied the place.

“Can’t say I have. What’s in it?”

“Cold coffee, vodka, Irish cream, and coffee liqueur. On ice.”

“Where’d the name come from?”

She shrugged. “The old movie Shaft, I think. It’s a Victoria thing. I’m pretty sure you’ll like it.”

I smiled back. “Sure. Let’s give it a try. When in Rome.”

It was a tasty drink, and the seafood was excellent. An hour later I paid the tab and waited outside, half a block away, once Chapman received his bill. He strolled north, away from his docked yacht. The sun lowered in the sky, and it was clear he planned a nighttime Orcas Island return trip. I followed, mingled with other pedestrians, stopped to window shop while keeping an eye on his progress. He never checked his back trail.

We entered Chinatown. Chapman turned and strolled along a pedestrian alley. I halted and waited. At the alley’s end, another main street. In between, several doorways along both sides. At a doorway on the left two guys stood, lurking. Chapman nodded, one of them returned the same, and my quarry turned into the doorway. I waited for another minute until a young couple turned into the alley. I followed, five paces behind them. Cell phone in hand, I squinted at the device while my index finger tapped the screen as if responding to a text message. Just some guy fiddling with his phone.

The two at the doorway were thugs. Muscle. There was nothing light or airy or friendly about their stance, their vibe. One was built like a brick, wide and thick with hooded eyes. The other, midsized with thin hair slicked straight back, fired a cigarette. I didn’t make eye contact with either but did cast a quick glance into the open doorway. No hallway, only stairs. Whoever Chapman was meeting had placed muscle at his unmarked business’s entrance, never a good sign.

Past the entrance with the two thugs, still finger-tapping the phone’s screen, I passed a much smaller dead-end alley, nonpedestrian, lined with several dumpsters and garbage cans. I paused, wrinkled my brow, and held the phone near my face with a glance over my shoulder. Both thugs had their back toward me, so I darted into the narrow space. It smelled like garbage and urine. Above me, an open window. Why the occupant would want the aroma of filth drifting in was beyond me, but I could discern two voices. One was Chapman’s.

An old steel drainpipe ran upward and connected with the roof’s gutter. Held in place with braces secured to the brick exterior, it wasn’t flush against the wall. The one-inch gap didn’t offer a great grip, but it would do. Another glance toward the main alley as two female voices approached, traversing the pedestrian walk-through. I ducked behind a dumpster, they passed, and I climbed. Fifteen feet up placed me near the open window, hanging like Spider-Man. The good news—passersby along the main alley wouldn’t glance upward. The downside was I couldn’t maintain my position long, fingers wrapped around the drainpipe with a toehold between bricks. I shifted, and eased an instant right leg cramp.

“I can’t tell you how critical next week is, McBain,” Chapman said. “The same very important people arrive on Thursday. Very important people.”

Chapman’s inflection was officious, spoken from on high.

“Don’t worry about it. You will be impressed with the selection.”

McBain’s voice was low, gravelly, assured.

“The main thing to bear in mind—and I cannot emphasize this enough—is they be young. Your last batch had sixteen-, seventeen-, even eighteen-year-olds.”

Chapman was meeting with a pimp. A lowlife pimp who supplied girls for the Orcas Island compound. Young, underage girls. My blood rose, my nostrils flared, and my jaw muscles tightened.

“I have a fresh supply arriving from Vancouver Tuesday. I will make delivery at your place Wednesday. Five girls, all young. Your guests will be impressed.”

“And you will come retrieve them Sunday, right?”

“Correct. Now there is the matter of payment.”

It was one of those impulsive moments that I wrapped with ornery ironclad commitment. Quite a few things could trigger it in me, and walking away was seldom part of the deal. This pimp’s delivery wouldn’t happen. Not if I had anything to say about it, and I had plenty to say. Can’t save the world and all that, but I could damn sure put a screeching halt to this bullshit. Townsend had been direct—observe and record only. Well, screw that noise.

“Half now, half when you pick them up, right?”

“As always,” McBain replied.

Moments later they said their goodbyes. The office door opened, closed, and stairs squeaked as Chapman descended. I didn’t conjure up spirit-filled heroism or righteousness. It was a simple matter of right and wrong, good and evil. I was filled to the brim with certainty that McBain’s life would take an immediate turn for the worse.

Chapter 18

 

A brick sill extended several inches from the window. It was enough. I shoved off the drainpipe and brick wall and caught the sill. Then heaved upward and head-rolled into the pimp’s office. McBain sat behind a wooden desk, the surface covered with scattered papers. He was large, fleshy, and bald with thick eyebrows. And instantly defiant.

“What the hell!” he said, pushing himself up from the office chair, eyes hard and jaw set.

I took two flying steps and leapt onto the desk’s surface, sliding toward him. Papers flew, and both my feet pounded into his solar plexus. With a loud grunt he knocked the chair over and slammed back against the office wall. My momentum carried me across the desk and back onto my feet. With a rapid step toward McBain, I delivered a lightning-fast throat punch. No Marquess of Queensberry rules here, baby. He staggered, hands at his neck, eyes bulging.

With the upstairs ruckus, running footfalls sounded on the stairs. I leapt toward the office door and threw the deadlock. My head snapped back to McBain who still held his thick neck with one hand, face bright red. He jerked open a desk drawer and reached inside. Before he could pull a weapon I leapt body-close and threw my weight against the drawer, slamming it shut on his hand. An oxygen-deprived bellow followed.

The two thugs from the street pounded against the locked office door. I dug two thumbs into McBain’s eyeballs and twisted his head, jerking sideways. A guttural howl of rage was all he could manage as he struggled to remove the pain, stumbling to counter the excruciating thumb pressure. My extended leg ensured he tripped and went down hard with my full body weight, knee first, landing on his family jewels. Any semblance of fight left McBain with that move as he involuntarily tried curling into a ball. I straddled his chest and pounded his face with brutal left and right hooks. The fleshy smacks and crunch of a broken nose joined the raucous door pounding.

Then a pause both on the floor and outside the door. Act two kicked off. A thunderous blow against the door joined the crack of wood giving way. The impact was joined with a loud grunt as the bricklike thug hurtled his body against the outside. He’d break through in short order. I pressed thumbs against McBain’s eyeballs again and leaned close, inches from his face.

“It’s over, McBain. No more. You’re officially out of business, you son of a bitch. Get that?”

The dumb bastard made a final attempt at rolling from underneath me. I grabbed his broken nose, twisted it as he screamed, and delivered another crotch shot with my knee. The door was slammed again, the doorknob fell off, the deadlock held.

“If I get wind you’re pimping again, I’ll visit you in your sleep. Count on it. And you’ll beg me to stop the pain.”

The Brick threw his weight against the door again, and two of the three hinges popped away from the doorjamb. McBain, still filled with rage and hatred and evil, spit in my face through bloody lips. In less than a second the lock-blade slid from my pocket, and killing became an imminent possibility. I stopped short—a split-second decision I’d later regret. Instead, I sliced off his left ear. A clean cut and flush against his shaved head. The Brick threw one final thrust against the door and it flew open. I shoved McBain’s ear into his howling mouth.

I could have taken them, no problem. But we had created a shitstorm of door pounding and yells and screams. This was a quiet Canadian city. Cops would soon show—the last thing I needed. I leapt up and dove through the window, rolling in midair as I fell. Landed feet-first on a closed dumpster as the plastic lids collapsed and broke my fall. A quick scramble put me back on concrete and headed down the pedestrian alley, bloody knife pocketed. McBain screamed an order. “Kill him!” echoed from the open upstairs window. This wasn’t over.

Running fell into the bad idea category. There were foot cops scattered about Victoria and I’d be the only one dashing past, drawing attention. Heading toward the docks where my boat waited was also off the table. As a hat-tip to Townsend’s decrees, I couldn’t have these clowns associating me with Chapman. I kept this as best I could as an arriving avenger intent on shutting down his pedophile pimping. May or may not have worked, but worth the effort.

As for Chapman’s current status, he’d be Orcas Island bound. I pushed thoughts about why and for what out of my mind—the slimeball ran deadly drugs and underage girls. It would suffice for now. And who were these important people showing up in a few days? White noise, head clutter left for sorting during my trip back to Orcas. Besides, I was still bent, filled with personal rage.

As I turned the corner at a fast walk, a backward glance showed both thugs doing a walk-run to catch up. Fine, assholes. Try and come kill me. Come enter a place, a stage, where plenty of actors across the globe had tried the same. And died.

Dusk and drizzle had descended. Street and shop lights illuminated a Saturday evening crowd, heads lowered against the wet as they walked to and from restaurants, bars, and shops. I tossed an occasional backward glance toward the enemy. They followed ten paces behind. Thank God I’d studied a detailed Victoria city map while cruising behind Chapman. I knew the general area this deadly vignette could play out. Both thugs could carry firearms, tucked in a pocket or waistband. Acceptance of this potential played a large part in my plans. One of Sun Tzu’s quotes flashed klieg-light bright. “Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.” Amen.

Approaching Chinatown’s water taxi stand, I cupped my hands, caught rain, and rinsed away blood from the face-beating and ear-lopping. The taxi stand stood at the water’s edge. I’d ridden these efficient little boats during my previous Victoria visit. They made a circular route around Victoria Harbour, picking up and dropping off locals and tourists at a dozen stops. The next stop from Chinatown, headed north, was Point Ellice House. A drop-off close to my destination. Close to the killing floor.

I waited a minute or two in line and purchased a ticket. A young couple, out on a date, separated me from the two thugs. There was no doubt my pursuers wondered what the hell I was doing, mingling with crowds, lined up for a water taxi, calm as a cucumber. Dark and impenetrable as night, you dumb bastards.

A five-minute wait, then five travelers and two thugs and one pissed off ex-Delta operator stepped on board the small covered vessel. Full-on darkness highlighted the shore lights across the harbor. Houses, shops, apartments, and streetlights illuminated the water’s edge at our narrow stretch of harbor. My fellow passengers, with two exceptions, carried on hushed conversations. The two thugs sat side by side along the bench seats, less than ten feet away, and stared my way.

“What are you boys up to tonight?” I asked, smiling toward them.

They shot each other a look and glared back, remaining stock-still and silent.

“Going dancing? You both look like you’re ready to dance.”

Their silence and lack of acknowledgment made the other passengers uncomfortable, so I shut up. The small boat chugged along the shoreline, light rain fell, and several minutes later we approached the next water taxi stand. Point Ellice House—so named for an estate house and gardens, well visited during tourist season. Including me, years before. I’d skirt the attraction and head along the shoreline. Several hundred yards north, a wall-enclosed steel reclamation facility. A cleaned-up version of an American junkyard. It would be after-hours quiet, behind a substantial cinder block wall, and perfect for what would happen next. It did require a dash north along a weed-covered shoreline path, which would trigger their pursuit. Fine and good.

The three of us were the only passengers to disembark. We stood on the dock, a five-pace separation and observed by the other passengers, until the water taxi pulled away. A dozen slow steps along the wooden dock as the boatload of potential witnesses disappeared across the harbor, then I hit terra firma and dashed. Two dead men followed. The path toward the old Victorian estate continued on. I didn’t. I took a hard left and hauled ass along the jagged shore as thick trees and vegetation pressed against the trail. They pursued, now twenty paces behind. If armed, they wouldn’t try a shot at night toward a running target. These cats were used to working up close and personal.

I increased the distance between us over the two-hundred-yard dash, coming alongside the eight-foot-high cinder block wall. I paused and ensured they observed my next move. Up and over, I landed among weeds near wrecked vehicles and assorted waste steel in piles. Act three commenced. There would be no curtain call.

The event took place in darkness as Victoria’s nearby lights cast dim illumination. The drizzle continued as low rain clouds drifted overhead. The smaller man was the first over, directly above me. His rapid disappearance from the top of the wall, aided and abetted when I jerked him down, stopped whatever climbing attempts the Brick was making. I slammed my prey to the ground, knocking the wind out of him. Snatched him vertical and applied a sleeper hold, compressing both carotid arteries along his neck. Seconds later he was out like a light. Dead silence followed while I continued holding his body upright, neck pressure maintained.

The Brick waited on the wall’s other side, unsure. After I’d performed the initial ground-bounce on the smaller man, there were no sounds of struggle or conflict between his partner and me. Only silence. Fifteen seconds later, it had its desired effect. The Brick moved along the wall, his footfalls on gravel and rocks and through weeds apparent. He’d assumed the worst and sought a different entry point. I waited thirty seconds, rock-still, holding my limp victim, ears tuned toward distancing footsteps. Then I snapped my guy’s neck and dropped the body.

I’d avoid use of the knife with the Brick. Too much blood to contend with. I still had a long walk back through Victoria before I’d reach my boat and strange stares at bloodstained clothing were best avoided. A rational decision and one that highlighted what a dumbass I had been mouthing off to these two killers while on the water taxi, sitting among locals, potential witnesses. Stupid stuff. Hubris on full display. Yeah, well, it happens. I’m human.

I edged away from the wall and entered the spread of oversized steel pick-up sticks and car wrecks. I sought both a decent spotting lair and a close-quarters hunting position. Seventy yards along the wall a gap appeared. Three cinder-block layers were missing from the wall’s top, the clear result of errant heavy machinery use. It reduced the structure’s height to four feet, the high-odds entry point, easily scalable for the large killer. And killer he was—instructions delivered, acts carried out. I had no remorse whacking this guy and now regretted not doing the same to his pedophile pimp boss.

While positioning, I tested a few random steel pieces spread across the area, settling on a two-foot steel rebar section. It would do. I settled among car wrecks, each separated from the other with a two-foot gap. The ground was muddy, soft, and made for silent stalking.

It didn’t take long. The Brick’s bulk showed at the gap’s edge, then returned to high-wall cover. He eased back into view as a single ham-hand pointed a pistol into the junkyard. The question of him being armed was answered. He scanned while I stared, hidden between wrecks. He threw a foot followed with a haunch on top of the gap and kept the pistol trained outward, into the night. His buddy’s disappearance had spooked him. Good. I’d use his unease. Landing on his feet, the Brick considered his next moves.

I didn’t want this dragged out, so time to facilitate affairs. A pebble tossed nearby pinged against another wrecked vehicle and drew his attention. A Hollywood action, but one based on reality. He’d now ID’d my general area. He was armed, I wasn’t. I required the SOB to enter my playpen, the sprawl of car wrecks, and the noise drew him. It wasn’t as much a movie trope as it was a real-time announcement. I’m over here, asshole.

Leading with his gun hand and at a cautious pace, the guy worked his way toward my section of wrecks. He’d pause, scout, and move forward until he entered the tight maze. And was instantly screwed. The gap between wrecks, both side to side and front to back, was too narrow for his bulk’s silent passage. His clothing rubbed against auto bodies and announced, “I’m here and moving in this direction.” Freakin’ moron.

I remained static until Brick pressed against the opposite side of the wreck where I was crouched. He squeezed toward the front grill. I circled the vehicle’s rear, confirmed his back was toward me as he moved forward, and took three large, silent steps. My first blow with the steel rebar slammed against the back of his neck. It should have put him down. Instead, he faltered, used a hand against the vehicle’s hood to stabilize, and swung his pistol hand toward me. My second blow pounded his wrist, breaking it. The pistol fell into the mud and muck. The third, fourth, and fifth whirlwind blows—each swung like a baseball bat—drove into his trachea below his chin. Crushed his windpipe and shut off his air supply. He collapsed, hands at his throat in a futile effort to breathe. He fell quiet twenty seconds later.

The rain increased as I turned toward the gap he’d used, leapt over, and tossed the steel rebar into the waters of Victoria Harbour. Made my way back along the shoreline and cut inland at the water taxi dock. A fast stroll took me through Victoria, through patches of Saturday night revelers and diners, and away from two more dead bodies. Two more souls.

Rack ’em up, Lee. Keep racking up the killings, the death. And keep wondering why I kept to this path if it bothered me so damn much. I tried taking succor from the good guys versus evil guys perspective. Cut and dried demarcations. But man, I just didn’t know.

Chapter 19

 

He relaxed among my boat’s back deck seats and fired a smoke as I approached along the empty docks. The cigarette sent a signal—here I am, but no harm intended. Covered with a rain jacket, the hood pulled over his head against the steady light sprinkle. A spook, as sure as the sun rose in the east. Oh, man.

“Get off my boat.”

“Let’s chat, Case. If you’d like, we’ll chat on the dock.”

American. A Company man. At least, high odds a Company man. Smaller odds he belonged to the ODNI as Chapman did, or one of the other sixteen clandestine agencies supposedly reporting to the ODNI as per US government organization charts. I knew too well that strict org chart adherence was seldom the reality of US espionage activities.

But this was Canada, and while I remained in the dark about the boundaries placed on the other intelligence agencies, I was certain about the CIA’s restrictions. Anywhere but the US. The upside, the only upside—better this guy than a Chinese or Russian or any of the other spy agencies I’d royally pissed off over the years. But still, a spook.

“There’s no ‘like’ involved. Get the hell off my boat.”

“Your man left an hour ago.”

He meant Chapman. A bona fide card laid on the table, a touch of the omnipotent Company’s all-seeing eye. While I’d used a fake passport with Canadian Customs and Immigration, the boat name and registry were real enough. Enough for the Company, enough for this guy, to backdoor registry systems and track the boat to the rental company. Where I’d used my real name. He’d had several hours for research while I ate, drank, and handled a pimping gang. A major screwup on my part, and one that plonked down a bad, bad marker. He knew my freakin’ name. If this guy backdoored Canadian Customs and Immigration, a possibility, he now also knew one of my fake passport names. Information I doubted even Townsend knew. Son of a bitch.

Raindrops fell from my ball cap’s bill. Street noises ebbed and flowed, joined with more muted ones from across the harbor. I remained still. And unarmed.

“The first thing you should know, we’re on the same side,” he said, taking a drag.

His hand cupped the smoke, protected it from the rain.

“I doubt that.”

The trust factor reared its head. Townsend would have alluded to another player’s participation. Particularly one from her stable.

“You shouldn’t. By the way, my name’s Fred. Have you enjoyed yourself in this lovely town?”

Yeah, Fred. It’s all good. Other than a little cosmetic surgery on a pimp and two dead guys in a junkyard, it’s been a hoot.

At least the mysterious Fred had shown, the Fred involved with Chapman’s drug running scheme. Had to happen sooner or later. He climbed onto the dock, took another drag, and smiled. He’d watched Chapman’s arrival, and mine. High odds he’d waited for our return instead of following me—I’d kept an eye on my back trail. An unclear approach that translated, maybe, into his role as an overseer. An organizer.

“What can I do for you, Fred?” I asked. “Other than tell you again to get off my boat. There won’t be a third time.”

He chuckled.

“It’s much, much more about what I can do for you.”

I’d buy this guy worked for the Company. What I didn’t buy—Townsend had sent him. No, this cat was involved with Chapman and his group as they played footsie with the Chicoms, ran drugs, and procured underage girls. Yeah, this guy would prove more dirty than clean.

He stood and climbed onto the dock.

“Let’s start with this,” Fred said as his hand fished inside a raincoat pocket.

Alarms rang and I tensed, prepared to snatch his gun away and shove it, and him, into the drink. Standing in the dark, he sensed the atmosphere change and held his cig hand up, palm extended. As he continued smiling, two fingers emerged with a business card. He handed it my way.

“Take it. It has my phone number. Call me day or night if there’s anything you require.”

I stared at the card.

“It’s getting wet, Case. I really am on your side.”

I took the card and gave it a quick glance. It was blank except for a handwritten phone number. Which either rang his legitimate Company cell phone or rang a throwaway he’d procured for the moment. I slid it into a jacket pocket.

He ground the smoke against a nearby creosote piling and placed the butt inside a jacket pocket. No litter, playing by the rules, here to help.

“I take it you’re a contractor,” he said. “I’m not getting a GSA vibe from you.”

GSA—General Services Administration. A federal employee. Which included clandestine operators. I remained silent.

“So, tell me how the job goes?” he continued.

“I’m a vacationing ostrich rancher. Taking a break from branding season. That part’s a bitch.”

He chuckled again, shook his head, and said, “Look, whoever sent you works for the same purpose as I do. I’m a handy guy to know. Don’t hesitate to use that number and reach out.”

“Okay.”

It should have been the conversation’s end. A blown fake identity to deal with, but I would stop using that passport and credit card. Create another set of IDs. I knew people. But this guy knowing my real name presented a much graver issue. One with only a terminal solution. But not now, not here, and not until these muddy waters cleared.

For the moment, Fred was relegated to a data point for the next Townsend report. Wipe the booger named Fred on her. She’d take it from there and, maybe, assist with resolution of my ID reveal. Help snip a dangling thread.

“Now here’s the good news,” he said. “You’ve entered an all too rare opportunity.”

Good news, my ass. Recruitment stood on the launchpad. An act with do-or-die consequences.

“You’re clearly a handy guy, one who knows his way around,” he continued. “We could use people like you.”

“Who’s we?”

“A legitimate deep cover operation. One with a potential huge side benefit for you.”

Alarms clanged; ugliness revealed. This was the last thing I needed. Fred had proposed, offered up, the shadowland option. The “with us or against us” option. With us meant I’d been recruited. Bought into the lies, or ignored the lies and focused on the rewards. Against us translated into a death warrant. He might as well have said, “You can play along, Lee, or get whacked. Your choice.”

I’d had enough of this asshat. Either we could end things now, right there, or separate and terminate events at a later date. I was fine with either option.

“Benefits like cold cash from deadly drugs? Underage sex slaves? Beats the hell out of wrangling ostriches, I suppose.”

His full partnership expression melted, slid into a rock-hard stare. Fred was no longer friendly. Decisions made, no going back.

“It was good meeting you, Case. Safe travels.”

He slid past me. I jumped on board, unscrewed the bulkhead panel as quickly as possible, and filled my hand with the Glock. The rifle lay nearby. Pistol in hand, I untied the boat and cast off.

I eased away from Victoria Harbour and checked Chapman’s position. He headed toward Orcas via his arrival route, taking his time. Not me. There were two expired thugs in my wake, on Canadian soil. Plus a spook named Fred who wouldn’t hesitate to kill me. Exiting the harbor, I firewalled both throttles and headed due east toward the watery border between Canada and the US. Fifteen miles later, back within US waters and breathing a bit easier.

The no-longer-mysterious Fred had likely planted a GPS tracker on my boat, but it didn’t matter at this point. He would have known Orcas as my destination. Still, I’d search for it during daylight and toss it overboard. Maybe. You never knew when such a plant could have later false flag value. I set a roundabout route to approach Orcas Island from the east. I’d cruise past Chapman’s dock before arriving at the Orcas marina. So be it. Nighttime, and just another late traveler who’d arrived for a lazy Sunday. Although the ruse wouldn’t last long. Fred and Chapman would talk. They’d ID my Airbnb through locked-down systems. Any pretense of cover had been blown. If nothing else, Fred was a pro. He’d parked among the shadows and observed his partner in crime, Chapman. Watched for tails. Enter Case Lee.

Due to Fred’s awareness, the job was blown as well. Now a known entity, a threat, and my prime concern—other than now having to watch my back for blowback from Fred—was the upcoming very important people meeting cancellation.

The job had morphed from a drug-running aristocrat who worked with Chinese drug manufacturers into something else. Something weird. The procurement of young girls to service unknown players. A new Company spook. A Chinese connection smelling of efforts beyond drugs. This had convoluted shadow games written all over it but with a twist I couldn’t wrap my head around.

I’d use the encrypted key and shoot Townsend an interim report first thing in the morning. She might shed some light on the job, but I doubted it. She’d do what she always did—play her cards close to her chest and reveal little. Fine. But she was my paying client, so I’d report out. While skipping a few details.

Not Fred. I’d include him along with his phone number and recruitment efforts. I’d address Chapman’s visit to a pedophile pimp and the overheard discussion about important people. Very important people. Plus the Thursday gathering timeline at Chapman’s place, now threatened.

Townsend would position a satellite and attempt to capture near-term events. One thing was certain: the mastermind controlling this goat roping, whoever it was, had clandestine experience. It wasn’t Chapman, and might have been Fred, but my gut said others, others elevated among organizational power structures, pulled the strings. They knew what they were doing. Early spring in the San Juan Islands and cloud cover, at least partial if not full-on rain clouds, rendered an overhead big bird semi-useless. The same weather often dominated during the winter and fall. Eight months of potential cloud cover. Yeah, Townsend could send a drone with thermal imaging, which was impressive as hell when viewed, but thermal images failed to capture individual identities as you could with normal high-magnification images.

My report would skip any details about an ear gone missing or killers whose birth certificates had been cancelled. I had my own need-to-know rules, and Townsend didn’t need to know diddly-squat about those items. Victoria wasn’t a place where whacked bodies went unmentioned by either the cops or media. But I had doubts that Townsend, working solo, would either notice the local news or make a connection to me. She’d be too busy connecting other dots. Lethal shadowland dots.

I eased off the throttles and settled into a cruising speed. The rain stopped, replaced with a fine mist. The boat’s radar and my GPS guided me past tree-packed islands and through narrow straits. Lights shone through the mist along several island shorelines, the water calm and cold and black as night. As I passed alongside larger islands, the crisp salt air carried a hint of evergreen forest. Each island had vertical topology with hilltops discernible through the mist as dark sentinels standing watch over icy water. The entire area contained an ancient nature-rules vibe. My kind of place. Although my sensory appreciation was tainted with the knowledge I now had a bull’s-eye on my back, courtesy of Fred. Son of a bitch.

Victoria was off the visit-anytime-soon calendar. A cool place, relaxed and friendly with old Victorian buildings and impressive landscapes wrapped around a gorgeous harbor. A place Jess and I could have spent several laid-back days. Well, scratch it off any future travel plans.

Houselights showed at Chapman’s compound as I idled past, keeping my boat’s wake at a minimum. The marina was closed, the taxi driver didn’t answer his phone, and the rain became serious. I didn’t mind the mile-and-a-half hike to my place, toting the duffel bag stuffed with weaponry. It felt fine and appropriate to stretch my legs. The hardtop guided as I spotted small herds of grazing black-tailed deer alongside the road. Shadows more than figures, they eased away as I passed, alone and isolated on a remote island.

A hot shower and Grey Goose on the rocks were the evening’s orders, along with a holstered pistol and loaded rifle within reach. It would remain that way until I left the job. With feet up and drink in hand while a small fire crackled inside the fireplace, a text message arrived. The Clubhouse.

Pieces move.

Three-dimensional chess pieces shifted. Yeah, Jules, even my operations-oriented head got it. This hairball encompassed moving shadow players. Gotcha. But I’d so far failed to gain any ground on the big questions. The five Ws. Who, what, when, where, why. Where and when were easy enough. Orcas Island starting Thursday. If I hadn’t blown it with my Fred connection.

I’d gained minimal intel on the who. Yeah, I’d collected intel about the dirty ODNI player, Chapman, as well as Alex Whittle, the drug distributor, and a dirty DEA agent. Now toss in Fred, the hidden and dangerous spook. But there were also those very important people. The ones I didn’t have a freakin’ clue about.

The largest question sprawled across the table. What was actually going on? It smelled like a two-bit conspiracy. Maybe more than two bits’ worth. Past exposure with spookville cracked open the door for another ugly possibility, one I dismissed—Townsend was operating this circus and was using me to shake the tree, check for leaks, gaps, operational holes.

I couldn’t buy it. Townsend had particular character traits that manifested as iron-fisted management and ruthless decision-making. Sharp as hell and mean as cat shit when necessary. She’d been that way since we’d worked field ops together years ago. Packaged together, her character makeup was exactly what you’d want as your country’s top spook. What she wasn’t in any way, shape, or form was a person prone to taking actions with a negative impact on US interests. Such as facilitating the importation of a killer drug.

Fentanyl was nasty shit. As a benchmark of how lethal, police and first responders had overdosed through touching or inhaling a small amount when helping overdose victims. I flashed back to the Mexican border tunnels where Bo and I mucked around stacks of the stuff. We’d dodged a figurative bullet down there. Each year tens of thousands of US overdose deaths were attributed to fentanyl. Over a hundred deaths per freakin’ day. About the same as car crashes and gun deaths combined. Truly nasty stuff. Without doubt, the Chinese could shut down the illegal shipments to Mexico in one day. They had no interest in doing so. No, Townsend wouldn’t have sanctioned this operation.

As for Jules’s short, cryptic note—it was appreciated. Yeah, I knew players shifted among the shadows. Chess pieces moved. But as much as anything, her message constituted a heads-up. Watch my back. Words heeded from this point forward, big time. Jules’s message had implied that extra caution was the order of the day when it came to keeping the lone employee of Case Lee Inc. vertical and healthy.

If the schedule remained (a large if), could I expect Chinese drug manufacturers—the very important people—to arrive Thursday or Friday at Chapman’s compound? Chicoms who used Chapman and his DEA connections for smuggling operations? Chicoms who worked with a spook named Fred? And Chicoms with a taste for underage girls? If so, I had an easy solution for ending their little arrangement. Shoot, shovel, and shut up. But such a simple answer didn’t pass the gut check. Pieces move. Jules’s message implied clandestine movement. Shadow players shifted. Players I hadn’t wrapped my head around.

I slept in the large bathtub with a cushion of blankets and my Glock. The rifle leaned against a bathroom wall, well within reach. Doors locked—house, bedroom, bathroom—as Fred or his appointed hitters could show any time. Paranoia didn’t drive the sleep arrangements. Cold and hard experience did. They, whoever they were, would come after me. Unless they’d called off everything, in which case I’d head home, tail between my legs. Although they might still attempt to whack me even having called things off. Hard to say.

Chapter 20

 

Sunday broke overcast but dry. From my elevated vantage point, the emerald green island with its small mountains and inlets and harbors was postcard perfect. I sat on the outdoor overlook porch as birds flitted among the nearby underbrush and several deer browsed nearby. My view of Chapman’s compound was aided with binoculars. No movement, his vessel docked, the water in Deer Harbor calm. I produced another interim report for Townsend.

The first report sent from Tucson had made her well aware of Chapman’s drug running. I added his visit with McBain the pimp and my run-in with Fred the spook to her knowledge base. A short sentence or two about timing for the possible soirée with important people, and the distinct possibility the whole shebang had been called off. I failed to mention expired hitters inside a Victoria junkyard and McBain’s involuntary cosmetic surgery. Items I deemed none of her business.

The encrypted report sent, I sipped coffee and eyeballed the compound through binoculars, with regular optical drifts both across the water for glimpses of surfacing whales and into the surrounding forest for glimpses of visiting hitters. Townsend, who worked seven days a week, took thirty minutes to digest my report and call me. She’d clearly determined several provided details were her business.

“Morning, Director.”

Even though she’d called me, the unspoken rule was I’d speak first.

“Describe the asset at your boat.”

No niceties, straight to business, and no offense taken. It was expected.

“Male, my height, slight build, and smoked.”

“Anything else?”

“It was dark, he had his raincoat hood pulled over his head, and no accent. Flat, mid-America inflection. Friendly. He desired a bosom-buddy relationship with a strong hint at my personal enrichment.”

“Have you called his number?”

“Nope.”

“Don’t. Under any circumstance.”

“Understood.”

“When do the prostitutes arrive?” she asked.

“You mean the underage girls?”

We had a private conversational Mexican standoff, the call silent from both ends. She’d view the young girls’ delivery as a small issue, a puzzle piece and part of the larger picture. I held a much different view.

“When, Mr. Lee?”

Probably not happening anytime soon, Marilyn. There was a slight hiccup in the supply chain.

“Thursday or Friday. I don’t have a definitive ETA.”

“Have there been any indications of our Asian friends?” she asked.

“None. They’re still a mystery.”

Another pause ensued as she loaded up operational directives, a habit I’d long experienced.

“I want you to capture what is said inside the main house. Do you have the requisite tools?”

“If the meeting still happens, yes.”

“Good. Are we still clear about ROE?”

Rules of Engagement. For this job, it was hands-off. Observe only. Rules flushed down the toilet in Victoria.

“We’re clear.”

“I require daily updates beginning Wednesday. Are we clear on that?”

“Okay.”

It grated, the schoolboy stuff. I didn’t begrudge her desire to know current events, but reporting out required something to report. Which I did when necessary. This was her jerking the leash and we both knew it.

On the flip side, she didn’t crawl my ass about my Victoria activities. The two bodies in the junkyard hadn’t been found yet. They wouldn’t be until the junkyard gates opened the next day. Whether Townsend would hear about it was an unknown.

“I will leave you with this note,” she said. “I cannot emphasize enough this engagement’s sensitivity. I require your full acknowledgment regarding this.”

“Understood. But the chat with the Victoria dockside contact might have blown the meeting schedule. As noted in the report.”

“We will not know with certainty for a few days.”

“A few days for them to sweep the ops area clean.”

Spook-speak for they would send hitters after yours truly.

“This is not an unusual position for you. Remain on Orcas. Report out.”

She hung up. Thanks for the concern, Marilyn. I’m touched. But it wasn’t an unusual position for me. So suck it up, Lee, and do what she wants. Within reason. Or better put, within my personal parameters. Parameters often failing to mesh with the Company’s desires. But Townsend knew what she was getting with me, which is why I was chosen. A known entity, warts and all. We’d both have to live with that.

I scoured the sea for life, blood pressure lowered, and passed over then reversed view of five tall dorsal fins. Orcas, killer whales, hunting outside Deer Harbor. Each would rise rhythmically, take a breath, and resume their awesome and lethal glide through frigid waters. The beached sea lions across the harbor barked warnings. Several water-bound sea lions lifted themselves high above the surface and scanned before they dived and headed toward the beach. The apex predator cruised these waters, indicating the salmon run was underway.

I was so mesmerized by the sight that I missed Chapman’s exit from the main house. Him pulling open the double garage doors wasn’t missed. The new SUV rolled onto the gravel drive and disappeared into the tree-covered road. He was headed for the village of West Sound or Eastsound or the small asphalt airstrip. Those were the three prime Orcas Island options for his activities. I hustled inside, packed a few items into a small daypack, and headed downhill.

I stayed inside the tree line until the rocky beach and scooted toward the dock. It was unclear whether any motion-activated cameras were positioned around the compound, so I kept the dark hoodie over my ball cap, hiding my face. I squatted behind a few creosote pilings and waited, ensuring there was no sign of anyone around. Then a rapid stroll onto the New Dawn Rising. I’d told Townsend the requisite tools were available for listening. Well, one tool, on Chapman’s yacht. I’d considered the option before, but Townsend’s probe into my bag of tricks had sealed the decision. The yacht’s cabin was unlocked, so I recovered the GPS/listening device and made a hasty exit back along the beach and into the trees.

Chapman would depart for Seattle during the afternoon, so there was no rush to plant the device inside the main house. I moved back uphill, becoming familiar with the terrain. More coffee made, a porch position, and my Kindle open while I waited. I split time between reading and calisthenics. My wounds still barked, so I’d take a break and scan for signs of hitters. Low, gray clouds floated past; the sea lions settled down as the orcas moved on. A humpback whale surfaced a mile or so offshore, and the day dragged.

Chapman returned past noon, unloaded supplies into the main house, and departed on board the New Dawn Rising. I would fly blind regarding his yacht’s whereabouts but counted on routine. He’d head for Seattle. Wednesday, his first of three days off work, he’d return to Orcas Island. Which left me time to plant the bug in his main house and tour the island. For all the Victoria mess and irritation at Townsend’s ’tude, it was a sweet gig. Except for the potential hitters coming after me. But Townsend had been right—not an unusual position for me. So while I wasn’t cavalier about it, I wasn’t freaked, either. Another day at the office. And the cash register rang every day I remained there.

The owner-operator taxi driver had mentioned he also rented scooters. A quick phone call and his enthusiastic yes sealed the deal, as tourist season was still a month or more away. An hour later I putted around the village of Eastsound astride a Vespa, with a side-stop at the tiny airport. No flights had arrived during the afternoon, although several small single-engine prop planes were parked. More deer grazed along the runway’s edge. I kept a keen eye on my back trail.

Back in Eastsound many of the small shops remained closed, others open but empty. I found a small bar for after-work locals. Built into an old house, it displayed a nautical motif and few patrons. I struck up a conversation with a middle-aged woman whose livelihood was as an artist, working with oils. We chatted about island life and changing tastes in the art world. A pleasant hour passed, and I headed toward my house as dusk eased into darkness. I rolled through the village of West Sound, quiet and still with a few locals strolling along the sidewalks, then around Deer Harbor. I’d visit my boat the next day and look for any planted GPS trackers from Fred the spook. No rush on that activity. He knew where I was and no point hiding it. I drove uphill as the little scooter moved at a fair clip. The entire trip was six miles, and it provided ample opportunity to address the disquiet I couldn’t shake.

Things didn’t fit, motives were clear as mud, and my ability to piece things together felt in short supply. It was one of the downsides when dancing with the clandestine world. Hell, it was the downside. Their mindset and worldview and tactical actions remained alien. I wasn’t wired the same way. Townsend’s interest pointed toward a deep-dive concern over an espionage breach. Fred’s Victoria arrival had tossed more mud into the mix. Townsend knew things I didn’t, which was accepted, but it irritated the fire out of me not being able to piece together a framework for this gig. With an evening Grey Goose poured, I reached out to a trusted source.

Marcus Johnson, our former Delta Force team lead, lived among the wilds of Montana. His nearest town was Fishtail, population five hundred hardy souls. Billings lay seventy miles to the northeast and Livingston ninety miles to the northwest. Closer, and more reflective of his turf, were the soaring and stark Beartooth and Absaroka mountain ranges. His ranch sat in the middle of nowhere and within Marcus’s comfort zone.

It was still an hour or so before his bedtime, so decent odds he’d be stretched out before a fire, long legs and socked feet on an ottoman, dog curled on the couch, with a whiskey and smoldering cigar in a side table ashtray. He answered after two rings.

“Is this too late?” I asked. “I know you older folks require plenty of rest.”

Over the last several years, gray had begun peeking below his Stetson.

“What’s old is your continued failure to recognize stately. As for requiring rest, get your sorry butt up here for a few days hard work and we’ll see who’s asleep at this hour.”

I made semiregular ranch trips—summer or early fall only.

“I’d like to, Marcus, but rumor has it there’s still white stuff on the ground at your place. And my bearskin robe is at the cleaners.”

His Zippo clacked, a cigar fired.

“Once again, the wussification of America on full display. It breaks my heart. Tell me what’s happening.”

I did, to an extent. We both used encrypted phones, ensuring our conversation remained private. Even then, we used roundabout descriptions and avoided specific names. Just in case. The beauty of Marcus, aside from blood-brother closeness and his potent leadership capabilities, was his mission orientation and personal character. Marcus Johnson was as straight a shooter as any of us on his Delta team had ever known. He waited for my current situation download before probing.

“I’m still grappling with your client. We’re talking the same person who used to craft our field missions?”

“One and the same.”

“And she asked you to take this job?”

“Well, now. There are sweet words of encouragement and support.”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with encouragement. It has everything to do with hiring a wild wolverine for remodeling your kitchen. You do have certain tendencies, son. Habits and actions that fall far, far away from ‘observe and report.’”

“First, you should spruce up your analogies. And I’m more than a little tired of folks making the claim I’m a wrecking ball.”

“Then stop supporting the argument with your actions. Have there been any expirations on this assignment?”

He meant dead men.

“That’s not important. What is important is the big ‘Why?’ of this mess.”

He snorted and took a sip of bourbon. Ice cubes clinked in his glass.

“What does the Chesapeake witch say?”

“Chess pieces are moving.”

Marcus held little truck with Jules of the Clubhouse. She was an outlier, removed from official spookdom channels and therefore subject to her own motives and end games. Fair enough. But he also knew she’d saved my butt more than a few times and had, at day’s end, provided critical intel when we last gathered and dealt with the Sudan bounty.

“Whose chess pieces?” he asked.

“She was unclear about that.”

“So she flung eye of newt and toe of frog against the cave wall and read the signs.”

“I should get you two together for a date. Maybe you’d appreciate her a bit more over a fine meal and bottle of wine. I’d suggest you start the evening by presenting her a box of licorice. She’s quite fond of licorice.”

“Fat chance. So what I’m hearing is you sit on a gorgeous island, vodka-rocks at your side, with nothing much to do but scratch your ass for several days. While you’re getting paid. It must suck being you.”

“Thanks, Obi-Wan. Right there are pearls of wisdom.”

His Zippo clacked again, relighting the cigar. I hadn’t mentioned the potential hitters headed my way. And wouldn’t, for a variety of reasons. Not the least of which was affirmation at his contention I tended to kick hornet nests. Such a reveal would also, without doubt, have him load weaponry and head my way. Marcus was built that way. All three blood brothers were.

“Don’t be a mullet,” he said. “Your mission is remain low, assess, record, report out. Am I missing something?”

“No. Not really.”

“She didn’t hire you to affect outcomes.”

“Little late for that. Those young girls won’t show up here.”

He took another sip of bourbon.

“Well, I can’t argue against your actions there. I take it your client remains unaware about the disruption?”

“Roger on that.”

“But she’s not unaware you and our space cadet played whack-a-mole at the border.”

Bo, the space cadet. Marcus loved the guy when it was crunch time during battle. Day-to-day, they occupied opposite sides of the worldview spectrum.

“A few choice words were exchanged during the aftermath, I’ll grant you. But I gathered valued intel during the exercise.”

“Hmm. Did he really enter on the Mexican side?”

“Are you surprised?”

“No. No, I’m not. You want me headed your way?” he asked.

“Thanks, Marcus. Sincerely. But no. I just needed a sounding board.”

“So do your job. Carry out the mission. It’s not complicated,” he said.

“What if I uncover something bad. Real bad.”

“Hand it to your client. Do you trust her?”

“Sixty-four-dollar question. I trust her to do right for her organization. And right by our country, although that’s arguable. But trust her? I suppose. With an asterisk.”

“What asterisk?”

“For starters, the hellfire missile she sent up our collective butts in Sudan.”

“You and I have differing perspectives regarding the event.”

“Fair enough. But I can’t shake the feeling I’m accessible cannon fodder for the Company. Combined with this gig having been presented as a shallow wade into murky waters. Now, it’s a deep dive. And they didn’t provide a wetsuit.”

“I get it. A legitimate assessment, but stick with your mission, Case. If it becomes untenable, well, so be it. Walk away. I know you always try and do the right thing.”

We signed off. Low clouds shifted and offered glimpses of the night sky where stars were flung by the basketful. The right thing. Man, I didn’t know. Right now, the right thing was to send in the cavalry—FBI, Homeland Security, State Police—once whoever it was assembled below me Thursday or Friday. Bust them all. Better yet, just shoot the SOBs. But I’d follow Marcus’s recommendation. Stay low, observe, record, report out. Then, maybe, shoot the SOBs.

Chapter 21

 

A rainy Monday morning. Dawn snuck in under a gray cover as fog banks eased across forest treetops. Sea lions argued across the water, and the collected moss along every horizontal surface dripped. Pacific Northwest, baby. I’d spend the next few days under the assumption Chapman was in Seattle and would return Wednesday. Thursday at the latest. If he didn’t, this gig was a done deal. Coffee mug steaming, I stood under the porch overhang and called Bo. A quick check-in to see how he fared. He answered after three rings.

“I’ve purchased a donkey, my Georgia peach.”

Among all the occupants of this good earth, Bo remained the lone actor I’d ever met whose opening statements made strange sense and held zero surprise. Bo bought a donkey. Sure, and why not?

“What’s the name?”

“A valid and underappreciated question. I haven’t decided yet.”

“Male or female?”

“Female. Among the available selection, she waggled an ear in my direction.”

“You’ll want to take your time with the name. It could develop into a long-term relationship.”

“Exactly! So I’m in no rush. She’s not terribly responsive anyway unless food is involved. She does, however, follow well on a lead.”

“An important character trait?”

“It is if you’re a miner forty-niner.”

“Okay.”

At this point in the conversation, the door stood open for either an unrelated tangent or the donkey’s purpose.

“How be your gnarled hide’s posterior portions?” he asked, referencing the tunnel grenade wounds.

“Better every day. How are you feeling?”

“Toward what, goober?”

“Toward your physical health.”

“Tender mercies applied liberally and lovingly have me fit as a fiddle. The applicant of said mercies desires a chat with you, indicated through a hands-on-hips stance and a direct order.”

“It’s always a pleasure chatting with JJ. How’s your head?”

Three deer meandered past, downhill from the porch, and browsed at the small clearing’s edge. A doe glanced my way, her ears moving independent of each other as her tail swished side to side, unalarmed. Overhang runoff splatted against the porch deck, and a wispy fog patch drifted through nearby treetops.

“I’m in a connected space,” Bo said. “Ancient souls wander. A few warn, most point.”

“Point at what?”

“The Sandia Mountains to the east. I’m not anticipating seven cities, but a keen eye and an open mind bodes well for discovery.”

“Prospecting for gold?”

“A hint, universal signals pointed toward gilded bits and pieces. Plus, JJ wants a new car.”

“Hence the donkey,” I said with a mile-wide grin and a headshake.

“Not a bad name for a rock band. Hence the Donkey.”

“Back to the critter’s name, maybe you should hold off. Allow her a voice in the matter.”

“This is why I love you, goober. From an unexpansive mind comes the occasional gem. JJ has to depart for work soon and becomes impatient.”

It all made perfect sense in Bo-world. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he plucked an ounce or ten during a Sandia Mountains prospecting trip. He was the best tracker, bar none, I’d ever encountered. How this ability translated into prospecting for gold was a TBD, but smart money wouldn’t bet against it.

“Well, put her on, and I expect a full report about your venture into those desert mountains.”

“Keep a light hand on the rudder, my brother. Do not fight the flow.”

He handed the phone to his FBI special agent girlfriend.

“What type of car are you aiming for?” I asked.

She chuckled and said, “I’m not counting on sacks of gold. But since you ask, an icy blue BMW ragtop.”

“It would fit you. And don’t discount Bo’s ability to bring home the bacon.”

“I never do. He’s pretty amazing.” She took the phone away from her head, her voice now distant as she addressed Bo. “The body butter you gave me is fantastic.”

“Perhaps it’s the jojoba oil,” he replied.

Bo, warrior extraordinaire, had a thing for skin cream. Go figure.

“How are you doing?” she asked, phone back against her ear.

“Fine as kind. And you?”

“Hero for a day, and now back to the grind. We never did find Alex Whittle.”

“Yeah, well, you did one helluva job and made one helluva bust.”

“About that, Case, do you have any leads or information which might help the cause?”

“Nothing drug-related. Sorry.”

“Anything related to the mysterious tip you received?”

“Nothing that would interest you.”

“Would you tell me if something did?”

“If it directly pertained to you.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I know. Look, JJ, if a lead or rumor crops up that helps shut down that horrible stuff’s import, you’ll be the first person I contact. I’ve been reading about it. Well over fifty thousand deaths a year? Man, it’s brutal.”

“How about intel that skirts the edges of drug smuggling? As in intel helping catch bad guys.”

“Nothing definitive.”

Obfuscation or a white lie or a two-step avoidance—call it what you will, but I wouldn’t dive any deeper into her conversational line. To JJ’s credit, she didn’t push.

“Hmm. Okay, I do have a request.”

“Shoot.”

“Double entendre? Never mind. Look, I know Bo loves chatting with you. I do too. But I get jumpy when you call. You know why.”

“I’ve had an attitude adjustment regarding you and Bo. It’s taking time for acceptance of domestic arrangements, but I’ll try. Promise.”

Her voice softened.

“One of those times my Bo isn’t coming back. Let him go muck around in the mountains. Far away from the crazy world you inhabit.”

“Understood, JJ. Don’t forget, he’s my best friend and the last person I’d want hurt.”

Silence followed with a sigh.

“I have to scoot. Work calls. You take care as well, Mr. Lee. Watch your back.”

We signed off as I acknowledged a jealous pang. Those two were a solid pair, in love. Partners. I’d call Jess later and try and keep whatever we had working on solid ground. Or semisolid ground as evidenced by the Glock placed near the bathroom sink when I climbed into the shower. An old and valued habit, but not one conducive to pair bonding. Yeah, well.

Thirty minutes later I donned a raincoat, rain pants, and a goofy-looking helmet, and climbed onto the tiny aqua-blue scooter. Mr. Badass, Mr. Man of Adventure, goobering downhill astride his mighty steed. The excursion’s purpose was twofold. Check Orcas Island, perform a thorough recon, and draw out any hitters present. Watch my back trail and handle any followers with ill-intent. Besides the pistol holstered at my waist, I’d broken the rifle down into a few component pieces so it would fit into my small daypack. Reassembly would take seconds.

I parked at the marina, waved through the window at the proprietor, and boarded my rental vessel. It didn’t take long to find it. Tucked near the front window alongside several built-in cup holders was a small tracking/listening device, smaller and more sophisticated than the one I used. I considered its removal, crushing it against the nearest rock or concrete surface. Not smart, Lee. It displayed my boat’s location for Fred the spook. So what? I’d toss it later if deemed necessary, but for now it would sit and transmit when pinged. The listening component offered disinformation potential, a potent tool. The option of attaching it to another random vessel as a decoy had potential as well. The GPS tracker/listening device remained where it had been planted, now a component of my arsenal.

The marina offered fresh coffee, and I took advantage, escaping the rain. The small store, empty except for the owner and a black lab, had a few tables scattered alongside the picture windows. I stripped off the rain jacket and pants under the door’s overhang and hung them inside.

“It’s a little wet for a scooter ride, isn’t it?” the owner asked, smiling and firing up the coffee machine.

The lab, tail thrashing side-to-side, approached and reveled in a stiff back-scratch.

“A little, but I’m avoiding cabin fever.”

“Understandable.”

I went on and explained my stay at an Airbnb, its location indicated with a general hand-wave. “Up there.” High, high odds this guy was a benign player, but you never knew.

“Most folks visit during the late spring and summer,” he said, preparing us both a cup. “For about four months the weather is pretty amazing. It’s dry, warm, and sunny. You wouldn’t think it possible given the other wet months.”

“Although,” I said, “I suppose it wouldn’t be so gorgeous without the rain.”

Friendly small talk and an opportunity for garnering whatever intel the marina owner might be privy to. I sat and administered head- and behind-the-ear scratches for an ecstatic lab. Man, you gotta love a good dog.

The owner served us both in thick porcelain mugs and asked, before he sat down with me, if I’d like a “bracer” for the coffee. Good for the health on a cool rainy day. I agreed and a brandy shot was tipped into both our cups. Monday morning and working the job. At the moment, the Case Lee Inc. business model was looking pretty darn good.

“Are you from Seattle?” he asked.

“I am.”

“You enjoying yourself?”

“Yeah. I didn’t know what to expect, but the folks have been nice and the views are about as stunning as you could get.”

“It’s a quiet place. Lots of artists and crafters,” he said, sipping coffee. “Even in the summer it’s never too crowded.”

“Do most tourists arrive on the ferry?”

“Yes, most of them. They take off from Anacortes on the mainland with stops at several islands. Lopez, San Juan, Shaw, Orcas. There’s even a run to Vancouver Island.”

“The rest arrive by private boat, like me.”

“Or plane. Our little airstrip has a half dozen single-engine flights every day during the summer.”

We chatted about boats and his business and his Orcas Island life.

“My wife and I enjoy it. Most everyone here are quiet people—live and let live types—which may be why celebrities like spending time here.”

“Celebrities?”

“You know. Wealthy folks. People call them celebrities, I suppose.”

“Like who?”

“Well, Oprah has a place here on Orcas. The wife likes her. From TV, that is. We’ve never met. Would you like me to freshen your coffee with another medicinal shot?”

“No, thanks. But I’ll take a rain check, for sure.”

My decline didn’t prevent him from administering another dram of medicine in his mug. He continued talking as he moved behind the counter and accessed the bottle.

“Then there’s Bill Gates across the narrows on Shaw Island. And several movie people have San Juan Island estates.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t help but notice the nice digs on my way here. What about the one close to the mouth of Deer Harbor? On the west side, with a dock? It has a main house and several smaller buildings or houses.”

He returned and sat. The rain had eased, the nearby water’s surface visible through the window indicated light droplets. Fog patches continued lingering among hillside treetops.

“I don’t know them. I do know the fellow who arrives there with his yacht never comes here for fuel.”

“He probably fills up in Seattle.”

“Probably. Bill says people fly in and get picked up by that same fellow’s SUV he keeps at the place.”

“Who’s Bill?”

“The island’s lone taxi driver and the man you rented the scooter from.”

“Right. Bill.”

“Anyway, Bill says a bunch of Asian men fly in as well as someone he claims he recognized.”

“One of those celebrities?”

“No. Just someone Bill says he recognized. Maybe from TV or the news. Anyway, the fellow with the yacht never comes here for fuel. Or anything else.”

“Well, I don’t blame him or anyone else for hanging here during the summer.”

“That’s the weird part. He doesn’t show much during the good weather. Pretty much only spring and fall. Anyway, it’s his business, not mine.”

Chapman timed his arrivals when there were far fewer folks around. When there was often cloud cover. Thursday would be interesting. Little did I know Wednesday would be a whole lot more than interesting. By a long shot.

Chapter 22

 

The rain ceased Tuesday, and I made my way down to the main house at Chapman’s compound. Jeans, ball cap, and dark hoodie with the hood draped over my head and part of my face. I hadn’t spotted any cameras, but you never knew. The thing most people don’t understand was that certain property owners—wealthy privacy-seeking owners—aren’t fond of having themselves on video. Security at Chapman’s compound, or lack thereof, may well have been established under the same privacy rules.

There was a utility door under the large back porch. I pulled on latex gloves, picked the lock, and spent a full minute drying the bottoms of my boots. No tracks. The room contained two water heaters, an electric heating unit, washer and dryer. A mudroom and laundry room. I stood stock-still for several minutes, listening, then checked the lower rooms. Several bedrooms with baths, beds made. My jaw muscles tightened at the thought of those young girls being used here. I’m not one for wanton executions, but I had a potent urge to drag those types of abusers outside and put a bullet in their heads.

Narrow stairs led upstairs and opened onto a large great room, adjacent to the kitchen and outdoor porch. Several more bedrooms and baths down the hall. And immediately off the great room a decent-sized conference room. Long table, twelve leather office chairs, fireplace. I had a call to make. Planting the listening device within the great room held great appeal. Casual conversations often revealed the most intel among individual players, if not group mission purpose and objectives. But it was this crowd’s purpose I sought, so after a quick conference room scan I spotted a more than decent hiding spot. On the fireplace mantel, tucked behind several items of nautical bric-a-brac and near a mantel clock, would work fine. I planted the bug, moved into the great room, and called the listening device’s number. It picked up the mantel clock’s subdued tick, marking time. Perfect. Down the stairs, out the door, and a quick hustle uphill. At my place I tested the bug again. All good.

I took another cruise around the island and put about twenty miles on the scooter, my rifle again broken down and packed along for the ride. My back trail, checked often, remained clean. At the east side of the horseshoe-shaped island I puttered up Mount Constitution, rising a half-mile high above Orcas Island. Starting at sea level, it stood sentinel over the scattered islands and bays toward the mainland. The view, spectacular and elemental. There were no people around, few boats plied the waters between the San Juan Islands and the mainland, and drifting rain clouds dripped on us mere mortals. There were several hiking paths there, so I took advantage of the solitude and quiet. Six miles fast-paced up and down through thick evergreen forest worked the kinks out, my breath visible. Moss clung along the topside of every passed tree limb and stone surface. It might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but I found it renewing. A combination of exertion and in-the-moment lent the endeavor a spiritual element, allowing me to reflect on how blessed I was. I never had nor ever would have Bo’s expansive perspective, but for my headspace a strenuous hike worked as a contemplative exercise. It was a brief period for self-awareness and personal gratitude.

Weaving down the lonely mountain past forest, small fields, and bogs, my understanding of the job’s framework remained dark and unclear. A rich guy played dangerous desperado, for whatever stupid reason. Maybe he was trying to prove something to himself. The dirty DEA agent wasn’t a shock—hundreds of millions of dollars were being transacted. Chapman’s underage girl procurement for very important people, combined with the Chinese American Cooperative structural overlay, pointed toward a cut-and-dried rationale. Chapman was keeping his Chinese drug suppliers happy. Fred the Victoria spook threw a wrinkle in things, but money and greed may have prompted his engagement as well. After all, Chapman worked in intelligence. He’d know Company agents. And I didn’t doubt Fred was a Company man. He had the mannerisms and first-encounter bonhomie I knew too well. So call him a dirty spy. Fine. A situation requiring cleanup, for sure, but Marilyn Townsend’s acute interest—her hiring of me—pointed toward more. While I couldn’t grasp what it might be, Jules’s number one rule, her one big thing, floated in the background. Nothing was ever as it seemed.

An Eastsound burger and beer followed, and a lazy afternoon at the Airbnb planned, albeit one on watch-my-back alert. I took the opportunity to shoot Townsend another daily report. She’d already been informed about Chapman’s departure and yesterday’s intel provided by the marina’s owner. Intel I caveated big time, emphasizing it constituted local scuttlebutt and little more. She’d parse the information, pick through the tendrils of connectivity, work within her bailiwick. One she, and Jules, excelled at. Today’s report was short and sweet.

No activity.

As evening approached, I fired the charcoal grill situated under the porch overhang, poured a glass of wine, and called Jess. I still kept an eye peeled for recently arrived hitters, but my gut continued to say all clear.

“Hey. Where be you?”

“I’m back in Charlotte having finished off yesterday’s linguine with clams and contemplating if getting off this couch and cleaning the kitchen is in my immediate future. At the moment, due in no small part to two glasses of wine, the kitchen may have to fend for itself overnight.”

“Linguine and clams. Sounds fine.”

“I’m Italian, what can I say? Where are you, and what are you doing?”

“Still on Orcas Island. About to introduce a steak to hot coals.”

“I’ll prepare a meal for you sometime soon. I could reveal alternatives to red meat and fire.”

We chatted about small things, mundane events, the markers that provided the glue for everyday life. It was a pleasant passing of time as dusk covered Orcas Island, sea lions shifted among beach rocks, and an osprey floated at eye level over Deer Harbor.

“How’s the job going?” she asked.

“At the moment, boring. Things should pick up tomorrow.”

“Would you like to elaborate? I’m still working on categorizing your descriptives like ‘things should pick up.’ Are we talking about the arrival of a troop of beautiful gypsy girls or a gunfight at the OK Corral?”

“Gypsy girls.”

I immediately regretted saying it. Too close to the present job.

“Tell them hi. And hands off. What else is happening tomorrow?”

“The guy I’m investigating should return tomorrow from Seattle. It’s unclear if there’s more to it.”

“What about the rest of the week?”

“Well, I’m thinking Thursday or Friday he’ll be joined with other players. Maybe. If they don’t show, the ballgame’s over. What’s up with your next job?”

She was considering a contract in Georgia. Something about a wealthy real estate family and familial warfare. We signed off as the steak sizzled. I viewed it as a good chat. Solid. And considered how I weighed every doggone conversation we had as if each and every one could be a deal breaker. Which might have been true.

Chapter 23

 

Wednesday morning broke with blue sky peeking through high, fast-moving clouds. A brisk breeze waved evergreen limbs and grass heads. Offshore, small whitecaps danced across the surface. Over coffee, I logged a mental note: stop being a putz and purchase more electronic tools these types of jobs required. And quit thinking of them as doodads and consider them as important tools in my arsenal. They lacked immediate terminal results but could still kill you. It just took longer.

Still no sign of hitters, and while I didn’t let my guard down it became evident I may have overhyped their appearance. Better safe than sorry. I donned forest-based camo pants, shirt, and jacket for the Pacific Northwest. The waterproof jacket had a soft exterior that minimized noise while moving through brush. A camo ball cap completed the ensemble. Glock holstered, telephoto camera at the ready. The goal: remain hidden inside the tree line but get close enough to capture facial photos. I had dark-green face paint at the ready. My element, my skill sets in use. If and when Chapman arrived, I’d head downhill.

A pot of coffee later, nothing. A few boats passed through the strait between Orcas and Shaw Islands, including a large ferry headed for Vancouver Island. A small pod of Dall’s porpoises, their black-and-white coloration similar to orcas, cruised offshore. The occasional sunshine bursts warmed; time passed, the wind diminished. A sandwich for lunch, and hours ticked past, accompanied by a sinking feeling he wouldn’t show. But late afternoon the New Dawn Rising arrived. I watched it round Crane Island and head toward Deer Harbor. Game on.

Face and hand camo cream applied, I hustled downhill. Positioned inside the tree line on my belly, well hidden, camera at the ready. And watched as Chapman’s yacht pulled into his dock with two other men. Two Asian men, their feet spread and knees unlocked against the vessel’s movement. They stared first toward the compound, assessed it, and scanned uphill.

They had MSS operator look and feel. The Chinese spy organization, the Ministry of State Security. Sent, I thought, to protect whoever showed later. The very important people. The camera’s telephoto lens afforded close-up facial shots. I’d been at this game long enough to recognize the signs, the features. Deadly serious, wary, hard.

These weren’t spies. They were hitters, assassins. Confirmed when they stepped off the yacht with rucksacks and rifle cases. A valid perspective was that they planned on establishing a perimeter and protecting the later arrivals. But my gut said otherwise.

Chapman pointed toward a small guesthouse at the edge of the estate’s expansive lawn. They headed toward it, and Chapman completed the vessel’s tie-off. He followed them across the compound, stood on the cabin’s small front steps, and unlocked the door. They were close, and Chapman’s voice was easily discernible.

“You guys need to help me unload. There’s a lot of groceries on board.”

Door opened, they slid past him without a word.

“So are you guys going to help?” Chapman asked into the dim interior. No answer.

Chapman, dressed in khakis and boat shoes and a roll-neck boating sweater, remained on the steps, hands on hips. One of the hitters stepped back outside and lit a smoke.

“It will get done a lot faster if you guys chip in. Your people are arriving as well, you know.”

The smoker took a puff, turned a rock-hard face toward Chapman, and delivered a slow, emphatic headshake. Then he resumed scouring the surrounding terrain.

Chapman asked a face-saving question. A live-saving question for me.

“When will you go after him?”

Translation: when will you kill Case Lee?

The hitter didn’t deign to acknowledge the question. Chapman waited a few seconds for a response and stomped toward his vessel, petulant. He tossed “Thanks guys. Thanks a lot. You’re a big help” over his shoulder.

The Chicom hitter glanced his way and stepped down. Instead of movement toward the vessel, he eased toward the forest. Ran his arm against a low-lying evergreen branch, grabbed and bent it. It proved pliable and didn’t snap. He performed the same exercise on the undergrowth. His arm scraped against the brush several times as he captured the sound. He performed a few slow steps into the forest, head bent, listening. He was checking stalking conditions, environmental noise and feel and textures. A pro. An operator. Son of a bitch.

His partner exited the small cabin and lit a smoke as well. Under his arm, a Chinese-made assault rifle with a suppressor at the barrel’s business end. The weapon’s scope displayed the telltale shape to accommodate batteries, which indicated both day- and night-vision capabilities. Shit.

I remained frozen, snapped a few more photos, and laid the camera down. At a snail’s speed, I eased the Glock from its holster and aimed it along the ground in their direction. I hadn’t planned on blasting away, although the thought occurred to me as a viable option. Strike first. But the distance between us wasn’t advantageous for a pistol shot, and the cat with the rifle would slam hot lead toward my gun blast’s sound in a heartbeat.

The first guy ground out his smoke, eased past his partner, and entered the cabin, speaking Chinese as he passed. His partner shrugged a response. Several minutes later the partner reentered the cabin. Shuffling and unpacking noises followed, a signal for me to scoot away. Or go full frontal, keep low and hustle toward the cabin’s open door, and catch them with their pants down. Whack the bastards up close and personal.

I was sorely tempted to finish this before it started, but too many risk factors nixed the choice. These guys were hardcore pros, and the odds were high they had their own firepower locked and loaded. Plus my unsilenced Glock’s loud boom would echo throughout Deer Harbor, drawing attention. Not good. So I eased backward, belly-flat, until sufficient brush and trees blocked any view they might have of my exit. Then I hauled ass uphill.

The trigger point for their arrival, as I’d suspected, sounded loud and clear. Fred, a key component of this little conspiratorial collection, had set this hit in motion. Yeah, he knew by now what had happened with the underage girls supply chain. Or rather, what I’d done to disrupt the supply. But my actions with the pimp and his henchmen hadn’t lit the fuse. No, his decision for my elimination had been made at the Victoria dock. I wouldn’t play, so it was time to remove me from the playground.

Devon Chapman was the delivery boy; I had no doubt. A lackey. A fact highlighted when these two hitters had displayed nothing but contempt for him. He was an organizational gofer.

It’s hard finding a silver lining when two professional assassins are hunting you, but their appearance and the grocery load indicated that the big confab with this group of asshats remained scheduled for the next couple of days. Take out Lee, proceed with business as usual. There was one hiccup with their plan. I wasn’t going down.

I maintained a rapid pace, ducked tree limbs, and avoided the small clearings. Two small groups of deer observed my progress, undisturbed while I passed. My plan was simple. Prep for battle. Kill the bastards.

Inside the house I pulled the Colt 901 .308 caliber assault rifle. It was equipped with an Elcan Specter scope wired for night vision. I screwed a suppressor onto the barrel. It wouldn’t eliminate the sound of a gunshot but would mute it sufficiently that big-bang echoes wouldn’t wash across Orcas Island. Within the thick forest, the sound would be further dampened. An extra loaded ammo magazine slipped into a jacket pocket. I kept the Glock handgun unsilenced—a suppressor attachment made for an awkward length when crawling, and flat-body movement would be required.

There would be nothing quick about this battle. They were hardened operators and would take their time. I’d ensure as much in a few minutes. Meanwhile, I stuffed my phone, laptop, and other electronics inside the rucksack for hiding within the surrounding area. They might enter my house in pursuit of me. They could have the toothbrush and remaining half-bottle of wine. I had a quick look around, hefted the rucksack and rifle, and headed onto the overlook porch.

I planned to give it five minutes before taking off. I focused through binoculars as the light faded, the hitters’ cabin hidden behind trees, off to the side. Kept an eye on the rest of the compound, acknowledging they could already be making tracks toward me. Then they showed.

Both hitters strolled into the compound’s lawn, clear of impeding forest. Both were decked out—webbed battle vests, suppressed rifles, green camo fatigues. They were in no rush, clearly planning on a night hit. Chapman came out on the main building’s elevated deck and spoke to them. Neither responded. No words, not even a glance in his direction. They both lit smokes and chatted with each other.

There were times when I’d chosen the hardheaded path. A path marked with my way rather than the smart way. This was one of those times. It wasn’t pride or hubris or cockiness. No, it was a “screw you and the horse you rode in on” attitude. Don’t know why I acted in such a way. It was a hardwired component.

The smart move was to get off the porch, deposit my rucksack, and start the hunt while they remained unaware. Catch them as they worked their way uphill, unsuspecting they were being hunted. But this time defiance overrode smart.

I stared through the binoculars and waited. It took ten or so minutes. They ground out their smokes as one lifted his rifle and scoped the hillside. He started with a house a quarter-mile north of me. I’d passed it several times the last couple of days. It was empty.

While he scoped, his buddy turned his back and tourist-sighted on the beached sea lions, who were causing a minor ruckus, barking among themselves. A light breeze blew from the north, and patchy clouds passed overhead, with no rain so far. The air was crisp, clean, evergreen, and fern-filled. Primal.

Time to throw down the gauntlet. The hitter’s focus on the unoccupied house came up empty. He shifted his scoping activities toward the south. Toward me. It was way too far for a shot but more than sufficient to capture the image. I stood full frontal in plain view and eyeballed them through binoculars. Wearing camo and face paint with my rifle propped against the porch rail.

He immediately spoke toward his comrade, who spun around and joined the scoping. Once I had both their undivided attention, I raised my right hand in their direction, middle finger extended. Bring it uphill, boys. Bring it.

Chapter 24

 

They lifted their heads off the rifle’s stock, lowered their weapons, and exchanged comments. Then they took a casual stroll out of sight as the trees blocked both our views. One of them, as he left my field of vision, smiled uphill. His teeth flashed, and his eyes remained expressionless. Challenge accepted.

The rules, cut and dried, were now established—we’d attempt to kill each other. They wouldn’t be in any rush to begin their hunt, counting on nighttime cover and expertise. Unknown to them, I held better hole cards. Casual meanders around this part of the island had filled me with knowledge of the terrain, the turf, the battlefield. The killing floor. Advantage, Case Lee.

Off the porch, rucksack grabbed, and out the back. A hundred yards to the south was one of those weird forest depressions, several steps across and a good three feet deep. Once the location of a fallen tree’s root ball, fifty or more years ago. The tree and roots were long gone, but the depression remained. I deposited the rucksack there. It disappeared among the brush and ferns. I headed west, toward the ridgeline that ran along this arm of Orcas Island. A small lake lay just before the crest. That’s where I’d hunker down. Maintain elevation advantage; use the lake’s shoreline exposure as a viewing window into the surrounding forest. Then wait and search for movement.

I traveled fast with special attention toward my footfalls, minimizing noise. There was the off chance one or both of them would come barreling after me. I doubted it, but distance and terrain were my immediate friends. The breeze lightened, the clouds thickened, and dusk approached. There was one key unknown—their rifle sights. There was a remote chance, one with life or death consequences, that their weapons were equipped with thermal sights. Given the Chinese military manufacture, which I was unfamiliar with, I couldn’t discern with certainty if they carried night-vision scopes as I did or thermal-imaging scopes. Better than even odds night vision, but still. There was a chance.

Night-vision scopes collect and amplify existing light. Starlight works, and enough moonlight brightens objects up like daylight. Mine had 1X magnification for a wider view and up-close work; 4X magnification for legit headshots out to three hundred yards. And as always, day or night, I’d target movement within a static environment as the key visual capture. Movement, any movement indicating a two-legged critter, would release the fall of the executioner’s ax.

Thermal scopes were another more advanced and much more expensive option. They profiled body heat. Whether a rabbit or a deer or a man, the image they captured detailed the targeted shape, be it head, arms, legs, or torso. The larger the heat signature the better the tool worked. The consequences were severe if they were so equipped, and I sought a known hunting blind above the small lake. It offered an earth barrier to hide behind. A depression at the forest edge on the lake’s west side. Even while hunting, with my head and hands potentially visible to a thermal sight, there was sufficient thick brush to break up my extremities’ profile. They wouldn’t risk a shot and give away their position firing at a target that could have been a rabbit within the brush.

My other tactical concern was their positioning. One could come directly toward me. Perhaps both. Or the other hitter could circle and scale the hill from the west. At my back. It’s what I’d have done. Variables, options, decisions. I was satisfied with my choice. I’d take out the first one and acknowledge my shot’s sound signature could ID my position for the second hitter. After my shot, I’d move. Sneak away and assume a different hunting spot. All good.

I prepped for a long wait. They’d move with a sniper’s stealth and caution, aware I was prepared and expecting them. They had all night. So did I. I kept the magnification at 1X and scanned the tree line around the lake as well as the areas left and right. Those directions were problematic—the thick forest and low-hanging conifer limbs hid most everything. A half-moon peeked between slow-drift clouds. Starlight appeared within other clear patches. Both light sources would appear and disappear as overcast skies passed over, affecting the brightness of my scope’s images. An hour passed. Then two more. A small critter, forest mouse or vole, foraged near me, the sound minuscule but plenty loud with such heightened concentration.

The two hitters may have approached my house first, thinking I’d hole up inside. Afterward they’d continue working the area, our battle zone comprised of the horseshoe-shaped island’s southwestern tip. It wasn’t a large area, maybe one square mile. But plenty large when covered with thick forest and slow-motion hunters. They weren’t in any rush. Neither was I.

Hours clocked past, the moon ascended, clouds drifted overhead. Time irrelevant, focus and concentration the prime weapon. It was sometime past midnight when I spotted movement. Not a man and not deer. A fir limb, one among thousands, and well off the ground. Catching it was a fluke, but people lived or died through small unforeseen actions. I’d performed a slow-motion shift of my stretched-out position to accommodate scoping different areas. After one such shift, with my weapon pointed more upward due to the move, I again sought ground-level activity as the rifle barrel gently lowered. Eye glued against the scope, I passed tree after tree, working toward the ground. And scanned past a tree limb that pressed downward, then lifted back to its original position. I snapped back toward the spot my peripheral vision had captured. And waited.

The focus area was a good fifteen feet off the ground. Many of the coastal Douglas firs had sparse ground level branching. Large needle-covered limbs become more frequent, more dense, higher up the tree trunk. This guy would have reached and climbed, stretching, until he entered denser branches for better concealment. He had kept the trunk between us, assuming I was still uphill. He was right. But his weight on a branch created movement. Slight, but out of place. A visual anomaly. I focused like a laser on the specific tree.

A growing concern drove my immediate actions. What if these hitters did have thermal sights on their rifles? From an elevated position—one that could sight over the protective earthen berm—my heat signature and body shape would be obvious. Hell, I’d stand out like a diamond in a goat’s ass. Not good. But the motion of the one branch indicated he was still in the positioning process. First, find the SOB.

Full intense concentration with the rest of the world shut out. Not easy. A banana slug, fat and shell-less and seven inches long, began a slow slimy traverse across my left hand. The hand supporting the rifle’s stock. Block it out, Lee. Focus.

Another anomalous tree limb movement, farther up the trunk. A hand or foot hold, undetermined. At some point this guy would stop and begin scoping, begin target acquisition. I couldn’t risk his use of a thermal scope. First opportunity, I’d squeeze the trigger and then worry about his partner. But start with a clean kill. Improve my odds on this dark-shadowed battlefield. The massive slug continued its journey across my hand and onto the rifle’s front stock, a goo trail in its wake.

The MSS hitter made another mistake. He’d climbed with his rifle slung over a shoulder. He should have lowered it alongside his body, kept it pasted against his profile before raising it to his shoulder. Instead, he swung his arm away from his body, pulling the rifle and sling down his arm. I captured the weapon extended away from the tree trunk. He’d signed his death warrant. I locked where his head and upper body would appear when he aimed the rifle toward my general area and sought me. It didn’t take long.

His right cheek pressed against the weapon’s stock, sighting. Upper chest exposed. Too much clutter—his rifle and scope, obscuring fir needles—for a decent headshot, so I focused on his chest. Inhale, exhale half the breath, hold it. Squeeze the trigger. My rifle’s muted explosion was followed by his body tumbling downward, bouncing off several tree limbs during the fall. He hit the ground, dead on arrival.

My remaining adversary now had a short-term advantage. He knew my approximate location. Unless he was close. Then he’d know exactly where my butt was situated. Gotta go, gotta move. Tried to flick the cigar-sized slug off my rifle stock, failed, peeled the nasty thing off and tossed it. I scooted backward, farther into the forest at my back.

Chapter 25

 

I belly-crawled faster than normal, making cautious tracks away from my firing spot. Two minutes later a sense of relief took root. If the second hitter had positioned close by, and if he hunted with a thermal scope, he’d have fired by now. Even blocked by somewhat thick underbrush, my thermal image could have been discerned. I wasn’t out of the figurative woods yet, but I was convinced my adversary was over the ridge at what had been my back. He and his partner would have agreed upon a pincer movement. Stalk me from opposite directions.

My previous exploration of the turf around my rental house now paid off, big time. I crawled toward a particular spot, headed toward an excellent bushwhack position. One I’d noticed and mentally marked during those off-time explorations. A negative indicator of how my mind worked amid benign environments, but there it was. The spot had what I required—relief from my opponent’s potential thermal capabilities. That one unknown had me less than spooked but a helluva lot more than mildly concerned.

I crawled across the flat area marking the ridgetop. I slowed forward movement, senses cranked, adrenaline meter half-pegged. The weather remained the same. Cloud patches, occasional moonlight, low-level starlight. My objective was fifty yards away, downhill. Well past midnight, no sign of dawn. And dawn was a big freakin’ deal. It eliminated the thermal sight advantage, if the enemy was so equipped. Hated those ifs.

I matched my movement to the undergrowth. Thick fern patches and other small brush forced minor detours, avoiding the risk of creating movement and noise. The sweet smell of Douglas fir mixed with earthy forest duff aromas. Clean scents and oddly nostalgic, and a poor fit for the slow-motion savagery unfolding.

I’d pause every six feet or so and scope with caution, keeping movement to a minimum. There was a possibility my enemy had assumed the suppressed rifle crack was his partner’s. A slim possibility. These guys would have trained long hours with their weapons—both with and without suppressor—and the sound signature of their Chinese weapons would be discernibly different from my Colt rifle. No, this remaining guy knew. Knew his partner had bought the farm. It may have incensed him, created a sense of immediate revenge. But I doubted it. Oh, he’d be pissed all right. No doubt. But my single shot told him more than anything else it was now one-on-one. He’d exhibit more caution, not less.

Another hour passed, my progress slow and deliberate. Spooked garter snakes slithered away as I inched forward. They moved far too fast to be anything but. The surrounding tree trunks were so large and numerous that they eliminated entire chunks of visual downrange sighting, leaving small linear clear area sight lines. Even those were problematic given the thick undergrowth. The enemy and I could have been twenty yards apart and passed each other in the black night, silent hunters unaware. But the spot I made my way toward had an advantage similar to the small lake I’d left: a clearing, a window into the forest.

I halted where my objective should have been. Nearby, a great horned owl sounded its deep, soft hoots. An eerie sound, but reassuring as well. My movement hadn’t disturbed it. Nor had the movement of my enemy, confirmation he moved at my pace. It took another thirty minutes to find the spot as I wormed forward feet, inches at a time. More forest mice and garter snakes scurried and slithered away as I scooted, at least one large slug squished under my body weight.

Unlike the root ball hole where I’d left my rucksack, this fallen Douglas fir—no doubt toppled by a windstorm—had lain for only a few decades. It was in a state of decomposition, flattened as opposed to round, and its fallen trajectory provided a semiclear view of a small meadow below. The root hole was deep, three or four feet, filled with ferns. I belly-crawled into it.

I collected myself, head below ground level, eased against the sloped earth wall, and began the hunt in earnest. Toward the west, three miles across the San Juan Channel, a few lights showed on San Juan Island. The ocean between us—black, still. I established a scoping routine. Ten minutes toward the meadow and its surrounding forest, then lower myself below the hole’s rim and shift. Ten minutes sighting my back trail and sides. The minute-hand-slow rotation continued for several hours, senses life-or-death redlined, heart rate calm. One more bullet would be fired this night. The only question: whose?

Dawn’s first light broke. Excellent. Now, regardless of my enemy’s equipment, we’d be on level hunting ground as he, like me, would flip his scope to daylight operations.

A herd of five deer emerged at the meadow’s edge below, browsing. Ears flicked, and tails made intermittent swooshes back and forth. A raven flew overhead, its guttural croaks washing across the forest. It had been twelve hours since the silent, slow battle had started. Twelve draining hours. But now was not the time for mistakes.

I couldn’t say my opponent made one—made a mistake, that is. A simple matter of wrong place, wrong time. A single deer, then the rest of the herd, became alert. Ears high, tails stiff at half-mast, straight behind the animal. Their legs were no longer in a relaxed browsing pose, but coiled, prepared. They hadn’t exhibited such behavior when I’d crossed paths with them before with no attempt at stealth. I had been just another human, passing through. But now their natural flight instinct, hardwired into their DNA, indicated alertness, heightened awareness. A potential predator, a silent hidden stalker, was in the area. But there weren’t any predators on Orcas Island. Except for the two-legged variety who now performed a silent death-dealing ballet.

They stared toward a section of forest near the small clearing. I poured every ounce of concentration into scoping the area. Nothing. But those deer heard, smelled, or sensed danger. I remained locked-in, one eye open through the scope, the other open as a wider-view perspective. The nature-alarm vignette played out for several more minutes. The deer turned and melted into the forest nearest them, still on high alert. One cast a backward glance toward the spot on the opposite side of the clearing.

If this guy was good—and I didn’t doubt he was—he would have watched the herd’s reaction and acted accordingly. Freeze. And remain frozen until things settled. Ten, twenty minutes passed. My eyes never left the area the critters had stared toward. Dawn was in full swing, not quite full daylight, but with sufficient illumination to create what filmmakers call the magic hour—the period before sunrise or after sunset when the sun wasn’t visible, but its light was evenly diffused. No glare, no visual harshness. The magic hour. It wasn’t magic for my prey.

A foot, extended behind an unseen body, shifted forward and pushed, scooting him forward across the ground. A large fir tree hid the rest of his flat body, but he’d appear on the tree’s other side soon enough. No need to flick my weapon’s safety off—I’d been live-fire since the staredown on my porch. I closed my non-scope eye, waited, focused, filled with grim anticipation. The slightest movement within a fern patch at the edge of the tree trunk—a discernible visual rustle—indicated his appearance. I still hadn’t acquired my target, but it would happen. A dead man crawling. Him or me. It damn sure wouldn’t be me.

He was good. Better than good. But not better than me. His rifle barrel eased through the fern clump. He’d have to adjust the vegetation for visibility, for scoping. His left hand wormed its way along the rifle stock beneath the barrel. Once satisfied with the setup, he spread his fingers wide, gently shoved aside fern fronds, and created a sighting tunnel. He aimed toward my general direction and began his search.

There was too much deep shadow to identify his head through the small fern tunnel, but I knew its location. His left-hand position along the weapon’s stock indicated he was right-eyed, and the left side of his face would be exposed. A center-mass headshot was too risky. I might have hit the scope or rifle. But there were about three inches of target available along the fern opening. At a hundred yards, it was plenty.

Deep breath, let out half, and held it. Calm, clinical, certain—my scope’s crosshairs unwavering. The rifle’s crack was immediately followed by the wet plonk sound of a bullet strike. Then silence. His rifle lolled onto its side, his left hand now relaxed. I kept my crosshairs on his location for ten more minutes, just to be sure, remaining businesslike in the aftermath. A nearby Steller’s jay protested the event with guttural calls and nasal-sounding grumbles. For the first time since the event started, I became aware of how cool it was, borderline cold.

Certain that death had visited the enemy, I slid into my hole. No exaltation, and any sense of victory was muted, restrained. Filled with relief, mainly, and fatigue. I was bone-tired. Twelve hours amped up, twelve hours on the edge. And now a peculiar comfort, hunkered within my sunken hunting blind. I stared at the sky, gave thanks, and thought, weirdly enough, of family and friends and time on the Ace of Spades with CC. Strange, so damn strange.

Chapter 26

 

I gave myself half an hour’s respite while I remained focused on the mission and committed to burial duty. Hiked back over the hill, still cautious, maintaining situational awareness. At the edge of a small clearing, I paused and called the conference room listening device. It picked up the faint sounds of kitchen preparations. Breakfast time for Devon. I was growing to despise the guy. He may not have made the call to have MSS killers delivered, but he’d damn sure performed the delivery. Where he retrieved them—Seattle, Victoria, or somewhere else—wasn’t known and didn’t figure into my mental calculations. They’d arrived, courtesy of Chapman. Arrived to kill me.

I made a wary hike back toward the rental house and worked the kinks out. I washed the face paint off—if any third party came across me, it would look too suspicious. I rooted around in the garage and found a decent shovel and a dull, half-decent ax. Beggars, choosers. Toting the tools and rifle back up the hill, I found the first MSS hitter. He did have a thermal sight, which helped explain his desire for elevation. Peruse the forest, seek heat signatures. Jeez, I’d dodged a literal bullet on this one.

I used the ax as much as the shovel as tree roots were thick and numerous. The grave wasn’t deep, three feet, but there weren’t any large scavengers on Orcas Island to dig up the remains. I’d shoveled the duff aside into a pile before starting, and once I’d planted him, smoothed it back over the fresh-dug dirt. The grave wouldn’t be noticed by any passing locals or tourists, although I didn’t anticipate anyone stumbling upon the spot.

While I dug and wielded the ax, I attempted to piece a few things together—shaky footing when dealing with spooks. Particularly rogue spooks. I couldn’t shake the hole, the void, that dominated the middle of this deal. Yeah, up to this point the entire hairball presented as a large drug-running operation. Chinese drug manufacturers brought large fentanyl quantities into Mexico. A well-established fact, not subject to argument. Why didn’t the Mexican cartel take it from there? Well, they did, but only for their border-smuggling expertise. Once across, an unknown arrangement had been made for distribution. The drug’s value increased exponentially when you controlled the end-user supply. Hence Alex Whittle and the dirty DEA guy. The profits, no doubt, were enormous. The Douglas disruption wouldn’t make a difference in the long run. They’d find other alternatives to get the killer stuff into the US. Chinese fentanyl manufacturers, check. A deal struck with a Mexican cartel, check. An experienced distributor with Whittle, check. And with so much money spread around, a dirty DEA agent. Check and check.

But why Devon Chapman? And why Orcas Island? I’d maybe buy the cloud-cover satellite thing, but why go through the bother of Orcas Island at all? It wasn’t the proximity to Victoria, BC. Sadly, underage girls could be procured from any large city. The appearance of the Victoria spook, Fred, made no sense. None. What the hell did he have to do with anything, and why did he check on Chapman’s movement or track me? While signs pointed toward both him and Chapman being rogue agents within the US intel community, was drug money the lone driver? Man, what a hairball.

The exertion of burial duty did me good. It was rhythmic work and afforded thought time, cleared my head. Over the ridgetop and down where the second hitter laid. It was always a strange emotion viewing your kill. Dissociation from the event; clinical assessment of the aftermath. My bullet had entered near his left eye.

He, too, was equipped with a thermal scope. I kept his rifle and considered later purchasing one of them, although a seven or eight grand price tag and a personal commitment to stop the whacking game made me hesitate. I’d think about it.

I dragged the second hitter farther into the forest, away from the small clearing, and performed grim digging again. At least the ground wasn’t hard, although the extensive root system was a pain. With duff again scattered over my work product, I was good to go. Two dead men, buried and never to be discovered in my lifetime. No markers, no eulogies. Simply gone, disappeared. I’d thought more than a few times about the same fate. It washed me with feelings of insignificance, finality, folly. I shook it off—business required attending to.

Back at the rental house, I had a hot shower after listening in to Chapman’s silent conference room, and then resumed my position on the porch, binoculars focused on the compound below. I took the opportunity to send another Townsend daily report for yesterday and lied through my digital teeth.

Chapman arrived late afternoon. No activity.

You know, Marilyn, there was this little matter of two MSS hitters making a cameo appearance. But other than that little fandango, all quiet on the western front. If I revealed this activity, it opened the door to her pulling me off the job. Blown cover and all that. But I was in too deep to walk away from this mess and was committed to seeing it through. My short report didn’t elicit a response. No surprises there.

Patches of sunshine crossed over me, the chair comfortable, the compound below quiet. I crashed. It wouldn’t have happened during my younger days, but thirty draining hours without sleep now took its toll.

A prop plane’s distinctive noise woke me three hours later. I’d gotten lucky and was more than chagrined at my failure to remain on task. It was stupid and negligent. But three hours was sufficient to recharge my batteries. The approach to Orcas Island’s tiny airstrip was straight down the mouth of the horseshoe island. At my elevated position, the plane came in at eye level. Nothing unusual about a plane’s approach as several arrived each day. Commercial flights for those who didn’t want the several-hour ferry ride.

What was unusual was watching Chapman exit the main house, cross the lawn, and pull open the wooden garage doors as the plane flew overhead. As he drove his large SUV out of the compound, I knew his destination. As chief manservant for his little gang, he was headed for the airport.

Time to clock in. Phone, camera, pistol, camo rain gear. The overhead clouds were thick and threatened rain, but so far the day had been dry. I headed down the hill to position and considered Chapman’s concern over the two missing hitters he’d delivered yesterday. Maybe he thought they had been up all night and still slept. Or maybe he wasn’t concerned having not been informed about their mission. He was a delivery boy and had done his part. Hard to say who, but someone, somewhere, would want feedback on the outcome of their little venture. A clock was ticking, one that would sound an alarm. An alarm regarding yours truly. When the MSS hitters’ fate became apparent, I didn’t mind one whit the obvious message: Dear Chicoms—welcome to my turf, assholes. Sincerely, Case Lee.

I expected the flight to be carrying Chinese drug manufacturers. Dealers. Business agents of the Chinese Communist government, working under the full acknowledgment and support of China’s ruling members. Their arrival would be no surprise, and did nothing to open the curtain on the larger picture I couldn’t grasp.

I positioned inside the forest wall with excellent visibility of the grounds and house. Twenty minutes later, Chapman arrived with three passengers. As they were disgorged from the vehicle, Chapman hustled and unloaded their luggage, carrying it inside. I snapped photos. And the entire job exploded.

Chapter 27

 

He stood with a frown and a lion’s mane of gray hair brushed back, arms crossed as he surveyed the compound. A US senator. I don’t keep up with politics, but this guy had been around awhile and was plenty recognizable. Beside him was another I could recognize as a congressman, name unknown. It wasn’t a great leap to assume the third guy was a congressman as well. Oh, man.

A barn door of uncertainty and possibilities and fresh risk flew open. These guys weren’t here for discussions about the illegal drug trade. Nope. There was another game at play. A scenario I hadn’t sniffed or seen coming or had a freakin’ clue about. Did Townsend have an inkling anything like this was happening? Couldn’t have—she wouldn’t have hired me with the suspicion political power players were involved. I acknowledged this as a bridge too far for a contractor, even one she trusted—albeit one with apparent “proclivities.” Well, more than apparent. I’d spent the morning burying a couple of proclivities.

The senator and one congressman headed for the main house. Their movement showed familiarity with the compound’s layout. The third lit a smoke, turned his back, and stared across Deer Harbor. Flat on my belly, I laid the camera down and stared into the inches-away grass. The entire bloody job had now escalated into a new domain. A lethal geopolitical domain.

Two MSS assassins sent after me was one thing. Any and all transactions with China meant, by default, dealing with the Chinese Communist government. Regardless of the engagement, when it became hammer time, the Ministry of State Security became involved. A known.

But this was different, by a long shot. US politicians meant Chicom party hacks as well—party hacks on the surface, MSS players underneath. Their involvement would be determined soon enough. But it didn’t require a rocket scientist to determine their commitment regarding yours truly. Two MSS hitters missing? No big deal. Send more. We have important business to attend. Keep sending assassins until this guy is removed. Son of a bitch.

Secondary to my prime concern of remaining vertical was the context of this whole freakin’ mess. Man, I’d missed the boat on this job. It had kept escalating with me one step behind each and every time. Now it provided a litany of possibilities, none of them good. Even the possibility this entire mess had been sanctioned by the US government wasn’t off the table. Stranger things have happened. Drugs, sex trafficking—all part and parcel of a larger endeavor that included the Chicoms? I hated thinking so, but I had zero Pollyannaish perceptions when it came to my own government. Oh, man.

Another plane’s approach toward Orcas Island signaled to Chapman that it was time for another pickup and delivery. He completed his bellboy routine, hauled the politicians’ luggage into the house, hustled toward the SUV, and headed out.

I used a tiny Bluetooth earpiece, pulled the phone, and dialed the conference room listening device. They were too far away, situated among the house’s bedrooms, unpacking. Snippets of low, disgruntled down-hallway conversation. Ten minutes later, the tight clink of ice in glasses indicated they’d started cocktail hour in the great room. With the volume cranked, I could discern conversation.

“With the dollies not coming, let’s meet today and get the hell out tomorrow.”

“You know,” said another, “it pisses me off. Even with a private jet, Seattle is a long flight. Then we’re told there’s no entertainment.”

Well, yeah, boys, your underage girls are a no-show. Get over it, assholes.

“Don’t forget we signed up for this,” said another. “But I agree. Let’s get out of here tomorrow.”

A massive red flag waved. Signed up for what?

“Remember, gentlemen. Let’s ensure we don’t upset our counterparts with an early departure. They are big on saving face and all that crap.”

“They only fly from Vancouver. How long a flight? Thirty minutes?”

Vancouver, British Columbia. Made sense. The Chinese had been emigrating to Vancouver for more than a century, had melded into the population and become solid Canadian citizens. Twenty percent of Vancouver’s population had Chinese heritage. China’s government offshoots—espionage offshoots—would be comfortable setting up shop there with the proximity to the US a huge plus.

“Chapman at least remembered the good scotch,” said another. “And I agree. Let’s run this past our counterparts before we commit to taking off tomorrow. We don’t want to rock the boat.”

“The money boat, you mean.”

They laughed while I ground my teeth. Were the Chicoms making direct payments to these clowns? And for what? The three politicos slipped into a conversation about the political inner workings within the Senate and the House. Legislation, reelection rumors, insider personnel moves. The usual crap.

Thirty minutes later Chapman returned. He’d retrieved the Chinese contingent. Four men. I had no clue who the hell the congressional members thought these guys were—trade officials, Communist Party functionaries, scientific researchers—but you’d sit high on the moron scale not knowing they were MSS. They had the look and feel, the assuredness, the deadpan expression that could perform a quick flip into a false smile. Great, just freakin’ great.

I could name three people who knew the new arrivals’ identity. Chapman and that SOB Fred. And me. The job now entailed US congressmen, the Chinese Ministry of State Security, a drug dealer, a pimp, and a traitor or three. Talk about a rogues’ gallery.

The Chinese contingent’s fourth member was different, indicated through a hand signal from one of the other three to occupy a cabin. He nodded and snagged a rucksack and rifle case from Chapman’s SUV. With no word from the two killers they’d sent, another had arrived to complete the assignment. I snapped photos as they stood around, smoked, stretched, and chatted in Chinese. Chapman toted their luggage. I’d gotten the required photos and was filled with unease at another hitter so close while I remained armed with an unsilenced pistol. I scooted backward until deep into the forest and hauled it up the hill. The earpiece yielded welcoming conversation among the players as I jogged toward my house.

The urge to sit, listen, and write notes was strong. Not as strong as the requirement to cover my butt against the new MSS assassin. The first order of business was preparing for battle again, rifle locked and loaded. I would take a different tack this time—go after the SOB. I’d had enough of this crap.

Prepped, I situated myself well inside my porch’s door, deep in the shadows, while still maintaining visibility of the compound. There would be no sitting in plain view this time. My subsequent actions would again break the rules of engagement, but I didn’t care. My give-a-shit meter was empty. But the hitter strolled across the lawn, ascended the main house’s outside porch stairs, and positioned himself on the porch with his rifle. He’d been assigned coverage of his MSS bosses while an outside threat existed. Me. At some point they’d cut him loose for the hunt, but at the moment he and I remained in an unspoken truce. It wouldn’t last.

There was a record function on my phone, but that wouldn’t happen. This entire job now had the dangerous implication factor cranked way, way up. No wonder the two MSS hitters had been sent. It wasn’t about the girls. It was about me, about disrupting their standard operating procedures. And all about knowing, or suspecting, too much. There’d be no conversational recordings. And the photos, once sent to Townsend, would be wiped clean. Any kept evidence about this job represented a guaranteed death sentence, delivered from a wide swath of players including those supposedly on my side.

The next hour was overheard chitchat. Two congressmen wandered onto the porch, drinks in hand. The hitter stood at a porch corner, didn’t acknowledge them, and continued surveying the surrounding area. He glanced toward my house several times, scoped it twice, but made no further attempt at ascertaining if I occupied it. He’d wait for orders before beginning his hunt. The event would be triggered when one of the other three MSS players chatted with him and he returned to his cabin for prep. At that point, I’d dash down the hillside and get in position. Then bushwhack the SOB. Don’t know if all is fair in love, but it damn sure is in war.

Chapter 28

 

Voices became more distinct as they moved into the conference room. Chairs scraped and heavy objects placed on a tabletop sounded through my earpiece. Drinks and ashtrays. The MSS killer remained on the porch.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” Chapman said. “Thank you all for your attendance at the Chinese American Cooperative’s fourth meeting. It’s a pleasure to see each of you.”

“Allow me to start by thanking our Chinese allies in this wonderful effort,” the senator said, adopting his best bombastic tone. “We have taken great strides toward the reduction of tensions between our nations, and I like to think our efforts will continue far into the future.”

Don’t bet the farm on it, you distinguished-looking turd.

“It is indeed our pleasure attending such a gathering.” The voice was Chinese-accented and filled with humble sincerity. “A toast is appropriate for this auspicious occasion.”

“To CAC,” was repeated multiple times.

I envisioned glasses lifted, excellent scotch downed.

“Before we get started,” a congressman said, “I would like to ask about the extra security. In particular, your man outside. I mean, the guy appears loaded for bear with that rifle.”

“A precaution, Congressman,” said a Chicom. “There is no need for alarm or concern. We wish to ensure everyone’s safety. It is a simple matter of added precaution.”

You might become a tad alarmed and concerned, Bubba, when I blow his sorry ass away.

“And thank you for the additional security,” Chapman said, deferential. “I feel it is important for us to feel safe, secure, and comfortable here on Orcas Island.”

“I’d feel more comfortable knowing some pretty young gals sat in the other room,” the senator said.

He laughed at his own statement. So did the other two congressmen. The Chinese remained silent, although I imagined they each displayed polite smiles and nods.

“We had a disruption with our delivery,” Chapman said. “I cannot apologize enough.”

“Let’s make sure it doesn’t happen again,” a congressman said. “It’s quite a trip getting here from DC.”

“I assure you,” a Chinese voice said, “it will not happen again. Correct, Devon?”

“Yessir, absolutely correct. Again, my apologies.”

My urge to take Devon Chapman out cranked up several notches.

“May we assume,” another Chinese voice said, “there have been no political funding disruptions, Senator and Congressmen?”

A not-too-subtle stake pounded into CAC’s playground. The campaign funds continued flowing, so don’t get too bent about missing the underage girls.

“The super PACs remain very effective,” a congressman said. “Very effective. I’ve seen several ads against my opponent, and they look great.”

Political dark money. PACs or Political Action Committees operated across the entire officeholder spectrum—federal, state, local. Through legal machinations, big money funneled toward political ads, videos, mailers, and call banks. And with a bevy of excellent lawyers, the PAC contributors, especially the designation known as a super PAC, could be buried deep. Too deep to reveal the money’s source.

“The funding is an enormous help,” the senator added. “And it is appreciated, my friends. Greatly appreciated.”

“We are pleased you find such expenditures helpful,” a Chicom replied. “Be most assured we look forward to working with each of you far into the future.”

I bet you do, asshole.

“And us with you,” a congressman said.

“In that vein,” the senator said, “let’s get down to business. My colleagues and I feel we can conclude business matters now, which would allow us a tomorrow-morning departure. I would hope you gentlemen are amenable to such a plan.”

A pregnant pause. The MSS players would eyeball each other and consider the statement.

“This would be most unusual, Senator. Is this necessary?”

“It’s a long trip back to DC,” a congressman said. “And we have a full legislative schedule starting Monday.”

Another pause.

“As you wish,” a Chicom said. “We can only hope you have not been offended through some action on our part.”

“Not at all,” the senator said. “Please don’t even consider such a possibility. It is a matter of a legislative full plate, as my colleague alluded to.”

“Of course. Shall we begin, then? I believe we last ended with questions regarding your hypersonic missile capabilities.”

What the hell?

“As we mentioned,” a congressman said, “issues remain with maneuverability. The thing moves mighty fast, and designs for navigation adjustments at such speed are a bugger. While it holds promise, it remains a promise not-yet-realized as congressional appropriations remain an issue.”

“An issue we, that is to say CAC, remain most interested in maintaining.”

Hypersonic weapons traveled at over four thousand miles per hour. They were pitched as having hypersonic speed and the maneuvering capabilities of a cruise missile. Highly classified stuff I’d heard rumors about through the ex-military grapevine. Oh man, our guys were spilling the beans about this weapon system. To the Chicoms!

“Allow me to emphasize this weapon is not high on our funding priority,” said a congressman.

“And here lies the beauty of CAC,” a Chicom said. “My friends, our ability in reducing tensions between our countries cannot be overstated.”

“Agreed, agreed,” the senator said. “We are achieving true and relevant progress toward greater understanding. Now, gentlemen, we had also discussed options regarding a defense system against hypersonic threats. Has your government committed to such endeavors?”

“Such a defensive system is not, as the congressman has framed it, high on our funding priority.”

These clowns traded defense secrets under the rubric of international cooperation, world peace, kumbaya, or whatever. And the idiots on the US side provided insider information—if not toward technical defense issues, certainly toward congressional funding, or lack thereof. Couldn’t those idiots see whatever MSS fed them was bullshit? Unadulterated bullshit? Were these congressional clowns that stupid? Or that traitorous? Oh, man.

I remained porch-bound as shadows lengthened and my fingers flew, frantically inputting notes onto my laptop. I’d stop at five-minute intervals and snatch the nearby binoculars, checking the MSS hitter. He remained on duty.

The conference room conversation moved through multiple sensitive defense systems. Electromagnetic rail guns, stealth drones, sensor technologies. Cyberspace warfare, mosaic warfare, chemical warfare. A litany of defense secrets touched upon, each with false quid pro quos from MSS.

The Chinese government had set this up. Anyone who’d waded in espionage waters would see it—neon-lit—as a clandestine ops. MSS in Vancouver had recruited at least two willing dupes. Traitors. Chapman and Fred. I owed Fred a hot one, right between the eyes. Chapman was little but an organizer. Which didn’t detract from a strong urge to ensure he had a bad, bad accident. As for the senator and two congressmen, tried and true and universal political soft spots had been leveraged—money and sex. Great. Just freakin’ great.

Recruiting amenable politicians would have taken time, so this ops had a timeline lengthier than the last few months. Townsend would glom onto this reality and initiate a deep excavation. She was the perfect player for clandestine archeological digging. Also the perfect player for sending a drone-delivered Hellfire missile smack-dab into the compound and wipe this mess off the map. Which was a bridge way, way too far for the Company, it being US turf. I had no personal problem with doing it to this gang. None whatsoever.

I continued listening, fingers tapping the laptop’s keyboard while I kept an eye on the porch-bound MSS hitter. The sun began setting, dark rain clouds collected, and a steady rain began. I’d shoot out my findings at the conference room meeting’s conclusion, and I acknowledged the inevitable outcome. Townsend would cut me loose. Demand I get the hell out of Dodge. This job had become so big, so impactful, that she’d send me away and manage events with her own and other intelligence enforcement resources.

I was fine with that, to a degree. A small nagging voice whispered, “Clean this mess up.” A mission overreach and dangerous set of actions that ensured the Company’s wrath would descend on me like a ton of bricks. But still, the voice whispered.

An hour later they wrapped the meeting. Or at least the part that involved the traitorous politicians. It was full-on dark, and the MSS hitter remained under their porch’s overhang, smoking.

“I believe this concludes our exchange,” the senator said. “As is always the case, it has been most productive.”

“And as is always the case,” a Chinese voice said, “it remains an honor working with gentlemen of such far-sighted perspectives.”

They blathered for several minutes, patting each other on the back. Chairs scooted across hardwood floors as people stood.

“Devon, would you mind remaining for a short time?” a Chicom asked. “Gentlemen, we will join you shortly for drinks and dinner. Our sincere thanks toward each of you.”

More blather, the conference room door opened, and footfalls indicated the US contingent—minus Chapman—had departed. The door shut.

“I cannot stress how upsetting this is,” a Chicom said. “Most upsetting. And, as you have seen, most disruptive. Our guests will depart tomorrow.”

“I can only attribute it to unforeseen circumstances, sir,” Chapman said. “Arrangements had…”

A different Chicom cut him off.

“Several unforeseen circumstances, it would appear. Our funding source was disrupted a week ago. A major concern. This has serious consequences regarding our Mexican partners.”

Is the Sinaloa Cartel upset, hoss? Cry me a freakin’ river.

“Yessir. I understand. Our distributor is hard at work repairing those relationships.”

“Such disruptions are beyond unacceptable. Such disruptions force us to question your capabilities.”

“Sir, our distributor said he’s never seen anything like it. A security breach on the Mexican side. This is unprecedented.”

Welcome to Bo-world, buttwipes.

“The lack of entertainment for our guests, which has now caused their early departure, is also a major failure,” the third Chicom said. “One would think such delivery a simple task.”

“This was brought about due to a third party, sir. And our Vancouver member made serious efforts to eliminate the third party so such a disruption could never happen again. Efforts you kindly provided him.”

Yeah, you bastards did your best. By the way, your efforts are both buried up the hill.

“Efforts that have failed. We will release our current resource very soon. He will complete the job. Most important, Devon, is your complete understanding this string of errors is unacceptable. Are we clear on this?”

“Yessir. Completely clear.”

“With our guests’ departure tomorrow, this would be an opportune time for what you Americans term a reset. Allow us to reset expectations with all parties. Have them arrive tomorrow once our guests have left. We insist on a discussion with them regarding these disruptions.”

“Everyone?”

“Everyone. See to it now. Then prepare us dinner. Any questions?”

“Nossir. No questions.”

Chapman’s chair squeaked across the floor as he stood; the conference room door opened and shut. The remaining MSS operatives spoke Chinese. I turned off the listening device, confirmed the porch hitter remained, and assembled my rough spur-of-the-moment report. I compressed the photos I’d taken and sent them as a stand-alone using Townsend’s encryption key. A final report run-through and it was sent via the same channel. Done and done. The rain had increased to a downpour as raindrops splatted against the porch and ground puddles formed. I made a final check of the downhill porch hitter. He was gone.

Chapter 29

 

I hid the laptop under a mattress, ignored my rucksack, snatched my rifle, and headed out the back door. I flicked on several inside lights as I left. I’m home, buddy. Come on up. The rain hammered down. Good. I knew the turf between my house and the compound like the back of my hand. My enemy didn’t and would take his time hunting uphill. The pounding rain would cover any small missteps on my part, and his. But I would move faster, much faster. This wouldn’t drag out as with the other two. With them my challenge had been acknowledged, the hunt accepted. This time I’d take the offensive. The new assassin wouldn’t expect a silent attack from me. Big mistake.

I kept the ball cap on, the rain jacket hood folded back. The ball cap’s visor kept raindrops from my eyes. Otherwise, I wanted full exposure to the elements and full use of my senses—sight, sound, smell, touch, taste. Ambient light was minimal with dark roiling clouds overhead. Not a hint of star or moonlight. Tree trunks profiled as midnight-black outlines against a dull black background. Inside the fir trees, rain pounded within the space between individual tree canopies. Underneath the thick overhead needles, I heard regular splats as coalesced raindrops formed large liquid balls and fell. The air was thick with both fresh rain and the forest floor’s musty smell.

I moved fast, side-hilled, and deviated a hundred yards from a straight-line shot toward the compound. A brief halt behind a tree where I checked the killing floor. The night-vision scope added minimal landscape enhancement. I assumed, acknowledged, that this guy would have weaponry equipped with thermal sights. A huge advantage. But he had a fatal flaw, thermal sights or not: his direct back trail. Head to head, I was screwed unless I made a commitment to a prolonged sniper hunt utilizing earth and trees to block my heat signature as performed earlier. Not happening. I’d circle beneath him, come at him from his back side. Yeah, he’d remain cautious, with regular scoping stops, checking a one-eighty to two-seventy-degree field from his position. But not a direct backsight as he’d have zero expectation I’d be behind him. So I’d get below him, track him, and shoot the son of a bitch in the back. No regrets, no hesitation.

The most dangerous moment was the immediate, getting downhill. Variance from a straight line afforded some relief, assuming he also hadn’t veered off for an indirect approach toward my house. High-risk movement, mitigated through quick steps from tree trunk to tree trunk. But quick was the moment’s order. Situating at the bastard’s back the immediate goal.

I high-stepped between tree pauses, avoided kicking and snapping dry fallen limbs and twigs. Each rapid footfall tested for a quarter-second for brittle underfoot detritus prior to adding my weight. A weird dance, a strange ballet, working downhill tree trunk to tree trunk. I was dead meat if the hitter hunted within twenty or thirty yards as I passed. Farther than that, I and my heat signature were lost within the deluge and thick forest. Thirty minutes ghost-stepping and the ground leveled. I approached the compound and entered the red zone. There was a chance—a slim chance—the hitter had hunkered, hidden, and protected the castle. My gut said he hunted, but gut feel wasn’t a guarantee. If he’d remained at the compound, and without the utmost caution, a bullet plowing into my vitals was guaranteed.

I flat-bellied within thick undergrowth, behind a large tree, filled with an irrational irritation. The desire for pursuit, to trail the SOB, was strong. I kept it tamped down, scoped the compound, and sought a sign he’d departed the area. The cabin lights were off, the main house’s great room brightly lit through a sheet of rain. I focused for fifteen minutes and sought an anomaly or indication he’d remained. Nothing. There was no certainty he’d headed uphill, but no sign he’d stayed either.

A coin flip, although odds were in my favor having overheard the Chicom conversation with Chapman. They had been direct—do this, do that. It wasn’t a challenge envisioning the same directness with the MSS killer. Go get him. Go take care of this problem. Now.

I scooted backward, deeper into the forest. Faded into the black, the hand supporting my rifle’s stock almost lost within the darkness. Within the spaces between overhanging fir limbs, hard raindrops splatted against my camo raincoat. An unnatural sound for this environment but muted given the all-encompassing rain noise. I kept within thick brush until sufficient trees and vegetation hid me from a thermal sighting within the compound. Then I cut across, through the forest, moving with the utmost caution. Made it to the direct-line approach toward my house and turned, headed uphill.

My confidence that he lay ahead cranked higher. Relief was quickly replaced with assuredness. I was at the SOB’s back—every bit of my training and experience said so. I stalked from tree to tree with brief pauses, seeking. My night-vision scope added little to the naked eye. Dark, dark, as thick tree trunks provided discernible black on less-black outlines. I sought movement and different smells and any out-of-place sound. Slim pickings, but the pounding rain and poor visibility hampered my opponent equally. Except for his damn thermal sight.

I stalked with step-by-step caution and paused behind tree trunks, every sense redlined. Time was irrelevant, but forty or sixty minutes must have passed when, moving between trees, something. Something close, way too close. My adrenaline meter pegged, the hair along my arms stood at attention, and I forced my eyes wide open against the inclination to squint. I spotted a slowly moving black outline protruding from a tree trunk’s right side. A tree not seven paces ahead. The protrusion was thin and straight, with a telltale suppressor’s bulge at the end of the barrel. Then it lifted and disappeared into the pitch-black protection of the tree trunk.

My rifle rested against my shoulder, finger pressed against the trigger. He stood within spitting distance, unseen against the tree, his back hidden by inky darkness. Decision time. The trunk, four feet in diameter. My enemy’s body occupied two of those feet. Which two was the life-taking question. A shot toward the center ensured a hit. It didn’t ensure a kill. The chance he’d spin when hit and snap a shot my way was a real and potent possibility.

Damn, he was close. If he scoped his back trail now, I’d stand out like an elephant, and he wouldn’t hesitate to fire. He took my decision off the table. His rifle barrel eased into visibility from the tree trunk’s other side, angled ahead. It moved with deliberation, inches at a time, seeking his target. No sound other than the rain. No change among my senses, other than the surety human death loomed within the immediate.

As the barrel’s arc hit a ninety-degree angle from our mutual position I applied further pressure against the trigger. If it continued its path, his scope would flare with my nearby body heat signature, triggering my shot at an assumed center-mass. Then the rifle barrel stopped its movement. He’d scoped less than a two-seventy-degree arc. His next inevitable act—edging away from the tree and progressing forward where his detectable outline would be visible.

Rain pounded me; drops coalesced across my ball cap’s brim and dropped under their own weight. He was better protected from the elements as occasional large droplets made their way through his overhead canopy. He stepped away from the tree. And froze.

We all have it. It’s built into our DNA, packed away. Within the span of most people’s lives, it is seldom if ever pulled out and dusted off. Our animal instincts, survival mechanisms hyper-tuned to the immediate.

My enemy knew. Felt it deep within, knew in that split second it was over. His shoulders slumped, rifle lowered. He twisted his head toward me. The firing flare blasted from my rifle’s suppressor and lit up the area for a brief moment. He collapsed from the headshot.

Relief washed over me. Relief and a strange version of resignation. Resignation over the situation, the outcome, the killing. Full darkness inside and out as the rainstorm continued unabated, another body at my feet. Another marker soon enough shoved into a hidden and crowded mental closet, door closed, deadbolt slammed shut. Helluva way to live.

Chapter 30

 

I stood stock-still for several minutes as my adrenaline meter lowered and my senses backed away from hyperactive. I shook off the contemplative emotions. You’re on the job, Lee. Get with the program. I considered and tossed aside burial duty. Let the other MSS operators find him. Let them internalize that they’d gone after the wrong person. Let the sons of bitches sleep less well at night, watch their backs, sense a nagging worry about their own personal safety. You messed with the wrong guy, boys. Big mistake.

I worked uphill, removed my rain gear inside the house’s mudroom, and poured a Grey Goose, straight. Retrieved my laptop, pulled my phone, and prepared to activate the conference room bug. There were three missed calls, all from Marilyn Townsend. No rest for the weary.

“Director. Quite a hairball, isn’t it?”

“Have you deleted the photographs from your camera?”

“I have. Just out of curiosity, did you suspect these types of players?”

“Have you deleted the report and photographs from your laptop?”

“Nope. Was waiting for confirmation you’d received the report. I’ll do it now. Oh, and I’ll take it that’s a big no on the exalted players.”

“Do not be flippant, Mr. Lee. Not now.”

“I just greased a guy, Marilyn. So cut me a little slack.”

Silence. I took a hefty swallow of liquor and fiddled with my laptop. A few seconds later, using a file shredding app, the report and photos were gone for good.

Years and miles and past ops together provided leeway for my attitude with the world’s top spook. She didn’t come back at me barking.

“Have there been others?” she asked, her tone moderated.

No point lying. At least not lying about the three MSS killers who’d come after me. It was solid intel for her, intel absent from the reports. Intel indicating the seriousness MSS took regarding security breaches and operational disruptions.

“Two. About sixteen hours ago.”

“And how is the landscape?” Townsend asked.

“Thick forest. Deep, damp earth. Except for the last one.”

Silence. Those few words described the battlefield and, more importantly, the aftermath, the disposition of the bodies.

“Do you plan on leaving the last one as a marker? Your personal statement?”

Her tone was neither accusatory nor sardonic. There was nothing more personal, more intimate, than killing. She’d left her director’s chair for the moment and dealt with me as a fellow traveler. It wouldn’t last, but I took nourishment knowing she still had the capability.

“Yes,” I said, matter-of-fact and without a hint of defiance or defensiveness.

“I understand your desire. Years ago, I might have condoned such an act. But you and I would agree at this time and in your place, it is not the smart move. And I do not believe you were ever accused of being stupid, Case.”

She had a point. At least toward the burial. Valid and reasonable and one I stuck a pin in for reconsideration.

“The jury is still out on the stupid factor. But I’ll reconsider the appropriate disposition.”

“Good.” She climbed back into the director’s chair. “Now, provide me a verbal assessment of the meeting. I take it you did not record it?”

“I did not.”

“Fine. Debrief me.”

I did. She allowed my soliloquy to ramble without interruption. Her sharp probes began afterward.

“You suggest the initial subject, the Seattle resident, is relegated to low-level coordination status?”

“A gofer.”

“You have not evidenced him making decisions that could be construed as impactful.”

“Other than coordination with a pimp, making sure the girls were sufficiently young? No.”

“Why has the individual you met on the Victoria docks not been mentioned by the assemblage? Either by name or an implied reference.”

Touchy subject. Not for me—I held a strong desire to whack the SOB. He’d arranged the first two hitters. But damn touchy for Townsend. There was a traitor in her midst. High odds a traitor on the Company payroll.

“He may be with the gang showing up tomorrow. He’s still deep in the shadows. But dollars to donuts he’s the guy who initially worked with the other team in Vancouver.”

The other team. More like the enemy. Chicom MSS spooks. Using 256-bit encrypted satellite communications kept our line secure, with the slimmest chance others could decrypt the communication. A slim chance that forced sidestepping names and most designations. Although I’d started the conversation with an open admission I’d killed someone. Too damn bad.

“How do you come by your assessment of this individual?”

Her voice had a defensive hint. Ol’ Fred was clearly a sore spot.

“I refused to team with him. Remember, he dangled riches. After my refusal, two sweepers showed. Sweepers provided through Vancouver.”

“You do not know this with sufficient certainty.”

“Yeah, I do.”

She moved on. The lion’s share of her questioning provided grist for the spookville mill. My assessments were sidebar comments, digested but not heeded with any significant weight. Monkey on a string, tossing trinkets at the Company. A part of me remained okay with that. You figure it out, Marilyn. I’ll be back cruising the Ditch. But several parts, several aspects remained on the table I was far, far from okay with.

“The first arrivals this afternoon,” she said, referencing the US politicians. “Provide your perspective on the statement ‘Don’t forget, we signed up for this.’”

“Deep-buried funding for their future. And way too young entertainment. Cheese for the rats.”

“Hmm.”

“They had no problem dumping high-flying intel on the other team. They are bought and paid for.”

“Tell me about the other team. Their demeanor, in particular.”

“Deferential but candid with the first arrivals. Particularly when it came to funding.”

“Do you believe their quid pro quo delivery had validity?”

She asked if the Chicoms offered-up defense intelligence had an element of truth.

“No. Utter bullshit strewn across the table.”

Silence while she digested. I took another sip of vodka.

“And their attitude toward the Seattle resident?” she asked.

“They treated him for what he is. A lackey.”

“Was any mention, any at all, made toward the Vancouver asset?”

She’d circled back to the mysterious Fred. For my money, he was just a traitorous bastard who’d attempted to have me killed.

“None. Again, he may arrive tomorrow.”

“Provide me your assessment of the cooperative organization.”

CAC, the Chinese American Cooperative.

“It’s in the report.”

“I’m fully aware of what is in the report. Provide me your perspective.”

“Maybe our exalted players are stupid enough to think they’re doing positive things. Reduce global tensions, the greater good, group hugs. Maybe. The bottom line is their campaign coffers are filled and entertainment supplied.”

“As you have already stated. And the other team?”

“It is what it is. Their effort shines like a bonfire as a clandestine ops.”

She pressed forward, asking the same questions with different perspectives, probing, a keen eye toward hidden gems. I may have provided them. Or not. The clandestine mindset is a strange thing—and Townsend wasn’t a mere player in the game; she was a grand master.

“Now, Mr. Lee, two items remain.”

“I believe there might be more than two.”

“You are correct. There are three. First, provide me the contact numbers and passwords of any devices you will leave behind.”

I did, including the GPS/listening device manufacturer so she could download the appropriate app and listen in. If they returned to the conference room, for which I gave low odds. They’d concluded business, would eat and drink, and the politicians would disperse the next day. The gathering tomorrow demanded by the MSS agents might occur inside the conference room, but that meeting was more an ass-chewing about logistics.

“As for the other two items,” she said. “You are to leave. Immediately after the proper disposition of your latest encounter. This night, within an hour or two. You are no longer engaged.”

Silence. I’d worked through my just-killed-a-man headspace and accepted she was right about burying the bastard. The smart thing to do. As for leaving, terminating the job, a couple items required addressing.

“Roger on the disposition. What about the southern shipments?”

“This is not your concern.”

“What about the entertainment?”

“Again, not your concern.”

“What about the Vancouver connection knowing my name? Which, no doubt, was shared with the three members of the opposition. And maybe more outside their circle.”

“I will tunnel for any information in such regard. You will have to trust me with this endeavor.”

Trust—a moving target in spookville. A commodity always in short supply, ever subject to change, a leaky vessel relied upon as a last resort. I supposed no other option remained regarding my name, my identity. The drugs and girls were another story. Can’t save the world and all, but still.

“Are you there, Mr. Lee?”

“I’m here. It’s pouring rain, I’ve got the blues, and I’m skipping town with a powerful sense of a job unfinished.”

“Understood. If it is any consolation, well done. Well done you, Mr. Lee. Now depart. Depart unnoticed immediately after cleanup. Your contract is terminated, and you are no longer engaged.”

She hung up. A remnant rainwater drop from the ball cap ran down my neck as I sat, slumped, staring into the big lost. Ahead—burial duty, haul ass, call it a day. Man, what a lousy way to end a job. Not the burial and departure, although that was bad enough. It was the hand-off. While I sat, Townsend would read tea leaves, digest probabilities, ferret out connectivity. She’d move against the MSS ops with assuredness. The added complexity of political honchos meant she’d move with added precaution. Three-dimensional chess played in the dark, played with feel and perception.

I toted my rifle, ax, and shovel downhill. Burial services were performed with desultory movement and a heavy dose of been-there-done-that. Rain continued hammering down, the tree roots thick as I utilized a small headlamp for the chopping and digging. Maybe the whole wash-my-hands thing was the right move. This entire operation was now far above my pay grade. I had no vested personal interest—a mental separation tactic refuted with each ax swing that sang back, “Bullshit.” It wasn’t the MSS and political players—screw them and fond wishes for several choice bullets to the head. It was the girls and drugs—I couldn’t shake it.

I dragged the MSS hitter into the hole but supplied no eulogy; no final words marked the guy’s passing. It could have been me, and he would have performed the same routine had it been. Part of the overall deal within the ugly world I too often found myself.

I packed, called the taxi/scooter guy and left a voice mail explaining his Vespa would be at the Deer Harbor marina. There’d been an emergency, and I had to depart. Tuck tail and run was more like it. I left the house lights on and the scooter’s headlights off, and wound downhill, aware deer were thick as mosquitos. The marina was quiet. Before departure I’d removed the GPS tracker Fred had planted and placed it on top of an electrical outlet box where I’d tied up. Remnant adhesive from its original placement provided sufficient sticking power to the electrical box. As far as Fred and the gang would know, I remained docked.

I used one outboard engine, keeping the sound to a minimum. I wasn’t sure it mattered as the rain continued pouring. I kept the running lights off, now a dark, low object sliding through water. As I passed Chapman’s compound, lights from the great room shone through the rain. Deer Harbor opened into the sea, and I started the other engine. Firewalled both throttles, leaving in my wake a helluva lot of unfinished business. My companion, a bottle of Grey Goose, agreed.

Chapter 31

 

I woke with cotton mouth, a headache, and the boat’s gentle rocking against the dock. Back in Seattle. The marina’s small office/store had fresh coffee. Two cups later I began feeling human, and wondered how humankind had survived, much less progressed, prior to the advent of available java. I was back on board the rental vessel organizing my stuff when Jess called.

“Good morning! At least it is on my end,” she said.

“Morning.”

“You sound tired. Or hungover. Which is it?”

“Both.”

“My, my. Did the gypsy girls wear you out?”

I sat on the vessel’s exposed back deck. A light mist fell while I breathed fresh salt air and watched a pair of grebes swim past. They eyeballed me, perhaps expecting a handout, before moving on.

“I wish. I was drowning the blues. This job’s over, Jess. Over and done with a less than satisfying ending.”

“Did you get fired?”

“No. No, I received a light pat on the back, a brief attaboy. Then it was over, and I was sent packing.”

“Well, I don’t see the downside. Your client is happy. You have delivered whatever they expected. I hope you don’t have your heart set on these domestic PI engagements wrapped with a pretty bow. It doesn’t happen often.”

“Yours did.”

“Are you talking about the Denver kid? Yes, the stars aligned with him. I wish I could say the same for all the others.”

A middle-aged couple passed along the dock. The woman raised a hand as greeting and tossed a “Good morning” my way. I lifted the coffee cup and replied the same.

“Who was that?” Jess asked.

“Folks passing by. I’m on the rental boat, tied at the Seattle docks. Surrounded by a light mist and panhandling grebes. My rain jacket hood is up, and I’m hunched over my second coffee, posed as a desolate and crotchety boat dude.”

“You are a ray of sunshine this morning. And what I’m hearing is you are well beyond posing. Why, you’re living the crotchety boat dude dream!”

“It sucks.”

“Yes, well, snap out of it, Don Quixote. Unless you enjoy jousting with less than perfect-ending windmills. This PI business doesn’t work that way. Life doesn’t work that way. And where do I send my invoice for the Dr. Phil session?”

“Not Orcas Island.”

I drained the last of the coffee, grounds included.

“Should I check the news and see if there are any photos of the smoldering devastation?”

“There wasn’t enough smoldering devastation in my book.”

“Poor thing. I take it our island rendezvous is off the table?”

Oh, man. I’d forgotten about the potential get-together once the job was finished. My moron train kept chugging along.

“Yeah, afraid so. What if I swing by Charlotte in the next few days?”

“Ooh, Tarzan swings by.”

“That didn’t come out right. Nothing’s coming out right at the moment. The fact is I’ve gotten so wrapped around the axle on this gig I forgot about the potential hot and heavy rendezvous. I’m sorry, Jess. Really am.”

“Hot and heavy would be presumptuous on your part. Or not. Anyway, I have been solicited for an Atlanta job, so it probably wouldn’t have worked anyway.”

I didn’t have our relationship radar tuned sufficiently to figure if she’d offered a graceful exit on the proposed date or if she actually had an Atlanta timeline to adhere to.

“How about a few days on the Outer Banks or thereabouts? A nice place with a soaking tub.”

“We’ll see. Shoot me an email with a few definitive details. And don’t forget the emojis.”

I smiled. She and I remained on terra firma. A bit of the blues slipped away. Thirty minutes later I handed the boat keys back over and took a cab to a nearby coffee shop. I’d travel back to the East Coast via jet charter. I toted too many weapons for a commercial flight. A Cessna jet was available at SeaTac for a Charleston flight. I paid with another offshore credit card. The jet charter service emailed me a receipt, and I assembled expenses for reimbursement. An hour later I’d packaged everything together and attached the air charter receipt, along with my invoice, to the shortest job summary I’d ever sent Global Resolutions.

Contract complete. Please find attached my invoice and reimbursable expenses.

Off it went, Geneva, Switzerland bound. Done and done. The act was typically a cause for an internal celebration. Another gig delivered, the client satisfied, money soon enough deposited in my Swiss bank account. Not this time.

It wouldn’t freakin’ leave me. Not the blues—those had been shaken off. The blues were a lot of things, but they weren’t action-oriented. It was a void, a could-have-done-more gut knot. Could have done more before handing the entire rat’s nest over to Townsend. She’d angle the hell out of it. Move among the shadows and leverage doors open with a deadly gentle hand. Turn Fred and Chapman if possible. Work MSS. She might even keep the drugs and girls as operational components. Hard to say. She faced a major hurdle with my Orcas Island appearance. They may or may not have discovered the GPS tracker was left behind while I exited stage right. Odds were high that their response—given my hitter’s disappearance and mine—would be security tightened until it squeaked. They could go underground until the fall. Give it a five-month rest and resume activities with the treasonous politicians once tourists were gone from Orcas Island and thick cloud-cover returned. What a freakin’ mess. Nothing clean about the resolution, nothing final about my efforts.

I had an hour or so before I headed for SeaTac and my charter flight. I could use a sounding board, someone to bounce ideas and angst off of. So I called Marcus Johnson.

“Did I wake you?” I asked when he answered. Marcus lived in Mountain Time, an hour past mine. “Lord knows you require your beauty sleep.”

“It’s calving season, you mullet. I’m up well before dawn, an act far-fetched for your likes.”

“Well, aren’t you all yippee-ki-yay today.”

“I’m all about working fence lines. And already bleeding like a stuck pig from the barbed wire. By the way, I’ll wait so you can look the word up.”

“Working?”

“Yes. I know it’s an alien concept for some folks.”

“I’m not sure being filled with piss and vinegar is healthy for a man your age. Should you sit down? Take a break?”

His Zippo clacked open, a cigar lit. His immediate situation wasn’t a difficult visualization. A beat-up pickup truck parked along a fence line requiring repair after winter’s toll. Barbed wire rolls, a fence stretcher, a bucket of galvanized fence staples, a post driver, and a ubiquitous multiuse fence tool. Several extra fence posts rested against the truck’s tailgate. Spring grass sprouts showed, a few poking through snow patches against the north side of small hills. Calves born in freezing temperatures running and leaping about, never far from mother’s milk. The wind blowing, as always, and undulating mile after mile of grassland populated with smatterings of cattle. And few people. I’d have bet a thousand bucks there wasn’t a ranch house within his sight. Far in the distance, the Beartooth and Absaroka mountain ranges, still mantled with deep snow. It would be July or August before it melted off, if then.

At the moment, I would have liked nothing better than to work shoulder to shoulder with Marcus, his sage advice offered freely. An after-work stop in the tiny crossroads of Fishtail for a beer or three and evenings at his ranch house where the coyote yips and howls replaced town and traffic noise. Oh, man—I needed grounding. An escape from my world’s spin cycle.

“Tell me what’s new,” he said as the Zippo clacked again. Montana prairie wind made cigar lighting a challenge.

“I may gear up and go do something stupid.”

“That’s not new.”

“This contract is over.”

“What did the boss have to say?”

Marcus held Townsend with high regard, a mutual respect. She, like him, was mission-focused to the extreme.

“A pat on the back. Well done.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“I left unresolved issues on the table.”

“Does she consider them issues?”

“No.”

“Did you complete your mission?”

“I suppose.”

“What the hell does that mean?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Marcus. The world keeps spinning. It rolls and it tumbles, and it’s tumbling over my tired butt.”

“You’ve been talking with Bo again, haven’t you? What’s next? Your cosmic slipstream requires alignment?”

I had to smile. One of the great pleasures with blood brothers occupying opposite ends of the perspective scale was, well, their wildly disparate perspectives. Marcus was Mr. Cut-And-Dried. A perspective tight and right and one I’d often called upon. And one I could use at the moment.

“Yeah, something like that. The thing is, there are activities I could stop. Or at least slow down. Bad, ugly activities.”

“You don’t think the boss will handle them?”

“I think those ugly activities will be part and parcel of a larger scheme, another spook soirée. One with zero guarantee of slamming the door against the ugliness.”

A metallic squeak carried over the call. Marcus had sat on his pickup’s tailgate, the old vehicle protesting his weight.

“What I’m hearing is there’s a small slice inside a larger ops you’re unhappy with. An ops no longer within your domain.”

“Yeah, maybe. Or maybe more along the lines of unfinished business.”

“So you’re considering a reentry for cleanup.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Walking away leaves a bad taste, bud.”

“Did you have your cape ironed? I understand it’s an important thing for you superheroes.”

“It’s not a save-the-world deal. Just a small piece. A tiny piece.”

“The big question is can you make it happen? Without your signature move?”

“What move?”

“Kicking a hornet’s nest while resolving this tiny wrong. You do have abundant talent in that regard.”

There were three items in the bad things category. Three things outside the larger picture with traitorous politicians and turncoat intelligence agents. Townsend would take care of those. The first was my identity blown—my metaphorical fingerprints on the gig—which didn’t make the three-item list’s top spot. Townsend said she’d take care it. An iffy proposition, but one plausible within the larger world of global espionage.

The drugs came in second and irked big time. I acknowledged CAC’s direct involvement was a drop in the bucket when the tons of drugs, fentanyl included, were considered. Still, every disruption helped. But at the list’s top were the young girls, the sex slaves. My personal exposure to a finite evil. A tiny evil slice from the larger cake, sure, but one I could do something about.

The sixty-four-dollar question was could I pull it off, handle business, without larger repercussions? If the three remaining MSS agents became part of the cleanup, well, hornet’s nest kicked. Big time.

“I don’t know, Marcus. How’s that for a definitive answer. I do know it’s liable to remain a burr under my saddle for a long, long time if I do nothing.”

“We all carry regrets through life, son. Every one of us.”

He paused and allowed the statement fermentation time. Regrets aplenty and life’s back trail littered with questions and doubts and ugliness. For both of us.

“But I also know, at day’s end, you tend to do the right thing,” he continued. “My advice, follow your gut. And ask for help if it’s needed. Which would be me. Not Catch. Hell, he’ll shoot everything in sight and then wonder why people are upset. And for damn sure not Bo. Me. I’m on the first flight your direction if needed.”

The problem, one I didn’t elaborate on with Marcus, was my gut pulled in both directions with a stronger tug toward taking action. Toward acting upon my interpretation of doing the right thing. Revealing as much ensured he’d head my way, a nonstarter. I signed off with Marcus, thanked him for both the advice and his willingness, as always, to join me. Clean up with me. You couldn’t ask for a better friend.

Resolution didn’t come until I was at the charter flight counter, ready to board the small Cessna jet.

“You’re paid in full, right?” I asked the pilot, who also worked the counter.

“Yes, sir. You’re good to go.”

“I’d like you to make the flight without me. But I need an additional favor.” I kept it discreet and handed him five folded Benjamins. “Keep me on the flight manifest. It’s important.”

He glanced at the five hundred, pocketed it, and said, “Sure, buddy. I’ve been asked for a lot weirder things.”

The deceptive act nudged me further forward. Townsend would see the receipt for the flight’s expense I’d already submitted to Global Resolutions. If she dug, I’d appear on the manifest as having arrived in Charleston. So yeah, Marilyn, I walked away from the job. Flew back to the East Coast the day after you shut the contract down.

I stared through the terminal window at the low sky as a light mist fell. My blood rose, crystalline clarity attained. The trigger point for my decision wasn’t an internal scale’s tipping point. And it wasn’t Marcus’s twice-delivered emphasis about doing the right thing. No, it was CC. When we’d lain in Mom’s backyard and stared at the sky.

“Do you still help people?” she had asked. “That’s what Mom says. You help people.”

“I try, CC. I’m not always successful,” I’d replied.

“Mom says you sometimes stop bad people from doing bad things.”

This was one of those times. Bad people doing bad things. It wasn’t complicated. “I try, CC.” There was no ambiguity, no waffling. Either try or don’t try and walk away. Let others handle the trash.

“Are you alright, buddy?” the pilot asked.

I’d stood stock-still, jaw set, fixated on a decision. The decision.

“Yeah. All good.”

I committed, crossed the Rubicon, with fire in the belly and rock-hard resolution. Chapman, Fred, Alex Whittle the drug dealer, and McBain the pimp. Most would arrive at Orcas Island. Maybe all four. If the three MSS agents were also there and got in the way, so be it. They’d go down as well. So buckle up, you sons of bitches. You’re about to take a ride with Case Lee.

Chapter 32

 

It was a simple matter. Do it. There was no hyped-up knight to the rescue or a “God and country” resolve. It boiled down to removing a blight, a cancer. Take it out. I shoved aside thoughts about retribution from the Company, from Townsend. The rental boat return and charter flight receipt were solid cover. The false flight manifest was the icing on the cake.

But it was still gorilla dust through which she’d squint and seek reality. An Orcas Island compound would soon enough be sanitized, and the first suspect in Townsend’s eyes would be her former field ops partner and current contractor. So be it—my give-a-shit tank remained bone dry.

A few, very few, simple logistics lay ahead. Two phone calls landed a rental boat in the coastal town of Anacortes, Washington. A twenty-foot Sea Ray equipped with a 150 hp outboard. If seas became rough the small size would be an issue, but the weather forecast called for light winds. And for where I would access Orcas Island, small was good. I provided the marina a credit card under another name. The card was tied to a bank in the Channel Islands. The Anacortes drive north put me there late afternoon. The marina owner let me know no problem. Business this time of year was light.

An Uber driver proved more than happy to accept the drive north. Again, false name and offshore credit card. With traffic the drive took two hours. The driver, a good soul, attempted conversation when we took off. I wasn’t in the mood.

“This will be the longest drive I’ve made for Uber.”

“Good.”

“Do you live in Anacortes?”

“No.”

“Are you vacationing?”

“My parole officer is stationed there. I was just released from prison.”

He remained silent the remainder of the drive. Paperwork and a boat inspection at the marina took half an hour and more lies.

“So, you are renting for twenty-four hours, right?”

“Right.”

“And depart now, right?”

“Right.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, where do you plan on berthing for the night?”

“Port Townsend.”

“Ah, good. It shouldn’t take you more than an hour’s trip south.”

It wouldn’t take me much more than an hour to make my Orcas Island incursion spot. I loaded my gear and headed south for several miles before disconnecting the small boat’s GPS. The rental manager would check the GPS when I returned the boat, find an initial course toward Port Townsend, and nothing thereafter.

A light rain began falling. The boat was open deck with a small under-console space for storage. I stowed my kit out of the weather and turned the ball cap backward so it wouldn’t blow off. Turned north and goosed it. Rain jacket, rain pants, and exposed head. Get into the environment, accepting, mission-focused.

My Orcas Island approach would be a roundabout route. North through the Rosario Strait and around the island’s topside. Approach the isolated western seaward side of the island, anchor, and hike over the ridgeline toward Chapman’s compound. Daylight faded as I utilized the handheld GPS for navigation and ran without running lights.

This was a two-tiered operation with bleed-over. The top tier involved US congressmen and MSS spies. I’d leave the congressmen for Townsend. As for the MSS agents, I was ambivalent. Wipe them out or, if they were no longer around, leave their disposition for Townsend as well.

The second, lower tier was my focus. Players who wouldn’t be missed. The underbelly of dirty operations—turncoats, drug dealers, pimps.

Once again, rubbing elbows with classy folks, Lee.

Yeah, well, part of the game, part of the typical job. Part of my life. Another facet requiring a change. It would mandate special wording with my Swiss client regarding future contracts.

“Look fellows, I’d appreciate jobs with a higher class of miscreants. No liars, cheats, traitors, killers, drug dealers, or pimps. You know, a different cast of players, more benign, fewer scum buckets.”

Fat chance. And I knew what I was getting into with this job. A gig with the Company, with Townsend. Although I’d yield this engagement’s parameters were initially benign—observe and report out. I didn’t have to mess with the Sinaloa Cartel and a major drug shipment. Or work over the pimp and whack his two henchmen. Those were on me. And those kicked off three professional operators coming after me. So, yeah, I may have instigated a few alarms.

I took solace from the fact those events may have reflected why the Swiss kept offering me contracts. When you get Case Lee, you get all of him. Townsend’s view would, no doubt, differ from that of the Swiss. But she also knew in her heart what she was getting. As per Jules, I was the rented bull in her china shop. Fine. What was the old Popeye expression? “I yam what I yam.”

If I could pull this housecleaning off without her knowledge of the perpetrator, we’d remain on sound footing. I gave it a fifty-fifty shot. I also gave it a hundred percent shot the house would get fumigated, the rats removed. All I could hope for was the collection of bastards at the compound included a wide audience. Clean house, drive a stake through this bullshit, call it good, and head for the barn. And scratch the Company off my future client list. I could live with that, no problem.

Past the Rosario Strait I hung a left and scooted around Orcas Island’s north side. Dusk turned into darkness, but not before I motored past a half-dozen of the island’s namesake. Tall black dorsal fins, six feet high, sliced through the frigid waters. I slowed and cruised alongside their primal path. Awesome and spooky stuff. I felt a strange animalistic connection with them. We both hunted. Prey would die this night. Strange thoughts, but present, and no point avoiding reality.

Down the island’s west side, losing the minimal boat traffic I’d encountered. Toward the west, Canada. To the east, several small coves, indentations, along the island’s coast. I used the handheld and calculated the cove with the straightest shot over the hill to Chapman’s compound. Eased toward the rocky shore, the engine just past idle, until the bow scraped underwater gravel. I was six feet from the beach. I dragged the small bow anchor onto the beach, secured it, and gathered weaponry.

The Glock with silencer, and an extra magazine. I’d donned a shoulder holster to accommodate its added length. Considered the Chinese rifle with thermal sights but abandoned it. This would be up close and personal. I did bring the Colt rifle with the night-vision scope, just in case. If it became rifle-time, I wanted a familiar weapon. I finished with a Ka-Bar knife sheathed at my waist. Good to go.

It was a mile up and down the ridge. A few house lights flickered on San Juan Island a couple miles away. There were no lights on the west side of Orcas Island. The rain continued as the ball cap kept it away from my eyes, the night black. I moved as fast as the terrain and poor visibility allowed. No point lingering, no point adopting ultra-caution until I was near the compound. Less than half an hour later, I halted at the compound’s edge, hidden within the forest.

I pushed aside thoughts of entering the arena filled with berserker rage. No, this was an execution. Multiple executions. But it would be performed without a clinical approach because a strong personal element held court. Before me lay traitors and drug dealers and procurers of young sex slaves. Toss in, maybe, a Chinese spy or three operating on US turf. Bad people doing bad things without penalty or punishment. Well, payment was due, you bastards. And I was here to collect.

I leaned behind a tree, used the rifle’s night-vision scope, and formulated an attack plan. The main house’s large sliding-glass door leading onto the wraparound porch framed one, then another man walking past. Devon Chapman and an MSS agent. They moved in and out of my sighting frame. I could have taken them with the rifle but held back. A distance shot through glass would eliminate the surprise element and turn the main house into an armed fortress within seconds. It was far better shifting indoors, dead quiet, and begin taking out the trash up close before they could react. Besides, a long rifle shot lacked a personal factor and the soon-to-be violence had personal stamped all over it. I continued viewing the great room, counting heads. No further discernible movement, so I shifted focus and scoped the outlying cabins.

One man stood on a cabin porch. Couldn’t ID him in the pitch-black. I scoped other structures when I picked up a tiny flare of light at the scope’s periphery. Swung back toward it, focused on the porch man who’d chosen the moment to light a smoke. The tiny flame was sufficient for highlighting his face. Alex Whittle, drug dealer. Good. I had no doubts he’d be summoned but questioned whether he would make it here in twenty-four hours. He stood, smoked, and stared at the rain.

I checked the other cabins—no lights, no movement, no people. Spent another minute focused on the great room’s large sliding-glass door. Nothing. The rain turned into a deluge as large drops pounded the ground, trees, buildings. Alex Whittle, Devon Chapman, and an MSS spook were confirmed. Two more MSS players would be inside as well. Too bad for them. Fred and McBain the pimp were still a no-show. It was enough. Enough for a start, enough to trigger the switch.

The kill switch—hidden, camouflaged with layers of benign intent and actions, tucked away unless specific circumstances required enabling it. Once turned on, I became all fight. And about the last person on this good earth you’d want to mess with.

Chapter 33

 

I rested the rifle against the tree trunk and started with Alex Whittle. Pulled the Glock with its long silencer, circled his cabin, and kept inside the tree line. I stepped out at the cabin’s rear, now removed from the protective forest cover, but still hidden from the main house. Raindrops pounded against my head and shoulders, the raincoat material and ball cap’s brim sounding small continuous pops. I eased along the cabin’s side.

A final step placed me alongside the porch, pistol aimed at his head, ten feet away. Whittle was unaware, still smoking and staring into the rain. Past him, uphill, the main house’s great room and porch remained void of potential targets.

“Tell me something, Whittle.”

Startled, he dropped his smoke and snapped his head toward me.

“Tell me if you ever consider the number of people you kill bringing fentanyl into the US. Or do you just not give a shit?”

“Hey, hey!” He held up both hands and twisted his body toward me. “I’m on your side now.”

“You’ve never been on my side. Now answer my question, asshole.”

Past his head and within my sight line, the main house’s sliding door opened. Two men I couldn’t identify due to the distance and rain stepped out, under the porch’s overhang. A private discussion or having a smoke or a look at the pouring rain—who knew? Bad timing and bad luck. It happens.

“No, no, no! You don’t get it. I’m part of the effort!”

His voice was frantic, gestures panic-stricken. He knew it was over. The moment all big-time drug dealers face when the clock has run out, a pistol pointed in their direction.

The two men on the porch stood too distant for concern about noise—the pistol’s silencer and pounding rain ensured cover. My weapon’s barrel flash was another story, a risk I’d take.

Then Whittle blew up my assault plans. With his life on the line and his “same team” message having zero effect, he turned toward the main house and screamed.

“Hey! Hey! Tell this guy! I work for you!”

Not any more, Whittle.

A headshot ended our porch chat. And kicked off a rush back indoors for the two under the main house overhang. Damn, Sam. One viable option presented—go after the entire rat’s nest before they became organized. Take advantage of the panic. I hauled ass back around the cabin and headed for another cabin closer to the main house, using it for cover. Lawn puddles splashed as my boots slapped into them. I darted behind the next cabin, intent on circling the house and entering at the back door where a long hallway would greet me. Whoever wanted a crack at me would expose themselves within the hallway funnel.

I started a dash around the second cabin’s corner and was met with automatic freakin’ gunfire. I slammed the brakes and dove back toward the cabin’s corner as angry bullet whines whipped past me, their sound muted under the pounding downpour. Son of a bitch. I stood from my body-roll in water collected from the river falling off the cabin’s eaves. I shot a quick glance around the corner. I was close enough to make out the shooter.

An MSS agent braced against the porch’s door opening and aimed my way. I ducked back, knee-dropped, and leaned forward. I laid down covering fire before the enemy was able to reacquire his target. Me. My bullets slammed into the sliding door’s wooden doorjamb, exploding splinters. The enemy whipped from sight as I leapt up and hauled it again toward the main house’s side wall. There were no windows at that level, only the stack of firewood where I’d first scouted a hiding spot. I stopped at the house’s back corner, adrenaline meter pegged as grim commitment ruled the moment. I prepared for a look-around toward the back door when I heard it.

Move and live. Or think and die. A poly tarp’s known crinkle at my back, near-silent within the rain noise. I flung myself around the corner as an explosive pistol shot sounded behind me. My upper right arm stung. When the gunfire started, one of these bastards had dashed into my scouted hidey-hole among the stacked firewood. In order to gain a clear shot, he’d moved a bit of tarp. A move, a noise, that saved my life.

On my feet, an enemy at my rear around the corner and tucked in and protected. One viable move presented—forward toward the back door. I’d take care of whoever hid among the firewood later. Gotta move, Lee. Gotta keep moving. Stay on the offensive. Three flying steps toward the back door and the MSS agent with the automatic assault rifle burst from the opening, firing, and peppered my general area. He’d left his front porch position and dashed down the hallway to engage. One feisty bastard. A feisty bastard who relied more on spray and pray than well-trained aim. Too bad for him. A double-tap drove into his chest, ensuring he was dead before hitting the ground. As he lay crumpled, light from the open back door framed his body. Sheets of rain cast a surreal sheen across him, across the scene.

I whipped around, prepared for another shot at my back. Around the corner, firewood tumbled onto the concrete pad. The hidey-hole shooter was making a quick exit, away from me. Fine. I wanted these bastards at my front. Ten running steps and I was at the open back door. A quick glance along the hallway, and I ducked back, seeing nothing. No enemies, no movement. Two down, several more left. My pistol led as I thrust myself through the doorway. I closed the solid door behind me, deadbolted it shut, and kept my eyes toward the hallway opening into the great room.

My first reaction—quiet. Removed from the deluge, rain striking the rooftop with a low rumble. Several collected drops fell from the ball cap bill. A rapid assessment of my upper right arm’s coat sleeve revealed a large, soaked dark spot. Blood, but not severe. A graze, quickly shoved from concern. My back was now covered, the killing floor set, well aimed snap shots the king’s currency. Two, three, or four left—it didn’t matter. I had the rats cornered.

Two steps forward, pistol extended with a two-handed grip when the hardwood floor protested. Man, I wished for the umpteenth time I had Bo’s abilities. He could pull a Fred Astaire act across this hallway stretch without a sound. But I also felt perverse pleasure sending an audible message into the great room—your worst nightmare has arrived.

Two more steps and another floorboard squeaked. Which prompted the closed door alongside me to fling open. Before I could swing my pistol toward him, his sizeable bulk landed on me, wrestling for the weapon. McBain, white adhesive tape plastered over the area his left ear had occupied. He also possessed two black eyes, a crooked nose, and bull-like rage.

He slammed me against the opposite wall, a ham hand gripped on the pistol’s silencer. Bad news—he now had at least as much control over the weapon as I did. He controlled aim, even with my two-handed grip, but I owned the trigger. Two more body slams, both of us grunting as the hallway sheetrock cracked against our impact. His bulk pressed, teeth bared, his left hand now throwing punches at my head as we grappled in a mad ultraviolent dance.

Enough of this crap. I released my left hand from the pistol and fist-grabbed the bastard’s broken nose. Twisted with all I had. He bellowed and backed off a few inches but kept his grip on the pistol. The gained inches between our bodies guaranteed a new player would enter the fray. I released his nose and whipped my left hand down my side and pulled the Ka-Bar knife. As it cleared the sheath, I stuck him in the belly. The blade didn’t linger. He reacted with a half-step back, which I immediately closed. I pressed hard against him—the pistol continued jerking wildly about as we struggled. Amid harsh grunts and tight explosive exhales and two more punches aimed at my head, I reached around his bulk and drove the blade into a kidney. McBain threw his head back and screamed. The next blade plant would be his neck. I never got the chance.

The boom of an unsilenced pistol shot echoed throughout the house as the bullet’s angry whine flew past my head. A quick glance down the hallway exposed another MSS agent planted, feet spread, taking a two-handed aim. At me.

McBain’s eyes were wide with agony and surprise and, still, a killing rage. I left the blade planted and pulled it sideways. The excruciating pain forced McBain to shift. A shift that placed his bulk between me and the MSS shooter. A shooter who didn’t give a rat’s ass if he hit McBain while getting to me, evidenced as the shots kept coming. Two then three bullets sounded wet thwacks against my opponent’s back. McBain and I were face-to-face, inches apart, as he began a slow sink. I joined him.

The shooter continued firing, now aiming toward our heads. McBain’s forehead banged against mine as the back of his head received a bullet. A dead hand released its grip on my pistol as he collapsed. I fell with him, his body still a bulwark against the shooter, and whipped my gun hand up. Two snap shots hit the MSS shooter’s center mass. A better-aimed third shot entered the bridge of his nose.

A freakish silence followed, the mini-battle over, the playing field quiet except for my harsh breaths and the metal-on-wood sound of my ejected magazine and the solid mechanical click as a fresh one slammed home. I remained on my knees, aim steady, seeking targets. My ears rang from the MSS agent’s overwhelming and unsilenced pistol blasts.

“Shit.”

It came from past the hallway’s end and to the left, at the conference room entrance. Chapman’s voice.

You mean shit oh dear, asshole, because you’re next.

I was wrong.

Chapter 34

 

Actions slid into weird world. At the end of the hallway, a dead MSS agent lay sprawled. For whatever reason, the remaining MSS agent decided it was a grand idea for a James Bond entry. He flew from the right-side kitchen area and, upon entering the hallway’s sight line, flung himself into a movie-script tumble before rolling to his knees and raising his pistol in my direction. I could have plugged him during the acrobatics, but I held off because, well, amazement. My finger pressed the trigger as he lifted onto his knees. He received a headshot before I could fire. The hidden blast came from the left. From Chapman. What the hell?

“Way to go, Lee. Nice job, you idiot.”

Chapman again. His voice had taken a dramatic turn away from the obsequious tone he’d used during the last week. He now spoke with cut-and-dried operational authority. What the freakin’ hell?

“Are you deaf as well, you moron?” he asked.

I hadn’t been speechless often in my ragged life, but without question I’d toss the immediate situation into the speechless bucket.

“What’s the status?”

A voice farther away, more muted as if down a hole. It was Fred. Fred who’d tried killing me moments earlier from his lair among the stacked firewood. Had to be. I’d crawled all over the house a week earlier and knew where he was. At the bottom of the stairs leading up from the mud/laundry room below where I’d entered when planting the listening device. Stairs that opened up into the great room.

“The status, due to our resident superhero down the hallway, is fubar,” Chapman said. “Screwed up, terminated, six months’ work down the damn toilet.”

Footfalls sounded from Chapman’s position. He was on the move. I hunkered farther down behind McBain’s now-useful body, pistol aimed toward the hallway’s opening into the great room. Chapman stayed left, removed from my sight line, headed for the laundry room stairs. I cast a quick glance at my rear. Rats were popping up from all around, and while the back door remained locked there were several unopened bedroom doors. All quiet behind me. At least for the moment.

Wooden stairs protested as Fred climbed.

“So what’s next?” Fred asked, his voice closer, less buried downstairs. “Do you think we can get Rambo to stop killing everything in sight?”

“What’s next? Cleanup, good buddy,” Chapman said. “Nothing but cleanup.”

A pistol shot blasted, a body tumbled downstairs, and Chapman muttered, “Dumbass” under his breath.

“He did ask a valid question, Lee,” Chapman said, his footsteps now headed back toward the conference room entrance. “Are you and I going to pull some Die Hard bullshit, or are you helping me with cleanup?”

The setting was so strange, so otherworldly, that rational thought was shoved aside, and I fell back on my training. Move forward, attack. I stepped over McBain’s body and maintained slow, cautious steps toward the hallway’s end. Floorboards squeaked. I didn’t care. Forward movement translated into engagement with the enemy. An act, an activity keeping me within the real and now.

“Alright, alright. What’s the problem?” he asked, his voice indicating he’d returned to the conference room entrance. “Do you need everything spelled out, genius?”

“Yeah, Chapman. Yeah, I do. Because right now all I know is your social skills suck when it comes to your friends.”

He delivered a low chuckle. I continued forward movement, pausing briefly to unscrew the silencer from the pistol. If I could catch a glimpse of the guy I’d put a bullet in him, and the unwieldy silencer inhibited quick pistol movement. Big bang from now on, baby.

“I’m DIA, so chill. Who are you contracted with? The Company? Homeland Security?”

DIA—the Defense Intelligence Agency. Chapman’s previous position in the intelligence community.

“You’re with ODNI,” I said, approaching the hallway’s end.

“Now, sure. But when Armbest approached me—”

“Who the hell is Armbest?”

His whole contention smelled like BS.

“The guy at the bottom of the stairs. Our buddy, Fred.”

Silence. This was too weird, too convoluted.

“You still with me, Lee?”

“Yeah.”

“Armbest was with the Company, or so he claimed. It doesn’t matter. MSS recruited him. He contacted me because of my ODNI position. I had access to all sorts of players, including congressional members.”

I halted at the hallway’s corner. To my left, six feet away, was the conference room entrance where Chapman stood.

“Spell it out for me. Do a good job, Chapman, because I’ve still got a bullet with your name on it.”

“I don’t have to spell shit out for you.”

“Fine. I’ll bury you with the rest.”

He hesitated, weighed the odds. Came down on the side of saving his hide.

“Armbest and I met at an intelligence conference, over drinks. He recruited me; I played along. It was all about money, power, the usual. I took his offer to my old team at the DIA and we set up an ops.”

“Ops? What kind of ops does the DIA run with traitors and MSS agents and drug dealers and US congressmen?”

“A counterintelligence ops, you dumbass. Which you managed to screw up. Hell, beyond screwed up. You blew it up. A big gold star for Case Lee. Attaboy.”

Anything was possible, including Chapman’s entire tale being a lie. There were too many unknowns, too many unanswered questions. I had two options. I could maneuver for a clear shot and introduce him to a new .40 caliber friend. Or hear him out, then introduce his new friend. I chose the latter.

Two MSS agents lay in pools of blood not ten feet away. Another out the back door, his blood mixed with rainwater. The dead pimp behind me, his bulk blocking the hallway. Alex Whittle draped at the edge of a cabin’s porch. Fred Armbest at the bottom of the stairs, a bullet to the brain. Three MSS hitters buried in the surrounding forest. Dead bodies out the wazoo. While Chapman remained vertical, I required answers.

“So here’s the deal,” Chapman said, his voice and sarcasm factor toned down, way down. He became conciliatory. “You’re ex-special forces. That much is obvious. I’d bet Seal Team Six or Delta. So let’s call a truce, cover this mess, and go our separate ways. No harm, no foul.”

“There’s still a need-to-know element, Chapman. I need to know.”

Silence except for the hum of the kitchen freezer and the incessant rain striking the rooftop. Chapman’s wheels turned, weighed odds, worked angles. One angle included killing me. He’d consider the possibility and, if he had a lick of sense, abandon the idea.

“Look,” he said. “I’ll slide my weapon across the floor. Expose myself, hands in the air. I’m no threat. You won’t shoot an unarmed compatriot. A bridge too far, isn’t it? We are, after all, on the same team.”

Silence again as he waited for a response. It didn’t come. Let the SOB stew for a while. He did, and took the lone viable skin-saving option. A pistol scooted across the hardwood floor, visible, slowly turning as it slid. It came to rest near one of the fallen MSS agents.

“There aren’t any tricks up my sleeve,” he said. “I’m unarmed, hands in the air. Coming out.”

A floorboard sounded as he took several steps. I stepped across the hallway, back against the wall, pistol dead-aimed at the space past the corner. His hands appeared first, empty, then the rest of him. He stood rock-still, facing me, five paces apart.

“Can I put my hands down?” he asked.

“Fred Armbest was turned by the Chinese. A traitor.”

“Correct.”

“So you and the DIA set up a counter intel ops.”

“Again, correct.”

“To feed the Chinese false military information. And maybe receive something valid from them.”

“Standard counterintelligence. You know how it goes.”

Yeah, I knew. Happens every damn day in spookville. It was the side issues, the ancillary ops that stuck in my craw, big time.

“Why did you and Armbest run drugs?”

“It sent the right signals. We worked with Chinese drug manufacturers that MSS introduced us to. How do you think we funded CAC? Or do you even know about CAC?”

“Yeah. I know. The drugs you and Armbest and Whittle imported kill over fifty thousand Americans every year. Any concerns there?”

He shook his head, cast a half-grin, and lowered his arms. He sensed we stood on even footing, two hard-boiled operators talking shop. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

“Us and several thousand other drug runners. You know how it goes. It bought us legitimacy and solidified our relationship.”

“With the Chicoms.”

“With the Chicoms.”

My finger maintained steady trigger pressure, the weapon’s sights dead-centered on Chapman’s forehead.

“Tell me about the congressmen.”

“What’s to tell? They were approached and told about our objectives. They would get to play ‘I Spy.’ It’s always an appeal with those people. They were probably disappointed they couldn’t wear a trench coat.”

I didn’t doubt that part.

“So the military intel fed MSS was false?” I asked.

“Pretty much. We’d sprinkle a few half-truths in the mix to make it work.”

“Back to the congressmen. What about the money?”

“MSS stuffed their reelection accounts with large bucks—drug-related bucks—which encouraged them even more. The young girls sealed the deal.”

I didn’t doubt that part, either. Scumbags. But we weren’t two old hands rehashing a field operation. Far from it. I shifted the conversation back toward personal items.

“You sent special ops killers after me.”

“Yes, well, to begin with you weren’t well hidden. Backdooring the boat registration wasn’t a challenge.”

“The killers,” I said, staying on a subject he’d tried avoiding. “Three of them.”

Chapman stared at the ceiling and sighed. Held his hands away from his sides, a “C’mon” gesture.

“You’ve been around long enough to know how it goes. You’re clearly a contractor. Like it or not, Lee, you’re not an official part of the game. It was obvious the day Armbest met you at the docks in Victoria.”

“Three killers. Sent to whack me.”

“Okay. Maybe I directed the first two, although they were provisioned through MSS. The last one was a gift direct from MSS. You would have fallen into the collateral damage bucket. No offense.”

“None taken.”

He was right. I did fall into the collateral damage bucket. At least as far as spookville was concerned. Cannon fodder for their operations. An immutable fact I’d experienced and dealt with far too often.

“Let’s talk about the girls,” I said.

“They ensured the congressmen came here time and again. They were the icing on the cake.”

“Icing on the cake? Really?”

Perhaps the look in my eyes changed or my jawline altered or a couple of forehead veins stood out. But Chapman sensed he’d wandered onto thin, deadly ice.

“C’mon, Lee. You know the game. Power, money, sex. It’s an ancient formula. Don’t act like it’s a mystery.”

“Batch, Chapman. I overheard you comment about the last batch with that large dead piece of shit down the hallway. Is that how you term a group of underage sex slaves? The next batch?”

Maybe he figured I’d never shoot a federal agent, a Defense Intelligence agent. I was, after all, a lowly contractor who did know the game. A game where whacking a card-carrying member of the US clandestine club wasn’t done.

“Grow up. It’s how the world works. So stow the weapon, and help me remove this mess. A mess you created. Then we’ll go our separate ways.”

My shot boomed throughout the house.

Welcome to how my world works, you son of a bitch.

Chapter 35

 

I fought the urge for a reflective pause, a respite, to absorb events and the reality spread around me. I stood within a charnel house, no two ways about it. The decisions and actions that had led to this point, this moment, refused to yield. Brutal, horrific snippets played out with calculated killing. A moment for regrets and, yeah, relief. Rain against the rooftop, the tang of spent gunpowder, sprawled bodies, and one man standing.

No time, Lee. It’s done, over. So snap the hell out of it. Focus on self-preservation and no apologies. The last ten minutes had sounded like a war zone. Most fired shots had been indoors, which helped mute the noise. The hard downpour and surrounding forest helped as well. There were no occupied tourist houses nearby, and across Deer Harbor’s inlet the few summerhouses displayed no lights, no residents. There were two sheriff deputies stationed at Eastsound, eight miles away. Unless someone had called in the gunfire, they’d be home eating supper or watching the tube. It didn’t eliminate the necessity for cleaning this scene, this stage, quickly.

There was one solution—fire. Burn the entire enchilada to the ground, even with the pouring rain. Grim business, and get the blaze cooking sooner rather than later. Inside a bedroom, I stripped to my skivvies, keeping my boots on and the shoulder holster filled with the Glock. You never knew. The body retrieval business would entail blood aplenty. I’d wash later.

I dragged the pimp’s bulk after retrieving my knife and joined him with the great room collection. The bastard’s dead weight left a wide smeared blood trail. Others would soon enough join the collection. Then the bonfire. A bonfire of the assured, the stupid, the arrogant, the evil. Burn the entire damn mess.

I considered Chapman and his counterintelligence ops. No denying—it rang true. The fentanyl was real. The young girls were real. I couldn’t confirm drug-delivered campaign funds for the scumbag politicians or the CAC funds or the dirty DEA agent’s identity. But the pieces tied together, dots connected.

The MSS agent outside the back door was next. Rain continued falling but less intensely. I collected him and his automatic assault rifle. They were added to the pile.

The overall espionage ops mindset rang true as well. Clandestine operations often failed to consider fallout or collateral damage when so focused on the prize—whatever it might be. Drug running? A side event in the big scheme of things. Underage girls? Sure, whatever it takes. Entice politicians with money and sex? Well, duh.

I collected Whittle from the front porch of the cabin, toting him with a fireman’s carry. Through the back door and dumped on the pile. I’d burn the small cabin as well. Whittle’s blood had soaked the structure’s front porch.

The 800-pound gorilla that Chapman and his DIA handlers had overlooked was MSS’s information exchange. Did those idiots think MSS delivered anything other than exactly what our side delivered: misinformation tinged with truth to lend validity? And odds were high that MSS was better at the game than we were. The simple baseline of closed versus open societies dictated it.

If the end game was feeding MSS misinformation, there were beaucoup ways to accomplish it without the other trappings—CAC, politicians playing spy games like little kids, or supplying fatal drugs to US citizens. Besides, intelligence services protocols would have mandated this counter intel ops be coordinated with the Company. Which clearly didn’t happen. A giant freakin’ screwed up hairball, culminating with one fed-up operator toting dead bodies like potato sacks.

Fred Armbest had lit this fuse, selling out his country for high times and rich living. And he was, no doubt, a Company asset. I carried him up the laundry room stairs, another addition to the pyre. There it was, the whole kit and caboodle. An expired spook stack, spiced with drug runners, pimps, and traitors. I rummaged through kitchen drawers and found a toss-away lighter, returned to the bedroom, and took a thorough shower. Dried off, applied dressing to the wound on my upper arm—a furrow plowed where the bullet had passed—and dressed, good to go.

I couldn’t shake my thoughts about Fred Armbest—a traitor for sure. It damn sure wasn’t ideological. Money, easy cash—the same as he’d offered me. Should have killed the SOB at the Victoria docks. Then hauled his expired self with me and, halfway back, tossed his sorry ass overboard for an orca snack. How Townsend would have handled him, unknown. She may have attempted a counter intel endeavor within a counter intel ops. Hard to say, and welcome to shadowland’s convoluted perspective. What wasn’t hard to say would have been the choice presented to Armbest—bullet to the head or play along. Townsend would have had the bullet delivered anyway, after the ops were completed or blown or shut down.

I had a penlight with me and used it to find several full five-gallon gas cans in the boathouse. Applied a quarter can at Whittle’s cabin, front porch included, and torched it. I poured the remaining gasoline throughout the main house, including a rivulet along the hallway that ended at the back door. Prior to touching it off, I cut the propane line behind the stove. Propane flowed, gasoline fumes filled the air, and rain or no rain this puppy would burn, big time. A flick of the Bic at the back door, a satisfying whoosh, and off to the races.

I didn’t kid myself there weren’t evidentiary traces left behind. My ejected bullet casings, for one. Between the fire and the others’ casings, enough of an evidence scramble would make it more than a challenge tying anything back to a cat whose body wasn’t included among the great room stack. Fingerprints would be consumed or obliterated with the fire. My footprints abounded in the soft and soaked ground, but I figured that when the Orcas Island fire department showed—high odds not until daylight—they’d scramble all over the place and create a footprint jumble.

I retrieved my rifle from its spot against a tree and headed west, over the ridgeline. I bathed in nature’s sanitizing smell—fresh rain, aromatic conifer needles, earthy wet forest duff. I swallowed the air, left behind the aroma of blood and guts and gun smoke. Left behind death’s permeating odor. Breaks in the clouds began to appear. Stars peeked through before being covered again, appearing again within another overhead clearing. Rain turned into an on and off proposition.

At the ridgeline summit, before dropping down toward my anchored boat, I hesitated. I had no concerns with hindsight as bad luck or poor juju. Moral concerns were absent—no pillar of salt for this sinner—and I had no compulsion for a self-satisfied glimpse at my handiwork. It was nothing more than a period at the end of the entire bloody affair. A large “The End” stamped as a signal to move on.

It shone as a massive conflagration, the glow lighting up the surrounding woods. The whole freakin’ affair cleansed through fire. Regrets? Sure. Life snuffed out; big boy games ended. Meanwhile it rolled and it tumbled—life and death and primal forest and cold, dark mysterious waters. While a singular insignificant pinpoint stood atop a ridgeline and watched human folly burn to the ground.

A quarter mile from my anchored vessel, still elevated high above the shoreline, I passed through a small open meadow and soaked up the westward view for a final time. Lights from San Juan and Spieden Islands were visible, while intermittent starlight highlighted the long, empty beach stretch below me.

The boat’s wake gave it away. An unknown moving object left behind a glistening, roiled water trail. Headed for the shore, a landing, five or six hundred yards north of my boat. I sat for a steady sight and used the rifle’s scope. Starlight was sufficient for making out the vessel. A black inflatable, hauling it at high speed.

It beached and two men exited. I couldn’t discern specific armament, but they both carried—indicated by the added bulk of battle vests and each with one arm carrying an object. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure the objects were weapons. Together, using their free hands, they pulled the inflatable onto the beach and performed a final weapons and ancillary equipment check. I knew the routine all too well. They headed inland, soon lost within the forest. I scooted downhill and eased my boat anchor back into the small vessel, ensuring it made no noise. Pushed off, fired the engine, and kept the speed and engine noise low, not far past idle. Five minutes later I passed Orcas Island’s southern tip and stomped on the gas, Seattle-bound.

Chapter 36

 

I spent the night curled under the boat’s console, inside the small storage space. I was berthed at the Anacortes boat rental docks. Dawn was half an hour away, the weather a misty rain, and the lights of Anacortes a short walk distant. Where I fervently hoped fresh-brewed coffee was available.

It was. While I sat at the tiny coffee shop’s front window and stared at a gray breaking dawn, a text message arrived from Marilyn Townsend.

SeaTac noon. Be on the plane.

She was sending a Company jet to retrieve me in Seattle. So much for the charter flight subterfuge, my name listed on the flight manifest. How she knew wasn’t important. She knew, and we would have a little post-engagement chat. Odds were high she also had more than a vague notion of what had transpired the previous night. I was beyond caring.

Under most circumstances her finger-snap would have irritated. Not now, for two reasons. I was East Coast-bound anyway, so a Company jet worked out fine. Second, and more important, I’d had enough. Enough of her, enough of spookville, and enough of the convoluted ugliness associated with this job. I wouldn’t hesitate to express as much and wouldn’t hesitate to elaborate on last night’s details, no holds barred. Enough. Yeah, I understand you’re pissed, Marilyn, but just pay my damn invoice, and we’ll head our separate ways.

I returned the boat keys and caught an Uber to Seattle’s SeaTac Airport. Waited an hour at the private air terminal until an unmarked Gulfstream rolled in, refueled, and took off minutes after I’d boarded. I slept well during the flight.

It was early evening when I was dropped at a McLean pub. The interior was long, narrow, and dark. She sat at the far wall. A black-suited Maginot Line was ensconced at surrounding small tables, water glasses at their elbows as an added ruse. They never took sips. Other patrons were few; most stood at the bar close by the establishment’s entrance. Townsend had a glass of red wine and an expressionless hooded stare focused my way. I nodded in her direction and stopped at the bar. Ordered a double Grey Goose on the rocks and stood sentinel, watching the young bartender make it. Drink in hand, I approached.

The small sea of protection parted without protest other than the usual hard glares. I sat alongside her, replicating her back-to-the-wall position. Situated my drink near her wineglass before addressing the world’s most powerful spook.

“Director.”

“Mr. Lee.”

“Pleasant evening.”

“Is it?”

She lifted her wineglass and sipped. I joined her. We’d yet to look each other in the eye since I’d sat, less than three feet distant.

“I’d say so. It’s dry. I’ve had enough wet for a while.”

“Shall I express what I’ve had enough of?” she asked.

She turned her head my way. I reciprocated.

“No need. I have a pretty good idea.”

“I’ve had enough of your failure to follow simple orders. I’ve had enough of your quick-draw approach. And I’ve had more than enough of your apparent single solution for every issue.”

“Maybe I should have shot you my résumé before you hired me.”

Several unblinking seconds passed, and we both shifted our view back toward the narrow room. A patron strolled through the front door, glanced at the black suit collection, and headed for the bar. A ballgame droned from a flat-screen positioned high above the liquor bottles.

“There were aspects I wouldn’t let stand,” I said, voice soft, flat, and definitive. “The girls, the drugs.”

“Power, money, sex. It’s an ancient formula. Don’t act like it’s a mystery.”

A direct quote from Chapman, prior to me blowing his head off. The conference room listening device. I’d forgotten all about it. Man, I was an idiot. A blue-ribbon award-winning idiot. I sighed, shook my head. Well, what was done was done. Might as well roll with it.

“Did you enjoy the blow-by-blow coverage?” I asked. “I imagine you could have sold tickets.”

We both took another sip and entered another eye lock.

“We could have salvaged elements, Mr. Lee. Useful elements. Your efforts have terminated any thought of such endeavors.”

“There were two wet-work specialists who hit the beach as I left. Which elements were they there to salvage?”

We both resumed staring across the room. A young couple entered the establishment and took a table near the door. They pulled handhelds and began interacting with social media, pausing long enough to place a drink order when the bartender left his station and stood alongside them.

“We made a formidable team,” Townsend said, her voice—for the first time in my experience—wistful. “Back in the day.”

“Yeah, back in the day.”

I took another sip. There was a strange comfort reminiscing, side by side, both staring into the past. Memories based upon a tucked away common baseline, never elaborated upon. Years, miles, team-oriented ops within the world’s most challenging environments. Shared travails aplenty. Written off from both our day-to-day perspectives, but more, much more, than individual life chapters. Stowed-away memories based upon hidden and rarely acknowledged ironclad bonds between her, me, Marcus, Catch, and Bo.

“Do you still play cribbage?” I asked.

Rumor had it, years ago, that she was an avid cribbage player. It was the lone piece of personal information our Delta team knew or had heard about her. I shot a sideways glance her way. Townsend wore a wry half-grin.

“Not with the regularity I’d like. Other matters consume my time.”

“I bet.”

A comfortable silence followed. The flat-screen ballgame murmured, and light laughter drifted from the bar area.

“Have you returned unscathed?”

My upper arm barked with certain movements. My back side wounds, courtesy of a Sinaloa Cartel grenade, had healed well.

“Pretty much. Thanks for asking.” I took another sip. “Marilyn, I’m not apologizing for my actions. The girls, the drugs. Couldn’t walk away from those things.”

“I know.”

Another easy silence. She drank wine; we both wallowed among poignant memories. Memories of times past, roads traveled, both good and bad people long gone. It lasted several minutes.

“Right,” she said, finishing her wine. “Suffice it to say there are few if any loose ends for concern.”

“What about the congressmen?”

“What congressmen?”

Her business, not mine. The ball was in her court regarding subsequent actions toward the still-standing players. Three politicians. One dirty DEA agent. And others I’d never know about. Whether she’d open discussions with her DIA counterpart was well beyond my job’s scope, and beyond my caring. But one thread dangled, untrimmed and unknown.

“Armbest blew my cover. Did my name get spread around?” I asked. “Within the Company or DIA or MSS?”

“Not to my knowledge. I will continue monitoring the situation.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

All I could ask for. While she and I had differing and skewed perspectives on trust, I did trust her to tamp down any informational noise in my regard.

She retrieved her cane propped against an adjoining chair and tapped it twice against the pub’s floor. Her signal toward her protection—time to leave.

“None of the events over the last two weeks happened,” she said, rising. “I do not believe such a statement requires reiterating.”

“Understood.”

“I would also suggest you consider this the first and last time my organization would consider contracting your services.”

“Again, understood.”

The collection of black suits rose with her. One whispered into his lapel microphone to bring around her armor-plated SUV. She took a small step, halted, and turned toward me. Extending her cane as a pillar between us, she leaned over it, close by. While the stress lines across her forehead and mouth had deepened, her eyes remained bright and focused.

“For what little it may be worth, I do take a measure of solace knowing men such as you still exist.”

She straightened, turned, and was quickly surrounded with submachine-gun-toting protection. They moved as a group toward the front door and into the night.

Chapter 37

 

I messaged the Clubhouse for a morning wrap-up meeting, rented a car, and drove toward Chesapeake. The four-hour road trip did my head good with windows down and nighttime spring air blowing through the vehicle. There would be no more Company contracts, which suited the hell out of me. Yeah, I’d brush against them during future gigs—the nature of these jobs—but direct pay-for-play with the Company was off the table. Fine.

Townsend would approve my invoices within twenty-four hours, and payment would appear in my Swiss bank account soon thereafter. Done and done—at least the endeavor-ending formalities. The upcoming sit-down with Jules was my standard job closeout.

I had a hankering for a foreign job. The Swiss client, Global Resolutions, would comply. The lion’s share of locales they contracted me for had fewer rules, less consideration for law enforcement, and more wild and wooly elements. Those I could manage. It was the espionage baseline for a job that I was less adept at handling. The clandestine mindsets and motivations tuned toward future leverage points. The constant lies. Yeah, I’d rub shoulders with that crowd from time to time, but no more immersion. Relief and an involuntary smile drove with me during the Chesapeake run.

I owed CC a boat trip. It gave Mom a break and replenished my real-world fuel tank. Trips filled with observational gold, and love, and the lazy ease of no planned destination. After the Clubhouse, I’d drive the seven hours toward Charleston, load the Ace of Spades with supplies, and take off with CC and Tinker Juarez.

Then there was Jess. I was prepared for next-level commitment. Her viewpoint regarding closer ties remained an unknown. Now was as good a time as any for finding out. After the CC trip, a romantic rendezvous with Jess might be in the cards.

The night was spent in another cash-only motel and up with the sun. Springtime blooms turned even Chesapeake’s shabby section, home to the Clubhouse, into a somewhat appealing neighborhood. I strode into the dry cleaners with a smile. It wasn’t returned as hooded eyes covered the Glock and cell phone with dropped off laundry. Through the obscure door, up squeaking wooden stairs, and two knocks. The steel door’s electronic latch clicked. The Clubhouse was open for business.

She peered over the shotgun’s double barrels and displayed a tight smile. I returned a broader one and pirouetted with jeans pockets turned inside out. One extended hand held a licorice tin purchased in Richmond. Whether her smile was fostered through my appearance or the candy display or a combination of the two would remain unknown.

“Sit, dear boy. Sit,” she said, lowering the weapon onto the desktop. “You appear no worse for wear after your recent endeavors.”

“I gotta tell you, Jules. No more. It’s after gigs like this one that makes me appreciate you and your particular wiring. I don’t have it, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want it.”

She let loose a light cackle and lifted a smoldering cigar from the old desk’s edge.

“Inform this poor soul of your activities. Leave nothing out.”

I did. Trust built upon her saving my bacon numerous times opened the informational sluice. She leaned back, her chair protesting, and absorbed. Names, dates, and activities were spread before her, an informational buffet for her perusal and plucking. There was a second or two’s hesitation at the congressional identity reveal, although the other bits and pieces handed over would allow her, over time, to ferret those identities anyway. At Townsend’s directive about forgetting Orcas Island ever happened, Jules waved a dismissive cigar hand. Clearly such statements were old hat for the Clubhouse and, I supposed, the clandestine world as a whole.

“You were the exact person required for this job,” she said, once I’d finished.

“My client would disagree. She disagreed so much it was made clear I wouldn’t be contracted for future endeavors. And I’m okay with that.”

“Misdirection and cover, dear. Which you, in your innocent state, have bought into.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Which is why you are so appealing, for both her and I.”

I stared toward the old Casablanca poster and sighed.

“If the inference I’m a dumbass is a compliment, maybe I should bill more for my services.”

“Your client required a wrecking ball. She chose an excellent one.”

“Not according to her.”

Jules shifted forward and placed her elbows on the desktop. The green-shaded desk lamp cast its strange glow, the Ka-Bar knife stood sentinel over the wooden work area, and the abacus sat untouched.

“You have brought a gift,” she said, eyeballing the licorice. “A domestic selection?”

“Dutch.”

Her eye lit up as I slid the licorice tin toward her.

“Word has it they specialize in these things,” I added.

“I credit serendipity for your selection and should penalize you for the vulgar descriptive. Things is both inadequate and an insult for such a divine treat.”

She used the cigar’s burning tip and created a hole in the cellophane wrapper, tore the rest off, and lifted the tin lid for a closer perusal.

“Speaking about credits,” I said, lifting a finger toward the abacus, “your accounting system appears broken. Nary a single ball has shifted on its rail.”

Jules peered into the tin container. A bony finger shifted several pieces around.

“As you well know, the Clubhouse relies upon human assets for future leverage. It would appear you have left the playing field as the lone individual in the upright position.”

“Not exactly my fault.”

“Oh? Did a wave of terminal heart failure sweep through your little island? These treats appear as crown jewels. You are a dear, dear boy.”

“What about the congressmen?”

“Does the expression ‘dime a dozen’ ring any bells?”

She laid her cigar on the desk’s edge, selected a candy piece, and held it as she would a precious item. She cast a quick glance my way.

“You become petulant. It is not your best look. So as to alleviate my having to view such an attitude, a touch of Clubhouse largesse.” Her non-candy hand extended over the abacus and shifted two balls along their separate rails. “There.”

She popped the treat home, closed her eye, and leaned back. I’d sit silent as she relished the experience. While it was true there weren’t any players to leverage left standing, the context and motivations and player identities—expired players, granted—held coin in her realm. We both knew it, and the little act she’d performed was a Clubhouse lowball exercise. Not unexpected. Besides, at the end of the day, Jules herself constituted an asset beyond price. On many levels.

Once she’d sucked and smacked and uttered sufficient low moans of satisfaction, her eye opened and the tin’s lid was returned.

“I shall stop with one. With appropriate rationing, these should last several days. Or not.” She smiled in my direction. “Now, allow us to address personal items. How goes your blossoming affair with the inestimable Ms. Rossi?”

Not a surprise. For all the quirks and peculiarities Jules exhibited, she did take a keen interest in my well-being. I appreciated it.

“Well, it’s a moving target.”

“You might consider the usage of different descriptives with matters of the heart. Your relationship with her is not a field exercise.”

I smiled; she stared, serious.

“We’re still on speaking terms. How’s that? Plus, she has a keen taste for Italian food. I like Italian food.”

“Such a tug at the heartstrings. You should consider writing romance novels.”

“She proposed a few days together on Orcas Island.”

“Ah. Positive progress, indeed. You, of course, declined the offer.”

“It was a tad hectic at the time.”

“Have you proffered an alternative? I should not have to point out there are limitless possibilities.”

Jules had a helluva point. I should take the initiative. Rusty social skills? Maybe, or maybe they were never sharp to begin with. A strong possibility.

“Yeah, good point. Something here along the East Coast. She’s referenced a soaking tub several times.”

“Those are best termed signals, dear boy. Strike while the iron is hot. Your Ms. Rossi holds attributes both admirable and fitting.”

Jules had done background work on Jess. I was unsure how I felt about it, but given my relationship with the Clubhouse it was an inevitable activity.

“Sound advice and you’re right and I’ll set something up.”

“Pampering is a word you should become familiar with. Now, let us discuss your future endeavors.”

We did. I expressed a desire for overseas operational turf.

“It’s constraining with domestic work,” I said. “From many angles.”

“I would suggest ample opportunities will present themselves on foreign soil. And it rings true your skill sets are allowed to shine brighter without the aforementioned native constraints.”

We rambled about world events, which hot spots held opportunity, and my Swiss client.

“I’ll be more selective,” I said. “To an extent. My bank accounts still require rebuilding since the Sudan exercise.”

“I shall offer a parting comment,” she said. The steel door lock behind me clacked open. Our meeting was over. “The Clubhouse welcomes your endeavors with open arms. I am here to assist my favorite client.”

I stood, smiled, and held the door open. Before leaving, I had to ask.

“What makes me your favorite, Jules?”

“Innumerable things, dear. Your core qualities, first and foremost. Qualities made real through decisions and actions taken.” She fished a kitchen match from her work shirt pocket, fired it along the chair’s arm, and relit the cigar. “Right and wrong, good and bad. Within my jaded world, such demarcations are rare and precious. Now be gone. Rest. Make good on your intentions toward Ms. Rossi. And know I’m here, Case Lee. Lest you forget, we do make a formidable team.”

“That we do, Jules. That we do.”

Epilogue

 

“I have a surprise.”

“What?” CC asked.

She lolled in the front deck hammock under the rain and sun tarp, humming. Tinker Juarez lifted his head from the folded blanket underneath the hammock. Tinker alternated his time between sleeping near CC and standing watch at the prow of the Ace of Spades. Our own personal figurehead, ears up, nose into the wind.

“It’s a supper surprise.”

“Is it special?”

CC sat up, eyes bright with anticipation. The windows in the small wheelhouse were open, allowing entry for conversation and a perfect spring breeze. We cruised north through Winyah Bay, headed for Georgetown, South Carolina.

“I don’t know. You’ll have to tell me if smoked pork ribs are special.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

We shared wide smiles, hers created through anticipation of a favorite food item, while mine manifested from simple love for CC and an appreciation for time and place.

“Oh, Case. Very, very special.” She pushed down the hammock’s edge and addressed Tinker. “Ribs, Tinker Juarez!”

He responded with several tail slaps against the blanket, rose, shook, threw a tongue lick toward CC, and assumed his position at the bow. Our rib tracker, on point, as the Ace pushed through calm waters.

“Where, Case?”

“Do you remember Aunt Reedy’s Barbecue?”

Her brow bunched, concentrating. Aunt Reedy’s barbecue shack sat at the edge of Georgetown. Screened windows and picnic tables inside, an open tin-roofed attached eating area outside with more picnic tables. Your basic barbecue shack filled, soaked, with the heavenly smell of smoked meat.

“Maybe I remember. Is it good?” she asked.

“Oh, man!”

CC lit up and burst into another wide smile. “Oh, man!” she said, parroting me. We both laughed. Tinker glanced over his shoulder, confirmed all was well, and returned to point dog duty.

We were on a four- or five-day trip, time spent dependent upon CC’s comfort level. She was okay away from Mom for a week or so, but showed concern and a touch of despair if it went much longer.

“You don’t have to take CC on one of your meanderings,” Mom had said when I arrived in Charleston. “Why don’t you park yourself here for a while.”

“Why don’t you and Peter take a road trip?”

Peter, the retired insurance agent and Mom’s beau.

“Because, son of mine, our garden isn’t going to plant itself. When are you seeing your lady friend again? I can well imagine Jessica would appreciate you dropping in. Not unannounced, mind you. Ladies do not appreciate such things, and I would hope that doesn’t require explaining.”

“She’s doing a job in Atlanta at the moment.”

Jess and I had attempted a calendar alignment, without great success. She did have what looked like a break in ten days or so.

“Well, she’s always welcome here. I’d enjoy meeting a woman who manages to put up with you.”

“I’m a low-key kinda guy, Mom. An easy keeper.”

She slurped coffee and returned the heavy mug to the table.

“I love you to death, son, you know that, but a deserving soul might as well saddle a tornado as date you. But you’re in my prayers every day, and if Moses could part the sea there’s hope for you changing your ways. Why don’t you give me her number so we can chat? The poor girl requires support.”

“I’ll bring her around one of these days.”

“The sooner the better, otherwise you will wear her down to a nub. Are you sure you want to take CC?”

“More than sure.”

“Maybe Peter and I could run down to Hilton Head for a day or two.”

I stood and headed for the coffeepot, stopped, and wrapped an arm around Mom from behind and kissed her neck. She patted my arm and said, “Love you, son.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

Greatest mom in the world, bar none.

The Ace was an hour from Georgetown late afternoon with plans to stay the evening. Trips with CC usually entailed an evening anchorage within quiet empty sloughs where we’d cook, chat, and watch stars. But I also endeavored to toss in an overnight stay among civilization where we could experience a town’s evening meal and breakfast. Georgetown had been established in the early 1700s and displayed old school charm. Neighborhoods shaded with massive live oaks and a pretty waterfront alongside old brick and clapboard buildings. And world-class barbecue ribs.

CC shifted position and sat at the prow, focused on the bow wake. Tinker leaned against her so she rested an arm around him. I took the opportunity to call Jess.

“Hey. My mom is itching to see you.”

“That’s sweet. I’m itching to see you.”

“How does your schedule look?”

She would be free in a week and left the door open for suggestions. I hesitated, remembering she’d proposed meeting me on Orcas Island, and found myself with clay feet. I don’t know where the hesitancy came from—lack of practice, fear about a leap too far? Hard to say.

Get a grip, Lee. Ask her.

“If you wouldn’t mind, maybe a place along the coast? I know it’s about a five-hour drive for you, but the Outer Banks are pretty cool this time of year. We could get an Airbnb. Or I could head in your direction, which would be great as well. Either way.”

There’s taking the bull by the horns, you moron. Maybe? Either way?

“I haven’t seen the coast in years. Let’s do it.”

Done and done. Whew.

“I’ll check a few places and get back to you. Would that work?”

She agreed, we signed off, and I almost performed a quick wheelhouse dance. I restrained myself because if CC had glanced behind her and seen me, she would have assumed, rightfully so, there was something bad wrong with her older brother. My dance moves left a lot to be desired.

Docked in Georgetown, we leashed Tinker and strolled along the waterfront.

“Are you getting hungry, CC?”

“I’m getting hungry.”

“Good. We’ll walk over to Aunt Reedy’s.”

“Where there are ribs.”

“Where there are great ribs.”

I tickled her side. She laughed and pushed me away and strode ahead, arms swinging and humming a private tune. When we turned up a side street the aroma only a barbecue joint could create hit our noses. Particularly Tinker’s, who strained at the leash.

“It’s the cabin in the woods!” CC said, pointing toward the shack and glancing back at me.

Of course, the cabin in the woods. The old shack was nestled among a live oak grove, tucked away. The gravel drive leading to the place wound through the trees. We tied Tinker’s leash outside and stepped through the screen door. Food offerings were handwritten on large poster boards and attached to overhead rafters. The posters listed edible items and their price. A quote from the Bible was written in cursive beneath each selection. The old posters had a smoky patina, with the years marked through crossed-out price changes.

Aunt Reedy was a thin woman with umber skin and of indeterminate age—somewhere between sixty and ninety. Gray-haired with hands that reflected a lifetime of work offset a face with tight, almost wrinkle-free skin. She employed her extended family at the place, a genuine family affair. There were a dozen other patrons, half at the outside picnic tables. I ordered a full rack of ribs, coleslaw, hush puppies, and two sweet teas. CC spent her time, head back, absorbing the overhead posters. As I paid and chatted with Aunt Reedy—she and she alone managed the cash drawer—CC came alongside me and pointed toward a row of pies lining the counter.

“Would you like a piece of pie, honey?” Aunt Reedy asked.

CC, with an act of shyness that manifested on occasion without a known trigger buried her head into my upper arm while clasping my hand with both of hers.

I kissed her head and said, “Aunt Reedy, this is my younger sister, CC.” I spoke into CC’s hair. “How about some pie to go with the ribs?”

She shook her pressed face up and down in the affirmative. I pulled more cash.

“You put your money away. This is a special angel,” Aunt Reedy said. “Now, child, I’m going to cut you the best piece from the best pie in the world. How might that sound?”

CC twisted her still-pressed head toward Aunt Reedy and smiled. We sat outside, retying Tinker’s leash to a table leg. He sat and focused with Sahara-sun intensity as we ate smoky, fall-off-the-bone ribs with our hands. CC would sneak him a nibble at irregular intervals.

An old-fashioned paper napkin dispenser occupied each table’s center along with its partner, a repurposed squeeze bottle filled with water. The cleaning station. CC and I wiped hands and mouths and layered spent wet napkins on top of rib bones. A large pie slice and white plastic fork appeared, sliding in front of my sister. Aunt Reedy stood beside us.

CC, eyes bright and without a trace of shyness, looked up at the proprietor and asked, “What kind?”

“That is sweet potato pie, honey.”

“Is it good?”

Aunt Reedy threw back her head and laughed.

“Good? Child, that pie is a whole lot better than good.”

“Amen,” came from an adjoining table occupied with a family of four.

CC turned toward me.

“Case! A whole lot better than good!”

It was. We took our time during the stroll back toward the Ace and chatted and enjoyed the early evening coolness. As we meandered along a park walkway lined with tiny royal-blue flowers—I later googled them and discovered they were forget-me-nots—CC hunkered down near a patch.

“Sunshine,” she said and chewed her lower lip. She looked up at me. “Even at night.”

“Is that right?”

CC’s radar was finely tuned toward moments when I failed to grasp her meaning.

“Sunshine, Case.”

I squatted alongside her, one knee cracking. There, inside each tiny blue flower, was an even smaller yellow sunburst. Sunshine, even at night.

“I see them, my love.”

Shared affirmation and a snippet in time captured and stowed and repurposed for the future when the blues needed kicking out the door, replaced with pure, quiet love.

“You are so, so special, my CC.”

“Everything is special, Case. Except Tinker Juarez.”

“Tinker Juarez isn’t special?”

“He’s extra special.”

We laughed, held hands, and slept peacefully during the night with Tinker curled near her bunk while I occupied the foredeck hammock. The recent ugliness and violence and death clawed toward my conscious mind and were tamped back down, the cork pressed hard into the bottle.

I left Mom and CC, headed north. It was a four-day cruise as spring hinted at summer. I scanned the news and perused lodging options on the North Carolina coast. There were a couple of passing news blurbs. The senator I’d seen on Orcas Island died in his sleep from a heart attack. One of the other two congressmen was killed in a car wreck. He was traveling alone. There are 535 members of Congress. They lose elections or announce their retirement regularly. A few die in office. Unless they were famous, it’s a one-day news cycle, if that. Too bad, so sad, move on.

I booked a large room for three nights at a Roanoke Island Airbnb along Shallowbag Bay. It would be a perfect launch spot for exploring the Outer Banks and the small towns of Nags Head, Kill Devil Hills, and Kitty Hawk. The room advertised elegant furnishings and a fireplace. And a soaking tub. I passed the information to Jess, and our rendezvous was set.

I tied up at Morehead City for a preparatory shopping trip. Snacks, wine, liquor, and chocolate. And a quick step-in at one of those boutiques where men seldom venture. A young sales lady approached as I stood inside the door and scoped the small space. Alien turf, and it’s inadvisable to rush into such an area. She asked me if I needed help.

“Stuff for a soaking tub.”

“Stuff? I take it you don’t use soaking tubs often.”

“Nope.”

“Is this a romantic getaway?”

“Yes.”

She smiled and eyeballed me head to foot, grabbed my hand, and pulled me farther into the store. I was peppered with unanswerable questions about oils, lotions, scents, and things I’d never heard of. We ended up with a substantial collection.

“You’ll also want flowers,” she said. “Roses are nice.”

“Okay.”

“How are you set on candles?”

“What’s the deal with candles? We’re talking about a bathtub.”

She shoved back what was either incredulity or disgust and pulled me over toward another small section of the store. After minimal discussion I was further armed with lavender and cedarwood candles. It’s called aromatherapy. I think. Man, I hoped the young lady was right about this stuff. She sealed the deal with several magazine photos displaying the layout. Tub, bubbles, candles strewn about, a small side table against the tub for drinks, with a small towel and a rose or three. She tore out a magazine page and handed it over. Alrighty, then.

I arrived at the Airbnb several hours before Jess and called her. She proclaimed after the long drive a cocktail and soak would fit the bill. I arranged flowers in the room, moved a small side table into the bathroom and against the oversized tub. Lit candles all over the place—it appeared, at least to me, as a tile-floored holy site with votives out the wazoo. A single rose in a bud vase joined several candles and a coaster and a hand towel and a small box of chocolates on the tub’s side table. I pulled the folded magazine photo and compared. Pretty darn close.

Dusk arrived as the bay breeze billowed the room’s light curtains inward. The view, spectacular, overlooked the bay with the lights of Nag’s Head now twinkling a couple miles distant. I’d asked Jess to ping me when she was twenty minutes away. She did, the starter’s gun for filling the tub with hot water and bubbles and round balls that supposedly dissolved and performed wondrous things.

I met her as she pulled in. Mercy, she looked fine. Better than fine. Beige skirt, turquoise blouse, and a big fun smile. We exchanged a tight hug and nice kiss. I hauled her luggage upstairs.

“This is gorgeous,” she said. “You did well, Mr. Lee.”

“Drink?”

“Why, a gin and tonic would be marvelous,” she said, inspecting the large room. She wandered into the bathroom, returned, and while I attempted mixing us drinks laid a kiss on me that would have done justice to any Hollywood scene.

She performed a quick unpacking and announced she’d take the cocktail in the tub and would announce when she was ready for it. With that, Jess exited into the bathroom and shut the door. I could hear her humming a tune. Several minutes passed.

“Case, if you would be so kind, I am parched.”

I walked in on a gorgeous woman submerged in bubbles and wearing only a sweet smile.

Her drink was placed on the side table while she said, “You’ve done wonders, this is perfect, and if you would, please, turn off the lights. These candles will more than suffice.”

I was both pleased and filled with relief that she’d found the situation to her liking.

“Anything else?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I require company. A fine gentleman to join me while I soak and sip and relax.”

“I’ll bring in a chair.”

“No, you won’t. I had in mind a soaking buddy.”

“In the tub?”

“Yes, indeedy. Get in here.”

She didn’t have to ask twice. Once immersed into bubbles, facing Jess, I appreciated the soaking tub concept. Man, it was nice. Even better, we sat with legs intertwined. Jess raised a hand and gently shook it, sending bubbles down her arm. She retrieved the cocktail and lifted her glass as a toast.

“To us,” she said. “And to a wonderful next couple of days.”

“I can’t tell you how happy it makes me having you here. I think you’ll enjoy our stay.”

“Oh, I will. And you will too, guaranteed.”

She delivered a deep-throated chuckle, shot me a wink over the rim of her glass as she drank, and set the glass back down. She scooted in my direction, and we kissed with hunger and passion; deep kisses interrupted with shifting bodies and brief intense eye locks. The candles flickered as the bedroom’s breeze entered the bathroom, the salt air mixing with lavender and cedarwood.

It was a whole, whole lot better than good.

 

THE END

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I’ve lived and worked all over the world, traipsing through places like the Amazon, Congo, and Papua New Guinea. And I make a point of capturing unique sights, sounds, and personalities that are incorporated into each of my novels.

 

The Suriname Job

I worked a contract in that tiny South American country when revolution broke out. Armored vehicles in the streets, gunfire—the whole nine yards. There’s a standard protocol in many countries when woken by automatic gunfire. Slide out of bed, take a pillow, and nestle on the floor while contemplating whether a coup has taken place or the national soccer team just won a game. In Suriname, it was a coup.

There was work to do, and that meant traveling across Suriname while the fighting took place. Ugly stuff. But the people were great—a strange and unique mixture of Dutch, Asian Indians, Javanese, and Africans. The result of back in the day when the Dutch were a global colonial power.

Revolutions and coups attract strange players. Spies, mercenaries, “advisors.” I did require the services of a helicopter, and one merc who’d arrived with his chopper was willing to perform side gigs when not flying incumbent military folks around. And yes, just as in The Suriname Job, I had to seek him out in Paramaribo’s best bordello. Not my finest moment.

 

The New Guinea Job

What a strange place. A massive jungle-covered island with 14,000 foot mountains. As tribal a culture as you’ll find. Over 800 living languages (languages, not dialects) making it the most linguistically diverse place on earth. Headhunting an active and proud tradition until very recently (I strongly suspect it still goes on).

I lived and worked deep in the bush—up a tributary of the Fly River. Amazing flora and fauna. Shadowed rain forest jungle, snakes and insects aplenty, peculiar ostrich-like creatures with fluorescent blue heads, massive crocs. Jurassic Park stuff. And leeches. Man, I hated those bloody leeches. Millions of them.

And remarkable characters. In The New Guinea Job, the tribesman Luke Mugumwup was a real person, and a pleasure to be around. The tribal tattoos and ritual scarification across his body lent a badass appearance, for sure. But a rock-solid individual to work with. Unless he became upset. Then all bets were off.

I toned down the boat driver, Babe Cox. Hard to believe. But the actual guy was a unique and nasty and unforgettable piece of work. His speech pattern consisted of continual f-bombs with the occasional adjective, noun, and verb tossed in. And you could smell the dude from thirty feet.

 

The Caribbean Job

Flashbacks of the time I spent working in that glorious part of the world came easy. The Bahamas, American Virgin Islands, Jamaica, San Andres, Providencia—a trip down memory lane capturing the feel of those islands for this novel. And the people! What marvelous folks. I figured the tale’s intrigue and action against such an idyllic background would make for a unique reading experience.

And pirates. The real deal. I was forced into dealing with them while attempting work contracts. Much of the Caribbean has an active smuggler and pirate trade—well-hidden and never posted in tourist blurbs. Talk about interesting characters! There is a weird code of conduct among them, but I was never clear on the rules of the road. It made for an interesting work environment.

One of the more prevalent memories of those times involved cash. Wads of Benjamins—$100 bills. The pirate and smuggler clans, as you can well imagine, don’t take credit cards or issue receipts. Cash on the barrelhead. Benjamins the preferred currency. It made for inventive bookkeeping entries.

 

The Amazon Job

I was fortunate to have had a long contract in Brazil, splitting my time between an office in Rio de Janeiro and base camps deep within the Amazon wilderness. The people—remarkable. The environments even more so. Rio is an amazing albeit dangerous place, with favelas or slums crammed across the hills overlooking the city. You have to remain on your toes while enjoying the amazing sights and sounds and culture of Copacabana, Ipanema, and Leblon.

The Amazon rainforest is jaw-dropping in its scope and scale. 20% of the earth’s fresh water flows down the Amazon River with thousands of smaller rivers and tributaries feeding it. The Amazon rainforest is three million square miles, and during flood season is covered with ten to twenty feet of water.

The wildlife is, of course, amazing. After a long field day, I'd often take one of the small base camp skiffs and fish for tucunaré (peacock bass). I’d figured out their preferred watery environments. And learned where the piranhas were less plentiful (although it’s worth noting those fierce little chompers are both easy to catch and quite tasty—karmic justice, perhaps). So I was fishing a remote lagoon a mile or so from the base camp. Lily pads, tannic water, dusk and isolation. Howler monkeys broke into a verbal ruckus among the treetops circling the lagoon. When those raucous critters took a break—dead quiet.

Then soft blowhole exhales no more than five feet away. Scared the bejeesus out of me. It was two botos. Rare Amazon river dolphins. Pinkish-white, curious and content to check out the new addition to their lagoon. We shared the space a full four or five minutes until they eased away. A magic moment, etched forever.

 

The Hawaii Job

I’ve always relished visits to the Big Island. What’s not to like? Gorgeous beaches, rugged coastlines, a 14,000 foot mountain, and terrain that varies from lowland scrub to tropical vegetation to grasslands to alpine turf. And, of course, an active volcano. How could I not put Case Lee smack-dab in the middle of an active lava flow?

Then there is the vastness of North Africa and its Sahara Desert. The Sahara is about the size of the lower 48 US states. I’m talking vast and empty and scattered with isolated bands of tribes and nomadic herders. The cultural chasms are enormous as well, and something I’ve had to deal with in the past.

 

The Orcas Island Job

The San Juan Islands are spectacular. Located off the coast of Washington State and close to Canada’s Vancouver Island (and the city of Victoria), each island is a mixture of tree-covered hills and carved-out fields. The small towns are a delight, and while I perhaps over-emphasized the rain in this novel, it is by and large a misty rain and a far cry from a deluge. The summers are spectacular, and the sea life awe-inspiring. Orcas Island—the one I’m most familiar with—was a perfect setting for Case to mix it up with the bad guys. There is a primal feel about the place which provided an excellent backdrop for his adventures.

Victoria is such a cool Canadian city and, if you get a chance, do order a Victoria Shaft cocktail when you’re there. The harbor water taxis and on-foot nature of the town made for a great fit with a Case Lee scene or three.

 

About Me

I live in the Intermountain West, where wide-open spaces give a person perspective and room to think. I relish great books, fine trout streams, family, old friends, and good dogs.

You can visit me at https://vincemilam.com to learn about new releases and insider info. I can also be visited on Facebook at Vince Milam Author.