On the boat after church, MacJames prepared turkey sandwiches and fruit salad. She wanted Mitchelli to spend as much time with his children as possible and did not want him to be distracted by making lunch. The Mitchellis were seated on the horseshoe bench seat around the cockpit table. Kaitlin was reading a book about fairies while Peter Jakob was showing his dad a new game on his i-Pod. Peter Jakob took advantage of his sister’s distraction and asked his father about MacJames.
“Dad, do you still love mom?” he asked.
“You know I do.” He had so many thoughts running through his mind he had not considered his children’s feelings upon seeing him with another woman. “Peter,” he said quietly, “I should have explained my relationship with Angela to you before now.”
Kaitlin looked up from her book. “Yeah Dad,” she said. “You get a new wife and don’t even tell us, just like you change cars.”
Peter Jakob rolled his eyes. “Kaitlin, butt out! I was talking to Dad! Go back to reading your baby book.” He had lost his opportunity; Kaitlin had nosed her way in.
“Peter, don’t yell at her,” Mitchelli scolded him. “I need to discuss this with both of you. I love your mother with all my heart. No one will ever replace her in our lives. She was a great wife and mother. We must never forget her, never!” Don’t fail your children as you did your wife.
MacJames was trying not to listen, but the cabin door was open and she could hear the conversation. She was embarrassed and tried to distract herself by intently focusing on preparing the lunch.
Mitchelli attempted to hide his trembling hands by grabbing the edge of the table. “A couple of weeks ago when I went away for work and got very sick. Ms. MacJames was worried, she stayed up all night taking care of me and asking about your mother.”
“Did you both have your clothes off, looking at each other’s boobies?” Kaitlin asked. MacJames put her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.
Peter asked, “Yeah, Dad, did you the nasty?” He made a circle with his left index finger and thumb, and moved his right index finger in and out. “Come on Dad, be honest.”
Mitchelli yelled, “I was sick!”
Kaitlin giggled. “Dad, we’re not buying it.”
“I could barely see,” Mitchelli implored. “Trust me, I was not well enough to look at any boobies.” Kaitlin and Peter Jakob broke up laughing, as did MacJames. Mitchelli looked at both his children searching for the right words.
He was doing his best to camouflage the truth from his children and himself. Four instructors who should have been training him for his undercover job humiliated him. In defensive retaliation, he had nearly killed three of them and came within seconds of shooting the fourth. As inconceivable as it appeared, his mission was to find twenty-one missing agents and the terrorist operation that had kidnapped or killed them. He had a hard time believing it, let alone explaining it to someone.
He had been so depressed in Quantico he did not want to return home. If it hadn’t been for MacJames, he would have never left his hotel room bed. MacJames was his mental Mind Kill that could destroy him and those around him? The truth preoccupied Mitchelli’s thoughts. Had he controlled his depression? He had covered it so well for so long. He doubted he was better; he had become such a master at concealing his illness, he begun to believe it himself.
The children asked if they could visit a friend’s dog several docks away. Mitchelli agreed. “Kaitlin, keep your head away from the dog. Peter’s in charge.” They both promised and left their father and MacJames alone on the boat. Mitchelli went down into the cabin. She was reclining on the couch, reading a book.
“Need any help with lunch?” He looked at the tray of sandwiches on the counter.
“I couldn’t help but hear your conversation with Kaitlin and Peter. I’m sorry, the cabin door was open. It must have been awkward.”
“Man I screwed that up, did it sound corny?”
“No, you did fine.”
“Damn, I should have anticipated that conversation. I’m sure it is only the beginning of many conversations regarding Ms. MacJames. I guess that’s to be expected.” He sat down next to her.
“Peter, did you mean what you said about me, or was that just for your children? I feel like you’re hiding something from me.”
“I’m not talking about myself, let it go.”
“I want to help you.”
“Why the hell are you interested in me? I don’t get it, Angela. I’d stay away from you but you’re the only one I can trust. I couldn’t tell my children how beautiful I think you are.” Use her emotions to hide the truth. “You make me feel like a young kid in love, but I’m not a kid. I’m a train wreck waiting to happen. I’m holding back because you deserve someone without two children, someone who isn’t still mourning his deceased wife. A man that can focus entirely on you, and not on his past, his children, a business, boats, cars, and his unique government job…”
MacJames grabbed his hand. She hesitated for a moment before she spoke; she couldn’t help but notice his hand tremble had gotten worse. “I think I’m old enough to know what I want in a man. On the pier, you told me about all those women that were chasing you, dropping food off at your house, having relatives set up blind dates. Are those women crazy?”
“You don’t get it, they’re not chasing me! They want my children. They’re delusional they think I’m the perfect father, and husband. That’s not me.”
“Am I delusional?”
“Well.”
“Why didn’t you go up to receive communion today, what was holding you back?” MacJames squeezed his hand and looked into his large brown eyes.
“Let’s eat lunch.”
“Answer my question, Peter.”
“Just because you’re the Deputy Director for fifteen states doesn’t mean I’m going to answer your question.”
“I didn’t pull rank on you.” MacJames smiled--she knew Mitchelli could not be bullied. “Answer the question or else.”
“You can’t handle the answer, let it go.”
“I want an answer!”
He looked into her green eyes and answered, “I couldn’t leave you alone in the pew. I know it wasn’t easy for you to come to mass, but I’m happy you did. That night in Quantico you could have left me in the hotel room once you knew I was going to be alright, but you didn’t.”
Mitchelli kissed MacJames; they locked in a romantic embrace. She pulled him on top of her as she lay back on the couch. Mitchelli began kissing her neck and stopped when he realized his hand was on her breast. He looked in her eyes and smiled, they both began to laugh, recalling what Kaitlin said about looking at each other’s boobies. For a moment his mental torture had been forgotten, but she noticed his eyes wince before he looked away.
Mitchelli rolled off MacJames and onto the floor, leaning against the seat of the couch. She moved on top of him, straddling him with her legs. She gently placed his hands on her chest while she kissed him. He wrapped his arms around her back and picked her up, placing her on the kitchen counter. None of MacJames’s husbands ever had the strength to pick her up as Mitchelli did. While kissing her, he ran his hands down her back, resting them below the small of her back.
“Does my bumper feel as good as my boobies?” she asked. They both broke out laughing.
“She’s going to put me in my grave. We have to stop. God knows what she’s going to say if she sees us kissing.” They laughed again and decided they should bring lunch topside and look for the children.
After lunch they lounged on the boat for several hours, sunning themselves and occasionally swimming with the kids. The boat never left its slip. They packed up and MacJames followed them back home. Kaitlin stubbornly insisted on riding with her. The kids played with the neighbors while Mitchelli and MacJames made dinner. Mitchelli had invited his mother-in-law over for dinner to meet MacJames. They thought it was better they be properly introduced before Kaitlin’s imagination wreaked havoc with Grandma.
***<
br />
.
Mitchelli had to meet Buckala and Freed at the grain elevator for the night’s watch. MacJames stayed behind to tuck the kids into bed with Mitchelli’s mother-in-law, anticipating another round of questioning from her when Mitchelli was gone.
Freed didn’t trust Mitchelli or Buckala. He still considered Mitchelli just a civilian and Buckala a washed up Buffalo narcotics cop, segregated from his own department for political reasons. Neither possessed his G-Man training and expertise. Anticipating the mystery boat and its echo would return this evening, he wanted to be on location to see firsthand what, if anything, would happen. They had decided to use Mitchelli’s truck since it was the largest vehicle. Mitchelli sat behind the wheel, Freed sat shotgun, and Buckala was in the back seat, puffing away. Freed had immediately complained about the secondhand smoke, so Mitchelli opened the sunroof for him. It was almost two in the morning.
Freed looked at Buckala in disgust. “How the hell do you smoke that crap? Peter, what’s wrong with you? This truck is nicer than my living room and you’re letting him stink up the interior?”
Buckala blew smoke up towards the sunroof, as he responded. “Roberto, the cigars help keep me awake. If you weren’t here, Mitchelli would be burning one with me.”
Mitchelli focused on the water in front of the grain elevator. Every five or ten minutes he would look through his binoculars as though hunting deer, looking for any sign of movement. The night sky was overcast and the lake was rough, four- to five-foot waves with a fifteen-mile an hour wind out of the southwest. The weather conditions were not conducive for recreational boating especially at night, but perfect for smuggling. The lake water was black; clouds were blocking the moonlight. The grain elevator was daunting its concrete grey exterior, looming over the lake water below.
Mitchelli attempted to steady his binoculars and his hands trembled. Freed looked at Buckala as he held his quivering hand out, mocking Mitchelli’s affliction.
Buckala put his hand on Mitchelli’s shoulder. “Hey Pisano,” he said. “Do me a favor and don’t touch your gun tonight.”
Freed agreed. “The way your hands are quivering, you’ll end up shooting us, if not yourself. You’re not fit for duty, Mitchelli.”
Suddenly a boat appeared from behind the grain elevator. It was a forty-foot express cruiser, similar to Mitchelli’s boat. Even with the night vision binoculars, he could not see any registration numbers. Sensing Mitchelli’s focus, Buckala and Freed turned their attention toward the boat. Two men were walking off the swim platform at the stern of the boat and into the cockpit. A blond woman was driving.
“No one stands on the swim platform, not while the boat is underway,” Mitchelli observed. “Who the hell would be on the lake tonight?”
There were large boulders, one-third the size of a small car, that protected the shoreline of the grain elevator’s peninsula from erosion. The boulders appeared to be moving.
Freed whispered excitedly, “The rocks! There’s someone moving on the rocks.”
Buckala asked, “Peter, would you go on the swim platform to throw something off the boat, maybe if you were throwing something to shore?”
Without taking his eyes off the boulders Mitchelli answered. “I wouldn’t, but I’ve never tried to throw something off my boat that I didn’t want anyone to see. Sal you may be right, its navigation lights are off; it’s headed out into the lake again, through the cut in the break wall. No way, it’s too rough.”
There was no one on shore; the only other vehicles were two or three abandoned cars. The truck was about a third of a mile from the grain elevator.
“We need to get over to the grain elevator,” said Freed, “but this damn diesel truck makes too much noise—we’ll have to walk. I’ll take point, Buckala you take up the rear.”
Buckala paused. “Roberto, if there is anyone by that grain elevator, eventually they’ll have to walk or drive off the peninsula making their way to the road. We can see them, why rush it? We can sit on this area as long as we want.”
Freed was anxious; two years of searching for missing men without any evidence had killed any patience regarding the case. There was no way Buckala or anyone else was going to convince him to stay in the truck. Freed wanted someone to question; he had to report to Stuart that they had questioned someone. He hated writing reports on the most mundane facts, grasping at straws for any fact to write in his report.
“I’ll go by myself if I have to,” Freed said.. “The two of you can cover me from inside the truck.” He was strongly implying that Buckala and Mitchelli were afraid to move from their safe position. Mitchelli laughed and prepared to get out of the truck, checking to make sure the dome light would not go on as he opened the door.
“You ass,” Buckala spat. “This is a mistake and you know it.” He looked at Mitchelli. “Come on, we can’t let the federal boy screw this up.”
All three men exited the truck and began cautiously walking along the bike path towards the base of the peninsula. The fence blocking the entrance to the grain elevator had numerous holes in it. One was large enough for Mitchelli to walk through. The area around the base of the grain elevator was dark. There were lights mounted on steel poles every forty feet. Most of the lights were not working. Stacked barrels, crates, and metal shipping containers littered the base of the grain elevator. They cautiously walked twenty feet away from the structure in case someone suddenly appeared; the distance would give them time to react. The grain elevator intimidated Coarseni during the day, but it was even more daunting at night. The wind howled through the openings in the rows of ten story cylindrical tubes, moaning in pain, as though begging to be put out of its misery.
Freed took the lead, twenty feet ahead of Mitchelli. Buckala lagged twenty feet behind, with his gun drawn and held close to his chest. Suddenly, Mitchelli heard footsteps behind him. As he turned to face the sound, an arm came over his head blocking his vision. Someone was attempting to grab him around his throat. Mitchelli powerfully responded--he spread his legs, and bent his knees, pushing the assailant upwards, away, and off his neck. The man fell, rolling towards Freed who drew his gun while running towards the assailant. Freed stopped within several feet of the man and pointed his gun down at the perpetrator’s torso. Before he could get any words out, the man kicked Freed’s gun out of his hand. He locked his other foot behind Freed’s ankle, immobilizing Freed’s foot in place. The assailant then swiftly kicked Freed in the stomach, knocking him backwards and on to the ground. He rolled behind Freed and locked his head in a full nelson hold and placed a large twelve-inch serrated knife against his throat.
Buckala quickly moved forward, raising his gun when a second man hidden in the shadows jumped out from the elevator’s base and held a gun to his head. When he felt the gun’s cold steel pressing against the base of his skull, Buckala immediately froze.
Mitchelli drew his Walther PPK, tearing his shirt as he pulled the pistol from the holster. The first assailant quickly stood up; helpless with a razor sharp knife at his throat, Freed followed his every move. Mitchelli was twenty feet from Freed and his assailant. The thug strategically placed Freed’s body in front of him; only the man’s head and arms were exposed. Twenty feet behind Mitchelli, Buckala stood frozen in place with a gun pointed at his head. Mitchelli looked quickly over his shoulder at Buckala; his eyes were glazed, his complexion white, and his gun lay at his feet. The man behind Buckala was six feet tall and held a forty-five caliber nickel-plated colt to the base of Buckala’s skull. One shot would blow a large hole through both sides of Buckala’s head.
Mitchelli looked at Freed’s assailant, he was easily over six feet tall, muscular, approximately two hundred fifty pounds, and bald. His sweaty white skin glistened in the dim light. Both men wore black jeans, and t-shirts. Freed stood on the balls of his feet, he could feel the razor sharp knife piercing the outer layers of his skin.
The man spoke as he pressed the knife into Freed’s throat. “It takes one big WOP to
throw me to the ground, and no one’s ever lived to tell that tale. What’s a fat WOP like you carry such a small pussy gun for? You can hardly see it in your fat quivering hands. You’re dead, I promise.”
Mitchelli struggled to control the nervous shudder in his hands, the mental rage searing his mind, doubting his ability. “Not hardly,” he coolly replied.
“I don’t like that look in your eyes. Before you do anything stupid, my partner’s got a forty-five pressed against your friend’s head. Trust me, he’ll blow your his head off if you don’t drop that pussy gun. HEY, YOU HEAR ME, DIRTY WOP?”
Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder Page 18