The Nevada Job

by Vince Milam

  “Let’s hurry and get the vehicles,” Peterman said. “I’ve got two of my people killed and three wounded.”

  We did. Peterman and I checked the Sherpa. It started, although the fluid leaking from it indicated it wouldn’t make it far. It didn’t have to. At my SUV and Peterman’s pickup truck, we threw together the supplies from my field medical kit with his first aid kit and tore across the open area. Our headlights acted as ER lighting as we treated the three wounded. Once we’d stopped the bleeding, we made them as comfortable as possible in the bed of Peterman’s truck and considered next steps. Esma and Chambers wandered over while the Bolivians sated their destructive revenge.

  “We need to transport the wounded to Santa Cruz,” I said, handing Esma my satellite phone. “Have a fixed-wing use this airstrip at first light for a medevac run.”

  She nodded, dialed, and walked away while speaking with someone in Santa Cruz. Peterman stayed with the wounded. Chambers and I leaned against my SUV while I reloaded spent magazines from my ammo box. An old habit and, well, you never knew.

  “Who is she?” I asked, sliding cartridges into a magazine.

  “Esma?”

  “You know damn well I’m talking about Esma. Who is she?”

  “You are bleeding, sport.”

  I’d felt a burning across my left thigh during a mad dash toward cover. Closer inspection revealed a bullet graze.

  “I’ll get Peterman to help patch it. There’s another liquid medicine bottle in my rucksack. You think you could retrieve it without stealing anything?”

  “No promises. But I’ll certainly volunteer for the retrieving bit.”

  I walked over and asked Peterman for help. He held the small flashlight between his teeth and applied wound wash, gauze, and tape. A wounded Bolivian in the truck’s bed moaned. I asked the man if he’d like a shot of alcohol.

  “No, gracias. It would not be good at this moment.”

  One tough, stoic Bolivian. I had doubts he’d see sunrise.

  Back at my SUV, Chambers filled his pipe as the Grey Goose bottle perched on the vehicle’s hood. I cracked it open.

  “You’re not going to answer me, are you?” I asked after a swallow and puffed-cheek exhale.

  He remained silent, tamping the tobacco into the pipe bowl.

  “Then I’ll assume she’s a spook of some stripe. Given your screwed-up world, she could be MI6. Or CIA, for all I know. But a card-carrying spookville member, for sure.”

  His lighter flicked, and sweet, pungent pipe tobacco wafted across us in the night air. I’d hit a dead-end on the Esma Mansur identity trail.

  “This,” he said, pointing the pipe stem at the scene before us, “is one for the books.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

  There were stars overhead, moonlight outlined the nearby mountain ridgetop, and a distant gas-fed bonfire joined burning tents to throw flickering light. Across bare dirt, milling machete-armed Bolivians and now-mutilated mercs filled the killing field. Villagers drifted over and checked on the wounded. Wails sounded from the edge of darkness as they identified dead bodies. One for the books. I took another vodka swig and passed the bottle to Chambers.

  “What’re the Vegas odds on Simko giving this place another shot?” I asked.

  “He may write this off as quite the cock-up and focus on Nevada.” He raised the bottle. “Or not.” He, too, took a hefty swig.

  “Gotta love the clandestine world’s definitive nature.”

  “There is very little definitive in life.”

  “Oh, I know of one thing that’s pretty doggone definitive. Don’t mess with a shotgun-wielding crazy-ass Brit spook.”

  “One might suggest a mad Yank with an affinity for explosives would fall into the same category.”

  We both chuckled. The adrenaline meter had eased off as the weird aftermath of shared survival and delivered death settled in.

  Esma spoke with Peterman and several villagers before she joined us.

  “An airplane with a doctor and nurse will arrive at first light.”

  “Good.” I offered her the bottle. She declined. “And thanks for your help during the battle. Where’d you learn battlefield tactics?”

  “I was fighting for my people. I could not stand away and watch others do our fighting for us.”

  “Okay.”

  She wouldn’t share background with me, and I was fine with that. Life moved on. So did I.

  “I’ll pound a stake in the ground and report this phase of the job as complete,” I said. “No need to visit government officials in Sucre or La Paz.”

  “You will leave for Nevada?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I may make a stop or two in the States before hitting the next mining site. But yes, Nevada is next.”

  “Let me say you have most certainly done your job here,” she said.

  “This wasn’t my job.”

  A lie, now realized, and I felt like a damn fool. I’d filled the role as a hired gun. Report out, my ass. Go clean that mess up was a more apt job descriptive—not written, but on-the-ground implied. I’d been caught up in the moment, starting with the old woman’s murder at the village plaza. The availability of explosives had added impetus and conviction. Yeah, there had been a pinch or three of retribution. And a sincere heartfelt conviction it was time to do the right thing and lead the collective fury. Time to make a stand. But still. A hired gun.

  Several villagers stayed with the wounded. Esma explained that she’d be with them on the daybreak flight back to Santa Cruz and ensure appropriate medical care once they arrived. Chambers took a final long pull on the bottle, checked his pistol, brushed off his pants and shirt, and ensured his hair was in place. The dude was a genuine piece of work. He said he’d walk the several miles back to Santa Ana along the dirt track. Processing time, I supposed.

  “Would you be offended if I take this with me?” he asked, lifting the shotgun off the vehicle’s roof. “I don’t fancy running into whatever made that roar in the bush while we waited for the enemy’s caravan.”

  “Knock yourself out. And if we meet again, Chambers, I hope it’s under swaying palm trees on a white sand beach. Where the day’s big decision is rum or vodka with the umbrella drink.”

  “Cheers, Lee. I would be less than honest if I proclaimed our two encounters have been a pleasure. I would point out gunfire was involved on both occasions.” He tightened his shirt’s tuck into his pants. “However, I will say this. You are quite an interesting fellow. Quite.”

  He took off, patted me on the shoulder as he passed, and said, “Best of luck, sport.”

  Chambers faded from light and became a moving shadow in the Chaco. I opted to wait for daylight, help with the loading of the wounded, then head for Santa Cruz and home. I held high hopes the Nevada portion would yield a more benign environment. Man, did I have that wrong.

  Chapter 17

  I called Jess during an Atlanta layover, on my way to Charleston. I planned on a day or two with Mom and CC before heading to Nevada. Besides, required tools remained on board the Ace, still in Morehead City. After Bolivia, I would arrive in Nevada armed to the teeth.

  “What’re you up to?” I asked.

  “Excitement abounds as I sit inside my slow-poke rental car and stare at my iPad. While I wait for an idiot to leave a bar so I can follow him.”

  “My, my. Aren’t you in a good mood?”

  “It’s the word zorilla. Who would know that word? This guy I’m playing does. It irritates me to no end.”

  Jess played online Scrabble. Between her driving like a bat out of hell and playing Scrabble, she showed a competitive streak both wide and deep.

  “What’s a zorilla?”

  “An African skunk.”

  “Good to know. My world is enriched.”

  “Where are you? Sitting on an Andean mountaintop as you contemplate life?”

  “Sitting at a bar in the Atlanta airport, nursing my second drink. I’m on my way to see Mom and CC.”

/>   “Good for you. When will I meet them?”

  “According to Mom, yesterday.”

  “That’s sweet. It almost makes me forget about this cheating son of a gun and his zorillas. How was Bolivia?”

  “Alright. I’ll spend a day or so in Charleston, then Nevada-bound.”

  “Does alright mean the entire country is now a smoldering rubble, or were you able to conduct your business with minimal burnt gunpowder?”

  “Somewhere in between. I’ll say this. That Andris Simko cat plays for keeps.”

  “He’s known for that. I’d suggest you avoid his radar.”

  “Little too late for that.”

  “Your Dale Carnegie course isn’t paying off, bub.”

  “I’m all about smiles and handshakes.”

  “And I’m going with menudo. It is a twenty-five-point word. Let’s see how the cheater likes that.”

  “I know this word. Kind of a Mexican stew, made with tripe. Supposed to be good for hangovers.”

  “Is that an area of expertise you haven’t told me about?”

  “Word knowledge or hangovers?”

  “Both. Are you swaddled in gauze after your Bolivian adventure?”

  “Nary a scratch.”

  A white lie meant to keep a certain barn door closed until we met again. With any luck, the bullet graze would heal fast.

  “Let’s take a trip when you and I get together, which, I hope, will be soon.”

  “On the Ace?”

  “It’s summer in the South, Lewis. Or Clark. I am not sure which one fits you better. But draped with sheens of sweat while confined to a vessel without AC or shower facilities holds little appeal.”

  “You are in a mood. What constitutes roughing it for Jess Rossi?”

  “Slow room service. It may be “Rocky Mountain High” time. Warm but not hot days and cool nights.”

  “I hear Nevada is nice this time of year.”

  “Maybe for Gila monsters. My guy just stumbled out of the bar. Got to go.”

  We signed off, and I smiled into my drink. That woman kept me on my toes, for a fact. She was fun to be with, a looker, a lover, and she made me laugh. That last one was a biggie.

  While waiting for the flight I sent my client, Global Resolutions, an interim report. It covered my Bolivian activities—the events couched with banalities while the real meaning shone through.

  “Strong resistance was encountered from KDB Mining interests,” and “KDB’s focus remained on harassment rather than mining activities,” and “Events terminated with conflict. KDB personnel no longer occupy their mining site.”

  Well, several did still occupy it, dead as a doornail. Whoever had contracted Global Resolutions for this gig would read between the lines and understand. The report didn’t speculate whether KDB would return to Bolivia. Above my pay grade.

  CC was at her special-needs school when I arrived. She had mental challenges aplenty, but could perform basic hygiene and handled interactions fairly well. She was also my north star, unmoving, guiding me toward the real and important and miraculous. My CC, my love.

  Mom and CC’s dog, Tinker Juarez, greeted me as the cab dropped me off. Mom gave me a hug and kiss as only moms can do, filled with love. I returned every bit of it. She was in fine fettle, and Tinker did what most good dogs do—provided ample signs my arrival was about the finest thing that had ever happened. At least until CC got home from school. I sat at the kitchen table while Mom made me a sandwich.

  “I know you’re hungry,” she said, pausing at the refrigerator’s open door and scoping me out. “You’re too thin. It’s all that traveling. Lord knows what kind of food was available wherever you were. I’ve got some pork roast from the other night. I’ll slice it thin. Whole wheat or sourdough?”

  “I’m not real hungry, Mom.”

  “Of course you are. Now sit a spell, and tell me where you’ve been and where you’re going and why you can only stay one night.”

  “Just got back from Bolivia. It was the first half of this job.”

  “Bolivia. Don’t they ride around on llamas or some such down there? Is mustard, Miracle Whip, and lettuce alright?”

  “Half a sandwich would be plenty. They are good people, the Bolivians. The country’s as poor as a church mouse, and I wasn’t privy to any llama riding, but those folks do what they can to get by.”

  She’d made my bread selection for me, whole wheat, and slathered on the Miracle Whip.

  “What was this contract all about?”

  “Mining. There was a mining dispute down there.”

  “I don’t like the sounds of that.” She sliced the pork and layered at least an inch of meat on a condiment-covered slice of bread.

  “Half a sandwich, please.”

  “Pretend you’re a Bolivian and would relish a whole sandwich. You know, if you would take Peter’s advice and get into the insurance business you wouldn’t be gallivanting all over the world. Do you want some ice tea with this?”

  Peter Brooks was Mom’s beau. A retired insurance agent, he’d proven a good and fine man. I genuinely liked the guy.

  “How ’bout a beer?”

  “How about ice tea? Where is the next part of this job?”

  “Nevada. No llamas.”

  “Maybe not. But I’ve heard about Nevada, especially Las Vegas. Sin City, they call it.”

  “I don’t gamble, Mom. You know that.”

  She paused, turned, and raised one eyebrow high.

  “It is not just gambling, son of mine.”

  “The job site is a long, long way from Vegas.”

  “Well, I suppose I should thank the Lord it’s in America. At least that’s something.”

  She pulled a clean plate from the pantry.

  “A paper plate, or paper towel, would do fine.”

  “No, it wouldn’t. Tell me about Jessica. Is she still putting up with you?”

  “Seems to be. She said she’d like to escape the heat and head for the mountains out west on a brief trip.”

  “Those mountains are full of bears. When will you bring her around so we can meet her?”

  “Soon.”

  “Not soon enough. Now eat.”

  Mom served my lunch and brought two glasses of ice tea to the table. She sat, took a sip, and rubbed my head.

  “You are not getting any younger, Case. That is a fact.”

  “Maybe. And maybe I’m getting better with age.”

  “Maybe you should consider this. Jessica lost her husband to cancer. She’ll be hesitant to settle down with a man who spends his work days settling Bolivian disputes.”

  She had a great point, and I let her know it. We spoke a bit more about Jess and then chatted about what was going on in her life and CC’s and Peter’s. Family stuff, full of humor and tenderness. I reveled in it.

  “Now, what is going on with your friends?” she asked, referencing my ex-Delta teammates Marcus, Bo, and Catch. “Has Juan made plans to marry that poor girl?”

  Juan Antonio Diego Hernandez. Catch. Mom refused to call him by his moniker. She proclaimed his full name was lovely and lyrical and had expressed regrets she’d saddled me with a single-syllable handle.

  “Not that he’s told me.”

  “I could call him.”

  “He loves you, Mom, but I doubt a phone call will sway him one way or the other.”

  “It might surprise you, son. I suppose I could call his girlfriend and offer condolences.”

  “I suppose it might be best to let that situation settle itself.”

  “Things don’t settle themselves. That’s one of many reasons the good Lord put us on this earth. To guide things in the proper direction. How is my wild child?”

  Bo Dickerson, best friend, cosmic cowboy, and perhaps the lone person on earth Mom had thrown her hands in the air over. They maintained a mutual agreement that guidance for Bo was well beyond even Mom’s expertise.

  “He bought a donkey.”

  “Besides the fact my Bo isn
’t quite right, why on earth would he do that?”

  “He’s taken up prospecting for gold.”

  “And the poor suffering woman he’s with finds this normal behavior?”

  JJ, Bo’s FBI agent girlfriend, was in love with Bo, and him with her. JJ was straitlaced, hard-nosed, and, well, an FBI agent. Bo was the polar opposite.

  “Normal for Bo, I guess.”

  “You mean to tell me he’s gone from swimming with sharks for a living to dragging a donkey around looking for gold? I need to have another talk with him. A long one. I love that boy and have come to accept he’s a good half-bubble off plumb, but this is over the top. Mercy sakes.”

  Bo’s last job was as a Virgin Islands snorkeling guide. His current avocation was likely to pay off. Bo was the greatest tracker any of us had ever encountered, and if gold was the quarry, then his odds of success were high. My relationship with JJ was on semi-thin ice. She’d covered my back during a terrorist attack in St. Thomas and we’d been through fire together. There was a tight bond forged from battle. But I’d asked Bo to help me on my Orcas Island gig when I identified a drug shipment at the Arizona-Mexico border. JJ had let me know, in no uncertain terms, that she didn’t appreciate Bo’s presence on my adventures. I didn’t blame her. When he engaged the enemy, Bo’s specialty was off-the-charts crazy. And the Cartel hadn’t appreciated his calling card.

  “They love each other. There’s no getting around that.”

  “I’ll say a prayer for both of them. I may say an extra one for her. Now tell me about Marcus. What is he up to in the wilderness cattle business?”

  Marcus Johnson, our former team leader. As solid as they came, a natural leader, and the one man I called for advice.

  “He just finished putting up the first hay cutting. He’s doing well.”

  “Will you visit him this summer?”

  “In the fall. We’ll go fishing and bird hunting.”

  “That is one tall, good-looking drink of water. The gray around his temples does nothing but add to his appeal.”

  “I’ll be sure to mention it to Peter.”

  “Hush. I’m just saying. Now what is his partner situation?”