“Wish I could remember them,” Juan said, knowing he never would; they weren’t his memories to remember. Occasionally at times like this, he started feeling a bit guilty for misleading these people who thought he was Paul, but he wasn’t doing it out of spite. Paul had gone out of his way to offer this identity swap to Juan, and at the time he hadn’t had much choice. Ricky Serrao had been after him, and becoming a US operative had given him resources and some degree of security he hadn’t had while on the run alone.
Juan was surprised when he turned around and saw Sam lifting a brown paper bag from a cooler. Sam knew that Juan had sworn off alcohol. And Juan knew from stories he’d heard that Paul was a borderline alcoholic.
Sam shoved a cold glass bottle into Juan’s hand.
“Wh—” Juan began.
“I know, I know. It’s not coke, but it ain’t bad, really.”
At first, Juan thought Sam was referring to cocaine, but then he saw that he was holding a bottle of Colombiana, a popular Colombian soft drink. “Since when did you start trying local drinks?”
“Since Captain Aguilar said he wanted us to stay on for a bit longer to train the Colombian special team. If I’m going to be here, might as well try some of the food and drink.”
“You tried mondongo yet?”
“What’s that?” Sam said as he placed the brats on the grill.
“A beef tripe stew. That’s cow stomach to you. It’s an acquired taste, but it’s not bad.”
“Screw that,” Sam said. “Since when do you eat crazy food like that?”
“It’s the food of my homeland,” Juan joked. “I had to eat some when I was undercover. Grew to like it.”
“You really did a lot during your time undercover.” Sam’s voice was careful, almost testy.
“You’re telling me.”
“Funny you can remember what you did while undercover, but not anything before that.”
Juan snapped a twig and tossed it to the side. “Brains are complex.”
They each twisted off their bottle caps and clinked bottles in a toast.
“Well, here’s to living to operate another day,” Sam said.
“I’ll toast to that,” Juan said. “Wish we had some bad guys to nab right now.”
“You say the strangest things sometimes,” Sam said as he got up. He went inside the house and brought out a bag of potato chips. Juan didn’t mind eating chips. He minded the flavor, though, when he saw that they were cheesy ranch flavored. Real cheese & artificial flavor, the bag read.
Sam took a handful and started popping them into his mouth. “Help yourself.”
“You got any other flavors?”
“You too good for cheesy ranch?”
“My stomach doesn’t feel like it.”
“These are cheesy brats. Your stomach feel like them?”
Juan was lactose intolerant. His brother Paul, on the other hand, was not. From what Juan had learned since taking his place, Paul loved real cheese, fake cheese that came in a spray can, and beer—all things Juan did not enjoy.
That being said, Juan was hungry. His stomach had started to growl midway through their shooting practice. He reached his hand into the chip bag and started eating. “I suddenly feel better,” Juan said, knowing there would be hell to pay tonight when his bowels shook their fist at him.
“You talk to Mika any since . . . you know?” Sam asked.
“Nah. I haven’t. Well, I . . .”
Sam took a sip of his cola. “No, go ahead. What were you going to say?”
Juan thought the pause added just the bit of authenticity he needed. Plus, he really wasn’t comfortable talking about Mika. Not yet. Not with everything that had happened between the two of them and how he had hurt her.
Mika had been kidnapped a couple months ago because of her involvement with Juan, and her arms had been carved and filleted into fancy designs by Ricky Serrao, although Ricky swore he hadn’t done it. Juan didn’t know what to believe, but Ricky was dead either way whenever he finally showed his face.
“I’ve seen her, but she hasn’t seen me.”
“Oh? Stalking her, I see.”
“No, you jerk.” Juan slapped Sam on the shoulder; he knew Paul was a touchy-feely guy and liked to make physical contact when he was up close and talking to someone. “I’m not stalking her. I’m . . . Well, it’s not stalking. Sometimes before she goes into work, I watch her place from the street and make sure her bodyguards get her to her car safely. That’s not stalking, is it?”
Sam flipped the brats. “You still like her, don’t you?”
“Nah. Well maybe a little, but not in that way. I still care about her and just want what’s best for her. I’m no good for her. I’ve already ruined her life enough.”
“Maybe she’s changed her mind about you.” Sam opened the grill lid. “Damnit. Burned the guy on the end.”
“I don’t think there’s anything I could do to change her mind about me. I got her kidnapped and tortured, and that was after I promised to keep her safe.”
“So what? We all make promises we can’t keep. Even the pope, probably.”
“But those scars. She’ll have to bear those for the rest of her life,” Juan said, looking at the ground.
“And? You didn’t give them to her personally. Life gave them to her. We never know what life’s got in store for us. That’s why there’s free will. When we don’t like the stuff that happens to us, we can try to forge a different path. Sometimes we can.”
“Yeah . . .”
“Besides, I know it’s disturbing, but I saw those cuts on her arms. It’s not bad work—I mean, they do resemble very high-end tattoos. She might even grow to like them, and if she doesn’t she can always wear a long-sleeved shirt for the rest of her life. Or maybe surgery is good enough now to fix her arms. I don’t know. It’s not the end of the world, though. It could have been worse. She could have had her fingers chopped off or her eyes gouged out. Pardon me saying—I’d never wish that on my worst enemy.”
“Not even the Red Dog?” Juan smirked.
“Well, maybe,” Sam laughed.
“I’m glad your face is starting to heal,” Juan said, glancing at the bruising on Sam’s face. The deepest cut had been above his left eyebrow; after being stitched up, it had left only the faintest of scars.
“That’s what a brass knuckle will do to a face. I was hoping for a bigger scar.”
“Was it worth it?”
“Hell yeah,” Sam said.
“At least something good came from that ordeal.”
“Hey, look. If you still care about Mika, give her a chance to come around,” Sam said.
“I think that ship’s sailed.” Juan glanced off into the trees beyond their makeshift shooting range. “What about you and your ex-wife? You think you two might ever reconcile?”
Sam spat to the side of the grill as he lowered the lid. “Nah. We’re done. I was stupid for rushing into it.”
“No you weren’t. You were living life. You can’t say it was a mistake, can you?”
Sam sighed and sat on the picnic table across from Juan. “So we’re gonna have one of those talks, are we?”
“I already talked about my broken love life. Might as well share in the wallowing.”
“Shit. I need a beer.” He cleared his throat. “Nah. Marrying Camille . . . I don’t regret it. It was a good few weeks. Almost made it a month before things got real bad. That’s something, right? We just had different things we wanted to do in life. Kept coming between us. Meanwhile I was going stir crazy cause I wasn’t in the field operating. When I told her I was going back, that’s what did it. She said she couldn’t be with someone who ‘flippantly threw their life around’ by endangering themselves and stuff like that. The nerve of that woman. If not for me, she’d have been dead at the hands of some terrorists.”
“Women,” Juan said.
“Yeah.” Sam took a sip of his cola. “Sex was great. And damn if she couldn’t cook. Damn Frenc
hies and their obsession with butter. I miss her crepes.”
“Crepes?” Juan asked. “A hardened American soldier like yourself admitting to liking crepes?”
“Hey, you weren’t there. Her grandparents owned a restaurant in Paris. It’s where she learned how to cook.”
“What’s she doing now?” Juan was genuinely curious.
“I’m not a stalker, so I don’t know.”
“Oh, come on. You do too.”
Sam took a breath. “Well, according to Facebook she’s on some traveling cooking show or whatnot.”
“Really? What’s it called?” Juan picked up his phone to Google it.
“Cuisiner avec Camille. It’s French for ‘Cooking with Camille.’”
“Son of a bitch.” Juan pulled up a webpage on his phone. “You didn’t say she was a supermodel.”
“Well, she thought about going into that before she found her passion in the culinary arts.”
Juan played a snippet of a show. “Her smile—those dimples. She seems like a great woman.”
“She was. Is. Could kick my ass, too.”
Juan set the phone down. “Really? The great strongman Sam Merin admitting to getting beat up by a woman?”
“So I might have let her win once. Or twice.”
Juan studied Sam’s face. The man was being honest. Juan didn’t think he’d ever seen Sam this vulnerable before, and doubted Sam let many people see him like this. Maybe he was making progress with Sam believing he was Paul.
“I’ll have to check this show out. You seen any of the episodes?” Juan asked.
“Yeah. I’m caught up. Favorite episode was the one in Japan where she faced off against a sushi chef. I may be a country boy, but I love me some sushi—”
Juan’s head jerked upright; a car had pulled up to the front of the house. A car door slammed, and footsteps came around the side of the house. His gun was in his hand before the figure rounded the corner.
“Goddammit. I burnt them all,” Sam said as he stood and lifted the grill lid again.
“Whoa, whoa,” a man said as he rounded the corner of the house, a case of beer in one hand, a larger bottle of clear liquor in the other. “Don’t shoot, man. Don’t shoot.”
Sam turned around, a great big “Sam scowl” on his face. “Trigger-happy much, Paul? Put the gun down and greet our Colombian guest here.”
Juan gritted his teeth and relaxed his grip on the gun as he holstered it at his side. “Agostino,” Juan said. “Sorry about that.”
Agostino Cabrero stepped forward, and they shook like men do. Then Agostino brought it in and slapped Juan on the back. The man had a way of making people feel at ease—he seemed to ooze goodwill from his pores very much like CG seemed to shoot out energy bolts in his presence.
“You guys talking about me?” he asked through a grin.
“Nah. Just discussing our character flaws.”
“Oh. Such as?” Agostino asked.
“Our apparent weakness for hot French women,” Sam said.
Juan lifted his shoulders as if to say, What can I say?
“Oh, Camille? Yeah, French woman are pretty nice,” Agostino said. Having just learned the woman’s name himself, Juan raised his eyes at Agostino. “Course, I’m impartial to the babes of Colombia. Hottest on the planet.”
“Have you ever been outside Colombia?” Juan asked.
Agostino laughed. “Nope.” He laughed like a boy who’d been caught doing something improper, like stuffing a frog down the back of someone’s shirt.
“Not to be blunt, but did you just happen to be in the neighborhood?” Juan asked.
“I invited him, idjit. We hang out a couple times a week. Shootin’ and stuff.”
“Don’t forget drinking.” Agostino held up the Colombian beer and the liquor bottle. “Brought some Aguardiente. You know, the stuff I was telling you was made of anise and sugar cane. There’s a reason it’s called firewater.”
“Not tonight,” Sam said.
“Aw maaan,” Agostino said. “Was looking to have a good time tonight. Maybe even hit up some strip clubs. Why not?”
“Paul doesn’t drink anymore,” Sam said.
Agostino squinted at Juan. “Eh? Why not, bro?” He reached out and slapped Juan on the shoulder.
“Was interfering with my work,” Juan said unapologetically.
“Really? From the stories Sam’s told about you, seems like it used to not. He said you’d crack a beer in the cargo hold on the plane ride out to your missions. For good luck, right?” he asked with a look at Sam.
Sam looked a bit flustered.
“I like to think I’m a different person now,” Juan said with a serious smile. Then he reached out and slapped Agostino.
“I’m just saying,” Agostino said. “Hey, what you got cooking there? Smells . . . good.”
Sam hung his shoulders as he shut off the valve to the propane tank. “Sorry fellas. I burnt them.”
“Aw, they still . . . look like brats,” Agostino said as Sam threw a bag of hotdog buns on the picnic table. “You make this bench yourself?”
“Yeah. I like working with my hands.”
“Cool, man. I’m a DIYer myself. I think that’s the term you Americans use. Built some shelves in my house. Real professional-like job.” He grabbed a handful of cheesy ranch chips and threw them into his mouth.
Juan sat back and watched. It seemed to him that Agostino was trying to take Paul’s place as Sam’s new best friend, and this hurt Juan on some deep emotional level that he was not used to feeling. At least if he couldn’t be there for Sam, it was good that someone else could. Sam was a good guy, even though they didn’t click as easily as he’d hoped they could. Juan hoped they were in a good enough place now after bonding a bit over shooting and discussing their personal lives. He was certainly hoping this night of cheesy debauchery was worth it.
They ate the brats and pretended that they were alright.
“Well, I’m gonna have me a beer if that’s alright with you, boss man,” Agostino said with a questioning look at Juan.
“We’re all men,” Juan said. “Don’t have to ask for permission.”
“Common courtesy, bro. You want one, Sam?”
Juan saw the almost imperceptible twitch of Sam’s jaw, then, “Nah. Not right now.”
A cell phone rang, and they all checked their phones. Juan answered his and put it on speaker.
“Hey,” Cali’s voice said.
“Hey, yourself,” Juan said, absentmindedly tossing some chips into his mouth.
“You doing anything right now?”
He felt a slight flutter in his chest, but ignored it. He and Cali had been texting a lot lately, but they were just friends. Besides, he suspected she and Paul had maybe been in a secret relationship before Paul went undercover for two years. Juan didn’t know how to bring it up naturally in conversation without it potentially making the team dynamic awkward, so he just resigned himself to walk in the dark for now.
“Nope. Not a thing.” Juan saw Agostino throwing up his hands as if he was a circus clown or maybe chopped liver.
“I hear something,” Cali said, suspicion in her voice.
“Just hanging with Sam and Agostino. You’re on speaker.”
“Oh.” She paused. “Hi guys.”
“Well, what were you going to say?” Juan asked. Maybe he had made a mistake by putting the phone on speaker.
“There’s a killer yoga class in an hour at the studio. You down? Or you going to make another excuse?” She had a playful edge to her voice.
“Sounds fun, but I think I’m going to have to take a rain check,” Juan said as his insides rumbled in the wrong kind of way.
“You think? Come on. It’ll be fun. CG said he’ll come if you do.”
“Really?” Juan asked.
Agostino was making emphatic pointing gestures at the phone and mouthing, Do it!
“Yeah, it’s that instructor I was telling you about.”
“E
nrique?” Juan asked.
“Yeah. He’s really good. You know you want to come and sweat it out with us.”
“Can I come?” Agostino asked.
For some reason, Agostino was really starting to rub Juan the wrong way. First, he was trying to replace Juan in Sam’s life, and now he wanted to throw a wedge between him and Cali? Who did this guy think he was?
“I’m not sure,” Cali said. “It’s usually pretty full in there. Might not be room for so many sweaty, muscular men.”
“Oh, you know you’d like it,” Agostino said, flexing his biceps as if somehow Cali could see him.
“You know what, I will come,” Juan said, placing his palms on the table.
“Promise?”
“Sure,” Juan said.
“Great,” Cali said. “I’ll text you the address. Just wear some shorts and a comfortable shirt. You’ll probably be taking it off.”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s not like this is my first time doing yoga,” Juan said.
“Alright, see you in a bit.” She hung up.
“You’ve never done yoga, have you?” Agostino asked.
“Nope,” Juan said.
“Why’d you say yes, then?”
Juan felt his stomach do a cute little roller coaster loop-de-loop and wondered the answer to that very question himself.
Agostino looked at him. “You like her?”
“What do you mean?” Juan asked.
“Your cheeks are a bit red.”
Juan’s stomach grumbled. “It’s hot out here.”
“No hotter than usual. You got a thing for her?”
“Huh?”
“Do you want to get in her pants?” Agostino asked plainly.
“What? No, we’re friends.”
“I do,” Agostino laughed, and tipped back his beer. “She’s got an ass comparable to that ex-wife of yours,” he said to Sam.
“Well, I’m going to go,” Juan said. “Before things start to get weird.”
6
Figure
Juan barely made it to his apartment before his bowels folded in on themselves. When he was done and had rinsed off his face with cold water, he stepped back out into the space between the living room and the kitchen of his apartment. He hadn’t had time to flip the lights on when he came in, so he only now saw the figure sitting in the dark corner.
The Colombian Rogue Page 3