by Robert Greer
“Come on, Flora Jean. That’s one hell of a stretch.”
“Okay, okay. Maybe the thing about kids ain’t a real issue, but it’s food for thought.”
“Life’s always a risk, Flora Jean. You know that. You can’t live your life looking for bogeymen.” Grace’s tone was insistent.
“I don’t wanna argue, Alden. And sure as shit we’re headed down that road.”
“Me either.”
“Then let’s park the issue in the garage. Save it for discussion later.”
“Fine by me, as long as there’ll be a discussion.”
“I said there would.” Flora Jean leaned over and kissed Grace lightly on the cheek, relieved that at least temporarily the issue had been defused.
“And an honest one,” added Grace, looking Flora Jean squarely in the eye.
“It’ll be honest.”
“Good. Let’s get back to your Amerasian friend.”
“Okay. Here’s the deal. Her daddy, a guy named Langston Blue, served in one of the army’s Star 1 units during Vietnam, back when you were a wet-behind-the-ears captain tryin’ to buck up.” Flora Jean giggled and wiggled her butt up next to Grace’s. “That congressman who got killed, Peter Margolin, was his CO. Blue ended up desertin’ right in the middle of a mission. That’s what I knew before I got in my car and drove down here from Denver last evenin’. What I didn’t know came courtesy of a message on my cell phone this mornin’. Came in at 4 a.m. from CJ. He didn’t sound like himself, sort of sounded lost in space, but at 4 in the morning, who wouldn’t? Said he was on his way down here to Colorado Springs on somethin’ urgent. Told me to meet him at 9:30 this morning at a Denny’s over on Academy Boulevard.”
“What’s the new information?”
“He said that our client, her name’s Carmen Nguyen, had her father show up unannounced in Denver late yesterday afternoon at her condo. Claimed he’d been hidin’ in the West Virginia woods for more than thirty years. According to CJ, he got smoked from his hole when one of his former Star 1 team buddies dropped out of the sky and flamed the shit outta his house.”
Grace slowly began shaking his head.
“I know that dance, Alden. Come on, let me in on the secret.”
“What is it I’ve always said about the military and government?”
Flora Jean’s answer was close to automatic. “That one’s for killin’ and one’s for connin’.”
“You’ve got it. Sounds to me like Blue’s Star 1 team got caught up in some serious political shit. Governmental crossfire would be my guess.”
“Ours or theirs?”
“Don’t know. Maybe both. One thing for certain—those Star 1 teams were few and far between, and by the end of the war most of them ended up being labeled black sheep. No one wants to talk about them, even today. They were an off-shoot of the military’s Studies and Observations Group, a cross-service bunch that was responsible for covert assignments in the deadliest, most forbidding theaters of the war.”
“The SOG. Before my time. But I’ve heard of ’em,” said Flora Jean.
“They were a handful. Subordinate to no one. Not the military assistance command or the four-star general in charge. They answered directly to the Joint Chiefs of Staff in the Pentagon and, more often than not, with White House–level input. Word has it that only four or five non-SOG officers in Saigon were ever even briefed on their top-secret doings, which involved penetrating the most heavily defended North Vietnamese military facilities, going behind enemy land lines to rescue downed U.S. pilots, holding off mass enemy attacks, engaging in sabotage and espionage, and if called upon, even overthrowing governments.”
“Alden, you’re preachin’ to the choir.”
“Well, here’s what you didn’t know,” said Grace. “Most SOG units were made up of volunteers who were air force commandos, army Green Berets, and navy SEALs. Star 1 teams were composed of army personnel only. They were the unauthorized brainchild of an army general named Cassidy Hicks who wanted the army to have a kick-ass elite unit capable of out-shining the SOG.”
“How could they have operated without authorization?”
Grace shook his head. “Come on, Flora Jean, you’ve been to war. Or maybe you didn’t run into any nutcases like Hicks during Desert Storm.”
“Oh, we had them all right,” said Flora Jean. “Guess they just didn’t have enough time to flower.”
“Well, Hicks did. His little Star 1 band of brothers operated for six months during the summer and fall of 1971. It took that long for someone below him to get up enough nerve to turn whistle-blower.”
“With only six months in the saddle, how much damage could these Star 1 units have done?” asked Flora Jean.
“Plenty. That’s why nobody wants to admit they existed. The army buried their existence under miles of red tape. Hicks was discharged honorably, and he and his invention were brushed under the rug. He died about the time your war started, another whacked-out army two-star footnote.”
“Hell, Alden. This thing’s startin’ to sound a whole lot bigger than I thought.”
“Don’t worry, babe. I’ll point you in the right direction.”
Grace slid out of bed, walked across the room naked, and retrieved a three-inch-thick leather-bound book from a nearby desk. Turning and strutting full-frontal back toward Flora Jean, he said, “See anything you like?”
“Serious—remember, Alden.”
“Yeah.” Frowning as he slipped back into bed next to Flora Jean, he thumbed through the book, stopping near the end. “Contacts,” he said, smiling. “Here’s a name. I’ll start you at point A. You and CJ will have to work your way to Z.”
“Hope there ain’t any women’s names in that book,” said Flora Jean.
“Serious, remember,” said Grace.
“I am.”
Grace smiled. “It’s not that kind of book. Here’s your man,” he said, tapping the page just below the name. “Le Quan, Denver … best I can tell you is he works out of Denver.”
“Works?” asked Flora Jean, surprised at Alden’s choice of words. “What does he do?”
“Don’t know. I’ve been out of the intelligence loop for too long. My guess is that he’s still doing the same thing he did during the war: double-dealing, talking out of both sides of his mouth, taking money under the table. Playing both ends against the middle. He’s slick. Should’ve been a politician.”
“What did he do in Vietnam?”
“He was a Vietcong youth organizer. Spent his time revving up nine-year-olds to swear allegiance to the Communist Party and go out and kill Americans. Quan’s got an errand boy, an odd jobber of sorts, a kid named Jimmy Moc. I’ve got a Denver East Colfax Avenue address for Moc, not much else.”
“Then I’ll start with Moc and work my way up.”
“Watch it, Flora Jean. Moc’s a snake.”
“I’ve dealt with them before.”
“I know you have. But he’s a Hydra. You never know which one of his heads is going to bite you. Keep CJ real close at hand on this one.”
Flora Jean smiled. “You’re still working, aren’t you, Alden? That’s why they moved you from D.C. out here to Colorado Springs.”
“You’re imagining things, Flora Jean.”
Flora Jean laughed out loud. “Like I am imagining this little thing can grow,” she said, cupping Grace’s member in her hand, massaging it slowly.
“Don’t you have a meeting with CJ?”
“This won’t take long,” said Flora Jean, rolling her warm, supple body on top of Grace’s. “Trust me,” she said, kissing him, encouraging him to maneuver his body to meet hers.
Chapter 15
Ten minutes late for her meeting with CJ, Flora Jean rushed across the parking lot of the Denny’s at the intersection of I-25 and Academy Boulevard. The low profile of the rambling ranch-style eatery stood in sharp contrast to the expansive wooded grounds of its Colorado Springs neighbor, the U.S. Air Force Academy. She rushed into the restaurant past a startled hostess
and scanned rows of booths and tables filled with customers. She spotted CJ and Billy DeLong in a booth against the west wall, regained her composure, walked over to them, and slipped into the crescent-shaped booth next to CJ.
Surprised to see Billy, she said, “Didn’t expect to see you here, Billy.” She reached across and shook his hand.
“You’re late,” said CJ, surprising her with an out-of-character admonishment.
“Sorry, I got hung up.”
CJ picked up his half-full coffee cup, took a sip, and watched Billy start through a second short stack of pancakes. “You might as well have ordered a full stack, Billy.”
Ignoring CJ, Billy reached for the nearby syrup. The look on his face was stoic.
Flora Jean sat back in her seat, looked at CJ, and said, “What the hell’s got you so twisted in knots?”
CJ didn’t answer, so she looked at Billy. When Billy, staring down at his pancakes, didn’t look up, she knew something was wrong. She turned her attention back to CJ. She hadn’t actually paid much attention to the man she had worked side by side with for almost six years when she’d rushed into the restaurant. She normally didn’t have to. CJ was usually as predictable as a finely tuned clock. In the office by 8 each morning, working on cases, touching base with lawyers, working out a way for clients to make bail. He usually ate lunch at Mae’s, worked the phones in the afternoon, and hunted antiques and Western memorabilia when times were slow. He knew the bail-bonding and bounty-hunting business like he’d written the book, and if he and Billy were on an urgent case, she couldn’t imagine anything that had to do with bail bonding or bounty hunting that would have him wound so tight. But he looked different, haggard and drained.
“You okay, CJ?”
“Yeah,” he said, taking a sip of coffee.
Billy looked up from his pancakes, his glass eye fixed, and gave CJ a that’s bullshit kind of stare. “No, he ain’t. Tell her the truth.”
“We know who my shooter was,” said CJ, his voice a low, muffled drone.
“Who?”
“Celeste Deepstream.”
“How’d you find out?”
CJ looked up from his coffee directly at Flora Jean. His eyes were clouded over, and he had that foggy look that Mavis said he’d had for months after coming home from Vietnam. “Last night she snatched Mavis.”
“Shit!” Flora Jean draped an arm over CJ’s shoulder. At a loss for words, she asked, “Is … Mavis okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do the cops say?”
“Haven’t called them.”
“What!” Flora Jean relaxed what was now close to a bear hug and eyed CJ sternly. “CJ, come on!”
“They’ll get her killed.”
“It’s a kidnappin’, for God’s sake. You’ve gotta call ’em.” She looked at Billy for support.
Billy didn’t respond.
“You’re not goin’ after her yourself!”
This time it was CJ’s turn to be silent.
“CJ, are you crazy?” Flora Jean shook her head. “And you dragged in Billy.”
CJ set his fork down beside the food he’d barely touched.
“Didn’t require no draggin’,” said Billy.
“Pushin’, pullin’, draggin’, whatever. I don’t care. This is a kidnappin’. You don’t even know where they’re at.”
“Yes, we do,” said CJ. “Somewhere in New Mexico. We know that for sure.”
“That’s across the state line. You can call in the FBI.”
CJ shook his head. “I’m not calling anyone. Billy and I’ll handle this.”
“Then I will!” The instant she uttered it, Flora Jean knew she’d said the wrong thing. The tortured look on CJ’s face turned angry. A deep-throated, one-word response rumbled up from his stomach: “Don’t.”
Easing her arm from around CJ’s shoulder, she swallowed hard and said nothing.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he said, his tone that of a soldier on a mission. “Rescue Mavis. We have a good idea where Celeste is holding her, and we’ve got a real good fix on the terrain. What we don’t know is what we’ll run into once we’re there. Armaments, booby traps, diversions, an army of her friends.”
“You sound like it’s a war, CJ.”
“It is.”
Realizing there was no way CJ was ever going to call in the cops, or for that matter anyone in law enforcement, Flora Jean said, “Slow down a minute, CJ. Look at it through her eyes for a moment. What she’s after is revenge. And that makes her vulnerable. She wants you to suffer the same way she has over her brother. That’s your ticket in. Do somethin’ she ain’t expectin’. Catch her off guard.”
CJ stroked his chin as Flora Jean continued, “My bet is she’s goin’ it alone. Not many people want a kidnappin’ charge hangin’ over their head. You’ve got an advantage—you got Billy. And you have at least a general idea of the terrain. Get Celeste away from Mavis, have her focus on you or Billy. Unless she has help, she’s gotta have Mavis subdued, drugged, or shackled. She’ll leave her in a second if she figures she can deal with her later, once she settles her score with you.”
Imagining Mavis bound, battered, and helpless turned CJ’s face to stone. Glad that he’d heard the input of someone he trusted his life with, he asked, “Any other advice?”
“None that would help. Unless you want me to come?”
CJ smiled and looped an arm around Flora Jean’s shoulders. Only then did he realize she was shaking. “It’s gonna work out okay,” he said, squeezing her affectionately, something he’d never done before. “You’ve got other business to tend to. The paying kind.” CJ’s tone was forced and rehearsed. “What did your friend the general say that can help us with our Langston Blue problem?”
Recognizing that the question was meant to distract her from her concerns, minimize the difficulty of the task he was facing, and send her away with a sense of purpose, she said, “He dropped a couple of pearls. Said the Star 1 team that Blue was part of was an unauthorized army copy of an official SOG model. And he gave me the names of a couple of Denver contacts. Some guy named Quan and a kid named Moc. Said they might be able to help us out with Blue.”
“What’s their connection?”
“Moc’s, I’m not sure, but Quan was a Vietcong youth organizer during the war.”
“Umph,” said CJ. “Guess he found a new home. Might as well check them both out, see if they have any connection to Blue. And watch out for Newburn and that Kearnes woman. They’re working the angles, too.”
Flora Jean nodded, then hesitantly said, “CJ … Never mind.”
As his eyes glazed over, CJ cupped his right hand over Flora Jean’s. “Do your job, sugar. Billy and I will take care of ours. If you haven’t heard from us in forty-eight hours, come looking.” He slipped a photocopy of the topo map that Billy had brought out of his shirt pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Flora Jean. “The little square highlighted in yellow, that’s where we’ll be. It’s in the Taos Mountains about twenty-eight miles south of the Colorado and New Mexico border.”
Flora Jean glanced down at the map and then back up at CJ. “What about Willis? He’s bound to ask about Mavis.”
“Stall. Tell him we took a trip to Santa Fe.”
“Okay, but what if he presses?”
“He won’t,” said CJ, checking his watch. “It’s 10:15. We’ve gotta go. We only have thirty-six hours.”
“From when?” asked Flora Jean, unaware that they were on a clock.
“From about 9 last night when I found the note Celeste left taped to my door.”
“What’s she gonna do if you don’t show?”
“Kill Mavis.”
“Better get goin’,” said Flora Jean, forcefully.
“And Flora Jean, make sure Dittier and Morgan keep Blue under wraps. Newburn would have Blue for lunch if he knew he was around.”
“I will,” said Flora Jean, her voice trailing off to a near whisper. Turning to Billy, she sai
d, “Make sure you both come back, Billy. And with Mavis.”
“We’ll be back,” said Billy, watching CJ head toward the cashier. “Count on it,” he added, turning and walking away with the self-assurance of a wiry, rough-cut cowboy. A tough-as-nails little black man who during his lifetime had managed $30-million ranches, honchoed fifty men at a time, lost an eye to diabetes and Old Crow, and nearly killed a tax assessor back in Ohio who’d tried to steal his family’s farm. A man who always meant exactly what he said.
Chapter 16
The address Alden Grace had given Flora Jean for Jimmy Moc turned out to be a Denver car wash that occupied the northeast corner of Colfax and Yosemite, the street that separates Denver from its neighboring stepchild, the city of Aurora. The neighborhood was a mixture of fast food eateries, laundromats, auto-body shops, secondhand stores, and tattoo parlors. But Aurora was changing. The city had recently stolen the University of Colorado’s Denver-based Health Sciences Center, jumping aboard the federal government’s plan to fund alternative uses for deactivated military bases such as the former Fitzsimons Army Base, one square mile of pristine Aurora land. In fine American tradition, politicians jockeying for position, entrepreneurs looking for a quick buck, and real estate developers on the prowl would eventually make the Rinse and Shine Car-wash and its neighbors a historical footnote.
The noise from the car wash’s massive dryers could be heard a block away, and when business was heavy, as it was today with eighty cars an hour rolling through the Rinse and Shine gates, the noise was deafening. Weary from her early-morning start, lovemaking, and the 140-mile round-trip drive to Colorado Springs and back, Flora Jean didn’t feel much like staking out a car wash.
With CJ and Mavis on her mind and a tinge of guilt still nagging at her for not calling the cops in on a kidnapping case, she had strolled into the Rinse and Shine fifteen minutes earlier, asked the cashier who was sitting in a bullet-proof glass enclosure if Jimmy Moc was in, and been told that Moc didn’t start work until 1. With nothing better to do while she waited, she’d queued up her seven-year-old Tahoe, one of the few sport utility vehicles with enough leg room for her, plunked down fifteen dollars for the daily wash special unabashedly called “the works,” and sat down on a bench outside to drink an overpriced Coke and watch the workers dry her SUV.