by Vince Milam
“Tell us about your latest adventure, Case,” Peter said as he served cornbread slices from an iron skillet to passed plates.
“Kind of boring. Investigated a proposed business deal. But I did travel to Long Island.”
Safe ground and an attempt at steering geography away from the Caribbean. The earlier brush with Bo’s current location threw sufficient warning spikes. Mom stopped eating and smiled my direction.
“Now, that sounds nice. A civilized part of the world. US soil. Can you get more such contracts?”
“Hope to,” I lied. The joined slow death drive through tourist hot spots of vacationing people flashed, and left.
Peter, a history buff, regaled us with a few tales of Long Island’s importance during the revolutionary war. Mom insisted I both eat more and save room for dessert. CC and I played a winking game where she giggled at my exaggerated faces. Tinker Juarez hung at the perimeter, alert for any food mishaps.
“Why don’t you and Peter take a vacation?” I asked as we settled back, beyond sated. I considered letting a notch out of my belt. “I’ll take CC for a boat trip.”
“I think that’s a great idea,” Peter said.
“A boat trip!” CC added and tossed in a small seat bounce for emphasis.
“Give it a couple of weeks to plan and let me know the timeline,” I said.
Mom glanced through the screen and considered. “Maybe. Maybe someplace cool would be nice.”
“The Italian Alps,” I said and kept the ball rolling. Mom wasn’t hurting for money. I made sure of that.
“Not with all the terrorism going on,” she said. A bit of a blanket excuse—Mom wasn’t fond of places outside US borders.
“How about the great wild west?” Peter asked. “We could get up in the mountains. Idaho, Wyoming, Montana.”
“They have grizzly bears,” Mom said.
“Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.” CC giggled at my statement.
“Hush, son of mine.”
“Long odds of a bear attack, Mary Lola. You’re digging for excuses,” I said.
“I’ll think about it.”
And she would. Such weighty decisions required thought and planning. CC and I cleared the table and cleaned dishes while Mom and Peter relaxed. The classic Carolina pause for a semblance of digestion to take place before dessert arrived. The neighborhood sat still, quiet. Another dog barked a long block away. Darkness fell.
Mom brewed decaf coffee, large slices of cake were delivered, and we ate from old fine china while spread across the porch. Soft and muted conversation, allowing ample room for nighttime peace to settle. Tinker conducted a good scratch. Peter told a funny story from the insurance business, his voice adopting the languid rhythm of a southern gent. The cake, better than fine. The company, priceless.
Thoughts of Stinnett and Marilyn Townsend crept into my sanctuary. Corrupting thoughts of abrogated responsibility toward dealing with my situation, my unfinished business. Business I’d delivered, handed off, to a third party. Marilyn Townsend and the Company. With no assurances, none.
CC saw the first one. A full second of tiny bright fluorescent light. It blinked off then on again a few feet away as the slow flying insect moved through the night air. It brought an enthralled hush across the porch. Another lightning bug blinked and another. CC sat tall, mouth open with wonderment.
“It’s magic,” CC whispered. She placed her plate on a side table, extended a hand, and kept eyes glued toward the dark backyard.
I took her hand and pulled her closer across the porch swing, wrapping my arms around her midsection as she leaned back against me.
“It’s a gift, my love.”
She nodded and spoke awed soft tones to the larger world. “It is a gift.”
A wave, huge and monstrous and unforgiving lifted and crashed against the moment. The tumultuous wave called, bellowed—you walked away, Lee. Walked away and endangered sanctuary, endangered your family. I had left deadly actions and consequences in the hands of others.
Stinnett knew of the Clubhouse, and sent operators. Killers. He may have known of the bounty. I gave it higher odds than Bo or Marcus. And with sufficient effort, focused effort, he might discover the whereabouts of Mom and CC. My family. Sanctuary violated.
“And I have a promise to make,” I whispered into CC’s ear. She turned her head the slightest, one ear toward my lips, and kept her eyes on the insect light show. “I promise many more gifts in the future.”
CC leaned her head back and rested on my chest. One path lay ahead. The gravity of removing a CIA operative faded as commitment solidified. There would be no Bo, no Marcus. I was going in. Protect the family. Tie my own loose ends. Sanctuary would not be violated. First, find the bastard.
I kissed Mom and CC goodbye and turned down a ride from Peter. Explained I’d rather walk and work off the red velvet cake and reminded Mom tomorrow’s evening meal was without argument on me at a nice restaurant. And she owed me her travel plans.
“I understand Tibet is nice this time of year,” I said, teasing.
“Hush. I’m not going anyplace where the men wear pajamas all day. I told you I’d think about it.”
Peter followed me through the front door and kept pace for half a block. The offshore breeze increased and brought cool salty relief. Charleston threw bright light, but stars were still visible overhead.
“It’s not my business,” Peter said. “But I’ll have my say.”
I slowed, stopped, and shared a companion’s look of concern.
“I’m not implying you were involved with the horrible events in the Caribbean the other day,” he continued. “But you were pretty doggone good at bypassing the subject tonight.”
He’d put two and two together. Knew about my background from Mom and made an assumption as to Bo’s whereabouts. And mine. “That’s a young man’s game, Case. You might consider turning the dial down a bit at this point in your life.”
I squeezed his arm and delivered a wry smile. “Great minds think alike. A major item on my priority list.”
He returned a smile, turned, and patted my back as he walked away. I’d liked the guy from the get-go. He treated Mom with respect and love—and exhibited the same toward CC. A good and fine man. And there was no lie, no obfuscation regarding turning down the dial. But in the immediate future, crank it up, buckle up, and handle the situation.
I sat on the patched throne and nursed a Grey Goose. The Ace bobbed in her slip, the chop from Charleston Bay extending into the dock area. Thoughts of operational plans, a loose end snipped. And to hell with the consequences. My family, exposed. The river crossed, the decision final. A light groan as I eased from the throne for another vodka before bed. My phone buzzed an inbound message. Jules.
Jules had released the dogs, committed to her part of the deal. And she delivered. The entirety of the message presented with classic Clubhouse style.
Providencia.
Stinnett’s location. Providencia. Wherever that was. It didn’t matter. Sorry, Marilyn Townsend. Can’t leave this in others’ hands. Sorry, Bo and Marcus. My mess, and I’d clean it up. And you should have known, Roger Stinnett. After the first attempts at killing me, you should have known I was one of a handful of people on this good earth you didn’t mess with. And now it was my turn, you SOB.
Chapter 32
Dark ops, dark attitude. Movement and action under the radar, dark to family and friends. Dark ops in the literal sense as well. Hunker down during daylight hours, movement at night. Which made for tight timelines and added risk. Stinnett could change locations at any time. His warning radar was set high after recognizing me. And he hadn’t heard from Tig, a silence driving valid conclusions. He’d be skittish.
I considered my quarry. We'd met before. The high seas when I exited Nassau. The trailing vessel, ghosting my speed and course. He'd contemplated action against me as we played the Caribbean version of cat-and-mouse. But he chose to exit the arena. A cautious man, unsure of striking
unless the odds were stacked high in his favor. His preferred method—hire proxies, hitters. Or given his spook tendencies, hire an underground entity who would in turn hire the hitter. More layers of separation. The same pattern of off-loaded wet work would apply at his home turf. He'd have guards. Armed guards prepared to kill. A given.
Providencia and San Andres. Sister islands, and as obscure as you'd find. The two islands were situated 150 miles east of Nicaragua, 450 miles north of Colombia. Tucked in the western part of the Caribbean. Both the property of Colombia. Go figure. San Andres was much the larger, in size and population. An eight by two mile remote destination for Colombian honeymooners and casual tourists. Access via one flight a day from Bogota, Cartagena, and Panama City. Spanish the predominant language, and its geographic isolation created a unique island culture.
Providencia was another matter. Fifty miles north of San Andres, it defined isolated. A former home base for the infamous pirate Captain Morgan, it was two miles long and wide. But unlike flat San Andres, Providencia held substantial steep hills. Its small population spoke English and a Caribbean creole, with Spanish a third choice. Intrepid tourists did visit Providencia, although the numbers were few. An idyllic place, with warm gorgeous waters and undisturbed laid-back surroundings. Two choices for getting there: an irregular prop plane flight from San Andres which made harrowing landings on a tiny airstrip, or a semi-daily ferry service across fifty open miles of sea. I'd rely on rubbing elbows with nefarious characters and take a third option.
My logistics were set—nighttime travel, payments off the grid. I chartered a small jet on my dime under an assumed name. Paid from a Caymans bank account tied to a corporation that didn’t exist except on paper. My destination—Cartagena, Colombia. I'd walked those streets before, both as a member of Delta and a private contractor. The pilot would refuel in Cartagena and wait a few hours while I managed a transaction. Then carry me for a second leg. Destination, San Andres. Arrival, midnight.
Then travel to Providencia under the cover of darkness the following evening, via boat. I held no contacts for this final leg, but San Andres and Providencia operated a solid drug trade network, and a fast boat wouldn't be an issue. I ran in those circles when needed, both as Delta and now. A night trip was the key—arrival on a tiny island such as Providencia under bright sunlight wouldn’t do. Without doubt, Stinnett received alerts of any new visitors, including tourists. And I sure didn’t fit the tourist profile.
Cartagena would supply needed firepower. I considered packing my own. Rely on a thick stack of Benjamins to deal with Colombian customs and immigration. Often used, it still left a chance of major issues cropping up. The catch tended to lie with the distribution of the bribe among the immediate authorities. One argument over the split and I owned a major issue. So a fake passport and broad smile, arriving unarmed. But once there, I knew a guy.
I called Mom and let her know a business item blindsided me. I would return a couple of days later. She understood with minimal questions. Greatest mom in the world. Caught an Uber to Savannah—my charter jet pick-up point. I'd packed light and wore field boots, jeans. My rucksack held the essentials—a change of clothes, toiletries, and laptop. And a bundle of hundred dollar bills large enough to choke a mule. I tossed in my medical kit, a lightweight hammock, a handful of energy bars, and small bottle of water purification tablets. Good to go. After my transactional visit among the back alleys of Cartagena, I'd be better than good to go.
I left Savannah late afternoon, flight time three and a half hours. Landed in Cartagena at dark and breezed through customs. My fake passport matched the Cayman Islands credit card I carried. Told the pilot I'd return a couple of hours later for the two hour San Andres flight. Left the rucksack on board and carried two pockets filled with Benjamins. I was unarmed, vulnerable, and on edge. A taxi delivered me to the old walled city within Cartagena. Game on.
Situated on Colombia’s Caribbean coast, the walled city was built in the 1500s. Spain ruled the roost at the time and the high walls—rounding the old central town for two and a half miles—enclosed narrow cobblestone streets, small plazas, churches, and old colonial houses. A shadowed hemmed-in area, much of it bustling with tourist shops. Plus a small section of tight streets and dark alleys best avoided. My destination.
The bright lights of tourist bistros and restaurants faded, as did the crowds. A stretch of seedy commercial establishments appeared. It held the grim look and feel of a Hollywood set. A tight area which would trigger the casual tourist to make a dead stop, perform a quick assessment, then turn on their heel and head back. I entered my personal shopping district.
Everything stone—the streets, raised sidewalks, facades of the tight-packed colonial houses. Light cast from the open doors of bars and small bodegas provided the sole illumination. It reeked of ancient filth, urine, despair, and death. I strode the middle of the cobblestones, footfalls muted, and headed toward a specific destination. A corner intersection, squeezed with irregular angles, offered more light than the narrow streets I'd passed through. A run-down bar occupied the intersection’s prime real estate. Outside its entrance, two men leaned against a corner wall, a third faced them. They spoke with hushed tones as I approached, the lone pedestrian within this tight-hemmed area. A prostitute farther along smoked a cigarette. She stood straight and adjusted her bust line as I approached. Muffled chatter and champeta music flowed from the small barroom.
The man not leaning against the wall side-stepped into my path and spoke with broken English. He'd spotted a gringo, a North American foreigner, and hence an easy mark.
"Got a light?" he asked in broken English.
His two partners left their positions and eased behind me.
"Don't smoke," I replied in Spanish and endeavored stepping around his blockage.
He shot out a hand and attempted grabbing my arm. I didn't have time for this crap. I blocked his hand grab, took a quick leap-step toward him, and delivered a throat shot. Hand open and flat, the web between thumb and forefinger drove into his trachea. The will to fight leaves a man quick when he can't breathe.
I turned as he staggered backward and performed a quick shift toward one of the two behind me. They both displayed lock-blade knives. The one I moved against left his crouch, surprised at his partner’s distress and my movement toward him. He straightened, locked his legs. Big mistake. People expected kicks toward their groin or solar plexus or head. You could find gold much lower. Another rapid side-step his direction and I slid onto the hard cobblestone street, delivering a boot heel to the side of his locked knee. Cartilage ripped, ligaments popped. He screamed and dropped as I popped upright and locked eyes with the third man.
"Are you really that stupid?" I asked in Spanish.
He eyeballed his two partners in crime, shrugged, and with great calm folded his knife and slid it back into his pocket.
"No. No I am not."
He left the other two and strolled into the bar without a backward glance. I moved on. The prostitute smiled and began an approach as I passed. The violence displayed before her failed affecting her focus on business. Lack of eye contact and my index finger side-to-side wag—the universal "not only no thanks, but leave me the hell alone"—stopped her forward movement. Old town’s deep shadows covered my exit, the destination a few blocks away.
I took a cut-through alley to an obscure walled street. A single light shone from a small window behind a wrought iron grill. The door was of heavy oak and reinforced with more wrought iron. There were no signs, no indicators of a business establishment. The heavy latch lifted and hinges protested as they opened.
A bookstore. Antique books, scattered across rudimentary shelves and stacked atop heavy tables. The smell was musty, with a hint of decay. The proprietor, an old man, reclined in his chair, one leg perched on a desk. Pencil-thin, white hair brushed straight back, and lined leathered skin. His eyes, though, were bright and eagle-like as they captured my every move above reading glasses perched at th
e tip of his nose. A large and ancient bound volume lay open across his lap. We'd met before.
Chapter 33
"You appear well," he said. "Older and with lines of experience, but well."
"And you, Don Costa, appear well. Perhaps wiser, although I am a poor judge of such things."
I'd never know if Costa was his actual name, but the "Don" designation—an appellation of respect—fit the man. A learned gentleman who sold antique books. And world-class weaponry.
"Please do look around. And take your time. Such decisions require consideration."
Part of the routine. Peruse his books, pay well over market value for one, and then shop for firearms. It worked, and I didn't mind. Many of the stacked books were bound journals of Spanish explorers and Jesuit priests from the 1500s. Cool stuff.
I took as much time as the evening’s schedule afforded. A decent interval expected and delivered. To hurry displayed disrespect for both Don Costa and the bound volumes before me. After fifteen minutes I selected a hand-written account of a 1544 Cartagena battle between the incumbent Spaniards and the French pirate Jean-Francois Roberval. Of particular interest were the hand sketches of sea and land battle movements.
“You have chosen well, my friend,” Don Costa said. He turned the volume over in his hands as he rubbed the front and back leather cover. Having adjusted his position as I approached with the book, he now sat straight and formal. An appropriate posture for serious business.
“Peruvian silver, collected from the interior and brought to Cartagena,” he continued. “It also brought the French, English, and Dutch. You will find this battle of particular interest.”
“Interesting times.”
“All times are interesting. Each passing slice of history is spiced with battles and men of valor. Steel on steel, my friend.”
An opening conversational gambit, intentional. His Spanish carried a hint of Castilian lisp. I delivered a slow head shake and a sigh of despair.