Cobra Clearance

by Richard Craig Anderson

  Amahl smiled. “Nothing. You have always been my favorite. Why should I not feel sad to leave you?” With that he turned and strode toward the security checkpoint. As he passed a concrete pillar he saw three men standing on the other side. While looking at them he blinked twice and walked on, knowing he had seen his son for the last time.

  Kalil knew too much, and the surveillance had been his death sentence. If they knew of this son then it was only a matter of time. Kalil was now a liability, and Amahl had brought him this far only to ensure that he would never be found. The three men would see to that. Amahl had insisted only that they make his death a painless one, and that they treat him with respect as they sealed him in the container of acid.

  KRUGER SUMMONED ERIC AGAIN and leaned back in his chair. “Bronk tells me that a rather vivacious co-ed lured you into bed with a promise of cocaine.”

  “What chaps you most, the booty or the blow?”

  “Neither. Both.”

  “It’s like this. Yeah, she had coke. But she also had a egg in the chute, an’ my swimmers are all over it by now. An’ if one a them don’t get in this time? No sweat. She’s coming back tonight for more a what I got available for rich college babes.”

  “Oh? She was that enamored of you, was she?”

  “Nail hammered?” Deep lines etched Eric’s forehead. His eyes narrowed. “Well I hammered her good. I’m also gonna nail that egg a hers, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Enamored.” Kruger didn’t doubt Eric’s ability to charm women into having sex. Even he felt drawn to this happy-go-lucky sociopath. Finally he said, “Perhaps you’re a bit too cocksure. Well?”

  Raising an eyebrow, Eric said, “She hates her mom. Loves slum boys. Do the math. In the end it adds up to this—she wants to piss off her mom by havin’ a bad boy’s baby.” He stood taller. “An’ I aim to plant my kid in her.”

  “Okay. Good. Now tell me about any other drug use since you’ve been here.”

  “I won’t lie. Me an’ my babe was messin’ around a couple a days ago. We ended up doin’ some blow.” He looked at Kruger. “I forgot, okay?”

  “Go on.”

  “She’s got some junk, too. Good stuff. Not no cheap-ass skag. I figured, won’t nobody see no track, so…” He shifted his weight. “So the other night…”

  Kruger’s eyes became slits. “You used heroin?”

  “I wanted to slam. Now don’t break my cake.”

  After a suspicious sideways squint Kruger decided Eric was protecting Brenda for injecting him. That was praiseworthy—he didn’t rat people out. Kruger could also use the doping to his advantage. But pointing his finger like a pistol he said, “You did hard drugs despite my specific order not to. However, you manned-up to it. That means more to me than your perfection. But so we’re clear? Do it again, and you’re history.”

  But Levi stepped closer. “I got a better idea. Let me slam now an’ then.”

  “Absolutely not. Now get out of here.” Kruger waited until Eric left, then began to think. He admired Eric’s attitude. So what if he did a little coke? He maintained a high standard of candor coupled with another laudable trait—defiance, tempered by respect. And Eric wouldn’t risk expulsion from the club through insubordination or drugs if he’d had ulterior motives for joining. But he’d arrived so soon after Melchior’s assassination. Sure, Brenda and the men sensed his legitimacy, and he was clearly honoring his pledge to produce white babies with multiple women. Still, Kruger hadn’t felt at ease until being told, “In your dreams,” and by seeing that Eric’s behavior and cravings were consistent with bonafide dopers. Now he could proceed with his plans.

  That evening Levi waited in a shadowed portion of the Sunset’s rear lot. When Michael materialized at his elbow, Levi reported Brian’s revelations as to the month of May, mortars and Semtex. He added that Brenda had reported his drug use and hook-up with Monica, then said that being a sexually explicit druggie in Kruger’s upside down world was apparently a virtue. “But I could’ve recanted the heroin use if I’d had to.”

  Michael briefed him on Dentz, then studied his face. “You’re exhausted.”

  “I’m on top of it.” At Michael’s skeptical look he frowned. “I said, I’m alright.”

  “Okay, as long as you know.” He blended with a shadow and disappeared.

  Levi poked his head inside the cabin a minute later and told Brenda he’d be next door, then went to the malodorous bar to wait for Brian. Walking inside, he spotted two skinheads at the pool table. After they raised their cue sticks in recognition, he dropped onto a torn bar stool. He was nursing a beer when a lithe, raven-haired girl in a homeless-chic ensemble of torn designer jeans and frayed T entered.

  She went directly to Levi and offered a lazily seductive glance. “Seen ya dance.”

  He thought she was a real turn-on, and after feeding the jukebox he began dancing soberly. But on seeing the skinheads watching, he nurtured his lout’s image by grinding against her. When she gave it right back he cupped her ass in his hands. She in turn slid her hands down the back of his pants, and they were steadily grinding away when Brenda appeared. Levi waved to her; she glared and stomped out.

  They danced on as rivulets of perspiration streamed down their bodies. He undid his shirt and let it fly, then opened the top buttons of her jeans. The skinheads laughed; the girl winked and molded her sweat-drenched body to his. Planting a perfumed cheek against his slick neck, she unzipped him and reached inside, and after making a thorough exploration she got a sly smile and said, “Let’s go to my car.”

  “Can’t,” he shot back, adding in case she was a plant, “my old lady’s around.” He stepped back only to find the zipper stuck so he ambled off to the grimy, urine-smelling men’s room. He was in there fussing with his fly when the door opened and she walked in. He scowled. “I done said not tonight—an’ not in this rat hole.”

  She sneered. “I get it. You want some head first. Okay.” She moved closer.

  “No, not here.” He figured that would sustain his cover. But to scare her away in case she was legit, he cupped her ample breasts through her wet T and said, “Drop by tomorrow. Maybe I’ll fuck you then.” Leaning into her, he lowered his voice. “But if I do, I’m gonna make you my bitch. An’ you’re gonna turn tricks to support me. You an’ my other bitches.” However, he was taken aback when she brushed some errant hair from her eyes and said she’d do anything, so long as he supplied her with coke.

  Brenda paced the tiny cabin, kicking at stray clothing until her hands became fists. When she’d had enough she stormed into the bar just as Eric and the girl emerged from the men’s room. Both shimmered from perspiration. Her jeans were undone; so were his shirt and fly. The girl went to the bar; Eric went to Brenda. But while planting her feet wide to confront him, a young man appeared at his side. Eric still reeked of the girl as he introduced Brian, and after a strained silence they went to the cabin.

  Once inside, Brian took off his shirt but Eric kept his on. She didn’t think it was to conceal his needle marks, either. The bastard’s hiding scratches on his back. But she thawed as they passed around a hash pipe, sending pungent yellow-gray smoke to the ceiling. She’d seen Brian around; the silly Swastika aside, he was beautiful and the dog collar had a certain sex appeal. She also loved his tatts and piercings, and yearned to hook a finger through that huge ring in his nose. But above all else he exuded a pleasant spiritual quality that endeared him to her, and she felt a thrill each time she found him looking at her.

  The men shared another bowl of hash. Brian held his own. But Eric’s speech became slurred, and he flung his arms wide each time he stressed a point. When they turned quiet Brian tapped one of Eric’s concealed arms. “What’re you hiding?”

  Eric tried to focus glassy eyes. Finally he said, “Dunno what you mean, man.”

  That’s when Brenda saw her revenge: through dope. Eric was already nodding off, so she yawned also and tossed a blanket at Brian. He executed a casual catch, bu
t as he stripped, her jaw dropped. “Whoa…nice package.” Brian clearly had no shame in being naked—a trait he shared with Eric. He wagged his eyebrows, then lay on the couch. Meanwhile, Eric got undressed and went to the bed. Brenda didn’t see any scratches on his back, but he still stank of his dalliance and her anger flared.

  She killed all the lights except the dim bedside lamp and lay next to him. When the moment was right she pulled on a robe, crept past their snoring guest, and cooked some heroin over the stove’s blue flame. It was low-grade stuff and created a burnt band-aid odor, but it would do. After drawing ten milligrams into a syringe, she raised a vein inside Eric’s elbow and had the needle against it when she glanced up. He was awake and watching. She stopped breathing—then noted his vacant expression. As her lips smiled with cruel confidence, she deftly slid the needle in and got a finger on the plunger.

  “Wait,” he whispered. “Not yet.” Then he jutted his jaw at the couch.

  Swiveling her head, she saw Brian staring back, his face a blank slate.

  Several seconds passed before Brian exhaled noisily. “Do what ya gotta do. I ain’t gonna narc you out.” Pulling up the blanket, he rolled onto his other side.

  Turning back to Eric, she asked, “Well?”

  He mumbled something while his eyelids fluttered. Then he nudged her and said, “Okay, do it…”

  Barely able to believe her good fortune, she eased the plunger in until he moaned and writhed in pleasure. But when he gasped and shook his head rapidly, she bore down harder. His eyes rolled wildly. He pawed at her hand and croaked, “Enough.” But it was only half the dose. Cursing silently, she withdrew the needle and waited until his eyes glazed over, then got the needle into a new vein and drove the plunger home.

  Two hours later, she made another dose. This time she went for his left arm. He struggled weakly, forcing her to try three veins before she got a good stick. Then biting gently on her lip, she injected him while he squirmed and groaned. She was almost done, when all at once a hand clamped down on hers. She gasped. “Wha…?”

  “What’re you doing?” Brian said.

  She turned and saw him standing naked behind her. “But he needs it. I…”

  “That ain’t what I mean. You’re pushing it in too fast. That’s why he’s fightin’ you.” He moved next to her. “Do it slower.”

  “Oh. Um, you mean, like this?” She eased down on the plunger.

  “Yeah, good. Now keep going.” His forehead wrinkled. “Uh, oh. He passed out.” Brian put a finger on Eric’s wrist. “Pulse is thready.” Running his fingers along Eric’s needle-riddled arms, he grimaced. “We’ll wait, then give him the rest.”

  Brenda pulled the syringe out and set it aside. When Brian didn’t move away, she touched his leg. “How come you know so much? You do smack?”

  “No. Never. But my older brother was a junkie, same as him.” He indicated Eric. “Danny’s hands would shake. So he taught me how to give him a needle.” Brian cleared his throat. “One day I wasn’t ’round. He slammed by his self. OD’d. Died.”

  “I’m sorry. Were you close?”

  “I loved him.” He studied her. “Eric’s lucky to have you. You take good care of your man.” After a pause he stepped closer. “I wish I was your man.”

  Brenda wiped away a sudden tear. If only I’d met him earlier. If only…But she hadn’t. Wanting to take control of her life though, she grazed his bare bottom with her fingertips, then undid her robe and stared at him. “I’ll be your woman,” she whispered.

  “Good,” he said while checking Eric’s pulse again. “Yep, he’s good.” After a brief silence he touched the heart-shaped tattoo at her breast. Then he took her hand and led the way to the couch. After they lay down he lit a Marlboro, and its tip glowed bright when she cuddled against him.

  They talked while he chain-smoked. At intervals he examined Eric and finally found him awake. “I’m gonna give you the rest of your fix,” Brian said. After injecting the last of the dope he padded back to Brenda. Their eyes met, and when she nodded he opened her robe and locked her in his embrace. There were no words, no noises—all perfect, innocent—two people clinging to each other, nothing more.

  But Nature ultimately kicked in. They began kissing, then groaning and twisting. She felt drunk from his scent—a mix of clean water and lusty earth—and when his body sought a union with hers she urged him on, barely breathing while he slid a hairy knee between her smooth thighs and opened them, then slowly rolled his hips forward. She winced and whimpered but he was gentle; patient. Finally he claimed her naked body, and for the next half hour the only sounds were the hushed creak creak creak of the couch and their stifled groans. She marveled at the pureness in his eyes, gloried in his superb rhythm, and felt consumed by sensuality as their bodies glided over a film of perspiration. Brian brought her to ecstasy twice and had her at the cusp again, when without warning he stopped and lowered his head. “I love you, but I can’t do this to Eric. Not no more.” She clung to him and tugged at his dog collar, but he broke free to caress her instead, and to tell her all the things she needed to hear. Later, she nestled her head on his shoulder, and listened to his rhythmic breathing as he dozed off.

  As the sun rose Brenda heard a cough and opened her eyes. Eric’s triangular face was inches from hers, his pupils unsettled. Panic gripped her until she remembered going back to bed. She got up on an elbow and saw Brian sprawled across the couch, one foot sticking from the sheet, eyes bright against his pierced face. “Morning,” she said, and felt something genuine when he smiled. Then she jabbed Eric’s ribs to rouse him further.

  Sitting up, he stared at the black lines that pointed to three of the eight bruised needle marks in his arms. “I got tracks! Friggin’ tracks!” He glared at her. “What’d you do—use skag ’stead a the good stuff?” All at once his face turned pale, and he lurched into the bathroom to vomit.

  She watched Brian light a cigarette and stare at the ceiling while blowing smoke rings. When the shower began running she went to him and lifted the blanket. He clearly wanted her but shook his head, so she kissed his lips, put on a tight blouse and jeans, and crouched at the stove to peek as he got up and pulled on his pants. He went commando like Eric. She liked that. He was also tender, and she knew instinctively that he’d be faithful—unlike Eric who blatantly banged babes in her own bed. All at once she recalled two women in the bar bragging about a threesome they’d had with “some stud in one of the cabins,” and it clicked. That scrawny son of a bitch! That’s three he’s brought to my bed. At least.

  The stud emerged from the shower a minute later and dressed. He gave her a look but said nothing, so they sat at the table for breakfast. She wished she could be with Brian and stole furtive glances at him, but after they finished she watched helplessly as he and Eric started for the door.

  But Brian stopped and turned to Eric, his face solemn. “Listen. Last night I got to sittin’ with your woman. We, um…that is, I…”

  “Later,” Eric said while guiding the young man out the door.

  Barely able to breathe after Brian’s pre-empted confession, Brenda’s heart skipped a beat when Eric closed the door behind their guest. Leaping up, she retreated into a corner and drew her knees to her chest for protection.

  He loomed large with cruel eyes and said in a voice wrapped in ice, “If you ever slam me like that again…”

  “Damn you.” Holding up a forefinger and surprising even herself, she looked sideways at him. “You made it clear—you wanted me slippin’ you needles. You even told me, ‘go ahead’ last night. Now go on. Hit me, you son of a bitch.”

  Taking a deep breath, he exhaled slowly and stomped off.

  The instant the door closed she revised her plan. She’d slip him a roofie and shoot him up, and keep him strung out for a few days. Afterward, she would hand Brent a fait accompli in the form of a relapsed junkie. That would get him out of her life. She called Kruger. “Eric screwed another bimbo last night. An’ he’s back to
doin’ smack.”

  15

  Levi chided himself again as he approached the compound. He’d side-stepped the dance girl but not the second bowl of hash. He got stoned and vulnerable, and Brenda had the needle in before he grasped what she was doing. When he saw that Brian was awake, he locked onto that as a valid excuse not to slam. Levi thought he told her to pull it out, but once she began injecting him it was too late. She nailed him with a dosage meant for habitual users, and the next doses sealed his fate as the drug’s prior bonds kicked into overdrive. He understood heroin’s seductive power now—and wanted more. Even worse, he put the mission in jeopardy. Kruger would hear about it, and Levi’s progress could all turn south. But there was nothing he could do now, and even Prefontaine stumbled over hurdles, so he thanked God for Brian’s benign intervention and filed it under lessons learned. However, as he passed through the gate he sensed trouble. He felt it in his gut and saw it in the faces of the tattooed sentries. Nursing the throttle, he drove to the barracks. When Brian pulled alongside, Levi said, “You’d better stay here.”

  They were waiting for him. He stepped inside the dingy barracks and found Kruger standing with folded arms. Potts wore a revolver, and Bronk’s Swastika was creased by his stern forehead. Then there was Jackson, standing to one side in a black T and woodland cammies, and cowboy hat pulled low.

  Kruger looked at Levi with dark eyes and growled, “We have a rat among us.”

  Potts pulled out a set of handcuffs and advanced on Levi. “Hold out your hands.”

  Levi made an instant assessment. He would take out Potts first, then Kruger. He wasn’t worried about Bronk—he’d take him down hard and fast. And Jackson posed a zero threat. He thrust his hands forward to lull them into inattention.

  Potts’ pinched face was within inches of Levi’s when he said, “Put these on Jackson,” and dropped the cuffs into Levi’s hands.

  Jackson cried out, “What the hell are you talking about?”