The New Guinea Job

by Vince Milam

  “I’ll be right back. And it’s irritating as can be when you do that.”

  She stomped away. I avoided staring at her butt. She stuck her head out once, asking black, cream, or sugar.

  “Black.” She failed to produce anything resembling a smile but looked fine nonetheless. Better than fine. The coffee came in a ceramic mug with an Audubon plant sketch. She plopped down alongside me.

  “I sat here with a gun. A gun! And heard the shot. Long distant but I didn’t know whether to prepare for Armageddon or jump in the truck and take off.”

  “Good coffee. Glad you didn’t take off.”

  “Back to Marcus, bub.”

  The rich coffee, fresh ground, was excellent. We sat on the lee side of the wind as sunshine edged its way onto the plank porch floor.

  “He asked me not to get involved. With what he termed ‘the situation.’”

  “Aren’t you a great listener. So what now? I sit here like crazy woman, gun across my lap?”

  “Keep the gun handy. You know how to use it?”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “Marcus showed me. When I moved in.”

  “Call me first. Any sign of them, call me.”

  “And what’s next?”

  “Invite me for dinner.”

  She swiveled her head, cast about seeking someone, anyone, who would validate what she had heard.

  “It gives me an excuse to leave Marcus’s place tonight,” I continued. “And dine with you. Do you cook?”

  “Do I cook?”

  “If you don’t, I’m not half-bad. Should I inspect your larder? Craft a menu?”

  “You’re not inspecting anything of mine. Dinner?”

  “What we unsophisticated term the evening meal.” Man, I felt good. Those clowns next door were as easy to manipulate as three-year-olds. And tonight they would pay. Boy howdy, would they pay.

  She stood and paced. Pulled her hair back and retied the ponytail. Shook her head. Several of her cows lowed from a nearby hilltop. Two young calves circled them, playing. Montana springtime.

  “Let’s pretend,” she said. “Let’s pretend, Mr. Man of Mystery, dinner is part of the evening plans. Then what?”

  “When it’s late enough, I’ll stroll over for a visit with your neighbors.”

  “A visit.”

  “Emphasize the need to leave.” They’d assaulted Irene. Killed her dog. “They’ll be gone in the morning.”

  She stomped to a standstill at my feet, leaned over, supporting herself on the arms of the Adirondack chair. Nose-to-nose.

  “No killing.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Wrong answer.”

  “Sometimes things go sideways.”

  She straightened and continued pacing. At every pass of my position, she shot a look. I sipped coffee.

  “I’m calling Marcus.” She spoke from the end of the porch, arms crossed.

  “You do and he’ll insist I behave. And I will. Respect the man too much. And you’ll still have vile trash next door. Men who attacked you. You okay with that?”

  She paced past twice more and spoke toward the surrounding hills. “No. No, I’m not okay with that.”

  “Or—and I’ve seen this happen—he’ll get the look in his eye and pay them a right-now visit. Gunfire a strong possibility.” I meant it and had seen it happen before. The assault on Irene could set him off. “Neither of us want him going there.”

  “No. No, we don’t.”

  “So let me handle it.”

  She didn’t respond, still staring toward the hills.

  “You do cook, right? Because I’ll be happy to.”

  A single raised eyebrow came my way. “Pasta carbonara. Will that do, Iron Chef?”

  “No. I mean, I’m sure it’s fine. Better than fine. But too heavy. How about stir-fry? Or a salad with meat? I’m working the late shift.”

  A hard last look and she said, “Stir-fry it is. Eight?”

  That would work. Two hours with Irene and off to the races. I didn’t want the trash heading inside to get warm before I arrived.

  A hard pang of guilt struck. I was deceiving Marcus. But rationale came easy. I was also solving a problem for him. And Irene. And there were few people on the planet capable of taking care of this. And one of those few sat right here.

  “Eight it is. Now please chill. Everything will be fine. And I’m truly sorry about Kismet.”

  “Just a puppy.” She sniffed, hard.

  “Know it hurts bad.”

  “And now. Now it’s getting crazy.”

  “Crazy?”

  “Your world.” She wiped her nose again, moved close. “None of us regular people are comfortable there. It’s outside our reality. Outside law and order and society’s norms.”

  No argument from me. But answers—and moral ambiguity—often stood among the shadows. Taking care of business, out of sight. The world moved on as either the good or the bad went down in the black of night. So buckle up, boys. And say hello to your worst nightmare.

  Chapter 21

  Marcus’s outside footsteps woke me. My hand withdrew from the .45’s grip, nestled in the sofa cushion. I knew those footfalls. Took comfort in them over the years. And now I was flat-out lying to him. The Case Lee version of justice’s blind scales tilted toward the take-care-of-the-situation side of things. But lying to a blood brother caused the scale’s fulcrum to squeak. Paperback across my chest, boots off, I was in the middle of a languid stretch when Jake entered and saw me. The dog ensured—through lapping licks aimed faceward—that his presence was recognized.

  “Good. You need rest,” Marcus said, wrestling his work boots off at the door. “You never excelled at acceptance of the healing process.”

  The wound hadn’t barked today, but I remained aware of its endeavor-limiting presence. I’d visited Marcus’s workshop, nestled in a corner of his large barn, and loaded sufficient supplies into a borrowed field bag for tonight. Five rolls of duct tape. An industrial-size bottle of superglue. Thirty feet of half-inch nylon rope. I lifted a pair of night-vision binoculars and an emergency sleeping bag from his gun closet. Tossed them into the field bag, along with extra ammo for the .45 and my Delta first aid kit. Just in case.

  “I’m in full-blown acceptance of how fine it is lazing around. Get to recover from Bo and Catch.”

  “A wearing pair, no doubt.” He smiled and moved toward the kitchen area. “Drink?”

  “Not now, thanks.”

  “Well, these old bones could use an elixir.”

  “How’re the bovines?”

  “They look good. Healthy calves. If I don’t screw things up, should pocket a few dollars this year.” He popped the cap off a longneck beer. “What do you feel like for dinner?”

  I scratched behind one of Jake’s ears. A back leg lifted with synchronized joy. “Been invited to Irene’s.”

  A soft glance came my way. “Sounds good. I think I’ll grill a burger and fall asleep watching a movie.”

  He didn’t pry or tease or question. No judgment.

  “Take my vehicle.” He eased into a leather chair and placed socked feet on a padded ottoman.

  “Think I’ll walk.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  We chatted, Marcus channel surfed, and comfort draped the environment. The conversations masked silent anticipation. The rising tide of retribution delivered. And the exercise of a well-honed skill set. A little before eight, he snored gently, dirty plate alongside the armchair. The fireplace logs cast a perimeter of warmth. I eased out the back. Jake shot a questioning look but laid his head back down.

  Moving clouds, stars, and an increased bite from the wind greeted me. Marcus said we might get a dusting of snow. The field bag over one shoulder, I cut across Marcus’s ranch, pace steady, loosening muscles. Off to spend time with Irene. A bite to eat. Take out the trash.

  Aromas of ginger, soy sauce, and flash-cooked food greeted me. Irene had changed into fresh jeans, a snap-button blouse, and a turquois
e-inlaid belt buckle. She appeared half-recovered from this morning’s trauma.

  “Glass of wine?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Oh. Right.” She tossed a worried look and bit her upper lip, sprinkling a few final spices into a wok.

  A weird unspoken element—the evening’s violent activities—remained silent during our conversations. We chatted about her job, LA trips, exciting things in biochemistry. A brief run around world affairs, raising cattle, and a much longer conversation about cooking. The stir-fry was excellent, with the right amount of fire to catch the back of the throat.

  She started a pot of coffee and we both cleaned up, placing dishes in a drying rack. Her fireplace remained unlit, and she asked if I’d mind grabbing a few logs and starting a fire. Brief spits of snow greeted me at the woodpile, wind from the east. Crosswinds for my planned northern approach later. Brisk enough to cover the snap of any sagebrush limbs I might step on.

  Fireplace crackling, she poured herself a third glass of wine and plopped on the couch. “This is too strange, and I want to talk about it.”

  Not a demand nor delivered with vehemence. A quiet, clinical statement. And I got it. My career in the shadows, out of sight, made for awkward situations when pressed against those with no exposure to life’s dark and violent side. Folks who internalized evil as a concept, not realized.

  “Well, first and foremost,” I said, sitting alongside her with my coffee. “My apologies. I’ve used you as a ruse to escape the wily eye of Marcus. Dinner with Irene.”

  “No, that part’s okay. I mean, not telling him what’s going on doesn’t sit well with me. But I understand.”

  “Is it the inevitability of what will happen soon?”

  “Yes. Exactly.” She took a sip of wine. “This is a weird situation. Right here and now.”

  “Yeah. It can’t be comfortable. Again, I’m sorry.”

  “No, no. Stop the apologizing.” She shook her head, lips tight. “It’s my issue. In a short while you’ll walk out of here and, well . . .”

  “Take care of business.”

  “Business.” She stared deep into my eyes. “You mean, ‘Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.’”

  I fought back a smile. She noticed.

  “I’m sensing an unwarranted attitude,” she said. “Bordering on cavalier.”

  “It’s light work, Irene. Five punks. Not high on the . . .” Delta formed on my lips, shut down before the words were uttered. “Not high on the great challenges scale.”

  “Five men, armed. At night. Ready to shoot you.”

  “Punks. Bullies.”

  “So one part of me hates being involved with this. The inevitable violence. No killing, right?”

  “We’ve gone over that.”

  “I’m keeping the no killing aspect as a comforter. Please don’t blow it for me.”

  “I’ll try. Sincerely.”

  “And a part of me has this otherworldly scene of my knight heading into battle. Protecting me. The idiotic feeling I should give you one of my scarves, a lady’s honor, to wear into battle. How nuts is that?”

  “It’s not a big deal.” It wasn’t. A situation. Life skills unleashed on human trash. Still, I’d never considered the knight into battle thing, and a small piece of me stamped it with a cool factor. Then I power-washed that notion away. There would be no heroics tonight. Pain, intimidation, and more pain. No code of chivalry. I would inflict terror. Plain and simple.

  “It’s a big deal for me. And I’m wrestling with the concept and the actuality. And what it means between you and me. I’ve never met anyone like you. And probably never will again.”

  I kissed her. Tentative at first, soft, escalating into full-blown passion. We sunk into the leather couch, diving deep. Full body on body, sighs as hands flowed and gripped. I was saved by the bell, thankful a deadline approached. The fire and longing stood at the edge of the diving board, and warm waters below beckoned. I wasn’t ready, and neither was she. Too much, too soon.

  I pushed up, one final kiss, and stood. “Gotta go.”

  “I know.” She nodded—acceptance of a timeline or relief at a stopping point, I couldn’t say. She sat up and straightened her shirt. “So one final thing. And I know it sounds ludicrous. But I’m serious.”

  I checked my field bag, slipped the .45 into a front pocket, and donned a black watch cap. “I know. No killing.”

  “Not that. I mean, yes, no killing, but something else.”

  “What?”

  “Can I help? I mean it. Baseball bat? Lookout?”

  She displayed great and unexpected moxie. An obligation to participate. To do something. It was her problem, her situation, and she offered—a heartfelt, no BS offer—to lend a hand. I appreciated it. And saw an unknown side of her. She showed fight, with a strong moral sense of not wiping her issues on others.

  “I appreciate it. Sincerely. But no. This situation calls for a solo act. But thanks.”

  No more words. Out the door, headed north, starlight guiding. I dropped into coulees, avoided plowing through brush. Zipped the jacket tight and pulled the watch cap down. I’d enter the area of operations in thirty minutes. Coyotes yipped, quarreled, and howled nearby. Then silence.

  I halted and tilted an ear. A primeval howl, clear and distinct. A wolf. Announcing presence and warning and intent. Every creature across the broad, rolling hills fell silent. His domain. His turf. And mine.

  Chapter 22

  Human garbage, with warped hatred the common glue of their worldview. Delta and other special ops tended toward broad categorization. The “bad guys.” Resident evil within certain humans.

  Not the time for reflection, flat on my belly and nestled at the lip of a coulee. Tall bunchgrass and brush hid me. The nature of my prey—armed and dangerous—painted gravity across the situation. No allowance for mistakes or a less-than-full focus. The mental switch thrown, I searched, hunted.

  Two of them shared a smoke near Tannenbaum’s shack. A third wandered between the trailers. Each with a rifle slung over a shoulder. It left two outside their compound area, on the perimeter. I’d find and deal with them first.

  Tops of bunchgrass near my face bent with the breeze, dancing at the stronger gusts. Through night-vision binoculars I scanned, slow and meticulous. Searched for anomalous shapes, metallic reflections. And what all predators sought—unusual movement.

  A landscape change, motion. The fourth member of this vile little clan. He sat hidden among sagebrush, east of me. He’d shifted position on a small rise, rifle across his knees. He surveyed the old shack and trailers area. The entire point of a perimeter is to guard outward. Watch for the enemy. He did the opposite. What a moronic piece of trash. Still, a dangerous moron, armed and on edge.

  The four were identifiable, each with their own traits and look and unique postures. The fifth, not yet spotted, was the nastiest piece of work. Tanenbaum’s relative. Irene’s assailant. He was out here, with me. I’d find him. First take care of the one overlooking the compound. I snaked backward into the coulee and worked east. Hidden among the brush and tall grass littering the ravine, I moved at a moderate pace, senses in overdrive. The mission held a special challenge. They would shoot to kill. My mission was less terminal—terrorize. Ensure they left. A few broken bones—inevitable—but no killing.

  Fifteen minutes later I eased up the back side of the small rise. My quarry waited thirty feet below. The wind chilled, his hands shoved into jacket pockets. Cold gusts covered my approach. A rapid crab crawl positioned me five feet from his back. I exploded with a silent leap, slammed him forward. Before he could cry out, I applied a sleeper hold. Compressed the carotid arteries. Brief thrashing for less than two seconds. Then limp. Field bag opened, a roll of duct tape produced. Both hands taped behind his back. Ankles wrapped. He began regaining consciousness. Three quick duct tape wraps around his head shut his pie hole.

  “Stay still and I won’t kill you.” Lips against his ear as his eyes bulged w
ith panic, desperate snorts through nostrils.

  I stayed on top of him and fished for other weapons. A large folding knife and a semiautomatic pistol in his jacket. I pocketed the knife. Pistol magazine removed and the chambered round ejected. A moment for quick disassembly and the pistol’s slide mechanism was removed. It joined the other rolls of duct tape in the field bag. The rifle—a bolt-action hunting weapon—allowed for simple removal of the bolt. It landed among the tape as well.

  “I’ll be back in twenty or thirty minutes,” I said, still speaking into his ear. “If I’ve found you’ve moved or rolled or struggled, I’ll get upset. You don’t want me upset.”

  I emphasized the point, driving a left hook into his side. Ribs cracked. He grunted and twitched and started curling into a ball.

  “I just told you not to move. Are you trying to upset me?”

  He froze, except for a frantic headshake.

  I lay back and scoped the surrounding area through night-vision binoculars. Placed a booted foot on the head of the facedown body near me, getting comfortable. Flecks of snow blew across my vision. A few landed on my exposed neck, melting. The three in the compound continued meandering about, unaware. My next target, Irene’s attacker. It took ten minutes of intense focus, eyeballing every detail of the terrain. I spotted him. My jaw clenched and nostrils flared. Howdy, asshole.

  He lay on his belly opposite me, across the compound and near the lip of another coulee. He watched and waited, assault rifle at the ready, pointed into the night. My prey. He also used night-vision binoculars, scanning the area at his front, away from the compound. He held a solid position, with one major flaw. One he’d soon discover.

  A final word with my trussed-up prey. I grabbed a fistful of short hair and snatched his head off the ground. Quick, violent exhales blew through his nose.

  “I’ll be back. And will kill you if you’ve moved or made noise.” A few extra wraps of duct tape around his wrists and forearms and knees ensured a painful lack of mobility. I crawled back to the top of the rise, ignoring the arrow wound shooting shards of pain at the latest exertion. Back into the night.