by L. J. Martin
She nods enthusiastically.
A uniformed SEAL walks over and extends a hand. “Commander Elliot Steel. Howdy Bo.”
“Commander,” Bo replies.
“You boys made a bit of a mess.”
“Yes, sir. You get the bogies and the women?”
“All but two.” He laughs. “They are barricaded in part of the palace and want a familiar voice before they open up.”
“If it’s who I think it is, they will recognize mine,” I say. “They may not welcome it, but they’ll recognize it.”
“Commander, this woman,” and I point to Alia, “is a non-combatant,” a small lie, “and I have her man down below. Request you ignore her and leave her here, unharmed?”
“No sweat,” he says. “However, my orders are to level this place. Suggest you take her out of harm’s way.”
I follow the commander another fifty yards to the east, to a door, and he raps on it and shouts, “Ladies, got someone here you may know.”
“Connie, open up. You’ll miss the bus home.”
I can hear furniture being pulled aside then the door flies open, and Connie leaps into my arms. “You beautiful son-of-a-bitch,” she says, “I was afraid you were dead.”
“Dead friggin’ tired, if that counts.”
“Reardon,” Simone says, and I back away from Connie to receive an equally enthusiastic hug from my charge, who I’m happy to say seems in one piece.
She backs away and holds both hands on my shoulders and gives me those wide-eyed gray-greens. “You’re a total prick and a piss-poor bodyguard, but I like you anyway. In fact, right now I love you.”
“Hold on, I got someone for you to speak to.” I pull out my SAT phone and call Mort Meyer. Who answers on the first ring.
“Mort, hold on.”
I hand the phone to Simone…Sally. “Papa,” she says, then begins to sob. She hands the phone back to me.
“Mort, she’s fine. Happy to be in the hands of American military.”
“Thank God,” he says.
“Later. We’ve got to get on the trail.”
“Make sure. Tell her to call the instant she can. I want her home.”
I disconnect and put an arm around her shoulder. “He wants you home, Miss Sally.”
“Bullshit, we’re going to Cannes to the film festival.”
I stare at her a moment. Then suggest, “I’ll see if I can find you a good bodyguard.”
“Bullshit, you signed on. You want a bad review on Yelp, or what?”
“God forbid I get a bad review on Yelp,” I say, as Connie throws her arms around me again.
“Walk me inside,” Connie says, and I follow her. She crosses the room beyond the hot tub and pile of pillows and goes into a small room where two more bodies lay. One of them a very fat man.
“This your work?” I ask.
“Yeah, they kinda pissed me off.”
“Kinda? I’d hate to see you really angry.”
She reaches down and unhooks the gold chain from his neck, one with a stone the size of half my thumb and puts it on.
“Nice, eh?” she says, then tucks it inside the robe.
“Very nice,” I say.
“Reparations. Price of seeing my boobs,” she says, stuffs it inside her robe, then laughs and leads me out.
Bo and I lead the ladies down the hill to join up with Pax, then back to where Ji Su has returned with the Jet Ranger. Sa’id is tied to a nearby greasewood-like shrub. I go over and cut him free and he removes his blindfold and muzzle.
“Alia?” is the first word out of his mouth.
“She is tied and waiting up the wadi a couple of hundred yards. Do not, I repeat, do not return to the palace. It is now a target.”
He nods, then adds, “But we are deep in the desert.”
“I saw lights a few clicks to the north…”
“Clicks?” he asks.
“Kilometers. I suggest you hoof it there. If I return you two, I may not be able to keep you safe.”
“We will…hoof it…as you say.”
“Good luck. I hope I don’t have to sic a drone on you?”
“You will not.”
63
We get the hell out of Libya as quickly as possible. Ji Su ferries us to Ouargla, Algeria, then returns to the Interco compound where Skip has been treated and hauls him back. In less than a half-day from leaving the now-leveled palace, thanks to those F16s, Charley Glascock loads us in the G5.
Harry Weinstein has called me a half-dozen times, insisting I return to Spain to be debriefed and I promise to do so. A bald-faced lie.
We fuel in the Azores, fly to Miami, then to Vegas.
I’m having supper with Pax, Connie, Ji Su, and another old friend at the Golden Steer, when three uptight guys in suits stride in and FBI Special Agent Harold Stroeger flips open his ID. His first sentence is not a request. “You four are wanted in Washington, DC. Fold your napkins.”
“I guess you’re picking up the tab here?” Pax says, and winks at me.
“Come easy, or the hard way. Your choice,” he snaps.
Isaac, our waiter, is standing nearby so I give him a heads up. “Hey, Isaac, viral video chance here. These assholes are screwing up the supper of a bunch of folks who just saved the lives of all those American women you read about in the Sun.”
“That’s screwed up,” Isaac says, and a half-dozen nearby diners join Isaac in taking videos.
I point at my friend who’s joined us for supper. “Speaking of the Sun, Agent, do you know Forrest Knowlton, reporter at the Sun?”
“I heard you were a smartass,” Special Agent Stroeger says, his jaw set tightly.
“We’ll finish our supper then…”
He reaches for my collar to drag me out of the booth. I come far enough to kick the struts out from under him, and he goes down hard as the other two pull their weapons.
I extend my hands. “Happy to come along, fellas, but I’m a little tired of being pushed and pulled.” I turn to Forrest, “Take it easy on them. The FBI has had enough bad press for a while.”
As Stroeger, red-faced, gets to his feet, we all climb out, leaving Forrest.
“Reaching for my wallet,” I say, so I don’t get shot, “Since Uncle Sam can’t afford to pay, and hand Isaac five Benjamins.
Isaac smiles. “YouTube, here it comes.”
“Give me that phone,” Stroeger snaps and reaches for Isaac’s iPhone.
“You gonna arrest the whole restaurant?” I ask.
Stroeger looks around and at least ten cell phones are recording videos.
“F…f…fudge,” he says.
I can’t help but laugh. “I only wish the Bureau had more boy scouts.” We follow him toward the door, with the other two agents close behind.
I’m not much of a fan of Washington, D.C., particularly when it’s hot and muggy, but the interrogation rooms of both the FBI and then the Company’s in Langley are nicely air conditioned. Even so, I’m pissed that services for Bull Toliver—without a body--are held at nearby Arlington while I’m being interviewed, and the pricks won’t break long enough for me to attend. I do send a wreath and hope Mrs. Toliver takes notice. No matter as I’ll visit when out from under the thumb of the acronyms.
By the time a number of the crew, passengers, and we four are wrung through the wringer, and a number of national publications including the NYT and Washington Post have spun the tale of the Blue Pearl, I’m a little surprised Pax and I don’t get a Presidential medal. It seems obvious weapons charges are ignored. As usual, the press reports are about half accurate, but half is enough.
Simone was convinced, or threatened by her father enough, to not go on to Cannes. She, Patti, and the boys are among those interrogated.
As soon as the government is through with us, the papers and networks are on us again. And I’m happy to have it so, as a gaggle of attorneys representing Crimson Cruise Line want a deposition. I refuse, and refer them to the press, indicating they can come out a
s heroes or bums depending upon me relating my story. They stand down.
We return to Vegas, refusing any interviews with anyone other than my buddy at the Vegas Sun, whom I can rely upon to be discreet.
Still, after all the press coverage I may have to get plastic surgery if I’m to find more sub-rosa work. As I’ve said, in my line, one doesn’t want to be easily recognized.
When the final tally comes in, it seems four hostiles remain alive, other than Sa’id and Alia, who we don’t mention. A deal’s a deal. So over thirty are dead, if one doesn’t consider those in Sweet Water and at Hassan’s palace who weren’t among those on board the ship. Those in the Algerian military—the Algerian, other North African, and half the world’s press gave all credit for the rescue to Armée Nationale Populaire, the Algerian army. There was no mention of the U.S. making an incursion into Algeria or Libya. After all, shitholes have to save face.
Ji Su and Pax are still a thing. She’s back flying tourists over the Grand Canyon.
I have never been to Australia but am boarding a flight in the morning. It seems they are having a service and hell of a wing ding for Alistair Nelson, and I won’t miss it. Old warriors should not be forgotten.
I’m saddened by the fact my new squeeze, Connie, decided that Mike Reardon and Vegas were both a little exciting for her. She decided not to accompany me to Melbourne. It seems shooting an old boy in his fat belly was a little more traumatic than she let on. ‘Needing a little time’, is how she put it. She has a new job for some computer outfit in Austin, Texas.
I hope, for their sake, none of her new bosses are from the old school and put the heavy hand on her for a little nookie. They’ll likely find their voices an octave higher for the rest of their careers.
And, of course, Mort Meyer refused to pay the second installment of fifty grand as he says letting his darling daughter get captured by terrorists is not what he considers proper body-guarding. Even so, neither he nor Simone gave me a bad review on Yelp—like I give a rat’s ass. The good news is the fifty he did pay was enough to cover Taj and other out of pocket dough it cost my buddies.
I’d squeeze Mort’s chicken neck; except I must agree.
I’ll try and do better next time.
And there’s gotta be a next time as I owe some buddies who dropped all and came running.
Other Works by L. J. Martin
The Nemesis Series:
Nemesis
Shadows of Nemesis
Mr. Pettigrew
Two Thousand Grueling Miles Series:
Two Thousand Grueling Miles(#1)
Rugged Trails (#2)
Rush to Destiny (#3)
Shadow of the Mast (#4)
The Manhunter Series:
Crimson Hit
Bullet Blues
Quiet Ops
The Clint Ryan Series:
El Lazo
Against the 7th Flag
The Devil's Bounty
The Benicia Belle
Shadow of the Grizzly
Condor Canyon
The Montana Series – The Clan:
McCreed's Law
Stranahan
McKeag's Mountain
Wolf Mountain
O'Rourke's Revenge
Eye For Eye
Revenge Of The Damned
Blackjack Brannigan
The Ned Cody Series:
Buckshot
Mojave Showdown
Other Titles:
Shadow of the Mast
Rush to Destiny
Unchained
Tin Angel
Myrtle Mae & The Crew
Blood Mountain
Windfall
West of the War
Bloodlines
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L.J. Martin
About the Author
L. J. Martin is the author of over three dozen works of both fiction and non-fiction from Bantam, Avon, Pinnacle and his own Wolfpack Publishing. He lives in, and loves, Montana with his wife, NYT bestselling romantic suspense author Kat Martin. He’s been a horse wrangler, cook as both avocation and vocation, volunteer firefighter, real estate broker, general contractor, appraiser, disaster evaluator for FEMA, and traveled a good part of the world, some in his own ketch. A hunter, fisherman, photographer, cook, father and grandfather, he’s been car and plane wrecked, visited a number of jusgados and a road camp, and survived cancer twice. He carries a bail-enforcement, bounty hunter, shield. He knows about what he writes about, and tries to write about what he knows.
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