Warriors in Paradise

by Luis E. Gutiérrez-Poucel

  This procedure took five minutes.

  ***

  After taking I-66 to Arlington, I let Santi out of the Camry two blocks away from my apartment building. I drove around the building and saw nothing suspicious. Two blocks on the other side, I let Caleb out. I drove around once more but did not see anything out of the ordinary. Santi and Caleb were making their way on foot back to the apartment building, watching for anything unusual. I parked the Camry behind the building and walked in through the garage. I took the stairs to the sixth floor. I looked around. The hall was empty and quiet. I walked to my apartment and placed my ear flat on the door. It was quiet.

  I went back to the stairs and waited. Five minutes later, Santi and Caleb arrived. We all walked to the apartment. I opened the door, and Caleb and Santi rushed in with their firearms at the ready.

  The apartment was empty. Nobody seemed to have been there since we had left for Mexico.

  I suddenly realized we had not said a word since we left my uncle’s house. We had done everything on automatic pilot.

  Santi broke the spell when he said, “These are nice digs! There is a great view of the Potomac, but the interior decoration could use some improvement.”

  “What, are you offering to do something?” I asked while going into my bedroom.

  Santi responded with a Cuban gay accent, “Of course. I am a decorator of the interior.”

  We chuckled.

  Santi went to Caleb’s room to pick out clothes and shoes that would fit him. They were both similar in size, and both wore size-twelve shoes. We needed at least four changes of clothes: (1) all-purpose casual, (2) dark-camouflage action clothing and shoes, (3) formal attire, and (4) exercise clothes and shoes.

  I packed my clothes into my backpack, along with my laptop. Caleb came out of his bedroom with his own backpack, including his laptop. We took all the correspondence with us and left the apartment using the stairs and leaving the building through the garage.

  We drove back to the supermarket and returned the license plates, reversing our earlier procedure. Each car now had its proper plates. We were back at my uncle’s home before the hour. We took the backpacks to the basement and then walked up the stairs to the breakfast room. My uncle and mother were waiting.

  There were five chairs around the table.

  A little help from a friend

  “I called my friend at the DEA,” began my uncle. “I am supposed to meet him for a cup of coffee at Starbucks on K and Sixteenth Street in forty minutes. Charlie, would you please drive me to the Dunn Loring Metro station?”

  “Would you like us to go with you?” I asked.

  “No need. He will feel more comfortable just talking to me,” answered my uncle.

  My mother said, “Before you go, I created a safe mail account for your communications with your friend.” She gave my uncle a yellow sticky note.

  My uncle looked at it and returned it, saying, “Thank you. I have memorized the info. Come on, Charlie, take me to the station.”

  I drove him in his Cherokee to the Dunn Loring Metro station. “What time would you like me to pick you up?”

  “Give me an hour.” He opened the door and walked to the station’s entrance.

  I drove back to the house.

  Now all we had to do was to wait—a difficult proposition!

  My mother was up in my uncle’s studio working on her computers. She had gotten six untraceable disposable cell phones. She was fine-tuning the network of servers. She was working through a series of relay proxies so that our e-mails could not be traced back to our IP. She had done her homework. Our communications were as safe as they could be.

  We were not very good at waiting, and even though we were tired and had a serious sleep deficit, we decided to go for a jog in the neighborhood. We changed into shorts, T-shirts, and running shoes.

  Vienna is quite a nice suburban neighborhood that has retained its rural character. There are several country roads, and, even though there are no sidewalks or jogging trails, you are pretty safe jogging on the road. The locals are well accustomed to joggers.

  We were running in a single line. I was point, with Caleb behind me and Santi bringing up the rear. After twenty minutes, I turned and headed back. We were jogging smoothly, rhythmically, at an easy, fast pace.

  Virginia was having an Indian summer. The weather was pleasant even though there was a lot of humidity and very little breeze. After forty minutes, we arrived back home not even breathing hard, but our running gear was soaking wet from the sweat.

  There were three full bathrooms in my uncle’s home. Caleb took a shower in Jonathan’s bathroom, Santi used the one in the basement, and I used my mother’s bathroom.

  I let the water pound my body for at least five minutes. I shaved, combed my hair, and wrapped a towel around my waist. I walked down to the basement. I could hear Caleb still enjoying his shower. Santi was already out of the shower and getting dressed in his action clothing. He looked a little intimidating. I guess we all did.

  I heard Caleb coming down the stairs. I started getting dressed as well. I had eight minutes to get to the Dunn Loring Metro station to pick up my uncle. Santi accompanied me. We took Gallows Road and arrived at the station with a minute to spare.

  My uncle had not arrived.

  It was almost four o’clock in the afternoon.

  My uncle arrived at ten minutes past four. He got into the jeep. The traffic was beginning to build up. After five o’clock, the rush-hour traffic would turn the main thoroughfares into parking lots. I started back to the house.

  “How did it go?” I asked him.

  My uncle responded, “He wasn’t happy, but he was receptive. What I am asking of him is huge. He’s aware of how vital this is for me and my family. I have served with him for many years, and he knew your father. I am sure he’s going to come through.”

  We arrived home.

  My uncle went up to his studio and checked his computer. He opened the e-mail account my mother had set up for him and his friend and checked the draft folder. There was an e-mail waiting with the title “As per your wishes.”

  The e-mail contained a short bio of Alexander Coombs—his family origins, education, and employment record; his office and home addresses and telephone numbers; his two cell phone numbers; and the make and license plate number of his car. It also contained a section titled “Grapevine.”

  The e-mail confirmed what Nancy Smith had told them in Mexico: that he was a bachelor and lived alone. The grapevine (gossip) suggested that he was arrogant with a narcissistic personality disorder. The e-mail did not contain the confidential telephone number that Toro and Nancy had used to contact him.

  The five of us walked down the stairs to the breakfast room. As we sat around the table, I said, “I believe that the best place to get him is at his home. He lives in McLean, Virginia, which makes things easier for us because it is an upscale neighborhood of single-family homes on large properties. I think we could go in and out with very few neighbors, if any, noticing us. What do you think?” I ended up looking at my uncle.

  He said, “You’re right. It is probably better to get him after he arrives. That way, we have all night to make him talk.”

  I said, “OK. I propose to start by scouting his home and neighborhood to get acquainted with the layout. We can then return when it is getting dark and break into his house.”

  “That sounds like a plan,” said my mother. “Don’t forget to take your new cell phones. If you need to communicate, text. Call only if it is an emergency; it’s more secure that way.”

  Santi and I drove the Camry to the supermarket. Nobody was about. We followed the same procedure with the license plates, and we were off in minutes. We had left the screws loose.

  Caleb did not accompany us. A black man might be too noticeable in an upscale, high-income neighborhood like McLean.

  We went around past Coombs’s house twice. It was close to five o’clock in the afternoon, and the residential
streets were mostly empty. I could see some commuters returning home early. Most of the working stiffs would be coming back home between six and seven.

  At this time of the year, it started getting dark around seven, the time when we would be coming back and the time that most of the neighbors would be having dinner and watching TV. Only a few workaholics would be arriving home after that time. I hoped that would be the case with Mr. Coombs.

  His home was a white-and-gray-brick construction with a two-car garage, sitting in the middle of a thick, lush, and professionally landscaped garden. The lot size was about a quarter of an acre. His street was quiet; nothing was moving, not even a breeze. If we wanted to come in from the rear, we needed to cross at least two backyards to reach his house. I hoped the owners did not have dogs. Just in case, we needed to bring Tasers.

  We went back home. We did not stop at the supermarket.

  Caleb flies again

  Caleb and Jonathan were waiting for us dressed in their dark outfits. I said, “We need to take Tasers. We’re crossing two backyards, and there may be dogs. I doubt it, but better safe than sorry.”

  My uncle said, “His house probably has a security system. We don’t have the security code to disarm it, but we can get in through the windows. These devices are magnetic guns. They will magnetize the alarm contact points in the windows. I will go first to see if there are any proximity and motion sensors. You will follow my lead. Am I clear?”

  “Crystal,” I responded. Caleb and Santi nodded.

  We left the house in silence. I was driving, and my uncle was riding shotgun. I parked behind Coombs’s house, between two households in darkness. Their occupants were probably out. When they returned, each would figure that the car parked at the edge of the property belonged to somebody visiting one of the neighbors.

  We could not be seen walking together. We would be noticeable and remembered. We lifted our hoodies, exited the car, and sneaked toward the shadows of one of the empty houses. Each of us had a Taser in case we ran into difficulties. The last thing we wanted to do was to tase some poor dog doing its job of guarding its territory, but there was no alternative. We needed to reach Coombs’s property without detection.

  My uncle said, “I will be your twelve, Santi my six, and you, Charlie, follow ten paces behind. Caleb covers the rear, keeping the same distance.” He crouched and started moving quietly along the darkest corridors of shadow behind the backyards and trees of the other houses.

  It was that time of the evening when light shares the space with dusk and darkness, just before the complete darkness of night takes over. It was that time when you cannot trust what your eyes see in the distance.

  I saw my uncle stop at the fence of the property. He looked over for any telltale signs of dogs. He quietly lifted the latch and opened the gate. He waited, listening. Nothing happened. He pushed the gate partly open and slipped into the yard. Santi rapidly closed the gap and caught the gate before it latched closed. He followed my uncle, tracing his steps. I did the same, catching the gate before it closed, and trailed Santi. I could not hear Caleb. I knew he was behind me, and, of course, I did not hear the gate latch close. Not even a dog could hear Caleb.

  We stayed clear of the house, moving along the shadows of the property line. We reached another backyard. My uncle crouched low and whispered softly, “Here, here, boy.” No dog barked. No dog came. He boosted himself up and over a fence. We all followed suit. My uncle reached the back fence of Coombs’s property. He softly rasped the fence and waited. No dog came to investigate. He stood up and looked around. When he was satisfied that there were no cameras or sensors, he slipped over the fence and landed softly in the lush beautiful garden of Alexander Coombs. Santi, Caleb, and I did the same.

  We were inside Coombs’s property.

  There was no way we could reach the windows on the second floor. They were at least fourteen feet high. My uncle said, “Let us walk around the perimeter and check all the entry points.”

  Caleb said, “Please give me a sec.” Without waiting for a response, he walked back twenty-five feet and started running toward the house. He jumped and placed a foot on the wall at a forty-five-degree angle, pushing himself up and turning to place another foot on the opposite side wall, jumping farther up and grabbing the frame of a second-story window. He pulled himself up into a squatting position on the frame. He took out his magnetic gun and disabled the window security contact. He slid the window up and faded in.

  He had been completely silent.

  Santi turned to me and whispered, “Did you see that shit? How the fuck is that even possible?”

  I thought I knew Caleb, but I just realized in that second that not even Caleb—especially Caleb—knew what he was capable of doing, what his unrealized potential was.

  We had been there for a minute or two when I felt Caleb’s soft landing next to us.

  He said, “There are five men in hiding, probably waiting for us. We have been set up. Coombs knew we were coming. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  ***

  We had been compromised. I could feel my uncle’s pain. His friend, his trusted partner from special ops, had sold him out.

  Instinctively I knew that one of the worst pains of the heart is when somebody you would be willing to give your life for double-crosses you.

  We were all quiet on our drive back to my uncle’s home.

  We arrived, and Santi and Caleb went down to the basement. I grabbed hold of my uncle’s arm and directed him toward the kitchen. I opened the cabinet and took out a bottle of scotch. I got shot glasses out and served us two drinks. I put the bottle between us. We both raised our glasses and drank the scotch in one go.

  “I am very, very sorry.” I said.

  My uncle looked at me with cold, steely eyes and said, “No, I am the one who should be apologizing. I have put you, your mother, and your friends in harm’s way. I have trusted somebody whom I would have put my life on the line for, and he has double-crossed me. My so-called friend prefers to live in shame rather than to die with honor.

  “Charlie, you have to understand that being in special ops means something to us—while we are in and when we are out. We are always there for one another. Of course, there is always the exception that proves the rule. It is obvious that a friendship that ends is a friendship that never began.”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  “The only thing I can do. I am going right now and have a face-to-face with my so-called friend, Jack. This time, you can come with me if you want.”

  “Uncle, do you mind if Caleb and Santi tag along?”

  My uncle responded, “I insist. Please bring them over.”

  I went down to the basement. Santi and Caleb were looking at me. I looked back at them and said, “What? Are you waiting for an invitation in the mail?”

  They both grinned at the same time with a sad smile, but a smile nevertheless. They stood up and walked up the stairs after me.

  Paying a visit to a friend

  I went to the Camry, took out the fake license plates, and placed them on my uncle’s Jeep. My uncle drove on the ring road to West Preston. He exited just before the Baltimore Freeway and found his way into an idyllic community of townhouses. All the parking spaces were taken. We parked three blocks away from my uncle’s so-called friend’s townhouse, on a corner.

  My uncle said, “That is where Jack Taylor lives. We served together in Afghanistan.”

  We looked at the townhouse. We didn’t see any exterior cameras or security sensors. There was a sign saying that Torchton Security watched the house. Caleb turned around to me and asked, “Do you want me to open the door?”

  I said, “Please, do your flying thing.”

  Caleb backed up and ran forward, jumped over the fence, and pushed himself up on the neighbor’s wall, then toward my uncle’s friend’s wall, and so on, until he was squatting on a third-story windowsill. He took a moment to examine the window. He quietly slid the window up.
He melted inside. Seconds later, the front door opened. We followed him in. We had our guns out with the silencers. We quietly started searching floor by floor.

  My uncle opened the second-floor bedroom door. The room was enfolded in shadows. My uncle rushed sideways into the room, and we instinctively did the same in the opposite direction. We could see a shape in the shadows standing by the window. Nothing happened for a minute or two.

  Without turning around, Jack Taylor said, “I was wondering how long it would take you to come.

  “I could tell you that I had no choice, that the life of my mother, brother, and his family, along with my ex-wife and my two girls, were on the line if I did not cooperate. However, that is just an explanation, not a justification. I always had a choice. I could have chosen to tell you and stand against them. I did not. I was already in too deep with them. I chose the easy way out, the weak way out, which for people like us is the toughest way out.

  “Jonathan, I can’t make it up to you. Saying sorry just doesn’t cut it. What’s done is done! I am ashamed of having gone behind your back. I fucked up! Nevertheless, I can do something to make it up to you. I know now that the only honorable way out of this is working together, helping you all the way through.

  “There are two choices for me: to live in shame or die with honor. You don’t have to believe me now, but believe this: I’d rather die than live without honor. If you accept my help, the only thing I ask from you, if you happen to survive, is to take care of my family.”

  My uncle looked at each of us in turn and asked, “What do you say? This is as much your decision as it is mine.”

  I looked at Caleb and Santi and then turned to my uncle and said, “I think he’s a piece of shit, but we do need his help. However, the second we have any doubt about his loyalty, I will put a bullet in his head myself.”

  My uncle looked at his ex-friend and said, “Jack, we reluctantly accept your help.”