Damage Control

by John Gilstrap

  “Like running-on-vapors tight.”

  Jonathan noted the startled reaction from Tristan.

  Tristan noticed Jonathan noticing. “Hey,” he said. “You promised honesty. I get it.” He looked to Boxers.

  “Does this mean I don’t have to learn to shoot?”

  Boxers opened his mouth to answer, then deferred to his boss.

  “Think of it as a life skill.” Jonathan said. “And if things come apart later, we’ll be able to use another trigger finger.” He let the words settle. “Besides, we have time to waste. We might as well spend it productively.”

  Boxers cocked his head. “Why do we have time to waste?”

  “Because we’re going to borrow the plane in the dark,” Jonathan said.

  “We’re never getting out of here alive, are we?” Tristan asked.

  “Of course we are,” Jonathan said. “Not a doubt in my mind.”

  “Bullshit,” Tristan said. “You can’t be sure of that.”

  Jonathan and Boxers exchanged glances. “Sure we can,” the Big Guy said. “I’ve turned down opportunities to die in way better places than this shit hole.”

  Scorpion improved on it. “We’re getting out of here because that’s the only option that Big Guy and I will accept.”

  Tristan rolled his eyes.

  Jonathan sighed. “Look, I know that that sounds like empty talk, but I’m going to share a lesson with you. I’ve seen more tough days than most people, and I can tell you that commitment is everything. If you’re willing to accept failure as an option, then failure is the only possible outcome.”

  The kid still wasn’t buying.

  “Okay,” Jonathan said. “What’s your sport in high school?”

  Tristan laughed. “Sport? I’m on the debate team.” Jonathan beamed. “I was on the debate team, too. Have you ever gotten yourself fired up enough to win a debate that you had no right winning because the other team was way better than you?”

  Tristan scowled. “Sure, I guess so.”

  “Of course you have,” Jonathan said. “It happens that way with everyone, and it happens that way with everything. If you project success, you cannot fail.”

  “But the police are following us,” Tristan said. “They’re as good with guns as we are.”

  Boxers laughed. “Um, no they’re not.”

  “No one says there has to be shooting,” Scorpion said. “And even if it comes to that, no one says that everyone has to shoot. If you can’t bring yourself to pull the trigger, then you can reload spent mags. It’s all about being a team.”

  As Tristan listened, something stirred in his chest. From anyone else, this would have seemed like streaming bullshit, but Tristan could tell that Scorpion was spouting what he believed to be undeniable fact. And that fact alone made it impressive.

  “We need you to be a solid member of the team, Tristan.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Trevor Munro tired of waiting for an adequate break in oncoming traffic. His Porsche 911 Carrera had a big enough engine to cut it short and still survive. He gunned it and pulled into the undersized parking lot of the diminutive Vienna Branch of the Fairfax County Public Library, cutting across two lanes of oncoming traffic and eliciting a symphony of blaring horns.

  With no parking slots available, he just idled in the lot, waiting for Jerry Sjogren to make his stealthy entrance. It didn’t take long. The big Bostonian emerged through the double glass front doors just like any other patron, strolled to the passenger side, and pulled the door open. He stared at the space for a few seconds before he began the process of folding his enormous frame into the low-slung seats.

  “Holy shit, Trev,” he said as he pulled his legs inside and struggled to get the door closed. “I already climbed out of a womb once. Is your dick really so small that you need to drive a car like this?”

  Munro gunned the engine mostly for the noise of it, and circled around the parking lot to head back out on Maple Avenue, heading north. “You called this meeting, Sjogren,” he said.

  “And you ought to be saying a prayer of thanks that I did,” Sjogren said. “You got yourself what we New Englanders call a wicked problem.”

  Trevor forced himself to keep his eyes on the road. If he didn’t encourage these kinds of games, maybe they would stop, and the oaf would simply get to the point. Meanwhile, the Porsche’s horsepower would remain wasted as he surged from traffic light to traffic light, flanked by one strip mall after another.

  “I got a buddy in the U.S. attorney’s office who keeps me in the loop on important stuff. He tells me that they’re on the edge of bringing in your butt buddy, Felix Hernandez. I don’t know how you do that from another country, but he’s never given me bad four-one-one.”

  Munro waited for the rest.

  “C’mon, Trev, humor me. I got so little in my life. This is where you’re supposed to say, ‘How does this affect me?’ ”

  And thus the game perpetuated. “Gee, Mr. Sjogren, how does this affect you?”

  Sjogren erupted in laughter. “Not me—you. How does this affect you. I was doing, like a direct quote for you. And remember that my name is Abrams for this op.” Sjogren craned his neck to see Munro’s face, and then slapped him on the arm. “C’mon, Trev. Engage with me. We’re havin’ fun here.”

  “You’re having fun,” Munro said. He knew he was rising to the bait, but he wanted this meeting to end. “You’re having it at my expense, and I desperately want you to get on with it.”

  “Priggish little shit, aren’t you?” Sjogren mocked. “All right, fine. If they nail him, I figure that you’ll be the first one he throws under the bus. That’s what I’d do if I was him. Then I’d pull your skinny ass out and throw it under again. I’ve checked you out, Trev. You got no friends anywhere. That’s hard to do. Shit, I’m an asshole, and even I have friends.” He paused for a reaction.

  “No freakin’ fun at all,” Sjogren said. “Now ask me what they’ve got on Hernandez.”

  Munro looked across the console. He hoped that his contempt for the man was plainly evident. “Really?” he said.

  “Do you want to know or don’t you?”

  A deep sigh. “Okay, Mr. Abrams, what do they have on Hernandez?”

  “An informant.” He fired the answer like a weapon, and it hit its mark. “There’s somebody inside his organization that’s funneling information back to the U.S. attorney’s office. The FBI’s doin’ a little happy dance over it.”

  Munro felt his face going pale, and he let off the accelerator a bit. This could be the nightmare of nightmares. Hernandez knew way too much about everything. The drug lord had thoroughly insulated himself from the Mexican authorities, but there were still elements within the Mexican government that wanted democracy to return. Those elements had been working with the American State Department for years trying to find a workable leverage point. And, of course, wherever State goes, the Justice Department isn’t very far behind. It would be just like those agencies to negotiate leniency for a Mexican in favor of the hard line against a career patriot like Munro.

  “You don’t look so good, Trev,” Sjogren said. “You maybe need to pull over or something? I’d hate to test the air bags on your midlife crisis car.”

  “Go to hell, Sjogren.”

  “It’s Abrams.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Sjogren laughed again, a hearty thing that shook his whole frame. “There you go, Trev! That’s what I’ve been mining for all this time. I really can get you to cuss! I’m proud of you.”

  Munro couldn’t even process the mockery. This was beyond a crisis. This was a disaster of incalculable proportions. “We have to stop it,” he said.

  “Yeah, well, good luck with that. What do you have in mind?”

  Munro’s mind swam in options. “How much would it cost for you to kill him?”

  Sjogren’s jaw dropped. “Who, Felix Hernandez? You don’t have that much money. They don’t print that much money. He’s got more security a
round him than the freakin’ president of the United States.”

  Munro felt the panic building in his gut. He tried to press it down, but this was too big to suppress. “But he has to be stopped. If what you say is true—”

  “Back up a second,” Sjogren said. “You’re not hearing what I’m telling you. He’s got an informant in his inner circle. My guy at the AG’s office thinks it’s a woman, but he wasn’t sure of that. You just need to tell Hernandez that he’s got a spy, and then Hernandez needs to clean his own house. Without the informant, the government’s got no case. No case, no arrest. No arrest, you get to retire alive.”

  There, finally, was the glimmer of hope. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it himself. “You need to get me a name.”

  “You say that like it’s easy. If I coulda got you a name, I’d have done it.”

  “How much?” Munro asked.

  “How much what?”

  Returning anger started diluting his fear. “Don’t be obtuse,” he said. “How much will a name cost me?”

  Sjogren put a hand over his chest, as if to fend off a heart attack. “You offend me, Trev. You make it like I do this only for the money.”

  Munro shot a look that triggered another laugh. “How much?”

  “Ten thousand.”

  “Dollars?” Munro croaked. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

  Sjogren made a show of stroking the lush leather interior of the Porsche. “This is really a nice car, Trev. The whole poverty thing doesn’t resonate well with you.”

  Typical talk from a lout like Sjogren. “But ten thousand dollars? That’s outrageous.”

  “Hey, you asked me, okay? You want the name, you pay the money. You don’t, you don’t. I don’t give much of a shit either way.”

  Munro ran the options through his head and determined within seconds that he didn’t have any. “First the name, and then the payment,” he said. “I’m not going to pay that kind of money on a roll of the dice.”

  “Fine by me. I figure you know the penalty for stiffing me, so what the hell?” He slapped Munro on the shoulder again. “See, Trev? We got us a trusting working relationship now. When you foul things up, I’m always there to help you clean up the mess.”

  Munro felt his face flush. Just once, he wanted to hear Sjogren—or Abrams, or whatever the hell he wanted to call himself—face up to his own mistakes. That’s what bothered Munro the most in his dealings with the Bostonian: he managed to remain self-righteously smug, even as he shared at least half the blame.

  “When can you get it to me?” Munro asked. “The name, I mean.”

  “I don’t know that I can. I don’t know that my guy even has it. Even within the AG’s office, people tend to be pretty tight-lipped. Or so I’m told.”

  “You need to hurry,” Munro pressed.

  “I can just make something up, if you want,” Sjogren said. “That’s what you get when you hurry. I’ll do what I can, and then we’ll see what we end up with.”

  Munro executed a treacherous U-turn in the middle of a block, throwing Sjogren against his door, and pressing him there with centrifugal force.

  “Who the hell taught you to drive?” Sjogren bitched. “Don’t they have police officers in this burg?”

  “I want it by tonight,” Munro said.

  “And I want a date with a supermodel. Wanting it don’t make it so, you know? Even when you’re a big-friggin’-shot with the CIA. I’ll do what I can. Keep your cell phone handy.”

  Munro recognized the closing line of their last meeting being turned against him, but pretended he didn’t. They drove back to the library in silence, only this time, Munro avoided the tough left turn entirely and instead pulled into a parking lot across the street.

  “I’ll let you out here,” Munro said.

  Sjogren pulled the latch and pushed the door open. It was a comical thing to watch him unfold himself and find his feet.

  “Hey, Mr. Abrams,” Munro said as the door was about to close.

  Sjogren bent at the waist and peered back into the vehicle.

  “This source you have. Why does he give you this information? What’s his angle?”

  Sjogren’s smile betrayed the fact that he’d been waiting for the question. “That’s the coolest part of all,” he said. “In Washington, D.C., everybody’s got secrets to share. All you gotta do is tell them that you’re an investigative reporter. I even have fake business cards, just in case, but not one of these self-righteous bozos has ever asked for one.”

  Munro scoffed and shook his head. What was the world coming to?

  “And before you get all high-horsey on me,” Sjogren said, “you spooky guys at the Funny Farm are the worst of the lot.”

  With that, he slammed the door and walked away.

  So, now they were marching. And sweating. They’d become a part of the jungle, bait not just to the gajil-lion insects that had already feasted on every square inch of Tristan’s exposed skin, but now to sharp-toothed mammals as well, now that the afternoon was dying and darkness lay only three or four hours ahead. Yeah, good times. And for the record, flip-flops made shitty hiking shoes.

  Until, say, five hours ago, Tristan would have sworn on a stack of Bibles that he’d already reached the bottom of his life experience. Hah!

  This was the stuff of nightmares. All the killing, all the blood. He wondered if he’d ever be able to close his eyes and not have those images invade his brain.

  Would it ever be possible to be happy again? Would he ever be able to think about Allison and Ray and Mrs. Charlton and the others and see them in his mind the way they used to look, or would those memories forever be dominated by shattered bone and extruding brain tissue?

  What was it that Scorpion had said to him before? That he’d served in war with soldiers who were younger than Tristan. He wondered now if those were all the ones who came back mentally crippled from the experience. If you can never find happiness, then what’s left for your life other than anger, depression, and suicide?

  You’re catastrophizing. The thought startled him. He hadn’t heard his dad’s voice in his head for a very long time. Catastrophizing had been Dad’s favorite word for describing Tristan’s tendency to view a problem purely in negative terms and then spin it into a negative prediction for the future. Even Dad would have to cut him a little bit of a break on this one.

  Even the ever-optimistic, ever-cheerful Dad, whose pancreatic cancer had taken him out within three weeks of his initial diagnosis. That had been one time, in fact, when Tristan had decided to take the positive route, if only because the negative was so depressing.

  All things considered, calling Tristan’s life a catastrophe sounded more like a statement of fact than a projection of gloom.

  Since it was too dangerous to use the Pathfinder anymore, they’d formed a three-person parade, with Scorpion in front and Big Guy in the rear. Big Guy had modified one of the dead guys’ bulletproof vests so that it would fit Tristan, so now, despite the zillion-degree heat, he was wearing a thirty-pound sweat machine that was crammed with magazines for the rifle that he’d practiced so diligently to load and unload.

  He also carried a rifle they’d taken from one of the dead Mexicans, slung as the commandos’ rifles were slung, hanging across his chest. He kept his hand on the grip because that was where it felt most comfortable (and, he thought, looked most cool). Consequently, he endured a reminder every few minutes from Big Guy to make sure that the safety was still on. That seemed to be a real sore spot for him.

  Tristan tried not to notice the bloodstains on the vest. At least it was black, and Scorpion had done his best to wash them off. If you didn’t look too hard, you couldn’t even see them.

  When they’d first started out, this hike was announced to be about twelve miles in duration. Tristan wasn’t sure it was possible to drink enough water to keep up with the sweat that poured out of him. In the oppressive humidity, none of it evaporated, either. He didn’t get how Scorpion and
Big Guy could do this with the long sleeves and long pants and the backpacks. Then again, their legs probably weren’t bloodied from thorns and bug bites. Everything’s a trade-off, he supposed.

  The exhaustion and dehydration and the insects were to be expected, he thought, as unpleasant as they were. What really surprised him was how badly the jungle stank. Take the worst combination of gym socks, skid-marked underwear, and mold and blow the resulting smell through a hot, mildewed towel, and you’d come close.

  Scorpion led them with purpose, rarely stopping to readjust to his map. Tristan figured that the box in his hand was a GPS of some sort, but it was way more exotic looking than anything he’d ever seen in a store.

  Tristan picked up his pace to catch up with the leader, doing his best not to make a lot of noise.

  “You’d be wise not to sneak up on people,” Scorpion said without looking. When he turned around for eye contact, he was smiling. “Come on up and walk with me.” He moved to the side to open up a gap between him and the foliage on his left.

  Tristan stepped up.

  “How are you holding up?” Scorpion asked.

  “I wish I didn’t have to wear all of this crap,” he said. “It’s heavy and hot.”

  “It’ll also stop a bullet,” Scorpion said. “Keep it on. How are you doing otherwise?”

  “I’m scared,” Tristan said. He worried that they were the wrong words, but they were the only ones that came to mind.

  “Good for you,” Scorpion said. “Give yourself an A in humanity.”

  Tristan didn’t get it. How did someone endure this kind of pressure and drama yet remain so calm? He actually wanted to ask that as a question, but he didn’t know how to phrase it without sounding like a toad.

  “You should feel proud of yourself,” Scorpion said. “I’ve rescued a lot of people over the years, and not all of them held up as well as you have.”

  Tristan said, “Thanks,” but it sounded hollow, even to his own ears. What else was there to say?

  “Tell me about home,” Scorpion said. “I know you’re on the debate team, but tell me something else I should know about you.”