He needed to find out more about the man, where he lived, and have him kept under surveillance too. Best get back to the office and get started then, put his plan into action.
“Alright, I’m on my way.”
“Thank you, s-”
He ended the call, and packed his stuff up, reluctantly removing his earpiece. Another time.
GI Joe hadn’t taken the bitch’s bait about his job, to his credit, followed by an uncomfortable silence, both of them no doubt thinking the same thing.
Where is she? Is she safe?
The man in the grey suit nodded to himself.
He knew exactly what to do next.
CHAPTER FOUR
We arrived back at my place and I slammed the door behind us, locking out the lashing wind and rain and immediately pulled a bag from the closet under the stairs in the entrance hall. The rough carryall I’d used as a Navy SEAL, lightweight, and containing all sorts of handy nooks and crannies.
Perfect for my plans.
Shelly went into the kitchen to put on some coffee and I took the carryall upstairs to my bedroom, tossed it on the bed and threw some clothes in, some toiletries, enough for a few days at most. I’d need more, of course, but I’d buy whatever I needed.
The rest of the bag I intended using in a much more creative way for entirely more interesting items.
The kind that projected small missiles with great velocity.
“So,” Shelley said, entering my bedroom with a mug of coffee in each hand. “Where to from here? What’s our plan?” She still looked haggard, like she’d aged ten years in a day, but since our meeting and the discussion she seemed a bit more positive, which warmed my heart.
“We don’t have a plan, Shel,” I replied, not turning around, not wanting to see the expression on her face. “You stay here. I go out, do some recon, and straighten this out.”
“The fuck I’m staying here while you go out into whatever is waiting, guns blazing!” she replied sharply enough to give me a jolt.
I turned then, “No, Shelley.”
She sat down on the bed, still holding both cups of coffee, and said nothing. Just looked down at the two cups. I moved over to her and took them from her, placing them on the bedside table. Then I sat next to her, turned her face to mine.
“I’m trained for this kind of thing, Shelley,” I said softly, trying very gently to get something important through to her while I could, while the opportunity still presented itself. “This is what I do. This is what I’ve done for longer than I’d like to remember, believe me. And there’ll be no shooting unless there has to be shooting, I promise you. At the moment, all I need to do is contact a few of my people. On the down low. Get some Intel. I need to find out what this situation is, to handle it. We don’t intend hurting anyone. But sometimes these things turn bad. And they can turn bad fast. And then…” I held up my hands.
“What?” she asked, her voice just as soft as mine had been, but different. As if daring me to give her the wrong answer. “And then what happens, Tom?”
“I deal with it,” I replied, looking away, out at the rainy streets outside. “I deal with it, using force where the use of force is necessary to get the job done and get out alive.”
She fell quiet then, mulling over my answer, as if she were weighing it against her idea of an acceptable answer. Checking off the boxes to see if what I’d said ranked as good enough.
I turned to look at her after a bit, and I noticed her whole demeanor seemed different. The fury surging through her seemed to have gone out, leaving her cold and…
“Tom,” she said, not looking at me now, seeming to be closing in on herself, seeming to be getting scared.
“Yeah, Shel?” I said, this change in her worrying me.
“We need to bring in the authorities,” she replied slowly, turning to look directly at me. “This is out of your league. And I don’t want Rachel to get hurt. We need to get the authorities in on this or… It’s the safest way.”
“The authorities are a slow, bureaucratic nightmare, Shel,” I replied, not for a second allowing this train of thought to continue, needing to lock it down fast. “We’ve already discussed it. I’m here. And anyway, I’m not sure we have the kind of time you’re thinking of before the bastard disappears forever.”
She didn’t respond, just looked down at her clenched hands. I did not want to say it at all, but I needed to give her the cold hard facts.
Her husband could use his wealth and power if he wanted to disappear, which would only be a question of time before he executed such a plan. And no agency in the world could do a damn thing about it.
I, on the other hand, could do something about it.
This time, I intended to ignore the rules.
This time, the rules didn’t apply.
At ten thirty the morning, the pub seemed unusually quiet.
It didn’t surprise me. About the best you can hope for in terms of clientele at this time of the morning were the kind of guys who sat alone and drank away their sorrows, seeking solutions at the bottom of too many bottles of alcohol.
Not a happy bunch, and by the time they found some semblance of happiness in their drinks, you didn’t want them speaking to you. I felt sorry for them. Yes, they chose this particular form of self-medication. And yes, they needed to bear their own crosses.
But the reasons they took to the bottle in the first place were probably all in the same ballpark, and those reasons more than likely drove them to the bottle either as a way to cope or a way to forget. And usually both.
Sometimes, people simply could not deal with the blows life dealt them. Sometimes they weren’t strong enough. And sometimes their strength deserted them when life rained down one too many blows, and eventually they went under like a drowning man with no energy left to fight and no will left to try.
I took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer, taking care not to make eye contact with one of these lost souls on the off chance one of them would take it as a sign of fellowship and mutual misery and come over for a nice chat, something I couldn’t handle right now.
Or something, rather, I definitely wouldn’t handle well.
I picked up a disposable cell phone on my way here, one of those throwaway jobs which are untraceable because they are not linked to you in any way. I grinned. It seemed as if the manufacturers built these things for a particular class of person. The criminal kind. Untraceable mobile device, paid for in cash, no ID required, no questions asked. And the market contained ample room for such devices, so good for them for taking the initiative and filling the hole in the market.
It made good business sense.
I snapped the phone open anticipating the arrival of the Colt 45 malt which I hoped would take the edge off the rising tension inside me.
I dialled the number, turning and looking out at the rain again and listening to the sound of the call being connected through the cheap, tinny speaker of the phone.
A pleasant voice greeted me, informing me the number I’d dialled was unavailable, and would I like to leave a message? I rattled off a series of numbers, then hung up and called it again, this time allowing it to start speaking for a micro second before hanging up again. I called the number once more and left a one word message before hanging up.
All done.
I pocketed the phone and took a sip of the beer. Too early to indulge, I guess. I tried to tell myself I did it for show, but truthfully the situation concerning Shelly and Rachel deeply troubled me.
And although I ordered it as a cover, I thought what the hell. Also, too much caffeine circulated in my system, courtesy of the morning’s espressos. The familiar but unpleasant buzzing seemed to start somewhere behind my eyeballs and went all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes. I wanted to get rid of it.
Fast.
About a half an hour and half a beer later the door to the pub opened and a guy with a neat beard in an expensive looking business suit and coat entered, closing the door and b
rushing the rain off the uncomfortable bar stool specifically designed to help one not fall asleep. No back lit bar here. No neon signs and garish postmodern decor.
Just an old fashioned pub.
For an old-fashioned guy.
But the proprietor of this place did well. It felt as if you were somewhere in Europe as soon as you stepped through the door. And I like Europe.
The guy hung his coat up from a coat rack at the door.
A coat rack.
One of the things I found quaint about this place. Old school, down to the carpets and wood panelling. Some establishments treated their customers as if the mere act of taking their order was some sort of favor and actually being served said order ranked on par with paying off your mortgage.
I won’t lie, I’ve been to a few places in my time, usually to impress a girl, and I always ended up having insane ideas about pulling the smug son of a bitch ‘serving’ right over the counter and throwing him down a handy flight of stairs. So far, I’ve managed to fight the impulse, but there have been a few close calls.
The guy in the expensive suit ambled over to the bar, checking his Rolex as if to see how much time remained before the pressures of work called him back to his desk, breath mint in mouth.
He sat beside me at the bar, brushing his hands through thick black hair, and ordered a beer.
“Bit early in the day wouldn’t you say?” I asked.
“Speak for yourself, man,” he replied, taking a sip as soon as it arrived. “You don’t need to deal with Japanese investors for three hours at a stretch. Not to mention checking today’s figures. I swear I have to do everything myself if I want it done right. I might as well fire the idiots I pay to do this stuff. It’s been a long bloody day.”
“Jesus, what time did you get to work?” I said, trying to do the math.
“Early,” he replied, taking another sip of his beer. “Really early. Got to love the internet.”
“Amen brother.”
“You like the suit?” he asked out of the blue.
“Yeah,” I replied genuinely. “It’s nice. Expensive, I’m guessing?”
“It costs more than your house.”
“I don’t have a house.”
“Bummer to you.”
“You’re a dick,” I replied. “And whoever sold you the suit deserves an Oscar for best supporting actor in a fictional universe where suits cost more than houses.”
He laughed and nodded. Touché.
We sat in silence awhile, just sipping our beers. Just two guys kicking back and keeping out of the storm, right?
Or maybe, I thought, about to start one.
“Got your coordinates,” the guy in the expensive suit said eventually, in a tone sounding more conversational than covert.
“Clearly,” I replied. “You got here fast, by the way. How did you even make the time to dress up? Not that I’m not flattered of course.”
“You’re a comedian, captain,” he said, laughing softly. “Always were.”
“Just Tom will do.”
“Sir, yes sir.”
“Fuck off.”
We both laughed, and the man turned to face me. “So what the hell was so important that you pulled me away from my very important job?” he asked. “You were in dire need of a drinking buddy?”
“Yeah. You know how it is.”
“Sure do.”
The coordinates, miscall, and code word were a very serious way of communication between me and some, well, specialists. We had all served together, and established a network after our covert operations tours were done as a way of keeping in touch, and protecting each other and our families in the unlikely event of certain unforeseen circumstances.
It helps having people in the know, no matter what the situation, and my people were jacked into the system with the best of them.
“Good to see you again, Tom,” the man said, giving me a grin.
“Good to see you too, Mel,” I replied, clapping him on the back.
“But using the secure channel tells me this isn’t a social visit,” he said. “Imagine my disappointment.”
“Yup, you’re right,” I replied, nodding slowly. “Far from social as a matter of fact.”
He nodded once, “How bad?”
“Very bad,” I said softly, not about to sugar coat the situation. “If ten is a nuclear holocaust, Mel, then this is a nine point five.”
He nodded again, “Is it safe to tell me the details here? Or is it a more subtle approach we need to take here?”
I glanced at the bartender, who busied himself with polishing wine glasses at the far end of the bar in the time honored fashion employed by bartenders across the world since the invention of the pub.
“Yeah, I think this place is a pretty safe bet.”
“Good,” Mel said, glancing at his beer to make sure it looked empty enough, then pushing it to one side and turning in his stool to face me. “So what’s happened?”
“It’s Shelley-”
Mel groaned, “Tell me you’re not back together with her, Tom? Jesus, things were rough enough the first time you two were involved. And you needed my shoulder. Tell me you aren’t back together, please oh please. You were a whiney little bitch about the breakup the first time round.”
I laughed. “She got married, Mel. You don’t remember? Fuck, those drugs you high fliers take must be good, huh?”
“Shit, yeah!” he said, smacking his forehead almost comically. “Forgot all about that. Ah well, she didn’t exactly send me an invitation.”
“Me neither.”
Mel laughed, “Well, it doesn’t surprise me at all. You guys had a messy breakup, man.”
I nodded. “Didn’t we just?”
“Good times,” Mel said, shaking his head. “So what’s the issue? Isn’t she another guy’s problem now?”
“In this case,” I replied. “It’s a bit more complicated.”
I told him everything. The phone call, the argument, Rachel and the missing stuff, and eventually a very detailed description of the son of a bitch we were dealing with.
Mel shook his head, “Man oh man. This is not good news. I dug that little girl.”
“Yeah,” I replied, quietly. “Me too.”
“So,” he continued, turning to look out at the rain-washed streets, “what do you need from me? I can drop what I’m doing, join you in the field maybe? Take this puppy from two angles?”
Mel was a good friend. And a fellow SEAL. We’d met during my first tour and hit it off almost immediately. And we’ve been tight ever since.
He saved my life once.
People hear it all the time in the movies, and I think most of us, if not all of us, have become desensitized to the concept of having your life saved.
It’s become a damn cliché. But the truth of the matter remained, and those people whose lives have been saved by the selfless act of another, well, it changes them. Kind of makes us a bit more grateful to be alive, I guess. People who haven’t experienced this, in other words the overwhelming majority of people, won’t get what I mean. Or rather, they will, but from a more academic standpoint.
***
The target area was a small village in Iraq, during my second (and last) tour. A small team, just five of us, were to infiltrate under cover of darkness. The objective? The safe extraction of an American hostage, a captain in the Air Force whose plane went down near the village. She held vital information on American tactics and strategy, information which no doubt would lead to torture or worse.
We entered the village warily even though it seemed to be deserted. Or rather precisely because it was deserted. We were lucky we’d received the Intel so quickly. Another few hours and dawn would come, and she’d be moved to a more secure location and our chances of a successful extraction, hell of even getting to her, were blown. In that situation, it would be up to a Marine unit, standing by for such an occasion, to assault the Iraqi convoy en route to the safe house and hope for the best.
&n
bsp; Not the best of options, and the survival rate of the hostage would plummet.
So this seemed to be our best chance of getting her back.
And the best chance of saving her life.
We made it to the hut supposedly holding the hostage, checked the place over. It seemed quiet, just like all the others. But we received hard Intel about this one. It seemed different. Heavily guarded to begin with. We received instructions to be on very high alert, at all times.
I was on point, about to open the door, assault rifle at the ready and my team covering me, hand on the door handle. I turned the handle slowly, not knowing if it would make a noise or not, and not taking any chances.
Turning it slowly, so very slowly. I heard a very quiet yet incredible distinctive ‘clink’. The next moment the world turned into a fiery hell above me, the force of the explosion bursting my eardrums.
Mel heard the sound too, and in a micro second grabbed me and pulled the both of us away and onto the ground, the force of his weight on me as we hit the ground together, knocking the air out of me. The other three members of our team weren’t so lucky. They caught the full force of the explosion, flying away from the booby-trapped door in chunks. They never had a chance.
None of us would if I’d yanked the door open a little faster. But I did what my training taught me, and I still would’ve ended up just like the others but for Mel.
He could simply have dived aside and saved himself. But he dived forward instead. Saved my life.
***
I shook my head, trying to clear my mind of the images, the fragmented bodies of my team as they sailed through the air above us, dead before they knew what had happened.
“For the moment all I need is Intel,” I said to Mel “I don’t want the fireworks to start unless they have to. I don’t want to start an international incident unless I have to.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Mel replied, incredulous and clearly making no attempt to hide the fact. “You know it will not go down that way, Tom. We’re SEALs. We’re the guys who make international incidents not happen. This shit is covert all the way.”
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