by Brad Taylor
And maybe that was for the best. But something in Guy didn’t think so. Wouldn’t think that way.
Guy penetrated the park, seeing the target reading yet another bust. He hung back, pretending to be interested, but he knew it looked odd. Two single men staring at busts of those long dead at sunset was not a recipe for success. One could explain his actions. The other could not.
It was the way of surveillance, and the reason nobody in the Taskforce did singleton follows. Nobody but idiots like him, out on a mission for reasons he couldn’t articulate.
Guy was about to exit the way he’d come, calling the night a loss, when the target exited onto Front Street, walking with a purpose. Guy followed through the park, keeping his distance and wondering if the target had an ulterior motive for coming here. Board Shorts and Flip-Flops was moving with a stride he hadn’t before, the target no longer walking as a tourist but now clearly with a destination in mind.
Maybe Guy wouldn’t have to make a decision. Maybe the asshole was about to make it for him. Maybe he could get the evidence he needed.
Guy exited the park, feeling his pulse increase. The target walked across Front Street, down Greene Street, and strode right up to Captain Tony’s Saloon, an indoor/outdoor bar known the world over. A tourist attraction. The place where Jimmy Buffett got his start and Ernest Hemingway drank his life away. The only good omen about it was the tree growing through the bar and out the roof. It was a hanging tree, a place where many evil shits like the Arab had met their fate in the distant past.
The Arab tapped the bartender’s hand and took a seat. Disgusted, Guy slunk by him and found a stool across the bar, his back to the ubiquitous guitar player wailing away, with a pillar between him and the target.
19
So the asshole from Afghanistan is a boozing Arab. Guy should have known. Nothing nefarious was going on in Key West, and they were both pretending to be something they weren’t. Guy that he was a tourist not out to kill, and the Arab that he was a tourist not out to embrace Allah.
It caused a spasm of anger.
Two rum drinks later, the target was on the move again, cutting across Greene to the famed Duval Street, Guy behind him, wondering why on earth he was still following. The anger was growing, a living thing, but he couldn’t brace the Arab here, on one of the most heavily congested streets in Key West.
The freaks, tourists, and all-around weird were swirling about, something that would have been fun a decade ago but was muted on this night. Guy’s wrath was palpable. Something real. Something dark, and looking for release. With this many drunks bumping about, Guy realized he’d be in a fight before the night was out, more than likely sending some poor schlub who didn’t deserve it to the hospital. He needed to break contact. To reassess.
He could not.
The target passed Petronia Street, the crosswalks painted multicolored hues, entering what Guy and his SF cohorts used to call Rainbow Row. The burlesque gay quarter. The next thing he knew, the target went inside a gay cabaret, taking a seat up front to watch the show. For Guy, the hypocrisy only heightened his anger.
The bar smelled of stale beer and sweat. He sat in the back and basically ignored anyone who so much as paid him a glance, growing more and more enraged at the actions of the target he was following. The man supported the Islamic State, an organization that threw homosexuals off of six-story buildings just to watch them shatter on the concrete below, their innards exploding like a dropped watermelon. They stoned to death women who were merely accused of adultery, and this sack of shit was here, in Key West, watching a drag show.
It made him want to cut the man’s heart out right then, especially knowing he was here experiencing Key West, a place his brother was supposed to have enjoyed in six months, when he was to attend the Combat Diver’s Course from the Seventh Special Forces Group. Following in Guy’s footsteps.
The drag show went on, and Guy sat, stewing. Finally, it ended, with Guy not watching more than a few seconds, drinking rum punch and growing more and more angry, the blackness of the loss of his brother beginning to flow. He was losing the edge he maintained as one of the highest-trained killers in the world, and he didn’t even see it slipping down the stream of rocks, bouncing farther and farther away. He was losing his judgment, and setting in motion events even he couldn’t foresee.
Guy watched the target prepare to leave, seeing him talk to some of the clearly homosexual members in the bar, slipping one a note. Clouded by the liquor, he wanted to slice the Arab’s throat right in the bar, just because he could.
But he let the target leave, taking note of his direction, then stood to follow. He heard a voice rising above the crowd, then laughter, but thought nothing of it, intent on following his prey. He began walking to the door and heard someone yell again. He realized they were talking to him. He turned back into the bar and saw a large man wearing a satirical version of the biker costume in the Village People. He smiled and waved his hand.
The man made a comment about him not enjoying the show. Guy had no patience for the sentiment, feeling the distance grow between him and his target.
Internally, Guy really didn’t have a position on the LBGT community. It just wasn’t something he thought about. You want to be gay, be gay. He couldn’t care less, but the men in the bar took his attitude a different way.
Guy said, “The show wasn’t as good as I expected.”
With a smirk, the biker said, “Well, maybe I could show you something better.”
Guy knew this was a no-win proposition. He’d spent enough time on Duval Street to get catcalled by the men outside the bars. It was almost a right of passage of the Special Forces at Fleming Key, the men setting up the new guys for some heckling. Verbally fighting back was a nonstarter. Humor was needed here, but he was fresh out.
Guy said, “Save it for the Navy. They’ll be here soon.” And turned to go. The catcalls turned into a crescendo, the wannabe biker coming forward, crowding into his face, sneering and talking smack. Guy said, “Don’t do this. Please.”
The man continued his bullying, the others around him cheering him on. All thought they were just taunting a tourist, enjoying something they did nightly. Nobody expected the violence that sprang forth, least of all Guy.
The biker reached up to poke Guy in the chest, and he grabbed the man’s finger, rotating it back fast enough to hear the snap of bone. The man fell to his knees and the bouncer swept forward. Guy simply pointed at him, holding the finger and shaking his head, while the biker whined like a small child. Guy let go, held his hands up, and walked backward out of the bar.
Someone from the back shouted about his “homophobia,” misinterpreting what was driving his anger, but Guy was no longer listening. Nobody else made a move against him.
He reached the street, searching for his target, now fully enraged. He hadn’t wanted to fight. Hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone, but the fucking Arab had pushed him into it merely by making him follow into the bar.
He began walking back up Duval Street, toward the shore and the target’s boat. The direction in which he’d seen the man go when he exited the bar.
The sidewalks were swollen, full of groups of inebriated partygoers. He pushed through them, threading when he could and shoving when he couldn’t. Some reacted as if they wanted to retaliate, but one look into his eyes and they left him alone, instinctively knowing it wouldn’t end well.
He thought his target might sail out of the harbor tomorrow, and a part of him wished it so. Hoped he had lost the trail.
He passed a covered market selling original artwork, located across from the ubiquitous American icon called the Hard Rock Café, then caught a glimpse of a Hawaiian shirt. It was the Arab, sitting at an outdoor bar next to the market, a smattering of tables surrounding him and an iron arch proclaiming CAROLINE’S CAFÉ.
Guy backpedaled into the market, a cloistered area with individua
l stalls selling everything from painted coconuts to handmade earrings. He pretended to shop, circling around and seeing that the café was basically sharing space with the market. He continued deeper in, getting a feel for the exits. There were none out the back, with both the café and market butting up to a fence with houses beyond. Closest to the rear was the men’s restroom. Plopped on the ground at the end of a dimly lit gravel-lined alley, it was a stand-alone structure like an outhouse, connected to the kitchen by the roof.
His brain, a computer that was never turned off, automatically calculated the feasibility of a takedown, and the alley/restroom was perfect if one didn’t care about exfiltrating with the target. If one knew the target was designated DOA.
He circled back around to the marketplace, threaded through the stalls, and took a seat at the farthest table in the back, his eyes on his prey. He ordered a beer from the waitress, then just sat, quietly smoldering, thinking about his actions in the other bar. Regretting them.
He toyed with the label on his beer bottle, finally turning his mind to the problem. Focusing on the enormity of what he was attempting to accomplish. He picked at the scab in his mind, forcing himself to admit that his actions were either borderline insane or they were justified in the name of his brother.
He wanted to believe his cause was just, but couldn’t reconcile it with the soldier he was. He knew the man on the barstool was complicit in his brother’s death, but the knowledge was tempered by twenty years of following a code that dictated his moral compass. Killing on the battlefield was war. Killing after the fact was murder. Wasn’t it?
We preemptively kill people with drone strikes all the time.
But the “we” was a body of men, sanctioned at the highest level, after enormous oversight. Not a single man on a hunt for revenge. But what’s the difference between revenge and preemption? These fucks are going to continue killing. Motivation is irrelevant.
Those twin forces were battling inside him when he saw the target stand. A waitress pointed toward the alley, and Guy’s decision was forced upon him.
Guy stood, squeezing his hands open and closed. He took a half step, then turned back to the table, the demons inside fighting for control. He glanced toward the bar, but nobody was looking his way. He put in his earbuds and started the Pandora app. He heard the music, seeing his brother’s smiling face, and the darkness floated up.
He entered the alley.
He walked fifty feet to the end, took a quick glance behind the building, seeing lumber stacked against a chain-link fence, but no humans. He faced the door and hesitated, his hand on the knife in his pocket. He withdrew it. A Zero Tolerance folder, it had a nearly four-inch blade, razor sharp, with a large belly designed for slicing. He flicked the knife open and stared at the dull gleam of the edge.
This is it. You cross the threshold, there is no turning back.
He paused a second longer, the demons battling it out. Finally, one rose triumphant.
He turned the knob.
20
George Wolffe drove, with Kurt in the passenger seat. Jennifer sat in the rear, as if she were being chauffeured, but she had no illusions about who was in charge. She felt small, like a child being paraded in front of other parents for bragging rights.
Pike had left her last night, taking a flight out to Billings, Montana, to talk to Guy. He was her expert on the Oversight Council, but they’d spent the afternoon talking about Guy and the threat he posed. Pike had been genuinely worried, something she rarely saw, so she’d heard him out. They hadn’t talked at all about her ceremony today, the protocols involved and the land mines she should avoid, and now she was regretting it.
Wolffe pulled into the security checkpoint for the West Wing of the White House, flashing his credentials and reciting their names. The guard took the information, checked a computer, and waved them through, into one of the most secure spaces in the US umbrella. It was surreal to her. A guy could check a clipboard and let them in?
The only other time she’d been here had also been a Taskforce invitation, years ago, but she hadn’t known it then. She thought she’d been arrested and was being dragged off to some top secret dungeon.
Kurt turned around and said, “Remember what we talked about. I’ll say a few words, and then you graciously accept the accolades. No big deal. Don’t go off script here. The whole point is to let me bring up Guy’s new evidence. Chances are, you won’t have to say a thing.”
Jennifer nodded without conviction and Kurt said, “Hey, you okay?”
She looked at the West Wing to her right and said, “I’d rather be back home, in Charleston. Or in a gunfight.”
Kurt laughed and said, “I know it looks imposing, but everyone here takes a shit just like you do.”
She scrunched her face up at his words and he backpedaled. “I mean, they’re just humans. I didn’t mean they take a . . . they do . . .”
George Wolffe pulled into their designated parking spot and cut Kurt off, saying, “I think you’ve done enough.”
He put the car in park and turned around, looking her in the eye. “Jennifer, trust me, you own this terrain. The men in this room all think they’re important, but they don’t ever risk their lives. That’s what you do, and they want to touch the magic. They’ll be fawning over you.”
She nodded, and they exited the car, moving away from the West Wing and toward the Old Executive Office Building next door. Kurt and George showed their credentials again, and she was given a badge with a large V on it, meaning “visitor, escort required.” They had passed through the metal detectors and begun walking upstairs when Jennifer’s phone buzzed with a text. She checked the message, seeing it was from Pike.
Tell Kurt to check his phone. Guy never showed in Montana. Whereabouts unknown. Coming back now.
She thought, That’s not good, and they reached a room on the second floor, a light above the door dormant, waiting to start blinking if the area was unsecure. Waiting on the meeting to begin. Mingling about outside were men of power. Jennifer said, “Kurt, hey—”
Before she could finish, he said, “Time to start playing the game.” He walked up to the first man and said, “Hey, sir, how’s it going? I mean your day, not your job.”
The man laughed and shook his hand. She tried to place who he was, recognizing him but not knowing why. George leaned in and said, “Easton Beau Clute. Chair of the Senate Intelligence Committee. A friend. Someone we need, but not someone we want you talking to outside of the meeting. No telling what he’ll ask.”
A little nonplussed at the attitude, Jennifer simply nodded, allowing George to usher her into the conference room. She knew the members of the Oversight Council were the only people read on to Taskforce activities, and that those activities were volatile, but she didn’t understand why she should be kept away from talking to the very men who authorized them.
She relinquished her cell phone before entering, putting it in a small locker designed for that purpose.
Locking up his own phone, George saw her look and said, “Nothing personal, but everything in this town is politics. You say one wrong thing, and that’ll be the reason for doing something. Or not doing something.”
“Then why did you bring me here?”
He showed her to a chair while other people milled around the room, looking at her, realizing she was the one, and he said, “Talking in front of the group is fine. Talking one-on-one is asking for disaster. Nobody here will ask you a question that isn’t loaded. Trust me.”
She nodded and he turned to go, fulfilling his own political duties. She grabbed his sleeve and said, “Hey, I just got a text from Pike. Guy didn’t show in Montana. He wanted Kurt to know.”
George nodded, showing no outward emotion, but she saw something behind his expression. A subtle fear. He walked away, shaking hands and making small talk.
Trying to sink into her chair, she s
urveyed the room. She knew that the Oversight Council was a select group, but the authority in this room was unprecedented. Comprised of only thirteen individuals, the members had been handpicked by the president himself, and each man in the room had a portfolio that far exceeded his duties here.
The secretary of defense, secretary of state, director of the CIA, national security advisor . . . the names just ran on, dripping with the power of the US government. She felt a little overwhelmed.
After a bit of time, as Jennifer sat patiently, the room coalesced around the conference table, the men taking their seats and Kurt walking to the front. He nodded at her. She noticed George take a seat in the rear, behind everyone else, and wondered if he’d passed the message.
A scrum of activity happened at the front of the room, and the president of the United States entered. Peyton Warren.
He shook Kurt’s hand, then walked directly to Jennifer, scaring the hell out of her. He held out his hand and said, “Jennifer Cahill. It’s been a while.”
She stood, a plastic smile on her face. He turned around to the room and said, “Some of you might remember Jennifer from that operation in Bosnia a few years ago. Some of you don’t, but I’m sure Kurt will let you know why she’s here. While we talk a good game in this room, she’s putting it all on the line to execute. I want you people to remember that our words have consequences.”
He took his seat at the head of the table and nodded to Kurt, saying, “Let’s go. I’ve got another appointment to attend.”
Jennifer was amazed at the nonchalance. She expected something more formal, but realized that, in the end, it was just a meeting. And he was just a man.
Kurt went into his rehearsed speech, talking about the activities of the Taskforce and how much they meant to the defense of the United States. He blathered on for a good five minutes, speaking about Guy and how he couldn’t be there because of a death in the family, then got to Jennifer. He played up the mission in the Caymans, hinting that females were the new face of the Taskforce and making her seem like the second coming of James Bond. Eventually, he called her forward. She approached, standing next to him, and the room clapped. A nice, respectful sound, the men in the room looking at her in wonder. She felt like a piece of livestock on show.