The Hawaii Job: (A Case Lee Novel Book 5)

by Vince Milam

  Late afternoon, and dusk approached the city of Charleston. I rented a plain Toyota, pulled over outside the rental area, and rooted around for the GPS, which was about the size of a card deck under the left front bumper; I squirmed underneath the vehicle and disconnected it. A hard lesson learned from the past coupled with the realization that somewhere out there spooks watched. Maybe. And maybe wasn’t good enough.

  Plain vanilla bounty hunters, assassins, were one thing. A helluva lot of them from Eastern Europe. Romania, Bulgaria, Moldova. Often ex-military. Killers for hire using the dark web as a Craigslist for their services. But Krupp’s reach clearly extended into spookville, and those cats played a different game. They utilized their service’s tools—satellite recon, backdoor entry to flight manifests, voice and text intercepts. Even with my communications encrypted, wariness was the order of the day. My circle of trust was tight, limited. I’d keep it that way.

  I circled Mom’s neighborhood as darkness approached. Always a quiet place, middle-class and family oriented. The weather overcast and cool for Charleston, the salt air muted by the aroma of winter’s dead vegetation. Leaves littered the ground, damp, as earth’s slumber smelled of rich dirt rather than green plants and flowers. Adults walked their dogs as a few kids rode bikes or scrambled across front lawns, the last minutes of playtime before supper.

  Jeans, dark running shoes, dark T-shirt, and a light brown jacket the evening’s dress. The Glock tucked into my waistband. The pistol was problematic—not in its function but in its sound. A big bang would draw attention. But options were limited, and my hopes were pinned on the weapon’s use as a tool for capture. Threaten to blow the killer’s head off, tie him or them up, and toss them in the vehicle. Then haul it for an isolated place where questions would be delivered and answers expected. Bo’s up-close-and-personal abilities far surpassed mine, so his spearhead activities were paramount.

  I parked several blocks away and took a stroll. The house that backed up to Mom’s displayed a single living-room light, no one in the kitchen. And no dogs. I cut alongside their house and stopped at the vegetation-covered chain-link fence marking my mom’s backyard.

  “Bonsoir, bounty-bait.”

  Bo whispered one step at my rear. I damn near jumped out of my skin.

  “I wish to hell you wouldn’t do that,” I said, my voice muted. “Hold the whole cloak of invisibility thing for the enemy, Bo.”

  Man, he was good. The best. We never understood it or discovered his methodology. The guy could sneak up on anyone at any time. Which often spelled terminal bad news for the object of his approach.

  He gripped me at the back of my neck, and we bumped foreheads. Wild red hair, unruly as always, and the scraggly facial hair he’d adopted in recent years. His eyes flashed with a touch of mad genius. His breath smelled of ginger, teeth bright white in the dim light.

  “It has been too long, my brother,” he said, rubbing his forehead against mine. “Why haven’t you joined me on St. Thomas? You, me, JJ. Three musketeers, d’Artagnan.”

  I patted his side, smiled large, and wondered why I didn’t see him more often.

  “And do what? Join you taking tourists on snorkel tours?”

  “Perhaps not the best plan, oh dour one. They expect lightness and levity. I’m unsure if you can deliver such a thing. And you’re not as pretty as me. So there’s that as well.”

  “How is my favorite FBI agent?”

  He released my neck and patted my chest.

  “She casts a wary eye my way on occasion, but overall she’s most accepting. An old soul. Her Apache blood, I would guess. Tell me about yourself, goober. The family still safe?”

  “So far, so good. What’s cooking here?”

  “First, what’s cooking with our brothers?” he asked.

  I’d received a text from Marcus while disconnecting the rental car’s GPS.

  In place.

  Roger. Landed at home.

  As Bo and I talked, Marcus and Catch would position near the old farmhouse, armed and hidden, their vehicle used as a lure.

  “They’re set. All good,” I said. “Now, about here. Anything?”

  “A mundane Toyota just arrived driven by the friendly neighborhood goober. And a large black Chevy SUV. After four passes by the house and several circles of the neighborhood, I’m willing to posit it’s driven by miscreants.”

  “More than miscreants, Bo.”

  “Context, my brother. We white-knight this endeavor and must take the verbal high road.”

  “Yeah, well, if they show on foot, we white-knight their asses into the ground. But capture is the order of the day. Let’s remember.”

  Bo sniffed the air and looked past me. He’d flipped the switch, feral instincts kicked into high gear.

  “Mom didn’t leave on any lights,” I continued. “I’ll fix that. Then let’s position. I like this spot.”

  “You position, he-who-lies-in wait. I will hunt. The universe gifts those who refuse a static approach.” He tousled my hair, started off, halted. “Speaking of gifts.”

  He pulled a lengthy barrel suppressor from his jeans pocket.

  “I had two. We both prefer the Glock, so now loud sounds—offensive on so many levels—will not present an issue.”

  “Thanks, Bo. Sincerely. The big bang had me worried.”

  It also meant he was armed with a silenced weapon.

  “Worry not, my Georgia peach. And I also carry another tool.”

  His Bundeswehr combat knife.

  “Because,” he said, edging close with a whisper, “nighttime is the right time. Protect yourself, my brother. Know I’m with you. In oh so many ways.”

  He slipped through foliage and disappeared. Not a sound, no sight of him. Just disappeared. I gave a small involuntary shudder at the thought of Bo Dickerson hunting. A shiver I’d never experienced before. Age, perhaps, and gained perspective on a Bo hunt. Not living in a normal world, Case. Not at all.

  I climbed over the back chain-link fence, cut across the yard, and found the extra house key under the back porch mat. Flicked on the kitchen light and one bedroom table lamp, then exited and returned to the hiding spot. It was now full-blown darkness. Cloud cover prevented moon and starlight. Senses cranked, Glock with silencer drawn, eyes scanned. Insect night sounds, reduced by the season, joined with typical neighborhood noises. A screen door, the spring squeaking, pulled shut. A parent called their kids from a backyard. The random dog bark, the occasional rubber-on-road as cars navigated this quiet part of Charleston.

  I sensed their approach before I heard it. At my back. Two men who’d ascertained, as I had, that this mess of landscape plants and wild growth at the back fence was an excellent launch spot. A slow creep downward onto my knees, further hidden, as they pushed through limbs and snags. Brittle winter brush scraped against clothing; footfalls were cautious and near silent. They halted yards away, quiet, and surveyed the back of the house. The interior lights had performed the desired effect. Drawn them in. Wasps to sugar water.

  They held a brief whispered conversation. A language I neither understood nor recognized. The brush between us prevented a decent visual, but they were close. Reach out and touch close. I smelled garlic and winter leaves.

  Their conversation over, the chain-link fence rattled. Once. With low, shallow breaths I watched one of them, a silenced pistol in hand, dash across the backyard. He stopped at the back porch and hunkered down. Clearly listening for interior noises. The bizarre scene continued for ten minutes, a killer at the screened-in porch door, another a couple steps away from me. Dead still, the three of us.

  The one near me presented the best capture attempt. I was already touching-close, and with the appropriate move, I’d have the pistol’s business end jammed into his head. A universal signal, language aside, that he was screwed.

  I considered my next steps. If the backyard killer signaled for my guy to join him, the fence crawl made an excellent opportunity for my move. Although the guy at the
porch would hear another body in motion. Me. And rush my way, making capture a greater challenge. Which left the fallback alternative. Kill them both.

  Or the guy at the porch, not hearing inside movement, could choose to go it alone and head into the house. The best alternative and my best chance of capturing the nearby killer. I was prepared for several eventualities, finger on the trigger, action ensured and either seconds or minutes away.

  I tried, failed, and tried again to ignore how otherworldly this all felt, unfolding as it was in Mom’s backyard. Two assassins. Me—prepared to go old west if needed and blast away through the bushes at the closest guy. And Bo, somewhere. The scene was way, way too close to home. A killing fury rose in me toward these hitters and Krupp and the overall situation.

  The porch assassin rose and rapid-walked halfway across the lawn. He whispered toward his partner. The man near me rustled as he prepared to scale the fence. Gotta move, gotta act. Now.

  I waited a half-second between rustling noises, and then I burst through the separating plants. He had one leg atop the fence, preparing for a leap over. His pistol hand helped stabilize his position. I punched my silencer against the side of his head and with a low growl uttered, “Freeze!”

  He did. For one second. Long enough for an assessment at his best shot at living. He was a pro, and he flopped off the fence toward me, into my body, his head no longer pressed against my silencer. His hand whipped upward, the weapon seeking a quick snap shot from inches away. Thank God for long-ago training.

  I collapsed into him rather than stepping back. Blocked his swinging arm and pulled the trigger point-blank into his chest. Five shots as fast as my finger could twitch. Each accompanied by a muffled pop.

  A familiar bee-buzz sound whipped past my head. The backyard shooter fired at me, sending hot lead as he strode my way. The black night provided insufficient light for a well-aimed shot. But he was good—a second and third shot kicked up dirt near my prone body. I rolled off the killer underneath me. Started raising my pistol hand toward the approaching figure, adrenaline pumping in overdrive. Paused a split-second and put a bullet into the head of the dead or dying hitter alongside me. To be sure.

  I held the sighting advantage. The attacker was backlit by the dim house lights. Before I could squeeze off a decent shot, the killer collapsed. A figure on his back drove him toward the ground. Bo. I hadn’t seen his approach, his dashed sneak, as he must have kept the shooter precisely between us. And no noise, no quiet mechanical firing slide of Bo’s pistol using the subsonic ammo he preferred. He’d gone old school and plowed his knife blade into the guy’s kidney. Instant excruciating pain. Bo followed the strike with a familiar shoulder movement. Slit the killer’s throat from ear to ear. Screams don’t pass through a wide-open trachea. His lightning-quick actions took less than two seconds.

  We both remained stock-still, Bo sprawled across his victim. Listened for voices from the neighbors. Alarms, concerns, calls in the night. Nothing. The weather cold enough for windows shut, heaters on. A lucky break.

  While we remained still, senses cranked, our heart rates returned to normal. Bo whispered across the thirty feet of grass lawn.

  “You alright, boo?”

  “Yeah. You?”

  “Filled with a concern. Would you like me to share?”

  Classic Bo. He lay on top of a bleeding-out enemy. Me stretched alongside a guy I’d put six bullets into. Set within a quiet residential neighborhood. And Bo wanted a chat. Weird and ugly and death-filled—none of which prevented my perverse seen-too-much mind from smiling wide into the night.

  “Yeah, Bo. Share.”

  “I have a deep concern our capture techniques are less than well-honed, my brother.”

  “Ya think?”

  “I do. Perhaps we should reassess our situational approach for this affair.”

  I rolled onto my back. Two more bodies racked up. Two more bodies for disposal. More to come, guaranteed.

  Yeah, Bo. Yeah. Maybe we should reassess our freakin’ situational approach.

  Chapter 17

  I collected the dead man’s weapon and hoisted his body over the fence. He fell with a soft thud.

  “These two may have thought us rival bounty hunters,” I said, voice low. “And now we have a body disposal issue.”

  Bo knelt alongside his victim and cleaned the fighting knife with the dead guy’s shirttail.

  “It’s wrong. The cosmic implications of doing this within your mom’s space and time.”

  It did feel wrong. Plus more would show. Perhaps not this night, but they would show.

  “We won’t accomplish a capture scenario here. Neighbors, witnesses—it’s bad,” I said. “And if we handle the next bunch like we handled these two, we have a major waste disposal issue.”

  Bo stood, sheathed his weapon, and ambled over. We continued talking in low whispers.

  “How certain are you that the knowledge of your grandma’s place is out there? Down deep on the dark web among the merry band of killers for hire?”

  I ejected the Glock’s magazine and reloaded from loose bullets in my pocket.

  “Can’t be certain. But when Krupp raised the ante, he would have also provided the bounty master with all available intel. No stone unturned.”

  “Not a bad name for a rock band. No stone unturned.”

  “Not a bad assumption either. They’ll seek me here first. Or seek Mom and CC as kidnapping leverage.”

  Bo began rifling through my victim’s clothing and extracted a wallet, passport, and papers.

  “Seek and you shall find,” he said.

  “These men found two ex-Delta hombres happy to terminate their ass.”

  “Ask and it will be given.”

  “You going ecumenical on me, Bo?”

  “Universal answers, my brother. Let’s change operational arenas.” He flicked on a small penlight and inspected the documents. “Albanian. How do they pull this off? The touchpoints, the communications, the payments?”

  We returned to his victim and repeated the wallet and document extraction. A distant dog barked, and another vehicle rolled along the street with a window lowered as a pop song from the radio drifted and faded in the cool night air.

  “The dark web has off-the-grid job boards. More than a few and more than I’ll ever know about. Hitters for hire.”

  “We live in strange times.”

  “Talk about. And payments made with cryptocurrency. Bitcoin, Zcash—there’s a bundle of options. None traceable.”

  The second assassin was Albanian as well. Other than their identities, there were no helpful informational bits. Two more dead guys lying in my mom’s backyard on a dark winter’s night in Charleston, South Carolina. While Bo and I spoke of killer-for-hire job boards and payment methods.

  “You ever get overcome with how weird this is?” I asked. “Us standing here, or standing in past situations with the same type of backdrop?”

  “I’m not burdened with your three-dimensional perspective, goober. The universe drives. You believe we do. Foolish lad. Now, let’s dispose of these miscreants.”

  “I mean, think about what you just said. The disposal part. This isn’t a normal how-was-your-day discussion.”

  “Normal as can be, given the current reality. Shove them into the bay?”

  Charleston Bay was an option for body disposal, for sure. But not the best option given we’d be burdened with finding, or stealing, a boat. I knew a better place.

  “We’ll shove them into an estuarial river on James Island. There’s an old creaky bridge we can access. No folks around at night. While we’re doing it, and since you refuse to discuss, much less acknowledge, this strange-ass path we’re on, let’s consider operational options.” Several houses away, a back door slammed and kids sounded from a backyard. “Scratch that. Let’s consider operational options later. There are two dead men sprawled at our feet. Let’s check the garage.”

  We did, and we extracted two large plastic tarps from
a stack of camping equipment collected over the years. We grabbed an old chain and several cinder blocks as well and rolled the bodies into the tarps. Then dragged them near the garage’s small side door.

  “I’ll back into the garage. Flip the trunk lid, we toss them in, and skedaddle. What’s the universe think about that, Houdini?” I asked.

  “Ebb and flow, my simple brother. Ebb and flow.”

  I walked several blocks, retrieved the rental car, and we filled the trunk. I grabbed a backyard hose and washed down the area around the chain-link fence, my hitter’s blood soon thinning and soaking into the winter ground. I performed the same where Bo had cut a man’s throat, knowing full well I’d forever look at the spot with a jaundiced eye when visiting Mom and CC. I turned off the house lights and locked all the doors. Bo retrieved his rucksack from its stored and hidden spot among landscape plants. We performed a slow roll out of the neighborhood.

  Lights shone and flickered across the horizon as we stopped along the old wooden bridge on James Island. Chains and cinder blocks attached, the two bodies landed with a splash and sank. We didn’t linger. Bo rooted around his rucksack and produced a small pipe and a bag of weed. Two hits later, he asked, “Do you feel it?”

  “I feel lots of things. Stoned isn’t one of them.”

  “No, goober. We’re both thinking the same thing. We’ll head for your grandmother’s place. Meet up with our other blood brothers. Where the hunting grounds are much more conducive for a capture scenario.”

  “Yeah. I’m not going through what we just did again. Stupid stuff. Exposed. And I don’t like leaving any stain at Mom’s place.”

  He stretched and returned the pipe. Rolled his window down and stuck out an arm, windsurfing with his hand.

  “Consider this, bucko,” he said. “The universe drives us toward a unique scenario. A special time and place.”

  “I don’t follow. Which is the normal state of affairs about half the time we talk. Which is why I love you. Bo-time is never dull.”

  “Dull or sharp isn’t the flag we should heed. It’s the collection. The assemblage. A matter of the highest significance, my Georgia peach.”