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

by Vince Milam

  It was dark and cold when Marcus and Bo returned. The black night afforded us an opportunity to gather once again along the driveway although we communicated using the electronic ear microphones. We separated into concealing brush and held a conversation sixty feet apart from each other. Marcus wouldn’t have it any other way.

  “Alright,” Marcus started. “I’ve spent an hour in the car with Bo. As usual, I didn’t understand half of what the hell he talked about.”

  “Your mind may not have accepted,” Bo said. “But what about your self.”

  “I’m begging you, Bo. Leave it.” The Zippo clacked open. The flame highlighted Marcus’s face as he lit a cigar. “The first thing is a decision whether we take this on. Sudan. Musa Kibir.”

  “You know where I stand,” Catch said. “And it’s not just me with a wild hair. Willa and I have discussed it more than once. I don’t have my name on anything. Vehicle ownership, credit card, driver’s license. Nothing. She and I are sick and tired of living like that.”

  A pickup truck rolled along the county road past the driveway. Tools and equipment banged and clattered in the vehicle’s bed. I began to see my breath in the night air. We waited for the truck’s passing, and waited longer as the sound faded.

  “Let me help end this conversation,” I said. “I kicked this off with the Krupp gig. That’s what escalated it. You each heeded my call for help. God bless you, and it’s been an act of love I’ll never forget. So one last favor. Keep it up. Protect my family. Maybe move ops to Charleston and allow Mom and CC to return. While I go finish it.”

  “Saw that coming a mile away,” Catch said as he spit.

  “Not a bad soliloquy, goober,” Bo said, his voice somewhere across the gravel drive. “It lacked some thous and thees, which would have been a nice touch. But not bad.”

  “Stow the crap,” Marcus added, directed my way. “You’ve made your point, now let’s get real.”

  “I am real, dammit. I’ve got friends, or at least associates, in high places. I’ll call them and take this on myself.”

  I was serious. Long odds for coming out alive, but sure worth a shot. It spared my blood brothers a foolhardy mission.

  “He’s cute when he gets upset,” Catch said.

  “A testament to his character,” Bo added. “Strident paddling against the cosmic current.”

  “You ready to can the go-it-alone foolishness, Case, or should we wait for another salvo?” Marcus asked.

  “Give us another, brother,” Bo said. “I enjoy the dulcet tones of your voice within this frigid environ.”

  “No, don’t give us another,” Catch said. “Enough. Let’s settle on a plan. We gotta get to Chad. Launch ops from there. The sooner the better.”

  “Before we pack our tourist garb, let’s focus on those associates. It’s the appropriate starting point,” Marcus said.

  “I do look fine and stately in a Sudanese turban,” Bo said.

  “You think you look fine in a grass skirt,” Catch said.

  “Will you two shut the hell up? Those associates. I’m pretty sure who you reference, Case, but spell it out. A starting point.”

  “Marilyn Townsend and Jules.”

  It was a solid start. Hell, it was our only start. Townsend had the potential to finish what she’d started years ago. We’d do the heavy lifting, and she could provide logistics. Jules could provide contacts and context—her specialty. Without some form of help from at least one of them, we were headed straight into kiss-our-butts-goodbye territory.

  We’d occupied such turf in the past—when we were younger and better equipped and with solid support. But while the prospect of taking out Musa Kibir raised red flags aplenty, I remained committed. The Janjaweed bastard, along with Krupp, had threatened my family. A direct assault. They’d pay with their lives. There was no shifting that immutable reality. My blood brothers would join—there was no dissuading them, which put double pressure to end it clean. So I’d pull every string at my disposal.

  “The director is a solid start,” Marcus said. “The Chesapeake witch, less so.”

  “Jules will help,” I said. “I can’t say that about Townsend.”

  “One way to find out,” Catch said.

  “Alright. I’ll contact Jules now. I won’t hear back until the a.m. And no point contacting Townsend until the morning. I’ll get some shut-eye, then take off. It’s a seven-hour drive.”

  Commitments made, a short-term plan established. Four middle-aged men, former warriors who carried their scars and trauma for decades, internalized what this decision meant. A decision filled with plenty of regret. Regret at endangering each other, regret at time’s passage. No longer indestructible, very human, with nagging longer-term future considerations. But not an ounce of fear among us.

  Bo appeared along the gravel drive, silent as he made his way through bushes and tall, dead grass. He laid his rifle on the ground.

  “Come, my brothers. Gather. It is within our darkest moments we must focus to see the light,” he said.

  I met him in the road and laid my weapon alongside his. Bo wrapped an arm around my shoulders. Catch appeared and slung his rifle over his shoulder before embracing us both in a bear hug. Marcus approached.

  “The circle is broken,” Bo said toward Marcus. “Join with us, tall, dark, and dark.”

  He did so, and for the first time exchanged physical connection beyond handshakes and shoulder squeezes and pats on the back. Catch pulled him closer, and Marcus’s long arms wrapped, joining ours.

  “The last rodeo,” he said. “Never thought we’d get back together for a mission. Not after all this time.”

  “Fierce and final,” Catch said. “The tactics haven’t changed. We can do this.”

  “We will do this, oh burly one,” Bo said. “It is right and tight.”

  “We finish this,” I said. “Drive a stake through the bounties. Then the final chapter—and I don’t want to hear any BS from any of you about this—the final chapter is mine. Alone. Me and Elliot Krupp.”

  “The universe may disagree, my Georgia peach. A string of tomorrows yet navigated.”

  “Different mission,” Marcus said and surprised us with a tighter squeeze. “Let’s focus, men. Musa Kibir. And his clan.”

  “Let’s clean house,” Catch said.

  “Agreed,” I said.

  “If anyone needs that translated, allow me,” Catch said, pulling us even tighter. “These are Janjaweed genocidal lunatics. We’ve seen what they do. We kill them all. Every damn one of them.”

  Chapter 22

  Musa Kibir. 4x saddled up.

  An encrypted message for Jules, succinct but sufficient. Her response awaited me after a few hours’ sleep.

  Come.

  The Clubhouse meeting was set for whenever I arrived in Chesapeake. She’d work her network—spiderweb tendrils spread across the globe—and send obscure enquiries, confirm contacts. No need elaborating on my message’s backstory. The bounty. She’d get it and pull out the stops to help. She’d long felt consternation at not finding the bounty source and would relish her version of retribution. Solid intel, viable contacts, Clubhouse strategies.

  I stopped on the drive at daybreak and bought coffee at a gas station. I sat in the car, took a deep breath, and called Marilyn Townsend, the CIA’s Director of Clandestine Operations. The planet’s top spook. We’d met several times since she’d been elevated to her position—a position known to only a very few people, none of them congress critters. She and I had shared a rocky relationship. Well, rocky for me. The Company, under her guidance, had played me for their benefit more than once. And I’d asked her point-blank if she knew the bounty’s source. She claimed she didn’t, which may or may not have been a lie. But she had ties, and perhaps a touch of regret, regarding Musa Kibir. She’d pulled the plug on our mission there. Whether it was water under her wide operational bridge or an event still stuck firmly in her craw remained to be seen. Plus the stone-cold reality was, with no asper
sions toward Jules, the Company made things happen. And we could use the help.

  She answered after three rings. Her cell phone indicated the caller. Townsend didn’t speak first, ever, and waited for me.

  “Hello, Director. Musa Kibir. We’re going in.”

  Silence returned and expected. Thirty seconds passed—a positive sign as she arranged a meeting in the background. When she did speak, it was with a Langley address, delivered in terse tones.

  “This address is a coffee shop. Six this evening. I’m too old to acquiesce to your ridiculous demands we meet outdoors. It’s winter, Mr. Lee.”

  She hung up. All good, meeting set. And yeah, I wasn’t thrilled about sitting with her in enclosed spaces with a cadre of Company muscle in uncomfortable proximity. But I’d watch the barista make my coffee, ensuring Company people wouldn’t taint it with something that would lead to me waking hog-tied in a cold basement. And Townsend was supposed to be on my side.

  I checked in via text message with Mom. Her reply assured me all was well and no worries and do whatever it takes. And make sure I took care of myself. The text exchange also triggered a reminder for Jules. A final request.

  I considered pinging Jess Rossi. A touchpoint, a feeler. I didn’t do it as she might have asked questions I wasn’t prepared to answer. Our team’s decision made, it wouldn’t help matters for me to dance around what plans lay ahead. Not at all.

  It was bitter cold in Chesapeake. The biting wind off the bay blew trash along the street in the seedy part of town. I parked several blocks from the Clubhouse and went through the usual routine. Hooded Filipino eyes watched as the Glock and phone were placed on the counter and quickly covered. Noisy stairs upward, two knocks, and the metallic click.

  Two shotgun barrels pointed at my midsection, a pirouette, and her weapon returned quicker than normal to the desktop. But still pointed my way. She appeared different, grim, and absent any element of bonhomie. And she looked tired. High odds she’d been up all night.

  “Musa Kibir,” she said and plucked the smoldering cigar from the desk’s edge. “I have failed you for far too long in this regard. But now the quarry is identified. I wish you to know, Case Lee, I will move heaven and earth assisting your success.”

  “I appreciate it, Jules.”

  “While insisting we delve into a most unfortunate reality.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You and your compatriots. There is not a man jack among you still capable of leaping tall buildings.”

  “We’re still not too shabby at the basics,” I said with a smile. Jules was showing true concern for me, and I appreciated it.

  “Not too shabby. Allow us to ponder that descriptive.”

  “I was just tossing out an expression.”

  She ignored my response and plowed her warning furrow.

  “Four individuals who no longer possess the physical attributes they once had. A reality of time passed and removal from constant training.”

  “I know.”

  “Four individuals with no organized support structure.”

  “Hoping you can help with that.”

  “Individuals who enter, it must be said, a part of the world where mayhem and chaos—lethal chaos—rules the day.”

  “Yeah, it’s bad. I know.”

  She paused and puffed and blew smoke at the ceiling. Then locked her no-nonsense eye on mine.

  “All under the auspices of not too shabby.”

  We stared at each other for several moments.

  “I understand they’re long odds,” I said. “But we’re going, come hell or high water.”

  Another long pause.

  “I have in my possession contact information for individuals who are willing to make, for a steep price, an attempt at your endeavor.”

  I didn’t doubt it for a minute. And it wasn’t the price that stamped “No” on the suggestion. It was the fact not a single one of us would risk relying on someone else to take out the trash. Our bounty, our cleanup. Plus, a group of hired hitters weren’t a guarantee. Far from it. We were the surest thing for stamping “Terminated” on the entire affair.

  “I appreciate it, Jules. But no.”

  Another long stare, followed by, “This adamancy, almost childlike in its persistence, cuts me to the quick.” Her face softened, true and genuine concerns evident. “I do not wish this to be the last time I lay eyes on you, dear boy.”

  “Me either. And we’re not sanguine about the risks. But please understand this.” I hunkered forward, jaw muscles working. “Not all that long ago we were the baddest sons of bitches on the planet. Bar none. Maybe not as individuals, but as a unit, a team. Yeah, we’ve lost a few steps, reflexes have diminished a bit, eyesight isn’t what it used to be. But don’t bet against us, Jules. That’s not where the smart money lies.”

  A long sigh and a gentle headshake returned.

  “We shall move on to more immediate issues prior to your sojourn into Neverland. Three violent cadres, rumor has it, have accepted the job associated with your price increase.”

  “Good to know there’s only three. So far. They aren’t an issue anymore.”

  “Explain.”

  She puffed and leaned back and absorbed my words. Her old wooden chair protested.

  “Two hitters showed in Hawaii. Two at Mom’s place. Four at Grandma Wilson’s farmhouse.”

  “And?”

  “And none of them walk among us anymore.”

  “Excellent. Tell me what prompted the radical price increase. Quite the leap, one million to ten.”

  I did. Detailed my encounter with Krupp and the drone drop and Hoolie’s help.

  “Industrial espionage rarely comes with a death sentence,” she said. “But then again, our Mr. Krupp is very used to getting his way. How is our siloed mutual friend?”

  “The same. Still strange and still handy as can be.”

  She nodded and smiled and marked a mental note of Hoolie’s continued usefulness.

  “As for future endeavors against you,” she said, “count on a brief pause while word filters back on the three cadres’ attempts. I emphasize the word brief.”

  “All the more reason to move fast. End it before the next batch.”

  “Your mother and sister?” she asked.

  A touchy, touchy subject. She knew—of course she knew—about Mom and CC and Charleston. I had little doubt that Grandma Wilson’s place would reside within her Case Lee dossier as well. But family was off-limits. They were too precious and too vulnerable for any brush against the Clubhouse’s world.

  “They’re fine.”

  She nodded in response as the lightest of smiles appeared.

  “There’s one other thing,” I said. Over the years it had been proven time and again it was best to reveal everything with Jules. She would find out anyway, and telling her up front afforded the opportunity for feedback, strategies, and tactics. She cocked her head and lifted the eyebrow over her good eye.

  “I’m meeting the director this evening,” I continued.

  “Hmm.”

  The CIA was a Clubhouse client. A good client. But Jules danced a wary and distant ballet with them, her one jaundiced eye cast across a wide stage. I prepared myself for Clubhouse red flags about interfacing with the Company. She would emphasize they didn’t hold my best interest at heart. I was wrong.

  “I’m asking for her help.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?”

  “Good. Any port in a storm. You four formerly robust gentlemen require it.”

  “Again, still pretty damn robust.”

  “Whatever you say, dear.”

  Chapter 23

  She slid open a wooden desk drawer and removed a large envelope. “I have prepared alternative plans should your little tête-à-tête this evening prove unsuccessful. Do not insult me with enquiries of payment. We shall discuss such things upon your return.”

  “Thank you, Jules. Sincerely.”

  “I shall break al
l protocol with this packet. We shall review it. And you may leave the Clubhouse with it.”

  A big deal, and it reflected the amount of information contained within the large envelope.

  “You shall arrive at a place called Goz Beïda,” she said and once again leaned back. She puffed the cigar with no effect and struck a kitchen match along the chair’s arm to relight it. “This place is not in Sudan, but rather in the neighboring country of Chad.”

  “I’m familiar with it.”

  She puffed the cigar, blew a smoke ring, and shook her head.

  “I should not be surprised, but explain.”

  I covered the mission we’d performed years ago, which had taken out the previous Janjaweed clan leader.

  “You never cease to amaze me, dear boy. And who led the intelligence side of affairs during your foray there?”

  “The director.”

  Jules cackled, shook her head, smiled, and blew a few more celebratory smoke rings. They drifted across the still room.

  “Such a world we live in, you and I,” she said. “One with, for all its challenges, the occasional serendipitous pearl.”

  The envelope packet started with satellite photos and accompanying geographic coordinates.

  “You are looking at the village of Arawala. As you can see, it is quite small. It is, however, not too distant from Garsila, the site of your, and the director’s, previous terminal endeavors with a Janjaweed clan leader.”

  “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  “Indeed. Note the massif to the northwest of Arawala.”

  Circled with red pen and abutting the tiny village, a massif. A compact group of jagged ridges, isolated from the flatter but still rough surrounding area. Among the ridges, something else was indiscernible.

  “Have a look at the next photo, Daniel Boone,” she said. “You will find a magnified image of the anomalies you now stare at with such intent. Would you like reading glasses? It may help.”

  “Funny.”

  The next satellite photo displayed tarps and tents sprinkled among the crevices and near-vertical rock ridges. Protection from the sun and protection from satellite imagery of individuals. Over a dozen large covered areas were dispersed among the craggy terrain.