Borderland

by Peter Eichstaedt

  “But maybe it does.”

  Jones leaned back in his chair behind the large oak desk, pulled off his glasses, and massaged the bridge of his nose. Dante knew Jones felt lucky to have his job. The San Francisco Chronicle had summarily dumped him years earlier after disbanding the investigative team Jones ran when the newspaper was sold and deflated to a husk of what it once was. Dante had worked for him then and had followed him to the Santa Rosa Sun.

  “When are you going to accept the fact this newspaper can’t afford a full-time investigative reporter?” Jones asked. “I went to bat for you, Dante. It’s how you got the wine editor’s job.”

  Dante looked out across the empty newsroom, waiting for the lecture to end. His job was to keep tabs on Northern California’s billion-dollar wine industry. Spread a thick layer of happy talk over the endless acres of vines and proliferating wineries. Exposés were a thing of the past, a fact he refused to accept.

  “Did you read the reorganization memo?” Jones asked, his voice low and conspiratorial.

  “Of course,” Dante said.

  Jones glanced out into the newsroom and motioned for him to close the door.

  After quietly closing the door, Dante settled into one of the straight-backed chairs facing Jones’s desk. The burn flared again in his stomach. Closed door chats were never good.

  “I want to give you a head’s up,” Jones said, mashing his lips together, struggling to find the words. “They’re eliminating your job.”

  Dante swallowed hard. Not long after joining the Sun, he’d launched a wine column called “The Grapes of Rath,” replacing a blandly named column, “Wine Country Week,” telling Jones the column needed personality if anyone was going to read it.

  “My wine column has been well-received,” Dante said. “Wineries are calling us for a change, asking for their ads to be placed on the same page.”

  “I know,” Jones said, holding his hands up defensively.

  “I’ve put my heart into the wine beat,” Dante said, his voice rising. “Earlier this year I helped organize the annual Symposium for Professional Wine Writers here in the Napa Valley. I read every wine book and magazine I can get my hands on. They’re on my desk now, under all those winery press releases I get every freakin’ day. I read all the wine blogs. The newspaper is even paying for me to get a wine certificate at the UC Davis! Now they want to cut the position?”

  “Calm down.”

  “It’s not like I needed to do any of this crap, you know,” he continued. “I grew up right here in wine country. I helped my grandpa make what they used to call Dago red. Barrels of it, year after year. Long before anyone took California wine seriously.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ve been a good boy, you know,” Dante said, not letting up. “When all those free cases of wine began showing up at my doorstep, I didn’t keep them, did I? No. I donated them to charity auctions.”

  Jones shook his head and leaned back in his chair as Dante fell silent. “Done yet?”

  He exhaled. “So, what the hell are they going to do with the job?”

  “Slice ‘n’ dice. The wine business news will be handled by Thompson in the business section. The food and wine reviews will go to Donatello in the lifestyle section. Wine reviews will be freelanced by several of the self-styled wine critics who populate this region.”

  Dante’s heart sank. He looked at the floor, then at Jones. “So now what?”

  “Do I look like an employment agency?” Jones said.

  “What about putting me on general assignment?” Dante said. “I’ve covered every kind of story there is, from obits to exposés.”

  Jones was unmoved.

  “We won the Pulitzer, remember?” Dante said, trying to eke out a sympathetic smile.

  “That’s history,” Jones said. “You know how the news business is these days. The only thing publishers want to know is what you’ve done for them today. Even if someone else quits in the next few weeks, you’re not getting the job. According to the consultants, the staff is bloated.” Jones exhaled noisily. “For what it’s worth, you’re not alone. After this reorganization, they’re giving me a bonus and pushing me out the door.”

  The knot in Dante’s stomach tighten, the heartburn smoldered. He felt his world slipping away—again. “So, how long do I have?”

  “The consultant’s report is due in a couple of week. It goes into effect a month or so later. So you have about six weeks.”

  “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

  “You’re one of the best investigative reporters around. Start looking. What’s going on with your buddies at that nonprofit journalism outfit at UC Berkeley?”

  Dante shook his head. “No openings. They’ve got problems, too. Nonprofits depend on grants. The grants come from rich people who don’t like reporters writing about how they and their friends make all their damned money.”

  “The rich just get richer,” Jones said with a groan.

  Dante sat up and crossed his arms as a wry smile crossed his lips. “It’s all the more reason for me to go out to the Morrison Creek Winery.”

  “It is?”

  “There’s more to this story than a dead body or two.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know.”

  “I told you, Hansen is covering the story,” Jones said.

  “When you find her, tell her she can do the main crime story,” Dante said. “I’ll write a color sidebar with some history of the winery. It’ll also give me something dramatic for my next column.”

  Jones sighed. “Okay. She and a photographer will meet you there. Help them out, will you?”

  “Glad to be of service.” Dante turned from the office and burst out of the newsroom and into the warmth of the late morning sun on the loading dock. He hurried down the steps, his mind reeling. In the parking lot, he pulled open the door of his aging dark green Mustang, a retro fastback coupe. Heat roiled from inside. The V-6 engine roared to life, settling into a soft rumble, enhanced by a hole in the muffler. He loved the sound. Much better than the putter of the mufflers punks installed on their rice rockets.

  Dante swerved out of the parking lot, his tires squealing. He slammed through four of his five gears and merged into traffic, quickly hitting 70 mph as he headed south out of Santa Rosa on Highway 101, and found fifth gear. He avoided the two-lane State Route 12, knowing it would be clogged with SUVs, vans, and limousines loaded with wine drinkers in the hunt for their next winery amid the rolling hills of Sonoma County.

  Yeah, the winery owner Bernie Morrison had threatened him all right. He’d expected nothing less from Morrison and knew he deserved it. Still, he had dismissed Morrison’s death threats. If anything, Morrison should have been the one worried about him, after how Morrison had carried on with his late wife. Dante’s stomach knotted and his heartburn returned. He was going 85 mph now, swallowed hard as he checked his rear view mirror for cops, and backed off the accelerator.

  After Morrison’s threats, he’d done what the newspaper management wanted. He talked to the police. The cops told him to take the threats seriously. He didn’t. They also told him to consider buying a weapon. He didn’t do that either.

  If it were Morrison on the ground at the winery, Dante knew he’d have a hell of a story. Everything about Morrison was phony, even the name of his winery—“Morrison Creek.” There was no such creek. Morrison made it up to sound rustic. Dante decided if he had only six more weeks as a Sun reporter, it was going to be six weeks no one would forget. He checked his rear view mirror for cops again and stepped on the accelerator.

  http://wbp.bz/napanoira

  Winner of the 2018 Gold Medal Independent Book Award in the Suspense/Thriller category from the Independent Publishers Association

  HARD DOG TO KILL by CRAIG HOLT

  Hardened mercenaries Stan Mullens and Frank Giordano are fighting their way across the Congo jungle to kill a charismatic diamond miner, Tonde Chiora. But their victim is full of
dangerous surprises, and the jungle offers more opportunities to die than to kill. Struggling to survive in the dark heart of the Congo, Stan begins to question his old loyalties – and his tenuous belief that he is still one of the good guys.

  http://wbp.bz/hdtka

  READ A SAMPLE NEXT

  Chapter 1

  I sat in my boss’s opulent office, waiting to hear what atrocities Frank and I would be ordered to perpetrate next. It was hot, and rain lashed the tin roof of the former monastery in hissing waves. Out in the Congo jungle, bugs and night creatures whirred and screamed.

  I was folded into a too small chair of oxblood velvet and black lacquer, balancing a tumbler of whiskey on my knee. My pistols jabbed me in the sides through the Kevlar. Beside me, Frank guzzled Johnnie Walker Red and laughed at Zhou’s lame jokes, seemingly unbothered by the low chairs, the muggy heat, and the very real possibility our tenure as private security contractors was in jeopardy, thanks to his latest outburst. Eager as I was to be free of Mister Zhou, I knew that after all Frank and I had done in the service of Zhou’s diamond mining operation our employment was likely to end with a literal termination.

  Zhou made a point of excluding me from the conversation, and since Frank’s braying laughter seemed to please the little bully, I kept my mouth shut. To calm myself, I calculated the overhead on a live water cattle ranch outside Del Rio, Texas, which I’d found listed for sale, price reduced, on the internet. As a boy I despised ranching, but after ten years of killing I’d come to see beauty in the peaceful routines of farm life. If it weren’t for my obligation to Frank, I would have gone back to Texas years ago.

  Feeling eyes upon me, I looked up to see Zhou’s sneer. “Am I right?” he asked.

  “I was distracted by the rain,” I said.

  “I said maybe I can’t trust you to find this man who betrayed me.”

  That got my attention. “One man?”

  “An engineer. He walked into the jungle with four mine laborers three days ago.”

  “You doubt we can track and capture a few civilians?”

  “Too many mistakes. No focus.” Zhou pointed at me rather than Frank.

  I clutched my untouched whiskey and waited for Frank to come to my defense. Instead, my friend and partner gulped his liquor and checked out his reflection in the dark, rain-splattered window. Apparently, he didn’t see how dangerous it was for us to lose face with a tyrant like Zhou.

  “I’ve done everything you asked, without question,” I said.

  “You don’t want to quit?”

  I opened my mouth, but couldn’t muster a response. I should’ve assumed he tracked my online activity. Though my farmland research was innocent enough, Zhou considered anything but slavish dedication to The Company as an act of sabotage.

  Frank looked away from his reflection to frown at me. “You’re bailing out?”

  The plan had been to take Frank with me, though I hadn’t shared this with him yet. “Don’t be stupid.”

  “Yes,” Zhou said, “Who else pays so much for broken-down men?”

  “There’s no better soldier than me in the entire Congo.” I struggled to keep the anger out of my voice.

  “You aren’t a soldier anymore,” Zhou shot back. “You are a watchdog – a big, ugly watchdog who doesn’t behave.” He laughed at his own joke.

  This carried the unpleasant sting of truth. I took a deep breath, struggling to calm myself.

  Frank chuckled along with Zhou. In our ten years as soldiers and mercenaries, I had never seen him kiss ass so hard. Maybe he understood the situation after all.

  Zhou slapped his desk. “Example! Uvira mine. You did nothing!”

  He had wanted us to open talks with the striking miners by shooting their spokesman. “I was negotiating,” I said, my guts coiling tight as my pulse ticked upward.

  “Those fucking guys,” Frank said through a yawn. “They went back to work real quick after I beat the shit outta that lippy bastard.”

  “Not acceptable,” Zhou said to me. “I say shoot; you shoot. No questions!”

  Frank pointed a finger at me. “Bang!”

  Zhou trained his own chubby finger on my head. “Bang! Bang!”

  I hurled my glass against the wall and jumped to my feet.

  Zhou shrank in his chair as I stepped toward him.

  “Stan!” Frank’s shout stopped me. I turned. He had his gun – a real gun this time – pointed at my heart. “What the fuck?!” he said.

  I took a step back from the desk and drew a deep breath. “We’re the best team for the job,” I said to Zhou, as calmly as I could. “Let us prove it to you. We’ll have your man back to you in a few days.”

  With Frank’s gun trained on me, Zhou recovered his swagger. He frowned, gesturing toward the door with his whiskey. “I will think about it. Now go away. I need to talk to Frank.”

  My common sense collided with my outrage, leaving me frozen in front of Zhou’s desk. Frank staggered over and put a hand on my shoulder. “Easy, big fella,” he whispered. “I got this.”

  Frank’s drunken assurances brought me little comfort, though he could be a charming son of a bitch when it served his purposes. Thanks to my loss of control, I’d have to trust in his growing rapport with our shit heel boss. I forced myself to leave the room, and slunk downstairs like the chastened dog I was, clenching my fists and growling.

  My departure was a poor tactical decision. Not only did it further diminish my credibility with Zhou, it also left me outside, staring at the pelting rain like a fool, watched by the smirking Afrikaner guarding the front door. I needed to be alone with my fury, but couldn’t stray too far. I had serious reservations about my partner’s skill as a contract negotiator, and feared he’d need my support.

  Frank was a bit like a pit bull—loyal and eager to please, but damn near impossible to control. As his handler, I often shouldered the blame for his brutality. Zhou even faulted me for the mess in Mbuji, where Frank beat the mine manager to death with a crack hammer and torched the compound, costing The Company millions.

  When Frank befriended me back in basic he was superficially crude, but beneath the thin veneer of macho posturing and dumb jokes was a generous and reliable friend. The last ten years of war had shifted the balance in him. That good man receded from me as Frank armored himself against the horrors we witnessed and, increasingly, perpetrated. As his violence intensified, I became less of a friend to him, and more of a concerned ward trying to save Frank from himself.

  Yet now Frank sat in the parlor swilling cheap liquor and chit-chatting, while I endured a soggy exile.

  I pulled out my tattered copy of David Copperfield, hoping to read until my rage subsided enough for me to return to the meeting.

  I am, despite my early departure from the Texas public school system, an avid reader. During my years as a military man I always kept several books in my kit for those terrible still times stuck in the bush, awaiting orders. Now I was more likely to read while languishing outside a brothel, waiting for Frank to finish with some big-assed whore – stuck, you might say, in bush of another sort.

  Frank said reading anything other than mission briefings was “fucking pointless,” though when he was down with malaria he asked me to read aloud to him, and seemed to enjoy my recitation of Lord of the Flies.

  The guard smirked at me as I paced on the stone front steps of the monastery, clutching the thick book in my fist and muttering the things I wished I’d said to Zhou.

  I turned on the grinning South African. “I don’t appreciate you gaping at me like that.”

  He leveled his gun on me. I was often greeted this way in the Congo. “It’s my job to keep an eye on any loskops hanging around.”

  “I’m taking a break from my meeting with Mister Zhou.”

  “You’re prancing around on the porch like a moffie, bruh.”

  I struck him in the ear with my book. He crashed into the door in a clatter of gear. When he tried to stand, I dropped him with a blow to
the temple.

  Perhaps I’m not yet ready for diplomacy after all.

  I opened my book with shaking hands and leaned against the open front door. I was done looking like a fool for the night.

  A few minutes later, Frank lurched down the stairs. I could tell when he saw me, because he went quiet and tiptoed toward me in a drunken attempt at stealth. I let him come on until I smelled Johnnie Walker breath and felt the burn of a knife at my throat. “You’re already dead,” Frank growled in his Batman voice.

  I slipped a hand between his wrist and my throat, and nutted him with a boot heel. “I told you to use the pig sticker when you’re slicing a gullet. That giant blade of yours is unwieldy.”

  Frank laughed and fell over the unconscious mercenary, full of drunken mirth. “I get a point for that ambush. You didn’t do shit until I had a knife at your throat.”

  “I thought you wanted a hug.”

  “Just admit I got you.”

  “If you need affection, just ask. I’m here for you, little man.”

  Such was the level of our discourse.

  Frank pointed at the South African. “The fuck happened?”

  “He fell victim to his own arrogance.”

  Frank struggled to his feet. “Jesus fuck. I just cleared things up with Zhou. You kicking the shit out of his monkeys ain’t helping.”

  “You seemed to enjoy your time with the boss just fine,” I said.

  “I did it for the team, asshat.”

  “Someone had to fall on that whiskey grenade.”

  “You could just thank me for saving your job.”

  “My appreciation expresses itself as sarcasm.”

  Frank slapped an arm around my shoulder. “That’s why I love ya, man. You’re always funny, even when you’re sad.”

  Sad? “This is your mess.” I elbowed him in the ribs, knocking him into the doorframe. “And I’ll let you know when I need to be psychoanalyzed.”