by James Cook
“Relax,” I said.
The eyes opened, fearful and hopeful at the same time. I said, “I told you I wasn’t going to kill you, and I meant it. I just have a few more questions. If I cut away that gag, are you going to start screaming?”
He shook his head emphatically.
“You better not, or you’ll regret it.” I reached down and did as promised. He spit the gag out and drew a few relieved breaths.
“Listen, man, I-”
“Save it,” I interrupted. “I only want to know one thing. Where did you meet the man who hired you?”
“A place called the Irisher. It’s a tavern over in Blackmire.”
“Blackmire? Never heard of it.”
“It’s in the old Chickasaw Wildlife Refuge, right on the banks of the Mississippi.”
I felt my brow come together. The Chickasaw Refuge was a known hideout for slavers and marauders, the kind of place you only went when you had something unsavory to trade. Quasi-honest businessmen like myself never went near the place. The fact that Jason had met his employer there said a great deal about his character.
“Jason, what’s your last name?”
“Ross.”
“Jason Ross, I’m going to let you go, but I need you to do something for me first, okay? I need you to deliver a message to the man who hired you. Do you think you can do that?”
“Yeah, man. Anything.”
“Very good. Now repeat after me: The past is dead. Let it go. You knew the rules when you signed on, and if the situation had been reversed, you would have done the same thing. If you dig those two graves, make sure one of them is for you. This is your only warning.”
He got it wrong on the first try, so we went through it again, slowly, phrase by phrase. It took a while, but finally he memorized the message well enough to repeat it ten times without error. Satisfied he was sufficiently coached, I stood up.
“Wait here,” I said, as if he had a choice.
“Hey, where are you going? Are you going to let me go?”
“Be quiet. If you want to live, I don’t want to hear another word.”
He went silent.
Around the back of the house was an old tool shed. I rooted through it until I found a suitable implement—a woodcutting axe—and carried it back to the front yard where Jason lay shivering in his restraints. Stopping a few feet away from him, I swung the axe into the trunk of a maple tree, the rusted blade biting deep.
“That’s yours,” I said, cutting the zip tie binding his ankles to his hands. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to leave this place, and never come back. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Fuck, man, I never want to see this place again.”
“That’s the right attitude. Now when I cut you loose, you’re going to take that axe and you’re going to make your way back to Blackmire. I know it’s a long way, but you can do it. Do you know the way?”
“Yes.”
“Good. That axe will be both survival tool and self-defense until you can find a place to scavenge some food and weapons. You should avoid contact with other people at all costs unless they seem like legitimate trade caravans. Anyone you meet on the road travelling alone or in small groups will probably be slavers or marauders. The kind of people that will kill you for your shoes. Stay out of their way. Understood?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“When you get back to Blackmire, you find the man who hired you and give him that message, word for word. If you don’t, I will know about it and I will come looking for you. Are we clear?”
“Yes.”
“What did I just tell you to do? All of it.”
He repeated back my instructions, and I nodded in satisfaction. “Excellent. Now, one last thing. You ever seen that movie, Inglorious Basterds?”
“Uh…no. I don’t think so.”
“That’s too bad. It’s a good one.”
I clamped a hand over his mouth, put a knee on his chest to hold him down, and opened my pocket knife. He struggled, screaming against my hand and kicking his feet, but bound as he was, there was nowhere for him to go.
“You see, Brad Pitt’s character, Aldo the Apache, he hated Nazis with a passion. Slaughtered as many as he could find. But with every group, he always let one go. He wanted word to spread about what he was doing, build a reputation for mercilessness and brutality, strike fear into the hearts of his enemies. But the ones he let go, he didn’t release them unscathed. He marked them, you see. Carved a swastika in their foreheads so that every time they looked in the mirror, they would be reminded of their sins.”
I touched the knife to the mercenary’s forehead and pressed down until the tip settled against the hard surface of his skull. He squeezed his eyes shut and moaned pitifully, tears streaking down the sides of his face.
“But you’re not a Nazi, are you? I don’t think a swastika would be appropriate. I need to give you something more relevant to your crimes. Something everyone can see and know what you’ve done.”
I twirled the knife around on its tip, drilling a dark little circle in the flesh around it. The whimpering turned to shuddering sobs. Leaning closer, I dropped my voice to a whisper.
“How about…M? For murderer.”
When I was done, I sat back and admired my work. Nice straight lines cut all the way to the bone. Without stitches, he would carry the scar for the rest of his life, assuming he didn’t get an infection and die. I just hoped he made it to Blackmire before then.
After tying a loose bandage around his head, I cut his bonds, leveled the Beretta at his face and backed off. The mercenary stood up on shaky legs, staring fearfully at the gun.
“Go on. Get out of here. Don’t forget your axe.”
He grabbed it, tore it from the tree, and started running. I let him get a few steps before raising my voice. “One last thing.”
He turned around, face slack with pain and terror.
“If I ever see you again, you’re a dead man.”
I watched his silhouette fade into the night until I was sure he was gone. Behind me, the blaze inside Mike’s bedroom had spread to the rest of the house, flames curling around the roof and licking at the night sky, casting long shadows in the darkness. It was far enough away the guards back at the wall wouldn’t see it, but they might notice the smoke. If they did, there was little chance Sheriff Elliott would send anyone to investigate until morning, which gave me plenty of time to cover my tracks.
Before I left, I took off my goggles and looked up at the moon. It shone dimly through iron grey clouds high overhead, reminding me of another night eight years ago. A night in New York when the bright city lights shined against nearly identical looking clouds, obscuring the sky on a summer evening. A night when I had followed protocol and let a man die.
Or so I thought.
I remembered the last time I had seen the big city, with its teeming angry masses and its wealth and pretentiousness. I remembered its brutal beauty, and the way the light bled together under the haze of a good liquor buzz at Raines Law Room on the trailing edge of Chelsea. I remembered her tall towers, her glaring neon, and the retina scarring brightness of Times Square on a boiling night. Closing my eyes, I could feel the smooth stone of the simple, poignant 9/11 memorial under my fingertips. I could recall the smell and texture and richness of a city with so many layers no one could ever truly know it, never delve all its mysteries. She had been a gorgeous lady, once upon a time.
But then came the infected, and the panic, and the fires, and the chaos in the streets. The riots. The boats fleeing the harbor so packed with people they were falling over the sides. The bombs and the gunfire and the millions dead in the span of a few days as the military suffered its worst defeat of the Outbreak. I thought about what must be left of her, that crown jewel of the Empire State. The skeletons of world famous buildings gutted and collapsing, the moans of over ten million corpses echoing through the blood-stained streets, the skyline of Manhattan reaching its dead hands tow
ard an indifferent sky.
I remembered all this, and I thought that even three years after her death, she must make one hell of an impressive corpse.
EIGHTEEN
Eight years ago,
New York City
Tolliver arranged my reservations at the Four Seasons, eight blocks from the Waldorf Astoria. I was on the sixth floor in a room designated as a Terrace Deluxe, whatever the hell that meant. My window overlooked the frenetic ants marching on 57th street, the honking, waving, bustling masses with their blank eyes and standoffish attitudes and the merciless superiority endemic of nearby Park Avenue. I felt my shoulders tense just looking at them.
At least it wasn’t SoHo.
I showered, ordered room service, and sat in a chair, legs propped up on a polished mahogany table, waiting. There was a polite knock at the door, and a short Hispanic woman rolled a cart into the room bearing a covered tray. Her age could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty, her nametag said Maria, and her wedding band was a humble strip of thin silver. I gave her a twenty-dollar tip and said muchas gracias, señora Maria. Her smile went from servile to genuine, and she said, no hay de qué, muy amable señor, with a Mexican accent.
You would think, with this being the big city, the hotel staff would be accustomed to generous tips, especially at places like the Four Seasons.
You would be wrong.
In my experience, the wealthier the clientele, the worse they tended to treat the hired help. I didn’t want to be that guy, so I always tipped well.
Maria left, and I sat down with my breakfast. As expected, the eggs Benedict was superb. New York may have had its many faults, but the food wasn’t one of them. The city boasted some of the best eateries in the world.
Once finished, I set the tray in the hallway, opened up an Elmore Leonard paperback, and continued waiting. At a quarter after noon, there was another knock at the door. Not gentle and polite like Señora Maria, but authoritative and loud, like the cops wanted in. When I opened the door, Tolliver stepped past me uninvited, gave a dismissive greeting, and crossed the room toward the table by the window. The man behind him was far more expressive.
“Holy shit! If it ain’t the fucking Wolfman himself!” Rocco stepped in, shook my hand, and pounded me on the back, laughing the whole time.
Five-foot eight and built like a fireplug, he was every New Jersey Italian stereotype brought to life. That said, he looked a far cry from the young man who had spilled blood with me on the streets of Fallujah. Gone were the fatigues, and the smooth face, and the crew cut. His once-boyish frame had filled out by at least thirty pounds, he had let his hair grow long and slicked it back, and a neatly trimmed goatee covered his chin. He looked like a well-groomed pit bull in a Brooks Brothers suit.
I said, “Been a long time, Roc. Good to see you again.”
“Good to see you too, brother.”
He turned and looked over his shoulder at the man standing in the doorway, eyes hardening, finger wagging back and forth between the two of us. “So we’re gonna be working together, right? You see this guy? Me and him, we go way back. He’s like a brother to me. You should remember that.”
He was smiling when he said it, but there was a hint of warning in his voice. It told me two things: Rocco knew this guy, and he didn’t like him.
The third man nodded in acknowledgment, expression unmoved. He was tall, nearly my height, and looked to be about the same age. Very Scandinavian. Stringy hair somewhere between brown and blonde, high cheekbones, aristocratic nose, eyes the color of glacier ice and about as warm. With a jolt, I realized I recognized him. He held out a rather large hand.
“You must be Mr. Garrett.”
“Well hell, if isn’t Sebastian Tanner. Never thought I’d see you again. How have you been?”
He froze mid-handshake, confused. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. Have we met before?”
“Yes, at Quantico, about nine years ago. You and a few other spook types were going through sniper school. We crossed paths a few times during training, even shared the range a few days. If I remember correctly, you graduated top of your class.”
His eyebrows came together, and after a moment, recognition dawned on his face. “Oh, right, I remember now. You’re the guy all the instructors used to talk about. Seemed they were worried you were going to take their job. What was that nickname they gave you? Quick something…”
I grimaced. “Quick Killer.”
“That’s it.” Tanner snapped his fingers. “Quick Killer. Yeah, I remember everyone seemed to think you were something special.” He gestured at my expensive suit, and the obvious fact I was a CIA operative. “Looks like you’ve done well for yourself since then.”
I thought about my ex-wife, and the life I had left behind, and shrugged. “More or less.”
“Now that introductions are out of the way, can we get down to business?” Tolliver said, opening a briefcase on the table.
I shut the door and moved to sit at the foot of the bed. Rocco and Tanner took the other two chairs. Tolliver arranged a few file folders on the table and set the briefcase aside.
“I assume the room has been swept?” he asked, not bothering to look up.
“Of course.”
“Very well. Mr. Tanner, Mr. Rocco, these are for you. Gabriel, you already have your copy.”
The other two operatives opened their files and began looking them over, coming to the same conclusions I had the previous night. Narco. Money laundering. Investor conference. Small private army. Rocco’s face grew concerned. Tanner seemed excited.
“So let me ask a question here,” Rocco said. “Why is the CIA handling this? Guy’s a fucking narco, right? Doesn’t the DEA normally handle this kind of thing?”
“Normally, yes,” Tolliver replied. “However, the circumstances here are a little…different.”
“Different how?”
The control agent’s eyes narrowed. “Has anyone ever told you that you ask too many questions, Mr. Rocco?”
“Hey, this isn’t Iraq, and I ain’t no grunt. If I’m gonna risk getting my ass shot off, I wanna know why.”
Tolliver sighed. “Very well. Villalobos’ father used to work for the Medellin cartel. MAS for a while, then he got noticed and went to work for Escobar personally. Carried out a few assassinations against Columbian officials who were outspoken supporters of the extradition treaty with the US.”
Rocco blinked. “Jesus Christ.”
“Indeed. In light of his achievements and innate talent, Escobar set the elder Villalobos up in Guadalajara and financed his business operations there. Villalobos saw the potential opportunities presented by the porous Mexican border, and wanted to expand production to Ciudad Juarez. A rather prescient business plan, in retrospect. Anyway, when Escobar was killed in ’93, the Medellin cartel fell apart, leaving Villalobos twisting in the wind. He managed to keep his operation running for a few years, but was eventually assassinated by a rival cartel. The younger Villalobos took the reins shortly thereafter, and has had a great deal more success building the family business than his father did.”
“Okay, that still doesn’t explain why we’re here.”
Tolliver frowned. “I was just getting to that part. You see, Villalobos blames the US government for his father’s death. The actions of US Special Forces and CIA operatives were critical to the destruction of the Medellin Cartel. If they had never gone out of business, his father’s enemies would never have gone after him. Or so Villalobos believes, anyway.”
Rocco snorted. “Sounds like pretty fucking thin logic to me.”
“I concur. However, it is not merely his hatred for the United States which precipitated our mission, but his, shall we say, extracurricular activities.”
“What kinds of activities?”
“The kind that involve financing attacks on U.S. personnel and interests in Mexico and South America. The kind that involve two attempts to mastermind coordinated bombings in D.C. and Los Angeles.
Attempts that were thwarted, thankfully, by a joint operation between the FBI and NSA.”
“Fuck me. How’d they catch ‘em?”
“Are you familiar with the Patriot Act?”
“Gotcha. NSA, right? Tracked their web activity?”
“Something to that effect. Which brings me to my final point. The CIA is involved because our operatives, meaning you three, are the most qualified for this type of operation. Normally, the administration frowns upon us violating our mandate by operating domestically, but in these troubled times, they’re willing to make a few exceptions. Miguel Villalobos crossed a line, gentlemen. A line from which there is no going back. His operations pose a threat to the national security of the United States, and he has attempted to attack and kill innocent civilians on American soil. This cannot stand. We need to send a clear message to the cartels that while they are powerful, they are not invincible. We have more money, more power, more resources, better operatives, and better technology. If they attempt to harm our people, we will come for them. If they make too much of a nuisance of themselves, there is a cell waiting for them at Guantanamo Bay. As my father would say, these boys are getting too big for their britches. They have forgotten how foolish it is to make an enemy of United States Government. The task has fallen to us to remind them. Does that answer your question, Mr. Rocco?”
Roc tossed his file folder on the table, looked at me, and pointed at Tolliver. “Is he always like this?”
“No.” I said. “Usually he’s worse.”
*****
Tolliver left us to our work.
We began sorting through the dossiers on the people Villalobos would be bringing along with him. The first file we reviewed was for Anja Renner, a very attractive, very German personal assistant. Mid-twenties, nice rack, blonde hair in a tight bun, classic naughty librarian look, eyes the color of the North Atlantic in winter. She was the distraction, the smoke screen, the arm candy to draw attention away from the dead-eyed little man who employed her. While most of the work she did was on the up and up, the people investigating her strongly suspected she had helped Villalobos rid himself of more than one annoying business rival.