Core of Steel

by J. B. Havens

  He laced his boots and went out into the woods, thinking a hike would be the perfect solution. He ignored his screaming muscles and burning bruises. He’d get himself so physically and mentally exhausted that he’d sleep like the dead tonight. He didn’t want to dream about her cute blonde curls or clever hands.

  ****

  I knocked twice on Jackson’s cabin door. I looked at my watch, seeing that I was right on time. He had summoned me for a private meeting earlier. Usually we met in the war room or mess hall. This mission was strange all around; typically by now I had some idea of what it was about. Either a location or an idea of a target.

  “Come in, Mic.” Jackson’s voice rumbled through the door at me.

  I stepped into his cabin, which was a larger version of mine, only with more personal stuff. Jackson didn’t go with us on missions, so he was here all the time. He had more inclination and talent for decorating his space than I did. I stepped into his combination living room and kitchen and was surrounded by the sweet smokiness of his cigars and the warm musk of good scotch. He had painted the cabin in warm earth tones that gave the whole place a comfortable, homey feeling that my cabin lacked. It was like standing inside your favorite quilt, warm and comfortable.

  “Why did you need to see me, sir?” I asked, as I took a seat on his overstuffed couch. I kicked back, folded my hands on my stomach, and enjoyed sitting for the first time today. I propped my boots on the slate-topped coffee table in front of me.

  “It’s about this mission. I just received some intelligence that you need to know sooner, rather than later,” he tapped his cigar on the green glass ash tray next to him. The smoke hovered over his head, making his already salt-and-pepper hair look even greyer. He normally kept it shaved, it was unusual to see him with hair. Or maybe it was the stress showing around the corners of his eyes, making him look older.

  “What’s the matter, Jackson?” We’d been friends a long time. I could see something was eating at him.

  “This mission is fucked. You didn’t even get the team over there yet and I know it’s fucked. You’ve got to play white knight AND assassin.” He crushed the cigar out so hard the ash tray clinked against the table. It was unusual for him to show this much emotion.

  “Explain that,”

  “What started out as a standard black ops hit is now also a rescue mission. We’re helping out our brothers across the pond on this one. MI-6 has a confidential informant, in deep with a cartel in Colombia. It’s shitty all around. This guy, Lincoln Adams, worked for a tea shop popular with tourists. He saw something in the back alley he shouldn’t have. Got a glimpse inside a bag full of coke and heard their plans for moving the product. In exchange for his life, he began doing favors for the cartel. Helping move product around London and the surrounding areas. He is your classic British guy. He speaks perfect French and can blend in anywhere. He proved to be exceptionally useful to the cartel. After about a year, they took him to Colombia with them. What he can do from there is beyond me. Normally these guys have some kind of hold over you; a debt or drug habit, something. Lincoln is clean of all that. Not so much as a parking ticket. Maybe they thought he was easily intimidated, but all along he has been working for MI-6. He’s got all the information MI-6 needs to take out the cartel. Now it’s time to get him out. That’s where you come in. He can’t just disappear, they’d track him and kill him. You have to go in and get him, eighty-six the cartel kingpin and fake Lincoln’s death.” He gave me a moment to let this sink in.

  “So the new intel?” He was right. This whole thing stank and was fucked before we were even wheels up. There were too many unknowns. I was looking forward to having a chat with Mr. Lincoln Adams.

  “Time table has moved up; you don’t have another week. You’ve got three days until you guys go. Is the kid ready?”

  “Fuck me, Jackson. This is bad. I just had him in the torture room three days ago. He’s beat to hell.” I put my head in my hands and felt the severity of this decision weigh on me. If I said yes and we took Jordon, he wouldn’t be at the top of his game. He just wouldn’t be. If I said no, he wouldn’t accept it or me ever again.

  “But is he ready?” Jackson’s chocolate eyes bored into mine. He knew what he was asking. This was a mission we couldn’t do without Jordon. We needed the extra man.

  “Yes. He will have to be. Three days, huh? Give it to me.” Jackson reached behind him and pulled out maps and satellite pictures that he spread onto the coffee table. I helped myself to a scotch and we pored over the maps. Jackson handed me a dry-eraser maker and I began marking everyone’s positions. It was going to be tricky to get into this fortress disguised as a mansion.

  “Is this guy going to be able to get me inside? I need the boys to cover me outside. I’ll only take one man inside with me.”

  “My contact at MI-6 is his handler. He says so. Lincoln is a trusted member of the household. He can get you in here.” Jackson pointed at an entrance on the south side of the imposing three-story mansion.

  “Ok. So he meets us there and we go up here.” I pointed to the bedroom window belonging to Mateo Fernando, the cartel kingpin I’d be taking out.

  “Yes. I’ll get you all the intelligence I have on Mateo. Lincoln has been instrumental in gathering it. Without him none of this would be happening. MI-6 tried to get Mateo through lawful channels, but witnesses kept disappearing. This is the only way. The timetable moved up because of a huge party Mateo is hosting. A fellow dirt bag of Mateo’s, known only as the “Frenchie”, will be there brokering some sort of deal with Mateo. This is the perfect opportunity to take him out. Security is going to be tighter, but Mateo will be distracted by the Frenchie and all the pussy they have at these parties. Hopefully, you can catch him with his pants down.”

  “Affirmative.”

  He handed me a thick folder with “Top Secret- Eyes Only” stamped on the front. “Here’s your homework, Mic. Read this tonight and brief the team tomorrow afternoon. You’ll get your night of R&R before we leave, don’t worry. You all need to let off some steam. I just hope the kid doesn’t fuck this up.”

  “Me too, Jackson, me too.” I thought Jordon had proved himself so far, but it’s always the same with a new guy. You never know how they are going to react in the field until you are IN the field. I just hoped that I hadn’t made a huge mistake in saying yes to taking him on this mission.

  ****

  I tucked the folder under my arm and walked through the warm night to my cabin. Deep in thought, I didn’t notice Jordon until I was almost on top of him. I slid back into the shadows at the back of the cabin and watched him. He was coming out of the woods, fatigue showing with every dragging step. What the hell was he still doing up? It was pushing one a.m. He had to be beyond exhausted. Between the beatings he was still recovering from, and all the new bruises he’d gotten today, he should be in bed with Tylenol and an ice pack, not taking a moonlit hike.

  I stepped forward into the light, allowing him to see me. He froze ten feet in front of me. I held the folder behind my back as I stepped toward him.

  “What’s up, Chris?” I asked kindly. He looked terrible. I shook off the thought that this was all my fault.

  “Nothing. Just heading to bed.” He looked at his feet, shuffling them in the dirt.

  “Doesn’t look like nothing. Looks like you’ve been hiking in the dark instead of sleeping. Care to tell me why?” I mentally slapped myself. The man obviously needed some space. Why couldn’t I just leave it alone? The folder in my hands was suddenly heavy.

  “No offense, but I don’t have anything to say to you right now, Mic. I’m a grown damn man. You’re not my mommy. I don’t have to answer for my every move.”

  “The fuck you don’t. I’m more than your mommy. I’m your NCO. We’ve got a mission coming up. I need you to be on top of your shit, mentally and physically.”

  “Well, that’s a fucked up problem you’ve got there, Mic. Because thanks to you, I’m not on top of my shit. We keep
dancing around each other. You tell me hands off, then proceed to have your hands all over me. I’m still a man; a person, not just a mindless robot. So, unless you intend to follow through and have me on top of you, keep some fucking distance. I signed up to get away from this shit, not to be swallowed right back up into it.” He turned sharply on his heel and went into his cabin. I expected him to slam the door, but he shut it softly. Didn’t want to wake the others, I guess.

  “Dammit. Dammit. You’re such an idiot. Learn to leave well enough alone,” I berated myself all the way back into my cabin. I got undressed and showered before falling into bed. I took the folder on Mateo with me. I had to crawl into this guy’s head.

  Opening it, I began by flipping through crime scene photos of suspected hits he had ordered, and even a few they think he did personally. The man favored a machete. So very cliché. What is it with drug lords and machetes anyways? He hacks his victim’s hands off before beheading them. And they never find the hands. Yummy. It could be worse, he could use a chainsaw. I’ve never seen one used, but I’ve seen Scarface and Dexter. That’s enough for me.

  Next in the folder were grainy photocopies of bank statements from off-shore accounts. How did Linc get these? The balance in each account was in the tens of millions and without reading them in detail I could see he had at least five different accounts. He must be laundering money somehow. I wonder why MI-6 couldn’t get him that way. If they had access to these statements they could see where the deposits were coming from. That wasn’t my problem though. I was no Sam Spade, I was more like Mad Max. Behind the statements was a short page of notes, in small block letters. I figured they were Lincolns’ notes since it’s not like they were signed. I settled back deeper into my pillows as I continued to read:

  Mateo exhibits a keen intelligence, even when he is fueled by drugs. His rages brought on by the drug-induced paranoia keep everyone in the mansion on guard. His machete is always at hand and he shows no hesitation in using it. However this ends, I hope that Mateo never sees another bloody sunrise. This will be my last note. Things have become too risky to chance any evidence of my “betrayal” to be found. Beware of this man. He is dangerously unpredictable.

  That was it. One short note. It wasn’t too surprising. To be El Jefe you couldn’t just be a sociopath, you had to be a smart one. This shouldn’t pose too many problems. I’d dealt with enough of these men to know that they also have arrogance in spades. What do you get when you add drugs, arrogance, and mental disorders together? A weakness, an opening for people like me to come in and wipe you off the planet, which I will do gleefully. There was more to Lincoln than Jackson was letting on. Something about the whole situation wasn’t sitting right with me. Too easy somehow. To be forced to do things for these people, Mr. Lincoln Adams had to have some serious motivation. Maybe there was a woman involved somewhere? Or a secret he didn’t want out in the open. I would pick him apart on the way back from Colombia.

  I put the folder aside and settled down into my pillows. One of the few splurges in my cabin was my Tempur-pedic bed and pillows. It felt like sleeping on a cloud, a big empty cloud.

  Chapter 10

  The next day I called all the men into the war room, in the back of the mess hall after breakfast. It was time to break the good news to the boys.

  There was a large oval table in the center, surrounded by cushy office chairs. Only the best for my team’s asses. There was a projector pointed at the back wall, creating an empty white space: the other walls were covered with the stars of our fallen, the flag, and our coat of arms, which was a steel “I” beam twisted into an “s.” The same coat of arms existed in ink on the arms or backs of each of us.

  “Listen up, guys. The government garbage truck crunched our time table. We roll out in two days.” Flat stares and Flynn’s crazy grin were my only responses.

  “What the fuck, Mic?” Jones was brave enough to ask.

  “Intel came in.” I flicked the lights off and put a map of Mateo’s mansion onto the wall.

  “MI-6 is in on this too, although taking a back seat. This is our target.” I switched to a grainy photograph of our target. “Meet Mateo Fernando; drug lord, sociopath, general scum bag. He is mine to handle boys. Favors the use of a machete on his victims, usually starts with the hands and moves on from there. He’s a real piece of work and it’s going to be a genuine pleasure to end his existence. The reason for the rush is this man.”

  I put up a photo of Lincoln that looked like it came from a passport or the like. He was an average-looking guy: medium brown hair, blue eyes, on the tall side, with a decent build like a swimmer or someone who spends three days a week on a treadmill. In shape, but not hard; classically country-club handsome in khakis and a polo. He looked like your typical suburban husband and father, not someone who was snitching for MI-6 against an international drug lord.

  “Who’s this dude?” Pierce asked.

  “This is our package. Lincoln Adams, goes by Linc. We have to get him out and make it look like we failed. He has a new life waiting for him here in the states, so he’s got to die in Colombia.” I switched the photo back to the aerial of the compound.

  “Where are you going to get in, Mic? This place looks tight.” True to nature Phillips, pointed out guards that we could see and the places with guards we couldn’t see. It was closed up tighter than a nun’s chastity belt.

  “Linc is there; he’s going to weasel me and one other man in.” I pointed out the side entrance we were going to use. I switched the photos to a blue-print of the house, also courtesy of Linc. Resourceful man, that Linc.

  “This entrance is used for servants and deliveries. We’re going to dress in staff uniforms and blend right in. This idea was also from Linc; he’s going to have uniforms there waiting for us. There is going to be a big party going on, celebrating a deal that Mateo is making with a big boss from France. This is our best shot, it comes with a built in distraction. We’ll blend right in with the other servers. Also, we’re going to do our best to make this look like an inside job. We want to try to take the whole cartel out, from the top down.”

  “Just so long as he can cover your asses while you change or whatever, Mic. Can you trust this guy? What do we really know about him?” Phillips asked.

  “We know he’s a British citizen who saw what the cartel was doing and put himself in a risky position to help MI-6. He went to them, gentlemen, MI-6 didn’t recruit him for this. He volunteered; I’d say that earns him a gold star in my book. He’s not combat-trained so we are taking a risk here and it’s one I can live with. This is the only way to get in and out without throwing lives down the cartel gauntlet.” I looked around me at my team. The stony faces and determined intelligence lit up the room around me. Linc was doing this at great personal risk, but was I willing to sacrifice one of my men for him? No, I was not.

  “If it comes to you guys or him, I’m choosing you guys. I’ll kill him for real if it comes to that, but I don’t think it will. This is a fucked situation, I know, but it’s all we’ve got. He’s got to have something going for him, if he survived with Mateo this long. No way would a weak man make it.” If even half of what I read about Mateo was true, then Linc had a thick streak of bravery that was as admirable, as it was suicidal. He’s lucky that he’s survived intact this long and my team and I would make sure he made it the rest of the way.

  “We’re Steel. This is what we do.” I grinned widely at them, and all of them joined me. You had to be more than a little crazy to do this. Missions like this one were our bread and butter. Knowing that if one thing went wrong with the timing, we were all dead, is what made this perfect for us. We thrived in chaos and arterial spray.

  I began pointing out the men’s positions with a laser pointer. Everyone had their place and assignment but Jordon. Jones was on a small hilltop overlooking most of the estate. He could hide in plain sight, so he was the least of my worries. Phillips was covering the rear of the estate that Jones didn’t have line-of-si
ght on. Flynn was going to be flying the helio that would get us in and out; and Pierce was going to be running around with bombs, causing confusion. “Jones, you had better keep a sharp eye on his six; no way am I going to train another noob.” Jordon and Jones both had the nerve to act insulted.

  “Where am I going to be?” Jordon asked. His tone suggested that he both knew and dreaded my confirmation.

  “On my six. Like I told you before, you’re the new guy; you stick with me until the newness wears off. Plus, you’re a ghost in a house. I need your stealth. Any questions?” I looked at each man in turn, trying to see inside them. Something with this mission felt off to me, though I couldn’t place it. All the maps were here and the plan was laid. No going back now; I could only hope that whatever it was, didn’t show its face until all my boys were home safe.

  “Mic, how is Linc going to die?” Phillips asked.

  “Excellent question, my friend. He’s going to die with this.” I held up a knife I took from my pocket. I stepped forward quickly and with a lunge, jammed the blade into Flynn’s gut. He shouted in surprise and grabbed his stomach, showing us his blood-coated hands, confusion and shock painting his face.

  “What the fuck, Mic!” Phillips shouted. He stood so fast, his chair slammed against the wall with a crack of breaking plastic. I tried to hold it in, but I couldn’t. The laughter swelled up in my chest and exploded out. Continuing to laugh, I showed them the blade. I pushed it against my palm, making it slide into the hilt. There was a little bit of blood left in it that seeped onto my hand.

  “See, it’s a prop.” I held my palm up to the room, pushing the blade in, and popping the switch on the bottom, making the blade spring back out with a faint click. “There’s a small reservoir in the hilt that holds a blood pack; when the blade is forced into the handle, it pops the pack and voila! Dead guy. I pointed the knife at Flynn, who grasped his stomach with both hands and fell to the floor “dead”.