by Chuck Dixon
Gunny Leffertz said:
“You go into combat with a man he becomes close. Closer than family. Closer than a friend. It’s a bond you can never walk away from, never forget. Even if both of you die. The tie goes on.”
4
“Lone Star Solutions. Garrett here.”
“Hey, Tobey.”
“Shit.”
“That any way to say hello?”
“I told you I helped you all I could, Levon. You are radioactive, man. Do you know the kind of time I could get just talking to you?”
“Remember Bazît Hassan?”
“Buzz-it? You know all those names start to run together. I must’ve known a hundred Hassans.”
“This guy’s a Yazidi. Helped us in the oil fields that time. You called him ‘Pancho.’”
“Yeah. Yeah. Mean-looking fucker. Looked like a pirate crossed with a Mexican bandit.”
“I need to know where he is. If he’s alive.”
“The fuck why?”
“I made a promise. Gave him my word. I think he’s in trouble.”
“Shit, Levon. Any promises you made back then timed out by now. You did your part. You don’t owe anybody anything anymore.”
“That’s not how I see it.”
“Yeah. You wouldn’t.”
“Can you find him?”
“Sure. Sure. One guy in a shithole country that’s tearing itself apart every day? A phone call or two and I’ll have him for you. Maybe he’s on Facebook.”
“I figure he’s in the fight to retake Mosul. He’s with the Kurds or his old militia unit.”
“That’s so fucking helpful, Levon. It really is.”
“You’ll do this for me.”
“You know I will. You owe him something and I owe you a shit-ton more. Give me until the end of the week. How do I reach you?”
“I’ll call you.”
“Friday, Levon. Stay hid till then.”
Gunny Leffertz said:
“A man doesn’t fear what’s to come. There’s nothing he can do about the future. He fears what he left behind. That’s a dogging fear that never leaves.”
5
She got suspicious when her father let her have another Frosty. He never let her have a second Frosty.
Merry came back from the counter to where her father sat at a booth near the front of the Wendy’s. He was nursing a coffee and watching the traffic pass by on the golden mile. She slid in on the bench opposite and lifted a heaping lump of soft serve from the cup.
“Merry, there’s something we need to talk about.”
The first mouthful of sweet chocolate turned bitter as chalk in her mouth.
He told her about his friend in Iraq. The promise he made to the man. The kind of trouble the man and his family were in.
“You really need to go?” she said.
“I do.”
“Do you want to go?”
“No, honey. I don’t. The very last thing in the world I want is to leave you. But you’ve got Uncle Fern to look after you until I get back. You’ll be so busy taking care of Montana you’ll never notice I’m gone.”
Montana was the pony he’d bought her. She was devoted to the animal.
“That’s not true.”
“It’s not a deployment. I’ll be back once I’ve helped my friend and I’ve made sure his family is safe.”
“Like you did for us.”
“Just like that.”
“He’s a very good friend?”
“Honest? I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him. He risked everything to help people who were mostly strangers to him. And he kept on taking those risks. I just cannot turn my back when he needs help.”
“Isn’t it our government’s job to help him if he’s our friend?”
"Doesn't work like that, honey. Governments don't keep those kinds of promises to people like my friend."
“Do you know his family?”
"I met his wife once. He had a little girl the same age as you. He had another daughter since I last saw him. Maybe more."
“And they’re in trouble?”
“The worst kind from the worst people on earth. I have to know they’re okay. I can’t have peace without knowing.”
“I’m going to miss you.” There were tears in her eyes that she wanted to blame on brain freeze. The Frosty, untouched after the first spoonful, was melting to soup.
“I’m going to miss you too, honey. Miss you every day,” he said. He took her hand in his.
“Can we go home now?”
“We sure can. Do you want to take your dessert with you?”
“No. You were right. One is more than enough.”
The drive back to Uncle Fern’s was a long silent one for both of them.
Gunny Leffertz said:
“You face death with a man you have a brother for life.”
6
Randall “Duck” Withers was spoiled for life.
He made a promise to himself that he would never, ever fly anything but corporate again.
In the comfortable embrace of a plush leather armchair and a vodka and tonic on ice in his meaty paw, Duck could barely hear the big jet engines propelling the Airbus over the Atlantic. He had a preseason game between the Dolphins and the Jets up on the big screen. And an attendant was warming up a shrimp creole over rice for him in the galley.
It all beat the living shit out of the days he spent sitting on a bench in the back of a C-130 suffering through another bone-shaking ride to someplace where everyone was looking to shoot his ass off. He was either too cold or too hot back in those days. Today he was jetting to Europe in climate-controlled comfort and being treated like an oil sheik. The only thing that could move the experience closer to paradise would be a blow job followed by a nap. And, as he'd be landing in Amsterdam inside of the next two hours, both those wishes were within reach.
Duck was vice president of operations for Bryson Tactical Services out of Butte, Montana. His job was organizing and running high-security coverage for anyone who could pay the price. And this time the price was over the twenty million mark.
This clusterfuck in Iraq was causing migraines for the oil companies. And in a major way for the Chinese oil giant paying the tab for Duck’s team. They wanted boots on the ground and eyeballs on their holdings, as well as protection duty for their personnel and Secret Service level bodyguard coverage for any of their execs visiting in-country. Any ISIS asshole would give up half his virgins and his left nut to grab a bigtime oil executive to behead on camera.
The meeting in Amsterdam was to assess the situation and learn what the Chinese expected in return for their euros. Then it would be up to him to put a team together and get them out to the fields in eastern Iraq to help local militias hold on to what hadn’t already fallen to the jihadis.
Yeah, he’d come a long way from boot camp at Bragg where an Army D.I. first called him ‘Duck’ for his unfortunate habit of flinching at loud noises. Determined to lose the nickname, Randy Withers spent more time than any of the recruits out on artillery and mortar ranges. He hung out there, asshole clenched tight, until he could stand in the middle of a barrage without even blinking an eye. The name stuck though, as they always will. Forever he would be Duck. He made it through Ranger school and eventually wound up in Delta. It was there that a CIA wag morphed his sobriquet into ‘The Duck of Death.’ Duck found it flattering until he saw the Clint Eastwood movie the agency officer had borrowed it from.
Now he lived with it. People knew his name and associated it with a long career of doing bad things to bad people. Inside his world he was a known man. Through sweat, blood and two ounces of shrapnel still in his left hip, he made the name Duck synonymous with badass.
He sipped the V & T and took in the scent of the meal heating for him in the galley. Hell, even his Dolphins were winning for once. It just didn’t get any better than this.
His sat phone bleated once, twice. He picked it up.
“Go for Withers,” h
e said.
“Took me a while to find you, Duck.” The voice on the other end had enough of an easy drawl to take the gruff edge off it. He thought he remembered the voice but told himself that it couldn’t be that guy.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Levon Cade.”
The Duck of Death flinched hard, spilling ice from the tumbler into his crotch.
“Is this a secure line?” Duck said.
“I’m calling on a cell I bought with cash at a Circle K. I’m destroying it as soon as we’re done talking.” Levon’s voice even and easy. The man could stand in the fires of hell and never raise his voice.
“You know you’re shit hot, right? Everyone I know still in the life is telling me. The stories aren’t good.”
“I’ve had some trouble.”
“You reaching out to me for cover? I can’t do jack for you with domestic law.”
“I need to leave the country.”
“Uh huh,” Duck said. His shrimp creole was congealing into a cold mass in front of him.
“I need to go to Iraq,” Levon said.
“You know there’s better getaway destinations than that, buddy. Rio. Bali.”
“I’m not running. I’m keeping a promise.”
“Okay.”
“You still have business there. If you don’t, you know someone who does. You have a way in for me.”
“I have a contract hanging fire now. I’ll be putting together a security set-up there sometime next week.”
“Put me on the team.”
“Hold on there. Levon. I can’t put a wanted felon on my crew. Do you know what you’re asking me here?”
“Don’t bullshit me, Duck. There’s no boy scouts on your team. You have all the hook-ups. You’re the most connected operator I ever ran into. Get me clean I.D. Passport, visas and whatever else. Get me in country and that’s the last I’ll ask of you.”
Duck was sweating despite the chilled air inside the cabin. Cade was asking for a favor without mentioning all the things he’d done for Duck in the past. The man was built that way. He wasn’t going to beg and he wasn’t going to mention the overstuffed account in a favor bank with Duck’s name on it. And Duck owed him. Owed him big. The big hick had pulled his ass out of more fires than Duck could recall in some of the shittiest places and shittier situations on Earth. That long bad day outside Kabul alone was worth his left kidney, first born child and a weekend in Vegas with his sister.
“I’ll need a way to contact you,” Duck said finally.
“That’s a roger then?”
“Roger.”
“I’ll contact you on a different cell. We can work out the details. You’ll tell me where I need to be and when.”
The contact broke. Levon Cade was gone for now.
Duck drained his drink in one long gulp. He gestured for the attendant to take away his untouched plate and wiggled the tumbler for a refill. He sipped at the fresh drink and watched fleecy clouds crawl by below. Levon was keeping a promise. He was into someone else’s books for a favor. Duck couldn’t imagine that mad Marine ever owing anyone. The Devil’s own deal was calling the man back to Iraq.
And Duck knew, sure as he knew the Dolphins would choke in the second half, a whole lot of men would be dead before that promise was kept.
7
“Ed should be back in a few minutes,” the chirpy woman behind the desk at the elevators said. “You could wait in his office.”
“Are you sure that would be all right?” Nancy Valdez said. She looked to the no-nonsense shield for the ATF hanging on the paneled wall behind the receptionist. Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. The T-men. The enforcement wing of the Treasury department that included Secret Service and the U.S. Marshals.
“Sure. Down this way and three doors up on your right.” The woman pointed.
Edward Bowden’s office had only enough room for his desk, chair, a guest chair and a bookcase bursting with piles of paper. A tall slit window looked out onto a park area enclosed by a section of an aqueduct type of structure that curved around the south end of the building. Everything in the room was standard government issue down to the out-of-date computer. The only personal items in the room were a framed picture of two smiling men squinting in the sun and an old fashioned Mason jar being used as a pen holder. The photo showed an older man with a shrinking fringe of gray hair behind his ears and a growing roll of fat straining against his suit jacket. The other was a trim young man in the dress blues of the Marine Corps.
“You been waiting long?” A man matching the older man in the photo entered the office. He was perhaps forty pounds lighter than the man in the picture. He set a tall paper cup and a bag from Arby’s on the desk.
He had an easy drawl to his voice with a whiskey edge to it. Well-earned in the line of duty, no doubt. In another life he could have made a career doing voice work selling trucks on TV. Nancy liked him immediately.
“Just got here,” she said.
“I treat myself once a week.” He nodded to the takeout. “Don’t tell my wife. Or my doctor.”
“Your secret’s safe with me. Nancy Valdez. Special Task Force,” Nancy said and stuck out her hand. Ed Bowden took her hand and pressed it firmly in his.
“Ed Bowden. Not-so-special pencil pusher,” he said with an open smile. He gestured her to the guest chair.
“You weren’t always at a desk,” she said. She glanced at the Mason jar.
“I had my time. Sometimes I miss it. Sometimes I wonder what the hell I was thinking.” He unpacked his lunch like a practiced ritual. The sandwich sat on the spread-out wrapper upon which he dumped a heap of fries with a squirt of horseradish sauce by it.
“Take a fry or three,” he insisted.
Nancy helped herself to one. Salty, greasy and sinful. She plucked a napkin from the desktop to wipe her hands.
“We’re looking for someone who may be hiding out in a hostile environment,” she said. Down to business.
“Yeah?”
“He’s an Alabama native gone to ground in his home county.”
Ed nodded as he took a pull on his shake.
“We know going in we’re going to get zero cooperation from the locals. Maybe you could come over to Fifteen Hundred and give us a few pointers.”
“I mostly worked Virginia and West Virginia. But I understand the problem you’re anticipating. Spent a lot of years dealing with those folks. Hell, they’re my folks.” Now it was Ed’s turn to look at the humble jar on his desk. His eyes focused on something far away.
“Could you get away this afternoon?” Nancy said.
“Shit. If I can bring lunch along, we could leave now. I’d wrestle a bear to get away from this office.” He began scooping up his lunch to replace it in the bag.
“That works too,” Nancy said.
“I worked hills and hollers for close to twenty years. Most of that undercover. Making buys. Locating stills,” Ed Bowden said. He was addressing Nancy’s task force at their conference table inside their quad of cubicles on the fifth floor. Tony Marcoon, Chad Bengstrom and Laura Strand were present along with Nancy.
“Like working a neighborhood in narco,” Tony said.
"In some ways just like that. But in some real important ways not like that at all," Ed said. "In your inner-city neighborhoods, the drug business ebbs and flows. Shifts in power. Changing customer base. Different product. In all those areas the whiskey trade is a whole different animal. And all of that is bad news for you.”
"How so?" Laura's eyes were large behind her lollypop glasses. She was fascinated with what this old warhorse was schooling them on.
“Well, the power structure is consistent. And I mean for generations going back a hundred years or more sometimes. And the customer base is always the same. Shot houses up and down the east coast. Some of these old boys even ship their hooch out to California. Trendy assholes out there sipping white lightning made by rednecks they wouldn’t spit on. And the product? Never changes. Same as it�
�s always been. High octane liquor made out of any shit that’ll ferment. You don’t want to know what goes into those thumpers.”
“And that makes our job of finding our man more difficult,” Nancy said.
“A hundred times more. If this Cade is family to folks in the county they’ll never give him up. Hell, they wouldn’t give him up if he was their worst enemy. Not to the law. And never to federal revenue agents.”
“Revenue agents.” Chad, eyes on his open laptop, barked a laugh.
"That's what we are to them. They resent Uncle Sam shutting them down. To them it's a tax issue, a freedom issue. It's not about whiskey. It's about holding on to your own. It's suspicion and pride is what it is. You could knock on every door and talk yourself hoarse and not get any closer to this boy than you are right now."
“What do you suggest?” Nancy said.
"Go in sideways. Not undercover exactly. Find someone who likes to talk. But no suits and badges. Just askin' around," Ed said. He looked around the table with a critical eye: a Latina, an Italian, a black woman and a Yankee nerd.
“Guess I just volunteered,” Ed said.
Everyone but Chad got it and chuckled.
“What?” Chad said, looking up from his screen.
Gunny Leffertz said:
“Women lie and soldiers bitch. That’s the way of the world.”
8
There were six men on board the Gulfstream when Levon arrived. They sat at the rear of the jet sharing beers and conversation. From the tone of the talk it was clear they all knew one another well. It was all bullshitting and ball busting.