Bitter Tide

by Jack Hardin

  “So he bolted,” Ellie said.

  “Yeah. So he bolted; rings me up right before, and I tell him where to meet. Dawson didn’t have a car, so I don’t know what he was talking about when he called again and said he ran out of gas and now he had to walk it. I think his phone died in the middle of him talking. Anyway, he doesn’t show. I wait a few hours and he still doesn’t show and I think the worst and jet. My car is in the shop, so I hitched a ride to the exit and walked out here and haven’t heard anymore from Dawson. I put the battery back in my phone and walk toward the highway every morning so I can get reception and check voicemail, but I haven’t gotten any calls except from my mama and my landlord.” Ronnie stopped pacing and sat on the edge of the couch. “They got him. I know it. I don’t even know if he’s still alive.”

  “Tell me about this Oswald fellow you mentioned?”

  Ronnie blinked a couple times, and a light entered his eyes. “Wait, you said you brought smokes?”

  “I did.”

  He walked over to the brown bag on the table. Peering in, he stuck his hand down and brought out the carton of Marlboros. “Damn if I forgot you said these were in here.” He popped the flaps, drew out a pack, and went over to a drawer near the sink and pulled out a blue Bic lighter. He opened a pack, withdrew a stick and lit it up, and closed his eyes as the nicotine hit his blood. He breathed out a thin haze and plopped back onto the couch.

  “So toward the end Harlan—Harlan died a couple years ago—he took Oswald under his wing and spent most of his time with him, grooming him as it were to carry the torch once he was gone. But as it turns out Oswald wasn’t too keen on any of Harlan's beliefs. He just liked the idea of being able to rally people to a cause. So when Harlan died, Oswald pulled all literature—posters, pamphlets—and canceled campus gatherings and rallies. He’s a smart guy. Smarter than I gave him credit for at first. He sifted us until only the faithful were remaining. Those faithful to his new vision.”

  “Which was what?”

  Ronnie drew down on his cigarette again. “Pretty simple now that I look back on it. He said that in order to really change things you have to have influence and that the surest way to have influence is to have money. Money and power get things done. The quickest way to get the most money the fastest is on the black market. He’s eccentric and a little weird sometimes, but he’s,” Ronnie tapped his head with a forefinger, “a really smart guy. Most of us just fell in line. You know the whole, ‘the ends justifies the....the…things’?”

  “The means?”

  “Yeah. That. The means. He wanted to turn things around and start building cash flow, so he started kicking people out of the group and only inviting those of us to the meetings who were willing to put the old ideas on pause for a season so we could have more influence later. And Dawson, he kept on— say, you want a smoke? I haven’t even offered you one.”

  “Thanks. I don’t smoke.”

  “Okay. Sure. So Dawson, he kept on believing. I got out a few months ago. Started seeing it for what it all was—that ol’ Oswald had no interest in returning to Harlan’s ways.” He picked the book back up and stared at the small author photo on the back, then turned it over and clutched the book hard, like it was his best friend in the world, holding onto it as if it were a Bible, he a preacher criss-crossing the sawdust trails, prepared to hail the faithful word underneath the windswept flaps of a makeshift tabernacle.

  Ellie remembered what Jean had said about her son. How his father had never been there for him. Ellie had seen the negative effects of such relationships up close when she was in Albania five years ago. She was three weeks into an insertion, gathering intel on a shoemaker suspected of being a middle man; selling U.S. secrets on behalf of the highest bidder. During her time there she’d seen the many teenage boys and young men with an eagle’s wing tattooed on the top of one hand; the mark of the feared Lushnja Gang, one small appendage of the country’s growing mafia presence. Albania was known to have one of the highest crime-generating elements in the world, and they stuffed their ranks with young, fatherless men looking for meaning, purpose, and a sense of belonging.

  Ellie never would forget the snowy evening she was in Tirana, walking back to her flat with a takeout bag of tavë kosi—baked lamb with rice—when a young man stepped from an alleyway, jabbed a gun into her ribs, and told her to keep walking. Ellie got a look into his eyes and saw the fear in them. He was probably no older than sixteen. She could feel the muzzle of the gun vibrating in her ribs as his hand shook nervously. It was a rite of passage for this boy. If he brought her back to their lair, he would be in; one of them. They would let him have his way with her, and then the rest of them would too. Then they would sell her into another country as a sex slave, or possibly cut her open and harvest her organs on the black market. The boy barked at her in his native tongue and kept an arm across her shoulders to make it look like he was a loving boyfriend shielding his girl from the cold. “You don’t want to do this,” Ellie whispered.

  “Yes. Yes, I do. Shut up,” he replied in haltering English.

  Ellie stole another glance at his uncovered face. He hardly had black fuzz for a mustache, his round cheeks, pink in the cold, looking like ripened peaches. It was not the face of a hardened man who kidnapped unsuspecting ladies off the street. He led her down an alley and was just about to open the back door to a vacant restaurant when she doubled over, faking a sharp pain in her abdomen. She groaned loudly, and, as the kid leaned down to see what was wrong, Ellie brought her knee up hard, and it connected with his nose. Blood gushed out onto her jeans, and he fell back into a pile of dirty snow. She took his gun, removed the chambered round, removed the magazine, and then dismantled the slide before dropping it all at his feet.

  “Bad boy,” she said, and walked away. The kid was probably executed for his failure. The Albanians were not known for their mercy. They were ruthless and vigorous in their violence. She wouldn’t have been able to do anything for him. He had chosen his own path. She wasn’t there to save the world or protect young punks, just her country’s secrets.

  Harlan Tucker would have been the father Ronnie never had access to in his youth, Oswald the older brother. Ronnie would have imbibed whatever Tucker was selling, and in this case it happened to be a neo-patriotic worldview. Tucker would have been a charismatic man who not only gave these boys something to believe in but also gave their hands something to do about it. It was the perfect combination of passion and ability. Only they had lost their father too soon, and their older brother stepped in to lead them astray.

  Ellie stood up. “Ronnie, why don’t you come back with me?”

  “No. No way. I’m fine right here. I mean, food is running a bit low, but I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Your mother is worried about you. It would make her feel a lot better if you came back and stayed with her for a while.”

  “No. No way,” he repeated. “It would be too easy for Oswald to find me.”

  Ellie wasn’t certain that Ronnie wasn’t being overly cautious, but she conceded. “All right. Look, why don’t I come back in a couple days, and I’ll bring you some real food? If you’ve changed your mind, then you can come back with me.”

  “Thanks.” He opened the door. “Why are you doing this for me?”

  “Like I said, your mom is a friend of mine.” She stepped outside, slid her sunglasses down off her forehead, and turned around. “Ronnie, we’ve all made poor choices from time to time and come out the other side wondering how we even got there. You seem like a decent guy.” She looked into his eyes. “I hope I’m not wrong about that.”

  He returned her gaze, the expression holding a measure of the simplicity that Ellie had noted earlier. “You’re not.”

  Chapter Nine

  Ringo’s home was nestled on three and a half acres in west Iona on the southern edge of the Caloosahatchee River. His seven thousand square foot mansion sat in the center of perfectly manicured lawns and gardens and was hedged in by e
ight foot high laurels that provided ample privacy on either side. The front of the property was graced with generous groupings of tall slash pines, white oaks, and royal palms, through which a sand lime brick driveway snaked in thirty yards off the main road and ended in a broad semicircle at the front door. A white marble fountain of three jumping dolphins sat in the center of the turnabout, surrounded by a bed of yellow tulips and bright pink gerbera.

  He loved being here, here on the water with direct and easy access to anywhere he wanted to go along Florida’s eastern seaboard. There was a downside, however. It was his proximity to Saint James City, which lay only seven miles to his west off the mouth of the river. But being further away would be cumbersome. This was the best location from which he could run his business, but it meant that he had to be careful when coming out on his dock during the daylight hours, couldn’t present himself to those cruising the river or even friendly neighbors. The neighbors, however, were not much to be concerned with. To his right and his left, along with most of those in the immediate area, the neighbors came down to vacation only a couple months out of the year, their mansion in Iona was one of two or three that they kept around the world. Any interest they might have in knowing their neighbors was generally mitigated by a greater desire to get out on the golf course or a fishing boat that was heading out to deep waters.

  Ringo sat in a cedar Adirondack chair, staring at the river before him, its surface reflecting the full moonlight, its waters flowing like liquid coal. The tip of his cigar glowed against the darkness, making a searing sound as he puffed patiently on the end and the dry leaves were eaten by the fire.

  Far behind him, Andrés and Chewy came out of the back door of the home, walked past the pool and the honeysuckle-covered trellis, and made their way out to their boss. He could hear the padding of their feet when they hit the dock. They stopped next to him. Ringo motioned toward two additional chairs. “Have a seat, gentlemen.”

  They sat. Andrés looked at Chewy, then out to the water. A ways out, a catamaran slid through the river, heading to open water. A salty breeze was present, but soft, gentle, welcomed after a hot and humid summer day.

  Ringo took another slow draw off his cigar, let the smoke curl in his mouth, and then released it without haste. He kept his eyes on the water. “Eli Oswald has become a problem.”

  “Guns?” Andrés asked.

  “Yes. Guns. Was our understanding not made clear to him?” Ringo asked.

  “It was,” Chewy said. “Very clear. As always. What kind of guns?”

  “Military grade. Moving it along with our product. In the same cases. Six weeks I’ve been working with this man. Six weeks and he already breaks one of my rules. What is wrong with the world that people can no longer keep their agreements?”

  Twenty minutes went by. No one spoke. Ringo finished his cigar. He looked at Andrés, who was now leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “What do you think the consequences should be?”

  “He broke rule number one.” He said so in a way that made the conclusion obvious.

  “But he’s not a part of my organization,” Ringo said. He had already made up his mind, and the two men sitting with him knew it.

  “When someone does business with you, they are a part of your organization,” Andrés replied. “He needs to go.”

  “I want us to lay low for a while,” Ringo said. “I trust you both. If we need to pull back somewhere, then pull back. We didn’t come this far by being greedy or foolish. Aldrich would like us to wait a couple weeks to give him room to work an angle with Eli Oswald.”

  “What kind of angle?” Chewy asked.

  “A consequence for breaking one of my rules and increasing our exposure.”

  Chewy stood and took a couple steps to the edge of the dock. He flipped up the collar of his wool trench coat, scratched at his beard. “This could get ATF involved if they ever find out about him.”

  “Hence Aldrich’s plan,” Ringo replied. “The last thing we need is two agencies scanning the horizon for us.”

  Five minutes of silence. Finally Chewy, soberly and reflectively, said, “Yesterday is not ours to recover, but tomorrow is ours to win or lose.”

  Ringo nodded. He smiled broadly. “Amen. Amen indeed.”

  Chapter Ten

  Six Years Ago

  TEAM 99 Headquarters

  Brussels, Belgium

  Ellie, known to her six teammates simply as Pascal, stood at one end of the ping pong table, waiting for the ball to be served. Faraday, the other woman on TEAM 99, said the score and served. The thin plastic ball shot over the net and landed on Ellie’s side of the table before speeding off at an angle. Ellie reached for it but missed getting her paddle on it by a quarter inch, giving Faraday the point.

  “Good one,” she said.

  They were in the large common room on the second floor of the compound, where a fully equipped kitchen stood in one corner with an eating area adjacent. The other half of the room consisted of a pool table, the ping pong table, a few leather couches, a flat screen TV, and several different gaming consoles. A neglected dart board hung near the pool table.

  Cicero was on the couch, clutching a bottle of Gatorade, streaming an early episode of 24. Virgil—the largest, most muscular member of the team—walked into the room and opened the refrigerator, said to the food, “Hey, I’m not telling you anything unless you give me immunity.”

  Ellie and Faraday snickered. Cicero rolled his eyes but kept silent.

  “Trust...me,” Virgil quipped again. Cicero sat up, turned around, and threw the remote at his teammate. Virgil swiveled and snatched the device from the air before it hit him. “You throw like a girl.”

  “Hey,” Faraday said defensively, and brushed her dark bangs from her eyes, “I can throw better than that.”

  A sigh from the couch. “Would you guys shut it? I’m trying to watch this.”

  Virgil grabbed a rotisserie chicken off a shelf and shut the refrigerator door. He set it on the counter, grinned, and said, “Nobody says ‘hit me’ when Jack Bauer deals blackjack.”

  “When life gave Jack Bauer lemons, he used them to kill terrorists,” Ellie said.

  Faraday: “When Google can’t find something, it asks Jack Bauer for help.”

  And so it went that whenever Cicero opted to watch 24 in the common area, he got a communal ribbing. Every time. Someone had suggested he was a sucker for pain, but the truth was that Cicero was the foremost extrovert of the group and didn’t much like watching television in his room. “Come on, you guys,” he said. “Bauer is like the best character ever. I’d even stick him a notch above MacGyver.”

  “Whoooa!” the room said in unison.

  “Dude. Not cool,” Ellie said.

  Virgil had torn a leg off the chicken. He pointed it at Cicero. “You keep making comments like that, and we might be less motivated to watch your six next time. Better than MacGyver? Please…”

  At the ping pong table it was Faraday's serve again. With a quick release of the ball and tap of her paddle, she sent it across the net. Ellie reached out and punched it back over. It bounced into the far corner and out of Faraday's reach. “That’s the game,” Ellie said. She set her paddle on the table, stepped up to the whiteboard on the wall, and put another tick mark next to her name.

  “One more game?” Faraday urged. “Come on.”

  “I think I’ll end on a high note,” Ellie said. “Keep practicing. You’ll get me one of these days.”

  She walked across the room and patted Cicero’s shoulder as she passed the couch. “Hey, you should make a commitment not to say stupid stuff anymore.” He shook his head and waved her off. Ellie went over to the fridge and brought out a cold bottle of water.

  “When does Voltaire get back?” Faraday asked.

  “Tonight,” Virgil said, still tugging meat off the chicken and putting it on a plate. “I think that’s what Mortimer said. Why?”

  “He’s the only one around here I can beat in ping p
ong,” she said.

  Ellie chugged the water down in one go and tossed the bottle in the garbage. She noticed a thin gauze wrap on Virgil’s right hand. “Did you cut yourself shaving again?” she grinned.

  “I wish. No, got it last night when I was adjusting the timing belt on my truck.” He winked at her.

  Over half of the missions the team were given, they went together—all seven of them. The other missions were delegated and assigned as matched their individual abilities, skills, and strengths. When the latter, they were not allowed to share details of the operation with anyone else. If two other teammates were assigned to go out with you, that’s all who knew about it. “Not your mission, not your business.” It was one of the ground rules and one that would swiftly get you booted off the team if broken. As yet, no one was willing to test the boundaries.

  Virgil didn’t have a truck. None of them, in fact, had personal vehicles. Not here in Belgium anyway. His reply was his way of saying that he couldn’t talk about it. “Well, I hope the truck is all right.” Ellie smiled back. She liked Virgil. He walked a proper line between serious and jokester, always knowing when the best time was to exercise which quality. In contrast, Voltaire, their team’s leader, was sober-minded, generally serious and thoughtful. It was one of the qualities that made him good at his job, what made him such an exceptional leader. It was also the quality that reminded her the most of her father.

  “It’s on the mend.”

  “I’m going to go be productive,” Ellie said. “I’ll see you guys later.” She exited the common room and turned down the hall. A door clicked shut at the other end, and hard-soled footsteps echoed down the concrete corridor. Two men appeared from around the corner, both in suits and ties.