Against All Enemies (22 page)

The pillow talk, though—particularly the lack of it—would become a problem before long. Libido was a constant among young men, and without relief, morale could become a problem. But as problems went, that was the least among them. Discipline was the issue at the top of that particular list. The troops assembled at Camp Wainwright had not signed on for a career of disciplined war-fighting, but rather for a quickly executed revolution. He sensed that they would not have the patience—and that the Patriots’ Army did not possess the finances—to train to the level of professionalism that he wanted to see.

But those were concerns for later. Right now, he had some life chores to take care of.

Whitesville, West Virginia, lay along the Coal River, nestled in a valley among valleys. Difficult to get to in the summer, Ian couldn’t imagine what a challenge it would be with snow-covered roads. He had no idea what the population of the place might be, but he couldn’t imagine that it was more than a couple hundred souls. Low-rise, well-worn, old-construction commercial buildings lined both sides of the road, which itself tracked the western edge of the river. This was a place for locals, he could tell—what tourists would ever find the place? The pharmacy sat next to the Shell gas station, beyond which was the Whitesville Grocery and Mary’s Diner.

On the opposite side of the street—Coal River Road—closest to the water, he noted a hardware store, an attorney’s office, and the Whitesville Medical Building. The sign in front of the hardware store screamed
GUNS
AND
AMMO
!! Ian imagined that for many of the locals, the availability of guns and ammo made the difference between eating and starving. Ditto the availability of fishing tackle.

More people milled about on the streets than he would have anticipated for two o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon, but since this was his first trip into town, he conceded that he had no good point of reference. He pulled the Chevy into an empty spot in front of a stately yet weather-worn structure sporting the sign
WEST
VIRGINIA
COMMERCE
BANK
.
He noted the irony of his parking space’s proximity to the last place he would go to get money these days.

Money orders were one on the last reasonably anonymous financial instruments left in America. Wander into any store that sold them—and there were many, from big-box retailers to local mom-and-pops—and you could lay down as much as $1,000 in cash and walk away with a check that was nearly as secure as bank-issued certified funds. Purchasers of money orders didn’t have to designate the payee in front of anyone, and because the transaction could be completed with cash, there was no record of who ordered the funds. Even banks didn’t require identification, but they were so heavily monitored by video cameras that anonymity was impossible. The National Security Agency had recently initiated programs of active facial recognition at banks, airports, and other public venues that would have been illegal under previous administrations.

The hot sun and thick air embraced Ian like an unwelcome hug as he climbed out of the air-conditioned cab and surveyed his options. The pharmacy was more likely to have video surveillance, he imagined, because of the availability of narcotics, so that was out. He decided to give Bud’s Hardware a try. He adjusted the 9 millimeter Walther PPK/S that was hidden by his shirttail, made sure that it was still concealed, and then strolled across the street.

A dangling string of sleigh bells slapped against the glass as he entered into what looked like a photograph from his childhood. This was a working man’s hardware store, free from the bright lights, wide aisles, and tall ceilings that had run stores like this one out of business. In Bud’s Hardware, where the air barely moved and smelled of fertilizer, paint thinner, and insecticide, the aisles were too narrow for two men to pass without each turning sideways, and the shelves were stacked and packed with all manner of tradesman’s tools and household gadgets. In a single gaze, he saw a dozen different kinds of rodent traps and poisons, insecticides in a variety of different forms—from buckets to aerosol cans—a bicycle, and four different types of lawn mowers. For him, it was love at first sight.

“Howdy,” said a ruddy-faced old guy with a gray-ringed bald head and substantial gut. He wore a blue denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a pair of jeans that hadn’t been laundered in a while, which he held up with a set of navy blue elastic clip-on suspenders.

“Hi,” Ian said. “Love the store.”

“Good to hear. After thirty-seven years, I’ve kinda come to hate it.” He spoke the words with a smile and punctuated them with a throaty, juicy laugh. Smoker.

“It’s like walking back into my childhood,” Ian said. “Are you Bud?” He walked toward the glass-topped counter, under which an assortment of pistols lay on display. As he neared, he noted the massive Taurus Judge revolver holstered on the man’s left side. Perhaps that explained the belt and suspenders.

“I am he. What can I do for you?”

“You sell money orders here?”

“I think I sell a little bit of everything here,” Bud said. “Folks in these parts don’t have a lot of shopping options, so I’m kinda it.”

“That means yes?”

Another juicy laugh. “Yes, that means yes. I guess I got off point a little there. How many do you want and for how much?”

“I need five of them.” Ian pulled a list out of his pocket, unfolded it, and placed it on the glass counter. On it, he’d placed only the amounts. They totaled just over eight hundred dollars.

“I can do that,” Bud said. “Just give me a minute to pull the forms out of the safe.” He disappeared into a tiny room all the way in the back of the store, and returned less than two minutes later with the money order forms in hand.

“I assume you’ll be paying in cash?” he asked as he began the tedium of filling out the forms and writing in the amounts.

“I will indeed,” Ian replied. He didn’t venture to display his cash yet, though. In a strange town, it was wise to take a few extra precautions. “Just out of curiosity, why would you assume that?”

Bud chuckled but didn’t look up. “I’ve lived in these mountains a long time, son. You learn to read the signs.”

Bud seemed willing to leave it at that, but Ian couldn’t let it rest. “Signs?”

Still no eye contact. “Yup. You ask for my name yet don’t offer yours. I’m across the street from the bank, yet you come here to get money.” Finally, he looked up from his work. “And I ain’t never seen you before. Which brings up the issue of strangers in a town like this.”

“There’s an issue with strangers?”

Bud’s lips pulled back to reveal an uneven row of mostly yellow teeth. One on the bottom left was missing. “Let’s just say we got folks who live here, and folks we only see once or twice. I have you pegged for one in the second group.”

“And why is that?”

Bud put his pen down and rested his palms on the gun case, his elbows locked. “I’ll give you this,” he said. “You talk a lot more than the others. I put you in the one-to-two visit group because you don’t look like you come from here. You sure as hell don’t talk like you come from here. Your hands are clean and your clothes are ironed, and you walk like you got a rod up your ass. No offense intended.”

Ian realized that his jaw had dropped before he could stop it. He shut it again.

“You look like military to me,” Bud went on. “And I been seein’ lots of folks once or twice recently who look just like you. Any stranger’s unusual in these parts, but strangers who look like each other is particularly unusual.” His eyes narrowed as his gaze heated up. “Remember, you asked.”

It was hard not to look away, but Ian forced himself.

Bud went back to the paperwork. “I hear the shooting up there. Sounds like a durn war sometimes.”

“What do you suppose is going on?” Ian asked.

“I suppose that it’s none of my business,” Bud said. “I also suppose that you’re asking me a lot of questions and I’m giving you a lot of opportunities to clarify things and you ain’t havin’ none of it.” He looked up again. “I suppose that I don’t trust you very much, but that I’m doin’ business with you because you’re gonna pay me cash money, and after that I don’t care that I don’t trust you. For credit, I need trust. For cash, I don’t even need a smile.”

Ian smiled anyway.

“And one more thing before I get on with this paperwork and you get back on your way. I seem to have made you nervous. I guess I understand that, but I’ll tell you that there’s no reason for it. I am no threat to you whatsoever. But if your right hand even twitches toward that piece you’ve got under your shirt, I will have a bullet in your brain before your muzzle clears the leather.”

Chapter Sixteen

S
hared courage under fire notwithstanding, Jonathan made sure that Dylan was disarmed before he climbed into the Lear for the flight out. The takeoff was harrowing yet not terrifying, and since Jonathan was sitting in the passenger compartment with their new guest, he didn’t have to worry about their altitude versus speed. He made a point of not speaking with Dylan during the trip, preferring instead to watch how he comported himself. Was he overly twitchy? Did he avoid eye contact?

As it turned out, he slept. And snored.

Their route took them out over the Pacific, looping clockwise around Nicaragua to land at a private commercial airfield outside of San Salvador. There, they would refuel and file an official flight plan back to the United States.

Dylan awoke on touchdown, stretched, and awaited the next step. Pointing to the duffels on the floor, he said, “How are we going to explain all the firepower?”

“We won’t have to,” Jonathan said. “I have lots of helpful friends in this part of the world.”

Boxers taxied the tiny jet to the fueling area and shut down the engines. Jonathan waited for him to exit the cockpit and lower the door. “Did I miss anything good?” Big Guy asked.

“Not a word,” Jonathan said.

“I think I was being tested,” Dylan said with a wink. “How’d I do?”

“You might want to get yourself checked out for sleep apnea,” Jonathan said. “You snore like you’re choking.”

“Leave all the cargo where it lies,” Boxers said. “The folks here are all trustworthy.”

“They’re terrified of you,” Jonathan corrected.

“That’s what I just said.” With fear came trustworthiness. A lesson Jonathan had learned again and again over the years.

When the stairway was clear, Jonathan let Dylan go next, and then he brought up the rear. He waited while Boxers chatted up the ground crew, and then when that was done, he pointed over to a little operations shed just beyond the edge of the taxiway. “We’ll chat in there,” he said.

“You guys seem to know your way around this field pretty well,” Dylan observed.

“What can I say?” Jonathan replied. “This part of the world is a hostage-taking kind of place.” The heat and humidity were both redlined, and sweat beaded immediately all over Jonathan’s body. Every time he came to Central America, he was reminded yet again of why he disliked the place. And it wasn’t just the weather. The man-eating flora and fauna didn’t help, and neither did the preponderance of violence.

Walking into the shed was like entering an old homestead. Jonathan had planned no fewer than six rescue operations—both for Uncle Sam and for Security Solutions—from this very spot. As always, the lighting was too dim, but the air conditioning worked perfectly. A Formica-topped conference table dominated the center of the room, surrounded by the same six molded red plastic chairs that had been here since the days of Christopher Columbus. Counter space along the left-hand wall supported a filthy sink whose faucets dispensed colon-seizing water that, if Jonathan’s memory was correct, was roughly the color of urine. In the back right-hand corner, a refrigerator hummed noisily. If past was precedent, that fridge was stocked with bottled water, sodas, and probably beer and a half-finished bottle of tequila.

Jonathan headed for the fridge and the potable water. He grabbed three and passed them out. “Grab a seat everybody. Boomer, you’ve got some ’splainin’ to do.”

“Where should I start?”

Boxers answered, “Did you kill a bunch of Agency pukes?” Why dance around the elephant in the room, right?

“Yes, I did.” Dylan launched his answer without hesitation.

“Well, shit,” Jonathan said.

Dylan wasn’t finished. “And if I could resuscitate them, I’d go back and do it again.”

Boxers chuckled as he spun a chair around and sat in it backward. “You asked for a place to start,” he said. “That seems like a natural.”

“I know you visited Christyne. I presume she told you about Behrang?”

Jonathan nodded. “I heard he was killed.”

“No. Killed puts it too cleanly. The Taliban leader—he called himself Satan—knew exactly where he was going to be, and he knew that Behrang was an informant. They went right to him. They pounced on him, yelling to the villagers that he had betrayed them all and would suffer. They stripped him—”

“We don’t need to know the details,” Boxers said.

“Yeah, you do,” Dylan shot back. “All of my friends from the old days are out to judge me, so the least they can do is endure the details.” Tears balanced on his eyelids and he swiped them away.

“They stripped him and they hung him by his hands from a sign mounted to the wall of a coffee shop. Jesus, he couldn’t have weighed more than seventy pounds. He pleaded with them to stop and when he kicked out with his feet, they tied them together and then weighted the rope with what had to be an eighty-pound rock. It was like stretching him on a rack.”

“Oh, Goddamn,” Boxers said. Jonathan’s stomach churned. He’d seen the aftermath of Taliban cruelty. He didn’t know specifically what was coming, but he knew it was going to be awful.

“He couldn’t move, Scorpion. All he could do was scream and plead. He cried out for me. I was
there
for Christ’s sake. I watched the whole goddamn thing.” Dylan closed his eyes as he relived the moment. His breathing increased in rate and volume. “I stood there and watched the whole . . . goddamned . . . thing.”