Blaze (3 page)

Blaze did his best to quickly understand the picture Liam was painting. Blaze tried to absorb, but couldn't quiet take it all in on first listen. Blaze tried to explain to Liam how he saw himself, “Look, Liam, I mean no offense by this, but I'm just an ex-Marine and a spook. You always start going down this path of mysticism and prophecy and symbolism, and I just don't know what to do with all that. I honestly ain't buying all that stuff. Who knows what the scriptures really mean in those passages. They could be taken a million different ways. Even if you're right, these things are the last thoughts I can worry about right now. Like I said, I am a soldier, a warrior. I can't deal with end-of-the-world theories, when in my mind, I struggle with my own end-of-the-world realities. I've seen this world almost collapse many times. And the only thing stopping that collapse were my brothers in the Special Forces and my brave colleagues in the CIA. I've put cigarettes out on the arms of terrorists, had to employ water boarding like it was a new attraction at Six Flags, and have held a fellow soldier in my arms while blood shot out of his jugular like Niagara Falls. I've got enough disturbing thoughts to think about. I don't need a scripturally pre-ordained war to add to it.”

Liam knew he had struck a nerve in Blaze and that what he was describing was too much for Blaze to contemplate at the moment. Blaze was too close to the micro of war that an analysis of the macro was not something he could always handle. “Very well then, I'll try to be subdued on such thoughts when we're in session here. I understand that you're overwhelmed with all this geo-political stuff. Despite all the capacity you have to assimilate, the wounds still bite at times. Nonetheless, you can't deny, and I know that you don't deny, the sensitive times that we live in. You also know what the role you ought to play in it is. If you didn't, you wouldn't be here describing these feelings to me as you are. Are you still in contact with Chuck Gallagher at all?”

Chuck Gallagher was the current Director of Central Intelligence. He and Blaze had remained friends after Blaze stopped working for the agency. They still met frequently to shoot the breeze and pummel each other in the ring.

“For sure, Chuck and I get together pretty regularly and spar over at the boxing gym. We rarely talk shop officially, given the confidential nature of his position, but we keep each other informed of our personal lives. That, and of course, beating the hell out of each other and calling it exercise.”

“I'm sure then you've expressed your frustrations with civilian life with him?”

Blaze could see where McCardle was going with this. “Well, that's just it, I've kept that close to the chest. Reason being, I know the minute I tell him, he'll hassle me to no end to get back in the game, and he'll likely have a very specific game in mind for me. I can't let him know how I feel until I've made an absolute decision about what I am going to do. Of course, the sticking point there is still how the hell I am going to deal with Diem on the issue.”

“Well, yes, that is the heart of the matter I suppose. You haven't quite said it outright here today, but I think you know in your heart that this matter is decided; now it's just a matter of acting on it. In regards to handling the conversation with Diem, this is where I leave you with God. As you know, I've often confessed my inaptitude for dealing properly with the mind of a woman.”

Blaze laughed, “Who knew? I've looked death and destruction square in the face while spitting in its proverbial eye, for years on end, and yet the thought of talking to my wife about a serious issue gives me trepidation beyond belief. Go figure.”

Liam laughed and then offered advice for the next step, “Well, maybe you should start with Gallagher. You let him know what you're thinking, and as a result of his excitement and subsequent pressure on you, the ticking of the clock will force you to deal with Diem.”

“Yeah, you might be right. I've always done better when there is the pressure of a ticking time bomb. Except, usually the real ones are a lot easier to diffuse than my wife.”

Liam smiled. “Well, I shall do my due diligence and lift up that explosion in prayer my friend.”

“Good. I'll need it”

“I'll see you then in two weeks?”

“Yeah, if Diem hasn't buried me yet. Oh, and next time, try to keep the cap on the bottle before I get here. You gotta stop this policy of only drinking on days that end in ‘y.' I know we're saved by grace, and I know in Gaelic the word whiskey means ‘water of life,' but given your profession, I think you should concentrate more on what the Bible refers to as the ‘water of life.' I swear, you probably had more to drink this morning than every Mick in the phone book had on St. Paddy's day last year combined.”

McCardle knew they'd never part on a serious note. Not that his drinking problem wasn't serious. “I can see your tendency toward blunt confrontation is truly natural outside of your relationship with your wife. Consider your admonition noted and accepted. I'm working on it. However, the ethnic slur is entirely unnecessary,”

Both men laughed as they shook hands and Liam began to walk Blaze out of his office. “Yeah, yeah,” said Blaze. “You know I love you Liam, but you can't muzzle me. I'm a Mick too, so sue me. It's all in good fun, and don't seriously try to tell me the Irish don't like to drink.”

“Blaze, enough. I think you better move on with your day, you have plenty to think about now.”

“Alright, Pastor. Hopefully, I was the worst of it for you today.”

CHAPTER FIVE

O'CONNER'S IRISH BOXING CLUB, DETROIT, MICHIGAN

O
'Conner's was teeming with energy. The sound of grunting was constant and everywhere. The smell of sweat and the feeling of male tension hung heavily in the air. The fast, rhythmic tapping of feet echoed throughout the club.

Blaze's thoughts were in a purgatory of sorts. Stability teased him periodically and then laughed its way out of his mind. It was with this strange body-mind dynamic that Blaze pounded away at the heavy bag at O'Conner's Irish Boxing Club in downtown Detroit.

The force of Blaze's gloves crashed against the bag with a thud that syncopated with the whisper and snap of the jump rope four feet behind him. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and looked around the club for a moment.
This place is packed today.

As he fought to find an appropriate ebb and flow with his movements, more sweat dripped down through the corner of his left eye. He paused for a second and wiped off his brow with an already well-worn gym towel. His mind began taking him back to the time he was held captive in Yemen. The stench of the cellar, the pain of the beatings, and the confusion of the languages spoken around him seemed tangible even in this moment. It was probably the last time his body had been so beaten down and his soul so demoralized to the point of near resignation. It was after that incident, one in which he was rescued just before his finger nails were poised to be ripped out one by one, that he went home to a frantic bride who was so terrified by his torture experience that she then gave him a stern ultimatum about his occupational future—
no more CIA, no more missions
. Shortly thereafter he learned of Diem's pregnancy—another reason Diem sited as to why Blaze needed to make a career change. His children he adored, the career change not so much. Blaze resisted Diem's plea for a career change for years before finally giving in.

The blasting sound of the bagpipes hit his ears like a tornado of triumphant sound through his iPod ear buds. The fist-pumping cadence of the music served to inspire several intense minutes of relentless assaults on the heavy bag. While his musical tastes were diverse and his iPod full of tunes of all genres, it was the Dropkick Murphys that most often found its way to the top of his selection when he was at O'Conner's. For the moment, it helped him take his mind off the myriad of past glories, current regrets, and future hopes that constantly occupied his mind. DKM always drove him to the peak of intensity in training as it filled him with a deep sense of his warrior nature, his working class roots, and his pride in his Irish heritage. Outside of being a warrior by nature, Blaze was, at the core, a solid product of a working class Irish-American upbringing. This was the perfect soundtrack and battle cry anthem to be set as a sonic backdrop to his unique life's tapestry.

In Blaze's eyes, the Dropkick Murphys represented true patriotism with their songs about struggling soldiers, the rigors of raising a family, and the trials of the increasingly obsolete workingman. Blaze recalled a news story about how the band dropped off a tour with the band Anti-Flag because DKM could not bear their nightly anti-American ramblings any longer.

Blaze slowed his stride as he heard his name yelled in a cocky tone from across the warehouse-like boxing gym. Blaze smiled to himself, wiped more sweat off his brow, and draped his towel over his sinewy, muscular shoulder as he turned to greet his old ball-busting friend, CIA director Chuck Gallagher.

“How's the world treating you Chuck?” Blaze was always genuinely happy to see Chuck. He had not only been a tough boss who never let Blaze be anything but his best self, but he was also a hell of a friend and mentor.

“Like a baby treats a diaper old friend.” Chuck's charm never ceased to amaze.

“I can see your outlook ain't changed a bit mate.” Blaze smiled widely as he vigorously shook Chuck's hand.

“Still a heart-breaker, life-taker, and grave-maker. Through and through.”

“Well, I hope you're wearing your Depends old man, cuz I'm about to kick the shit out of you.” Blaze loved to threaten people as he looked them in the eye with a smile.

Chuck's laugh echoed throughout the club.

“Let's get rollin' pally, ‘cuz I ate my Wheaties this morning and had my Viagra last night. Your going back to kindergarten.” Small talk was over. Gallagher was ready to throw down.

Chuck Gallagher was a dinosaur. Old school. Obstinate. Hard-nosed. He was also tirelessly devoted, down to the core of his being, to his country and all that might be necessary to protect it. There's not a search party in existence that could find a soft emotion in the man. But contrarily, he was
all
heart. And everyone who knows him, knows it. Chuck's military career started in the Marines, much like Blaze's, and it ended up in the CIA. In very little time, Chuck clawed his way into the director's seat with the vigilance and ferocious ambition of an enraged tiger. Chuck had always been well known for his inability to be flexible. His tirades, pissing matches, and knock-down-drag-out disagreements with colleagues—no matter their rank—were well known, public and beyond legendary. Blaze McIntyre was one of the only individuals that, because he had dominated beyond expectations in all his missions, had earned the respect of Chuck Gallagher. So much so that although standard ball-breaking applied, all-out character assassination was spared.

In his late fifties, although he was ever the quintessential crotchety old man in spirit, Chuck Gallagher was in golden athletic shape. After the customary warm ups and friendly banter, Chuck threw the first punch in the sparring match. Body shot, blocked. With equal force and comparable form to Gallagher's shot, Blaze retaliated. Strike to the head, also blocked. The ping-pong of strength and skill continued for about twenty minutes while both men proceeded to sweat pure passion, aggression, pain and devotion in a deadly serious, but pragmatically playful, manner. As the two men tired of throwing hooks and jabs, they began chatting.

“Chuck, I have some things on my mind.” Blaze was catching his breath as he began to open up the conversation. He mopped his soaking head with a fresh towel as he spoke.

“Oh yeah? So what's new? If I killed as many as you, I'd have more on my mind than I have already.” Insensitivity was natural for Gallagher. Blaze never held it against him. It was a pre-requisite for Gallagher's position.

“Yeah, well, those things are hidden way deep. I save those for the bartender, the pastor, and the shrink. Not a grumpy old man who lost his touch in the ring.”

“Good, because I'm none of those things and I don't venture to help in that area. It'd be the blind leading the blind anyhow.”

“Yeah, well, my mind is more occupied with directional issues my man. I want back in the game…I think. But, I ain't got the balls to tell Diem.”

“Wow. Now you're striking a chord pal. The pencil pushing ain't doing it for you anymore, uh? You can't tell me shit like that without me being on your ass about follow through. I'm like a pit bull on steroids when you tease me like that.” Blaze was making Gallagher's task easy. Gallagher didn't even have to lead him to water.

“I suppose that's why, other than McCardle, you're the only one I've shared this conflict with.” Blaze looked Chuck straight in the eye, sending a legitimate signal that he was on the short list of men he trusted.

“So you're practically begging me to break your balls for follow through?” He was gonna break his balls with relentless follow through anyhow, but confirmation would eliminate the chance of any guilt about it.

“Yeah, I suppose that's exactly what I'm doing.” And indeed it was the reason Blaze had brought it up.

“Well, good. Now you're gonna be hard-pressed to not break the news to Diem, because I think I got a mission that has your name written all over its bloody path.” Chuck smiled with wide eyes.

“Do tell.”

“Let me finish the groundwork and then I'll gladly brief you on the skinny.”

“Next week? Same place, same ass-whoopin'?”

“Sure, as long as you're clear that it's your ass that'll be whooped.” Gallagher knew Blaze was beginning to feel like his true self again.

“Don't count on it Grandpa.” Blaze's respect for Gallagher was deeper than he would ever let him know.