Bait the devil, p.6
Bait the Devil, page 6
T.J. rolled the blanket aside, revealing a stack of folded desert combat uniforms. Lifting out each crisply folded set, he noted that none of them had name or rank tapes, each one a blank set but almost threadbare from constant wear. After he placed the last pair aside, he came to a black vinyl garment bag.
He pulled back the zipper and found Porter’s dress blues. He shoved aside the edge of the garment bag to expose the left breast of the jacket. The dimension of the ribbon holder amounted to the size of T.J.’s hand. He recognized a few as universal awards given to anyone who’d served overseas. A good chunk of the ribbons were Marine Corps specific, and he had no clue what they meant. As with the combat uniforms, the dress blues lacked a nameplate and rank.
Why the hell would Porter not have his name on any of his uniforms? The rank, TJ could understand. A trick they’d learned from Vietnam, the men on missions or in the field would not wear anything to indicate rank to avoid having their NCOs or officers killed by the enemy. But Porter not having a rank of any kind on his dress blues made no sense.
T.J. rezipped the bag, placed it on the floor, and turned back to the footlocker.
A pair of bloodied boots sealed in a clear plastic bag and an equally bloodstained uniform in a sealed bag lined the bottom of the box. There were no patches—not even the American flag—on this uniform, and it looked like someone had taken a butcher knife to the material.
Breathing hard, T.J. rocked back on his heels and looked at anything but the items at the bottom of the box. Bile clawed its way up his esophagus, burning a path as it went.
The smell reached him, sharp and metallic. On its heels was the ringing in his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, hard.
He would not do this again. It had been a long time since he relived that day. This was not a setback.
He gathered up the articles strewn about him and shoved them haphazardly into the footlocker, then slammed the lid shut, forcing it down when the clothing pile refused to allow it to close properly. T.J. climbed to his feet and backed away.
The desk and its neat stack of journals called to him. He picked up the top one and flipped through it.
The handwriting was cramped and small, the style a mix between print and cursive. This edition was about the daily work on the horse farm, notating horse rations and which mare foaled and when; it was half-used, the remainder of the journal’s pages left blank. The second one was more personal and confirmed these journals and the items in the room belonged to Porter.
T.J. stopped on a page and read Porter’s entry dated four months prior.
Each day gets easier, but it doesn’t stop the pain. It should have been me.
“T.J., I found something.”
Startled, he spun. Dot stood at the top of the stairs.
Her gaze flicked down to the brown leather book in his hands, then up at his face. She looked over at the footlocker.
“You found something?” he asked, his voice sounding rough.
She dragged her attention back to him and held up a blue glass jar with a swing top lid. A half-used compressed cake sat on the top of crumbled pieces at the bottom of the jar. He’d seen stuff like this in large blocks wrapped in yards of plastic in Afghanistan. It was popular in Europe, but not here in the States.
“Is it?” he asked.
Dot popped the jar open and held it out to him. “What you think it is.”
He set the journal down and took the jar from her. One sniff told him exactly what it was. “Hashish.” He flipped the lid over and snapped down the metal clasps.
She took back the jar, held it up, and examined the contents. “I don’t know why the crime techs left it here.”
“Where’d you find it?” he asked.
“In a cabinet with other home-canned goods, clear at the back.”
“They probably didn’t see it.” He picked up the journal. “I don’t know why they passed these over. They’re sitting out here in the open.”
“What’s in them?” Dot asked, setting the jar of hash on the bed.
“Daily journals for the horses. And personal ones about his time in the Corps.”
Behind him, he heard Dot lift the footlocker lid.
T.J. flipped through the journal and the next one. More of the same entries. A decidedly guilty conscience on Cade Porter’s part. Not once did he mention the circumstances to what led him to this point.
Her stoic presence at his side pulled T.J. from his reading.
“You need to stop,” she said, her voice iron-hard.
Slowly, he closed the journal and set it on the desk, fighting the urge to snap back at her.
Dot took hold of his arm and tugged him toward the stairs. Before they started down, he put the brakes on and whipped her around. Dot slammed into his chest and glared at him.
T.J. tried to force the words into his mouth. Tell her how damn scared he was. Explain how much this bounty was beginning to fester in his brain. Reveal how bothered he was by these circumstances. None of it would come.
Their stare down ended when Dot freed herself and walked down the steps.
T.J. smothered his mouth with one hand, then moved it to the back of his neck to cup it, giving himself a hard squeeze.
At the bottom of the steps, Dot looked up, then exited the house.
Oh, he’d fucked up bad.
Chapter Nine
He’d been doing reconnaissance on the horse farm for a good chunk of the day. He wanted to get in, grab his gear, and bolt but didn’t want the cops to arrive unannounced and catch him.
His spot was positioned less than a mile out from the main house and barns. Its secluded area with an unobstructed view of most of the farm was perfect for a blind. On the downside, he had no clear line of sight on the main entrance.
When he’d been certain he was in the clear, he had gathered his aching body off the ground, then the big dark-gray truck rolled in. He’d abandoned his plan to get in and out and watched the unknown man and woman enter the house. While he waited, he scoped intel from the truck’s license plate. Except his position out among the trees and hills gave him no stable connection, forcing him to access a direct link to a satellite.
On a small notepad and with the stub of a pencil, sharpened by a knife blade, he jotted down the information he was able to pull up on the owner of the truck, the woman. And the previous owner, the man. It was amazing the things one could find with a simple search. What he couldn’t find was their lives beyond anything most recent. He wasn’t able to locate where they lived, but he did find the location of their business.
Bounty hunters. Both of them. Here? Had Tailored Suit sent them on his trail? Or had he done what he was told to do and now Tailored Suit’s associates were behind these two coming here? They could prove to be problematic.
Close to an hour later, they exited the house, first the woman then the man. By their stiff, agitated movements, he got the sense the two were on the outs. Neither delayed in getting in the truck or leaving, so whatever bee was up their bonnets wasn’t worth sitting around discussing. Once they’d gone, he made his move.
His trek down was halted twice as the blinding pain in his head took hold. The second time, he accepted defeat and popped the pills. Gave himself a ten-minute break to allow the drugs to work before resuming his march forward.
He bypassed the kitchen and its bloodstained floor. In the small room that served as the living area, he paused before climbing the short flight of steps to the loft. Standing in the house that had begun to feel like a home for the first time in his life, he surveyed the damage wrought on the little place by yesterday’s fight. The scent of decaying blood lingered in the air. A smell so familiar to him, it had taken permanent residence in his sinuses and now and again it would pay an unannounced visit.
Those visits would bring with them memories. The echoes of laughter and the rattle of gunfire. Dust and heat, decay and rot.
He slapped his face, pulling him back from the precipice. There was no time for regrets or recriminations.
In the loft, he went straight to the footlocker. It had been rifled through, which was to be expected. What was not—all his gear had been left behind. He avoided digging farther than taking the top layer of clothing out of the locker. Once he had them stuffed in a duffel pulled out from under the bed, he slapped the lid shut.
He spotted the jar of hash lying on his bed. How had that gotten up here?
He picked up the glass jar and let the weight of it seep into his hands. This was the last of it. He’d needed to get with his dealer before it completely ran out or he’d be fucked. After a quick scan of the room, he shoved the jar in between his clothing to cushion it.
The journals whispered ugly words from across the room. He stared at them; the top two books had been shifted aside. All were there. If he took them, even one, it would be noticed. Someone had made a point to look through them. Why the cops had left them behind was a head scratcher. Maybe they’d figure it out later and come for them. He’d rather they not. The journals were not meant for them. The LEOs would not understand the cryptic messages coded within the leather binding.
Nothing he could do about it now. The person they belonged to would have to find a way to get them. It was no longer his worry.
He turned for the stairs, then stopped and looked to his right. The concealed panel looked undisturbed.
Slinging the duffel strap over his shoulder, he moved to the wall. He drew out the fixed blade knife from its leather holster strapped to his left leg. With the tip wedged into the seam, he wiggled it deeper, then popped the panel free. He set the piece of wood on the floor and returned the knife to its holster.
From within the hallowed compartment, he pulled out a battered metal child’s lunchbox. He flipped back the aged clasp and lifted the lid. Shifting aside the rubber-banded stacks of hundreds, he found the desert-colored M9 Beretta, a full magazine, and an extra box of ammo. He removed the pistol and slid the magazine into its slot in the grip, then replaced the useless .22 he had lifted off one of the dead men from the previous day’s firefight. He stashed the extra ammo in his duffel along with the cash.
He stared at the old dinged-up lunchbox. A lone reminder of a fleeting moment when he’d been happy. It had survived the years bouncing from one place to another, then through the rigors of training and multiple trips into hostile areas. He ran a calloused thumb over the raised words and the character images of a long-forgotten children’s cartoon, the color smudged out from decades of wear.
He set it inside the space and picked up the panel. He gave the lunchbox one last longing look, then replaced the panel. With the side of his fist, he sealed it in place. It was time to put away childish dreams.
At the bottom of the steps, he paused to check his perimeter through the single pane of glass in the door. Still clear.
Time to disappear.
He was halfway to the secluded spot where he’d left the old truck when a notification pinged on his phone. He dragged it out from the right pocket of his pants. It was an encrypted message.
Before he lost service connection, he accessed the encryption decoder and opened the message.
Where the hell are you?
A shipment is coming in and you’re needed at the drop-off.
And what the fuck is going on at the farm?
The sender would see he’d opened and read the messages. That would be all they’d get.
In order to sever the ties here, everything had to go.
He found a decent-sized rock and set the phone on top. With the butt of his knife, he smashed the cell. Then sorted out the electronic fragments and gave them an extra grinding until they were dust. The phone completely disabled, he took each individual piece and threw them in different directions, then brushed the rest into the grass.
Life would be lived off-grid from here on out.
Chapter Ten
Despite the lights of Boise, Dot was able to see the stars from the deck of her rented bungalow.
Dot had foregone the usual cigar tonight and went straight for the joint. Being shot at had rattled her but hadn’t left her incapacitated like she’d been around explosions or fireworks.
No, being shot at wasn’t what drove her to the calming effects of the marijuana tonight. That fell on T.J.’s shoulders.
Damn it, one joint wasn’t doing the trick.
She stared up at the sky, listening for that familiar voice. One she hadn’t heard in months since starting this new venture with T.J. After the helicopter crash, her aitona, Samo, would pay her a ghostly visit when she was in need of his guidance. She missed him fiercely.
Samo Ybarra had passed away while Dot was training to be a pilot. Her last real conversation with him was the day she left for basic. Aitona had driven her to the airport, alone. Fit to be tied over her daughter’s insistence on following through on this venture, Angela refused to come. It wasn’t until this past winter that Dot learned why her mother had been furiously against the army; Dot’s biological father had left a pregnant Angela behind and died serving overseas.
Dot had remained quiet the majority of the drive, but as they came closer to Boise airport, Samo broke the silence.
“Do not let your ama’s anger turn you from her. She, like your amona, has a fierce loyalty. She loves you, nire gudaria.”
My warrior. Samo had called her that for as long as she could remember.
Angela’s father had done his due diligence in never revealing to his granddaughter his own daughter’s deepest grief. He had always insisted it was a truth Angela would have to discuss when the time was right. Who knew it would be more than thirty years before she’d be able to talk about it.
Before she passed through the security line, Dot hugged her grandfather with a desperation she hadn’t understood at the time. She begged him to tell Angela she loved her and she would write as soon as she could. He vowed he would.
With a kiss to each cheek, he waved her off into the unknown.
It was the last time she saw him alive.
Dot closed her eyes and expelled a long breath. The churning turmoil going through her. Difficult memories coming to the surface. The peace and ease she sought from the marijuana was not there.
Resisting the urge to go into the house and roll another joint, she picked up her phone and scrolled through the contacts to the right one. Once she tapped the call icon, she pressed the cell to her ear and waited.
“Dorothy” was the greeting from the other end. The only person in the world allowed to call her by her given name.
She smiled at the sound of her mother’s voice. In the background, she made out the chatter of a young girl.
“Ama, how does it go this fine summer’s evening?” she asked. Maybe a cigar would be best to keep her on the straight and narrow.
“It goes well,” Angela Ybarra said. “And you, alaba?”
Dot rose from the deck chair and meandered into the house to pick her cigar for the night. “Your daughter has had a few taxing days.”
“Which explains the phone call at this hour.” Angela tried to chide her, but Dot knew Ama was glad she called.
Tucking the cell between her head and her shoulder, she opened her humidor and selected her cigar. “It’s not that late.”
As she prepped the cigar for lighting, she heard a commotion from her mother’s end of the line. “Is that Dot?”
She smiled as a small girl’s voice demanded to speak to her favorite izebak. When had Bethany Cooper, the young girl Dot rescued on more than one occasion, taken to calling her aunt?
“Dot!”
She winced at the now-seven-year-old’s exuberance. “Kaixo, txiki.”
“Are you coming home?” Bethany asked.
“Not sure. T.J. and I have been real busy lately.”
Bethany’s groan was one of those Dot had heard come from girls a few years older than Bethany. The girl wasn’t ready for those years. She was a child, for God’s sake.
“You need to tell T.J. to suck it up and bring you home.”
Dot nearly dropped her phone as she burst out laughing.
Bethany’s early life with men had been traumatic to say the least, and she was apt to avoid them any chance she got, except for T.J. Maybe it was because he was close to Dot. Or maybe because he had found a way to bond with her.
“I’ll see what I can do, txiki.”
“Good, because you need to come see what Amona has taught me. Oh! Mommy let me bake my first cake too.”
“Was it good?” Dot lit the end of her cigar and drew on it to get the flame established.
“Ehh, okay. Mommy thinks we added too much flour.”
The flame took hold, and the end of the cigar glowed. “Keep practicing. Soon you’ll be able to do it without your ama.”
“I know.” Dot could hear the smile in the girl’s voice. “Amona wants to talk to you. Gabon, izeba.”
“Night, small one.”
Bethany had picked up quickly on their Basque language, which thrilled Angela to no end. It warmed a spot in Dot’s heart to hear the girl speak the tongue of Samo Ybarra’s people.
“She’s coming along nicely,” Angela said when she was back on the line.
Dot, cigar in hand, wandered back out to her deck chair. “She’s got the perfect teacher.”
“I have my limits.” Angela sighed. “She wants to learn how to use a bow. That’s your field of expertise.”
Easing down onto the wooden seat, Dot grinned. “Get her hand-eye coordination up to snuff, and I’ll be out to work with her.”
A pregnant pause over the line made Dot tense.
“Dorothy, what is on your mind?” her mother asked.
Dot stared at the burning end of her cigar, watching the embers flare red and settle into an orange glow. “We’re caught up in something I think is going to go bad very quickly.”
