Chapter 4: Golden Manatee Nights
LORENZO
Tickville, Montana
February 13th
The shadow government had a nickname: Majestic. They even used it for themselves like some sort of in joke. I saw that name over and over as I pored through the information Reaper had sent me. Much of it came from the information Valentine had given to Bob the year before and it was borderline crazy town. If I hadn’t been reading leaked classified documents, I’d have assumed it was all a bunch of bullshit.
Reaper was giddy with excitement. He still religiously listened to that late-night conspiracy theory radio show, From Sea to Shining Sea, and having me be forced to seriously entertain such things was simply awesome for him. I had to hang up on him so I could concentrate.
Picture the government, by the people, for the people, all that crap. Picture it as a body, made up of cells that were bureaucrats and elected officials. Each cell had a job. Sometimes the cells were replaced, but the body stayed about the same, except this one just kept getting bigger and fatter. Now picture Majestic as a cancer invading the body, slowly but steadily spreading. A black shadow on an X-ray, a secret conspiracy of very powerful people, steering that body to accomplish secret goals. Ever since the Zubaran coup there had been hearings, trials, special prosecutors. Thanks to Bob’s data dump, people had been fired, and a few had even been sent to prison—and mostly pardoned—but the cancer was still there. Who were they really? Who did they work for? What were their goals?
Beats the hell out of me. Ling, with all of the intelligence assets of the Exodus organization at her disposal, didn’t know any more than I did. I guess it didn’t really matter. I had a job to do one way or another.
Lucky for us, my brother had managed to gather a lot of info about where Valentine was being held. It was obvious to me that Bob had help. You don’t have that long a career in Army Special Forces and then the FBI without making some contacts. He’d managed to get us the location, a list of assigned personnel, almost everything except a prisoner list. I suspected there was no prisoner list. Even bureaucrats didn’t like to make lists of people who weren’t supposed to exist.
This particular corner of Majestic’s invisible kingdom was a secret prison and interrogation center. North Gap was a desolate little radar base dating back to the early Cold War. Now it was staffed by about two dozen people, with a cover story about it being a weather research facility for the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. Bob’s FBI file indicated that he had been reprimanded for demanding to speak to some of the people held here. Apparently they didn’t like when people rocked their boat.
Back in Quagmire, Bob had warned me about the guys that made up this organization. Gordon Willis’ men had been the dregs of law enforcement and military service. Men too violent, unstable, amoral, or crazy to work in a normal system, but still capable and having valuable skills. The staff at the North Gap facility seemed to be cut from the same cloth. Most of them were former employees of the Bureau of Prisons or different police agencies, kicked out for various reasons. Our target tonight was no different. Roger Smoot had been a prison guard, with allegations of multiple assaults, rapes, and possibly even murders of female inmates. Yet before the official inquires had concluded, Smoot had been whisked off the radar by Majestic and given a new job.
We had picked Smoot for two reasons. He was approximately my size and build, and in an afternoon of poking around Tickville, Montana, we had found out that he usually spent his evenings at a local dive of a bar called the Golden Manatee. What would possess anyone to name an establishment that, I can’t say. There was a yellow neon blob above the entrance that I think was supposed to be a manatee.
Tickville was a pimple of a town which served one purpose. It gave the local oil roughnecks a place to get drunk, blow their money, and find some action. That was pretty much the basis of the economy and the Golden Manatee was the highlight of Tickville culture.
It was snowing as we pulled into the parking lot of the Golden Manatee. Our stolen ten-year-old Ford Taurus station wagon fit in reasonably well with the beat-up pickup trucks and other crappy cars in the parking lot. Even with the heater on full blast, I was still painfully chilled to the bone. I had gotten used to a constant temperate weather for the last year, and Tickville in February isn’t close to St. Carl at any time of the year.
We made our way inside. Ling drew the attention of every man in the place from the moment she walked in. I could tell she didn’t like being the center of attention, and was already in a foul mood when we sat at the bar.
I tried to listen to the nearest conversations, trying to get a feel for the place. Some Department of the Interior administrator, who had probably never lived anyplace that wasn’t completely paved, had recently put five thousand men out of work in this area with the stroke of a pen, killing drilling on federal lands in order to protect pristine wilderness, and you could feel the resulting surliness in the air. As somebody who lived his life off the grid and avoided authority, I wasn’t exactly an expert on domestic policy, but anybody who thought it was a better idea to buy their oil and give tons of money to monsters like Adar, General-turned-President Al Sabah, and the Prince instead of the folks in Tickville was a fucking imbecile.
For the first hour we sat there, Ling kept her long coat on, and tried not to draw attention to herself. Even so, she’d been hit on or offered drinks by one knucklehead after another. Her patience was wearing thin, and I found it hilarious.
“He’ll be here soon,” I said calmly as I swirled the straw in my five-dollar, watered-down bar Coke.
“And if he doesn’t come tonight?” she asked. I had to struggle to hear her over the distorted country music blasting from the juke box. In one corner of the bar was a game where drunks could sock a punching bag to test their strength. It made a ridiculous amount of racket, even louder than the music.
“Then we come back tomorrow.” I didn’t like Ling’s attitude. She thought she was in a hurry? It was my brother who needed help. If Valentine rotted in a secret jail forever, it really wouldn’t hurt my tender feelings. “Hey, look on the bright side,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “They’ve got punch cards. Ten dinners here, and you get a free basket of mozzarella sticks.”
“As if you could make it ten times without contracting botulism . . . Look, Mr. Lorenzo, I can tell you don’t like this any more than I do.” She was trying to sound more diplomatic.
“True. I normally prefer more time to plan. A job like this? I would probably watch the target for weeks, get to know his mannerisms, the way he talks, the way he sounds. This is going to be a challenge.”
There was a loud crash near the jukebox. Two men had gotten into a fight over the music. The guy voting for Lynyrd Skynyrd won by knocking the other guy over, toppling a small table and some stools in the process. The bar patrons cheered and laughed. Since nobody was squirting blood, the lady running the place didn’t seem to care.
A few minutes later, a big man shuffled up and sat at the bar next to Ling. He wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off. His face was covered in a short beard, but his head was shaved. His arms were covered in intricate tattoos, including a big one of Captain Morgan striking his famous, trademarked pose. Classy.
“Hey, pretty lady,” the Captain said. “Buy you a beer?”
It was all I could do to not laugh at the look of revulsion on Ling’s face, but she quickly hid it. She shook her head at him, sort of giggling, putting on the shy Asian schoolgirl bit. “No, thank you.” Giggle.
Captain Morgan was undaunted, and it was plain to see he considered himself a smooth operator. “C’mon, baby. We don’t get too many oriental women here. Where you from?”
“I am from China,” she said, her accent suddenly thick. “Preeze, I have drink with my friend.” She looked up at me while lacing her arm around mine, wearing a big fake grin.
“Fine, snooty bitch,” El Capitan said, shooting me an evil look. “I’ll see you later, cocksucker.” He spat, pointing a crooked finger at me.
I rubbed my hands across my face. “Thanks a lot,” I said to her, not looking up.
“I apologize for that. It would complicate things if I had that zhu tou pawing over me when the target walked in,” Ling said over the sounds of “Sweet Home Alabama.” She grabbed the glass in front of her and pounded it down in one gulp. “I’m really not such a prude, Mr. Lorenzo. It’s just . . . I am often in a bad mood before a mission, because I worry about my team and have much on my mind. Now I’m worried about Valentine as well.” She signaled the bartender, who came by and poured her another shot.
I watched the door. More people were piling in, but still no Smoot. Shen and Antoine were parked outside. For some reason I figured a 6’6” West African and Jet-freakin’-Li would stick out a bit. I was dressed like the other patrons, lots of flannel and denim, and could easily blend in with the crowd.
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
Ling waited, staring at her reflection in the dirty bar mirror. She was wearing too much purple eyeliner and tacky lipstick. I had helped her with her makeup—don’t laugh, I’m a professional.—It’s not that she couldn’t do it herself, it was just that when she did it, it was tasteful. “Yes?” she asked, looking not at me, but over my shoulder, studying the crowd.
“Level with me here. What’s the story with you and the kid? This is personal for you, isn’t it?”
Her gaze shifted so that she was looking me in the eyes. I could tell that my question had surprised her. “I . . . I owe him my life. I’ve helped him before. I helped him escape Zubara. He was very badly injured and nearly died. I was there when he woke up and remembered that the woman he loved had died.”
Her name was Sarah and I’d watched her die. Around her neck had been an ancient key that I’d needed, and I’d risked my life to grab it. Instead of leaving Valentine to die there with her, I’d dragged him to safety. I didn’t know if Ling knew that, but now wasn’t the time for storytelling. Besides, there was more to her story than that. My gut told me Ling had feelings for the kid. There wasn’t any point in asking about that. It didn’t matter for one thing, and she probably wouldn’t admit it for another.
“He’s here,” Ling said, looking at the door, eyes narrowing. Standing in the doorway was our target, one Roger Smoot.
Smoot had a hock of red hair. His face was also red from the cold, and he had the huge capillary-strewn nose of a man who drank too much. His beady eyes surveyed the crowd, looking for fun or trouble, or maybe both. A couple of regulars shouted at him from one of the pool tables, daring him to throw down some money on a game. Smoot waved back and headed their way.
“He’s armed.” Smoot had something bulky under his jacket. “Strong side hip. Give him a minute to settle in. Don’t make this too sudden, or he’ll get suspicious. Don’t make it too easy for him.” Ling pulled off her coat and handed it to me. She ran her fingers through her hair and adjusted her top, so she looked more . . . perky. Ling really was hot, and she apparently knew how to work what she had. “Err . . . never mind. You ready?”
“Of course. Honestly, Mr. Lorenzo, do you think this is the first time I’ve executed a honeypot? It doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Ling flashed me a warm, sultry smile that almost fooled me. She slammed down her third shot in one gulp, then slid off the bar stool with catlike grace. She stalked toward the pool tables to the sound of Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride”—I was really glad the classic rock guy had won that fight. Ling’s transformation was amazing, and every set of eyes in the room locked onto her.
So much for blending in. I’m afraid Ling was a little too much for poor little Tickville. The only way we were going to pull this off was if Smoot was, in fact, as stupid as his file suggested he was. I watched as Ling threw down a twenty and joined the game of pool.
Ling was good. Within fifteen minutes she was acting like she had had too much to drink, was bending over the pool table with a little too much enthusiasm, and was now Smoot’s best friend. Smoot seemed to be enjoying himself, and I caught him giving one of his buddies a high five behind Ling’s back. I had to admire her professionalism.
Smoot’s file listed ten different accusations of extremely violent behavior against incarcerated women. I felt no guilt in unleashing Ling on him. After impressing Ling with his charm and mad pool skills, she returned to the bar and retrieved her coat. She was smiling, laughing, waving back at him.
“He is revolting. We’re going to the motel,” she muttered under her breath before going back to her new special friend.
Ling and Smoot left. A blast of winter air snaked across the bar before the door closed behind them. I waited a moment, then followed. Shen and Antoine would pick me up in front and then we’d tail Smoot back to Ling’s place, which in this case, was a cheap motel we had picked because it was mostly empty and had a poorly lit parking lot. I had no doubt Ling could handle herself, but her men didn’t like the idea of leaving their commander alone with a rapist any longer than they had to.
The jukebox changed to Black Sabbath. Good stuff. I hadn’t gone by the name of Ozzie during the time I worked with Switchblade for nothing.
Evil minds that plot destruction
Sorcerers of death’s construction
I hummed along as I gently moved through the crowd. We had lots of work to do tonight so I was a little preoccupied. I froze when a hand landed on my shoulder.
“Where you think you’re goin’, shitface?” It was Captain Morgan, and he was drunker and braver than when Ling had insulted his manhood by refusing his offer of a beer. “You’re friends with that oriental bitch.”
“Hey, man, she blew me off too. Let me buy you a beer,” I turned around, all smiles. The Captain’s hand curled around the collar of my flannel shirt. “Man, I love this song. Don’t you love this song?”
Now in darkness, world stops turning
As the war machine keeps burning
“You think I’m stupid? I saw you talking. Thinking she’s all too good for me? Then she leaves with that fuck head? Like he’s better than me?” He was shouting now. A couple of other guys stood behind him, obviously his friends, grinning stupidly. “And you, you little prick. I never seen you ‘round here before. Where the fuck do you get off comin’ in here and stealin’ all the pussy?”
And here we go. Years of experience told me how this was going to turn out.
“Didn’t Patrick Swayze beat you up in Road House?”
The Captain’s brow scrunched in drunk confusion. “Huh?” Then in drunk anger. “Oh, you wanna dance, boy? You think you’re tough?”
It doesn’t matter what country you’re in. There are places like the Golden Manatee everywhere and the inhabitants are always the same. The adrenalein began to flow as Ozzie got to my favorite part of “War Pigs.”
Day of judgment, God is calling
On their knees, the war pigs crawling
Begging mercy for their sins
Satan laughing spreads his wings
“All right now,” I said, as I grabbed the hand on my shirt, dropped my elbow, and bowed my head. The Captain screamed as the pressure hit his wrist. He went right to his knees. “I don’t want any trouble,” I said calmly. He reached into his pocket with his other hand and pulled out a knife. Idiot.
I levered his arm and snapped his wrist before stepping back and kicking him in the face. I was wearing heavy work boots to fit in with the crowd, and the steel toe removed his front teeth.
“He hit Chet!” someone shouted. This asshole looks like a Chet. One of Captain Chet’s friends charged me. I ducked the clumsy blow, and brought my knee into his stomach. The moose kept going, and went head first into the pool table.
“The Mexican broke my arm!” Chet screamed from the floor. I suppose all brown people look the same to guys like Chet. “Help me, Timbo!”
A giant of a man stood up from a nearby table, dumping the two girls sitting on his lap to the floor. “Who hit my little brother?” He bellowed. That had to be Timbo, and he was bigger than my old buddy Train, bigger than Bob, bigger than Antoine, like holy shit, that’s one big motherfucker big.
“The Mexican!” the Captain cried, pointing his good arm at me. So much for low profile.
“Come on, boys, let’s get him!” Timbo said. Half a dozen other brutes stood up from their tables. The number-one sport in Tickville was whooping ass, and it looks like I was playing for the visiting team.
The sound of a shotgun getting a shell pumped into the chamber was loud enough to hear over the jukebox. All eyes fixated on the owner, a heavyset, surly-looking, middle-aged woman named Betty. “Take it outside, Timbo!” she ordered. “You wreck my place one more time and I swear to Christ I’ll have the sheriff lock you up for a month!”
I’m a tough guy, but I’m a lot smarter than I am tough. While everyone was distracted by Betty’s shotgun, I sprinted for the door, ducked an eight ball that somebody chucked at me from the pool table, knocked down a waitress, “Sorry!” and was out the door. A bottle shattered on the door frame next to me. So long, suckers.
Then I collided with two more big guys coming in from the snow. “Watch it, asshole.” One grimy hand latched onto my left coat sleeve.
“Sorry,” I replied, as I tried to shove past them.
“Grab him, Frank!” Timbo yelled from inside the Golden Manatee. “He beat up Chet!”
“He didn’t beat me up!” the Captain protested, cradling his damaged arm. “He suckered me with some kung fu shit! Hold that son of a bitch!”
“You got it, bro,” said Frank as he squeezed my arm.
How many brothers does this asshole have? I clamped onto Frank’s hand with my right, levered my left elbow up and over, and broke his forearm. His head dipped down and intercepted with my knee at a remarkable velocity. I pulled away, dodged a wild swing from the other guy, started to run, and slipped in the snow. I hit the ground hard, scrambling to get away.
The crew from the Golden Manatee was piling out now, chanting, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” Except for Frank, who started screaming when he realized the floppy lump inside his forearm was a bone.
I felt a hand the size of a canned ham clamp onto my collar, lift me effortlessly, and toss me onto the hood of a nearby pickup. Timbo was strong.
“He broke two of our guys’ arms! Who’s gonna run the pumps on Monday?”
“Two arms? This guy’s got two arms. Eye for a tooth, asshole!” Timbo shouted. He was a biblical scholar too. I rolled to the side as he clubbed a dent into the hood of the truck. I landed on my hands and knees, kicked out, and connected my boot with his shin. “Aaarrgh!”
“He kicked Timbo!” There was a collective gasp from the crowd. They had fanned out, and now I was completely surrounded. Apparently, nobody was allowed to hit Timbo, because the circle was closing on me rapidly.
“There a problem here, gentlemen?” Antoine’s voice boomed over the crowd, muted slightly in the drifting snow. Shen stood slightly to his side, arms loose and ready. Their breath formed steam halos around their heads.
“Me and Master Blaster here just had a little disagreement is all,” I said.
“Why don’t you all step away from my friend?” Antoine’s tone made it clear that this wasn’t a polite suggestion. He didn’t look like a man to trifle with. He cracked his knuckles loudly.
Timbo was squatting, rubbing his ankle furiously. “Well, looks like we’re about to have us a good old fashioned rumble. We got a wetback, a nigger, and a . . . a . . .”
“Chink?” Shen supplied helpfully.
“Yeah. A chink! Get ‘em boys!” Timbo ordered.
A pair of burly-looking black men, more oil workers by the look of them, appeared behind Timbo. “What the fuck did you just say, cracker?” One of them socked one of Timbo’s friends in the side of the head and pandemonium ensued.
“Don’t kill any of them!” I shouted at Antoine. I had serious doubts that we were sticking with the low-profile plan at this point. I think Timbo thought I was pleading for my friend’s lives. He couldn’t have been more wrong. He grinned at me evilly, and charged.
Then it was on like a bad episode of The A-Team. There were eight of the locals against the three of us. Behind them, a dozen other locals brawled with each other, with more and more roughnecks running to join the fight, crew on crew, hitting people without even knowing what was going on. The parking lot of the Golden Manatee had turned into a rumble.
Shen got a running start, and slid through the snow, right into the leading pair of roughnecks. His hands were moving so fast it was hard to track. One of the men doubled over gagging and the next stumbled back, holding his nose, blood streaming between his fingers. Antoine was right behind. He caught one fist sailing toward Shen, spun the man off the ground, and tossed him a good ten feet into the tailgate of a truck. It rocked on impact.
I was on Timbo like white on rice. He was powerful, but he was sloppy and untrained. I moved between his arms and started hitting him. I hit him in the eyes, the nose, he kept moving back, trying to make room to swing. I kept on him, all knees and elbows, not wanting to break my hands. It was nonstop punishment. Timbo was a giant punching bag.
A worker took a swing at Antoine and hit him right in the face. Antoine swayed back slightly, and smiled, actually smiled, before he punched the man once. The blow made a sound like a bat hitting a watermelon and the man collapsed into the snow. Shen went after the next man, spin kicked him in the sternum, and followed up with a flurry of blows to the face before he even had a chance to fall down. These guys were brawlers. Shen and Antoine killed slavers and warlords for a living. The last fighters took a look at the two of them beating the shit out their friends, then turned and ran. Apparently they were the smart ones.
Timbo was swooning now, blood rushing out of his nose, his mouth, and one ear. “Fall down already!” He finally got enough distance to launch one of those haymakers, but I was faster and kicked him on his inner thigh. He toppled over as his leg went numb, femoral artery temporarily stopped, making a noise like a felled tree.
The locals cheered and continued to brawl with each other. There were now probably twenty five men beating the hell out of each other in the parking lot and it had spilled out into the street. I looked down at Timbo, backed up a step, and punt kicked him in the ribs. He bellowed and flopped over, looking like some sort of injured walrus, or well, I suppose manatee would be more appropriate. The others that attacked us were lying in the snow, moaning, whimpering, one man was vomiting from where Shen had punched him in the stomach, and another was actually, literally, crying for his mother.
All three of us grinned at each other. Nothing like a fist-ight for a team-building exercise. These Exodus guys were actually kind of fun to hang out with.
“Better go before the cops get here.” I was surprised to discover that I was totally out of breath. It had been awhile since I had gotten my violence on.
“Are you okay?” Shen asked.
“It must be the altitude,” I answered.
“Americans,” Antoine lamented, shaking his head. “We must hurry!”
Antoine pulled our beat-up station wagon into a dark spot in the motel parking lot. We had rented three rooms on the far edge of the building. Ling’s was the one on the end, and the other two were a buffer zone, just in case we needed to make a little noise. Smoot’s car was parked in front of the last room and the lights were on inside. Luckily there were only a few other cars in the lot. The government plates told me which one was Smoot’s ride.
“I’ll go first.”
“I’ll come with you,” Shen spoke from the backseat.
“Okay, Antoine stay here.”
“Very well,” he said curtly. What could I say? I’d just watched this guy toss a full grown man like a shot put. I assumed that being sneaky wasn’t his specialty. I had disabled the interior lights, so it stayed dark when I opened the door. Shen nodded at his partner as we got out of the car and made our way toward the motel.
We had broken the bulbs in the overhang earlier that day so this end of the building was cloaked in darkness. We made no noise as we crept up to the window. I had to admit, Shen was pretty good. Not as quiet as me, but pretty damn sneaky. I risked a peek. Ling and our target were both sitting on the bed. Smoot stood up and walked into the bathroom. I signaled Shen to wait at the entrance. He squatted in the shadows.
I pulled my key card and unlocked the door. The door creaked slightly as I slipped through, carefully testing the carpeted floor before I let my boot touch down. We had planned for inadvertent noise, and Ling had turned up the radio. She was sitting on the bed, glancing at her watch. I could hear Smoot talking in the attached bathroom.
“Yeah, I can’t really talk about what I do. You know how it is with government work.”
“That is so exciting,” Ling answered, playing up her accent, sounding again like the stereotypical naïve, passive, easily-impressed Asian schoolgirl. She saw me in the doorway. I gave her a thumbs up and started slowly into the bedroom. Ling mouthed the words about time. I heard the faucet shut off. Damn it, he’s coming back. The closet door was slightly open, so I ducked inside, trying not to rattle the hangers.
The closet door was the slatted kind, and I could peer through it. Smoot came back into the room, now not wearing a shirt, and placed his gun on the night stand. Ling made a show of staring at the Glock 23 all wide-eyed.
“Don’t let that thing intimidate you, baby. I take care of bad guys with that. See, that’s the kind of thing I do. ‘Sides, I got an even bigger gun to show you.” He laughed and sat on the bed beside Ling, facing away from me. “So whaddaya say, baby?”
He put his bulbous nose against her neck. Ling looked right at the closet door, and mouthed the word now. I had to admit that I didn’t attack because I was enjoying her discomfort. It was payback for getting me in to that bar fight. I’m a bad man.
“The fact I’m a highly-trained badass scares people, but don’t worry, we’re safe here. Just relax.” Ling looked like she was about to vomit. She mouthed the word now again. Smoot sloppily kissed her neck, and pulled one of the spaghetti straps down over her shoulder. She narrowed her eyes, and said “Now,” out loud.
“Okay, baby, don’t worry,” Smoot said happily. “You want it now, we can do that.” Ling’s dark eyes flashed, and she pushed him away. “Rowr,” he said. “So you like it rough? You are a dirty little . . . HURRK!” Smoot’s voice was cut off in a gurgle as Ling smashed him in the throat with the knife ridge of her hand. He rose, hands clutching his throat, gagging, as Ling spun, her tiny denim skirt riding high, and kicked him in the side of the head.
“Oh shit!” I exclaimed from inside the closet at the spectacular impact of her heel to Smoot’s skull. Smoot hit the bed, eyes rolled back, totally out. Shen leapt into the room, having heard the noise, and ready to take down the target. Ling pushed the spaghetti-strap back over her shoulder.
“Now would be a good time, Mr. Lorenzo!” she snapped, glaring at me through the slats on the closet door.
I fell out of the closet laughing. Ling cursed in Chinese, turned on her heel, and stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Shen looked at me, obviously confused and he seemed unable to find anything to say.