We made it into the fish camp around 9pm. Gloria was not happy with those accommodations either. She complained in a rather loud voice, too bad no one else could hear her. It was indeed hard to sleep in the cabin we all shared. It was more like an old style army barracks than a cabin. At least there weren't any top bunks to deal with.
I managed to sleep well enough so that I was fairly rested when we left for breakfast. With breakfast I began packing carbs and calories. Yes it was a one day mission, unless we had a problem, then it could be a ten year mission in a Cuban jail. I was pretty damn sure that they didn't serve pancakes in the Cuban prison system. I managed to pack more calories and carbs during lunch as well. Lots of greasy french fries and hamburgers. the hamburgers I ate with just the meat and an onion under two thick pieces of texas toast.
We met the skipper of the fishing boat at 1pm. The boat was seaworthy but like all the boats on the Swamp Thing sub contractor list, it looked as though it wouldn't make it away from the dock. Since no one in their right mind would attempt anything in such a rust bucket, it didn't get checked often. In the Florida gulf area most of the crime was drug related. Those guys tended to go for faster, fancy boats.
We sailed in the boat to a spot about twenty miles from Cuba, then put out the fishing nets. I found a spot and napped. It didn't seem that any of the others could manage it. Some were sea sick and some were excited. Me, I was just tired from the dramamine.
I was well after dark when I packed a couple of bean tacos into my stomach. I ate the tacos for the carbs, so I raked off all the lettuce and tomato. I would be in terrible shape for a couple of days after the mission, but I could also go a couple of days without being in a weakened condition. One just never knew when that extra taco would make a difference.
We hit the beach with the tourist hotel at 2am. The ride ashore had been rough in the lightweight rubberized boat. Eddie and I moved slow to the edge of the pool of light. It was cast by the hotel's patio lighting Eddie wore night vision goggles, and I had a ten power scope mounted onto the strange little lightweight sniper rifle. I also carried an AK47 slung over my shoulder.
The armament was always prepared by the armorer at Swamp Thing. He chose them for the mission. In this case he chose a Remington .22 magnum rifle. It fired a high velocity, but lightweight slug. When I asked, he said it was chosen for the sound of the rifle. In Cuba the sound of it popping once or twice wouldn't cause much of a stir. I had no idea, so I took his word for it.
Eddie looked around with the google whispered the location of a couple of heat images. I checked them out with the scope and found them to be tourist heading into the hotel. I was looking for armed men or men in uniform. Since I didn't see any, I sent in our extraction team.
The other four men went into the hotel dressed as tourists. The plan was for Jason and one of the henchmen to station themselves near the lobby. From there they could easily keep an eye on the front door. The other two would go grab the scientist. The four of them were armed with Hypodermic syringes as well as the AK47 with cut down stock. Everything was well hidden in straw beach type bags. The Plan was that the syringes would be used on any guards they found. They might be used on the scientist if it became necessary.
The complete mission should have taken no more than twenty minutes. The grand plan was that we wouldn't fire a shot. We were supposed to have missed the two man security patrol by ten minutes. It was a good thing that I had no faith in pre mission plans, because the security team was running late.
Eddie alerted me ten minutes into the mission. The two head signature were still in the darkness of the building. When they the turned corner, they went from green blobs to armed security police in uniform. I couldn't see their holstered weapons, but I knew they were there. There was no decision to make, I shot them both in the head as quickly as possible. The head shots with the high velocity hollow point slugs made a terrible mess, I am sure. I didn't plan on being around to see the mess. We tripped the switch which sent the signal telling the other that it had changed to a hot mission. At that point it was still grab El Doctore, but a second signal could be sent that meant, it's every man for himself.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
gloria and the ride down
"It stinks in here," Gloria said somewhere in Georgia.
"You don't need to use that tone with me," she said that as I answered her in my obviously damaged mind.
"What tone, I just stated the obvious. Hundreds of men have used this van. There is a smell of tobacco smoke, farts, gun oil,and fear embedded in the upholstery. I doubt that all the orange cleaner in the world will ever get it out."
"So are you afraid?"
"This mission is undermanned, mostly under equipped, so yeah I'm afraid. Worst of all, as best I can tell they have chosen us like law rockets, we are completely disposable operatives. Someone just may know more than they are telling."
"Do you think you are supposed to die in Cuba?"
"This could be some kind of political statement more than a real mission. You know just to prove the boy wonder is willing to do something, without actually changing the status quo. This maybe kinda like a predator fired missile but with real people, nothing but symbolic."
"I will not have you killed just to make some political points," Gloria demanded.
"Not much you can do sweetie. This is real people stuff here."
"You could walk away," she said flatly.
"Not really, this is the beast I chose to ride years ago. Besides what's a one legged man to do, play ice hockey?"
"No of course not, go home and join PETA or something," she replied.
"Time to stop for gas and coffee," The mission commander said turning onto an exit ramp.
"You don't need to use that tone with me," she said that as I answered her in my obviously damaged mind.
"What tone, I just stated the obvious. Hundreds of men have used this van. There is a smell of tobacco smoke, farts, gun oil,and fear embedded in the upholstery. I doubt that all the orange cleaner in the world will ever get it out."
"So are you afraid?"
"This mission is undermanned, mostly under equipped, so yeah I'm afraid. Worst of all, as best I can tell they have chosen us like law rockets, we are completely disposable operatives. Someone just may know more than they are telling."
"Do you think you are supposed to die in Cuba?"
"This could be some kind of political statement more than a real mission. You know just to prove the boy wonder is willing to do something, without actually changing the status quo. This maybe kinda like a predator fired missile but with real people, nothing but symbolic."
"I will not have you killed just to make some political points," Gloria demanded.
"Not much you can do sweetie. This is real people stuff here."
"You could walk away," she said flatly.
"Not really, this is the beast I chose to ride years ago. Besides what's a one legged man to do, play ice hockey?"
"No of course not, go home and join PETA or something," she replied.
"Time to stop for gas and coffee," The mission commander said turning onto an exit ramp.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
the plan
We left the compound at nine the next morning. There was no rush to be on the road we had a long drive and then a long wait. So we had a large leisurely breakfast before getting into the van for the fourteen hour drive.
We drove one of the company vans from the compound. Planes leave paper trails, as do trains, and buses. The best way to get from the compound to the Florida based fishing boat was by the company van. The van had a logo very close to one of the air freight companies. The cargo was five men and a quarter ton of arms and ammunition.
During the long drive we went over and over the plan. I didn't like my part in it all that much, but it was what they paid me well. They paid me not to like it, if I did like it, the pay would have been less I'm sure.
We were expected to reach the fishing cabin outside of Fort Meyers around midnight. We would sleep in one tourist/fisherman's cabin until the next morning. At that time we would drive to a private dock and board a run down fishing boat for the trip to Cuba. We would lay of the coast with the nets out till well after dark. Then we would make the quick run into shore.
Eddie, my spotter, and I were going to guard the approach while the others grabbed the mad scientist. I read a lot about the North Koreans and their nuke program. I figured the mad scientist had something to do with that. The N.K. madman might just be getting ready to do a nuke deal with one of the Castro boys. The Government of the people would not be happy with that at all. Even the wonder boy would have to do something. It looked as though we were the something.
Guarding the approach meant killing anyone in a uniform who got near the hotel's rear door. Jason was going to guard the front door from inside the hotel. Between the two of us, we might be able to buy a few minutes if the feces hit the oscillating device. Of course it was just as likely that we would all be killed. It was not a very large operation but sometimes those are the safest, I told myself. I told myself that but I double checked my life insurance policy.
We drove one of the company vans from the compound. Planes leave paper trails, as do trains, and buses. The best way to get from the compound to the Florida based fishing boat was by the company van. The van had a logo very close to one of the air freight companies. The cargo was five men and a quarter ton of arms and ammunition.
During the long drive we went over and over the plan. I didn't like my part in it all that much, but it was what they paid me well. They paid me not to like it, if I did like it, the pay would have been less I'm sure.
We were expected to reach the fishing cabin outside of Fort Meyers around midnight. We would sleep in one tourist/fisherman's cabin until the next morning. At that time we would drive to a private dock and board a run down fishing boat for the trip to Cuba. We would lay of the coast with the nets out till well after dark. Then we would make the quick run into shore.
Eddie, my spotter, and I were going to guard the approach while the others grabbed the mad scientist. I read a lot about the North Koreans and their nuke program. I figured the mad scientist had something to do with that. The N.K. madman might just be getting ready to do a nuke deal with one of the Castro boys. The Government of the people would not be happy with that at all. Even the wonder boy would have to do something. It looked as though we were the something.
Guarding the approach meant killing anyone in a uniform who got near the hotel's rear door. Jason was going to guard the front door from inside the hotel. Between the two of us, we might be able to buy a few minutes if the feces hit the oscillating device. Of course it was just as likely that we would all be killed. It was not a very large operation but sometimes those are the safest, I told myself. I told myself that but I double checked my life insurance policy.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
The Swamp Thing compound was inside a monitored fense. Sure they had some armaments but the real danger was in the computer system. I'm sure all the black bag stuff was not stored anywhere available to the hackers, but still it had to be a concern. They had fifteen different encryption programs. The only non secure phone line in the compound was Betty Jo who never ever talked about black ops on the phone.
From my cabin in the woods I passed through only one town large enough to have a Krispy Kreme donut shop open 24hours a day. I left home at 3am so the donuts were in the car by 5am.
The sugar and caffeine from my only pit stop, woke me up enough to make it all the way to the poorly marked dirt drive which led to the Swamp Thing compound. There was a simple red and blue reflector on a rusty sign post which held a sign which was equally rusted. The sign said Saunter.s ferry lane, but the dirt path of a road was ten yards away from the sign. If one turned at the reflector, as he normally would, he would find himself in a rather nasty ditch. One filled with stagant water and punji stakes make of gutter spikes. It was a sure way to ruin a tire.
The disabled car would be surrounded by armed security guards in a matter of minutes. Nuclear power pants would envy the security of the former boyscout camp. Since I knew the secret of the rusty Saunters Ferry lane sign, I slipped into the poorly maintained dirt drive without indecent. I made it all the way to the compound fence before the gate guard signaled me to stop.
"Ricky, they must be pulling all the stops."
"Oh how so Carlos?"
"I just cleared Jason through. You two in the compound on the same day is something I haven't seen in a long time." He looked thoughtful before he continued. "Should I put a cleanup crew on standby?"
"That would be up to Jason," I replied seriously. I could understand the guard's concern. Janson and I did have a history. The son of a bitch stabbed me, but then I guess it was only fair. I did break his arm with a folding chair once. And he had a mild concussion from the fall from the second story window of a hotel in Panama City. He always blamed me for that.
I could usually tell from the people assembled what kind of job it was. Jason wasn't much of a hint, since he was the kind of guy one would describe as a generic thug. There were more than a few of those in Swamp Thing's inventory. They could cut a guard's throat or lay down covering fire, but they had no real specialty. Without a specialty they were interchangeable. That also made them easily replaced if a mission went sour. They were the kinds of guys in every army who got picked for the rear guard.
I preferred to work alone or with a sniper team. It has been my experience that teams who prepared for a real firefight, usually got into one. In a real firefight your side is almost always going to take casualties. It's just one of those laws of nature.
The quarter mile to the camp was along a dirt road that was a lot better maintained after I passed the gate. Just another security measure. It was easier to hide the compound than to defend it. I did like the way the boss thought.
"Where do you want this BJ?" The forty pound over weight bleach blonde behind the desk looked up.
"On the table with the coffee pot like always," she replied. She also put on a beautifully warm smile. It was a smile I didn't see often from anyone.
After the donuts were in place I turned and asked, "So who all is in the barrel?"
"Here," she said slipping me a duty roster.
"Jason I know, and Eddie of course, but these other two are new to me." I didn't like working with new people.
"They are more muscle," the voice came from the converence room doorway.
"So Miles, who is going to be leading the team?"
"Get a cup of coffee and a handful of donuts and come on in." The old time green beret gone soft suggested. Miles was the planner and logistics expert for Swamp Thing. He probably knew exactly where all the bodies were buried. If the feds over ran the camp, most likely the boss would shoot him.
I had three donuts and two cups of coffee before the strangers joined us. Jason came in with the strangers. He either knew them or didn't want to chat with me. It could have been Miles he was avoiding, but to my knowledge Miles had never tossed his ass from a hotel balcony. In my own defense it was only after he tried to kill me with his beloved world war 2 parachute knife. I had the great pleasure of breaking it's blade, while I dripped blood all over the hotel room.
The hospital in Panama City was so small the same doctor who xrayed Jason also stitched up my thigh. It was all in all one of my more memorable vacations. Most of the time that was our cover. Just a bunch of tourists out drinking and whoring around. The usually held up until the body count got over a half dozen. After that we usually were quietly on our way out of the country. Sometimes with the local government's help but just as often scrambling to find our own way out. The order was find your own way to the extraction point and don't be late.
"Looks like we are all here," Miles said smiling at the assembled I looked around and there were six not five of us. The team leader's name was never on the roster. I never quite understood the logic in that. The leader's name never appeared on the paperwork, but we all knew him by the end of the job. His identity in briefing and paperwork was just a code name.
"The man on my right is Richard." I nodded "Beside him is Eddie, the two of them are the sniper team for this job. Jason, Willie, and Everette," he said pointing to the three of the other operatives. "Will be team security." That mean the muscle and cannon fodder if necessary. Of course after the objective we were all expendable usually.
"The leader for this operation will be code named water rat." We all chuckled. The leader names were always so cornball. "So I will turn this over to Mr. Rat."
The man who stood to address us was definitely european. The cut of his clothing and the look of his shoes gave him away. He was most likely some kind of cold war commando judging from his age. I could guess nothing about the job based on that fact. The Soviets had been all over the world so this guy could easily have special knowledge about almost anywhere or anything.
"I know you all have been kept in the dark, so let me give you a couple of hints," the rat suggested. "If after the hints anyone wishes to leave, that would be the time. Standard rule 7 applies after this morning." Rule 7 was simple after the vague outline, if you stayed, you were in till the very end no exceptions.
"The job is very simple sounding. We go into cuba remove a visiting expert. Extraction is by boat. Not a fancy cruise ship this time Ricky. I'm afraid it is a zodiac."
"You do know I get seasick in rubber boats?" I asked it smiling.
"You will manage, they are still making Dramamine." Miles suggested.
In a very thick eastern European accent Mr Rat said, "The target will be staying at what was once the Cuban version of the Ritz hotel in New York. Soviet Generals and diplomats have stayed there for years. Since the demise of the Empire, the guards are now Cuban." He must have noticed the looks from the foot soldiers because he added. "They are not the revolutionary soldiers from the Vietnam era. They are the soldiers after twenty years of no real military aid from Moscow. Also it is the age of inferiority complexes. There will be very little resistance should the plan disintegrate into an assault."
"The plan is for a clandestine insertion not an assault," Miles quickly added. "The blunt force entry is a last resort"
"But the truth is that it may become necessary. We can not leave without the target. Let's take a break and let you guys get to know each other." Miles made the suggestion. It was the time for each of us to decide whether we were in or out. It wasn't a good mission, but then if it were a good mission Swamp Thing would not be the one with the contract. Swamp Thing took jobs the CIA couldn't. The CIA could not assassinate anyone, but they could pay Swamp Thing to do it, but only if the payment was labeled janitorial services. The boss always said that they could call it macaroni for all he cared, as long as the checks were good. The job as outlined was a simple snatch, not that it would be simple.
"Ricky, I have heard a lot about you," Willie said.
"If it was from Jason, it's all a lie," I laughed.
"The way I hear it you tossed that prick off a balcony. Too bad it wasn't higher," he said.
"I can see we are going to get along fine," I replied. "Anyway that was a long time ago. I have mellowed since then."
"Right," Everette commented. "I hear you do clean jobs. If that is true, then I will be happy to work with you. I am sick of leaving a trail behind."
The trail he meant was collateral damage. "I did my time for the one that went really bad and I learned from it. Killing civilians is bad business." I might as well get it out before someone else did, I thought.
"Plus they don't pay for them," Jason suggested. He had obviously been listening to at least part of the conversation.
"Another good point," I replied. Might as well play nice. Jason was a good man to have on your said and a bad man to have against you. It might come down to the later but no sense rushing it.
There were so many mission launched from the boyscout camp that it make more sense to serve meals. Not only was it easier, it prevented operatives from getting drunk and spilling their guts to stangers in short skirts. From the time of the briefing until the small plane took off, we were confined to the camp. I didn't mind. The food was good and they had a first rate satellite TV package.
From my cabin in the woods I passed through only one town large enough to have a Krispy Kreme donut shop open 24hours a day. I left home at 3am so the donuts were in the car by 5am.
The sugar and caffeine from my only pit stop, woke me up enough to make it all the way to the poorly marked dirt drive which led to the Swamp Thing compound. There was a simple red and blue reflector on a rusty sign post which held a sign which was equally rusted. The sign said Saunter.s ferry lane, but the dirt path of a road was ten yards away from the sign. If one turned at the reflector, as he normally would, he would find himself in a rather nasty ditch. One filled with stagant water and punji stakes make of gutter spikes. It was a sure way to ruin a tire.
The disabled car would be surrounded by armed security guards in a matter of minutes. Nuclear power pants would envy the security of the former boyscout camp. Since I knew the secret of the rusty Saunters Ferry lane sign, I slipped into the poorly maintained dirt drive without indecent. I made it all the way to the compound fence before the gate guard signaled me to stop.
"Ricky, they must be pulling all the stops."
"Oh how so Carlos?"
"I just cleared Jason through. You two in the compound on the same day is something I haven't seen in a long time." He looked thoughtful before he continued. "Should I put a cleanup crew on standby?"
"That would be up to Jason," I replied seriously. I could understand the guard's concern. Janson and I did have a history. The son of a bitch stabbed me, but then I guess it was only fair. I did break his arm with a folding chair once. And he had a mild concussion from the fall from the second story window of a hotel in Panama City. He always blamed me for that.
I could usually tell from the people assembled what kind of job it was. Jason wasn't much of a hint, since he was the kind of guy one would describe as a generic thug. There were more than a few of those in Swamp Thing's inventory. They could cut a guard's throat or lay down covering fire, but they had no real specialty. Without a specialty they were interchangeable. That also made them easily replaced if a mission went sour. They were the kinds of guys in every army who got picked for the rear guard.
I preferred to work alone or with a sniper team. It has been my experience that teams who prepared for a real firefight, usually got into one. In a real firefight your side is almost always going to take casualties. It's just one of those laws of nature.
The quarter mile to the camp was along a dirt road that was a lot better maintained after I passed the gate. Just another security measure. It was easier to hide the compound than to defend it. I did like the way the boss thought.
"Where do you want this BJ?" The forty pound over weight bleach blonde behind the desk looked up.
"On the table with the coffee pot like always," she replied. She also put on a beautifully warm smile. It was a smile I didn't see often from anyone.
After the donuts were in place I turned and asked, "So who all is in the barrel?"
"Here," she said slipping me a duty roster.
"Jason I know, and Eddie of course, but these other two are new to me." I didn't like working with new people.
"They are more muscle," the voice came from the converence room doorway.
"So Miles, who is going to be leading the team?"
"Get a cup of coffee and a handful of donuts and come on in." The old time green beret gone soft suggested. Miles was the planner and logistics expert for Swamp Thing. He probably knew exactly where all the bodies were buried. If the feds over ran the camp, most likely the boss would shoot him.
I had three donuts and two cups of coffee before the strangers joined us. Jason came in with the strangers. He either knew them or didn't want to chat with me. It could have been Miles he was avoiding, but to my knowledge Miles had never tossed his ass from a hotel balcony. In my own defense it was only after he tried to kill me with his beloved world war 2 parachute knife. I had the great pleasure of breaking it's blade, while I dripped blood all over the hotel room.
The hospital in Panama City was so small the same doctor who xrayed Jason also stitched up my thigh. It was all in all one of my more memorable vacations. Most of the time that was our cover. Just a bunch of tourists out drinking and whoring around. The usually held up until the body count got over a half dozen. After that we usually were quietly on our way out of the country. Sometimes with the local government's help but just as often scrambling to find our own way out. The order was find your own way to the extraction point and don't be late.
"Looks like we are all here," Miles said smiling at the assembled I looked around and there were six not five of us. The team leader's name was never on the roster. I never quite understood the logic in that. The leader's name never appeared on the paperwork, but we all knew him by the end of the job. His identity in briefing and paperwork was just a code name.
"The man on my right is Richard." I nodded "Beside him is Eddie, the two of them are the sniper team for this job. Jason, Willie, and Everette," he said pointing to the three of the other operatives. "Will be team security." That mean the muscle and cannon fodder if necessary. Of course after the objective we were all expendable usually.
"The leader for this operation will be code named water rat." We all chuckled. The leader names were always so cornball. "So I will turn this over to Mr. Rat."
The man who stood to address us was definitely european. The cut of his clothing and the look of his shoes gave him away. He was most likely some kind of cold war commando judging from his age. I could guess nothing about the job based on that fact. The Soviets had been all over the world so this guy could easily have special knowledge about almost anywhere or anything.
"I know you all have been kept in the dark, so let me give you a couple of hints," the rat suggested. "If after the hints anyone wishes to leave, that would be the time. Standard rule 7 applies after this morning." Rule 7 was simple after the vague outline, if you stayed, you were in till the very end no exceptions.
"The job is very simple sounding. We go into cuba remove a visiting expert. Extraction is by boat. Not a fancy cruise ship this time Ricky. I'm afraid it is a zodiac."
"You do know I get seasick in rubber boats?" I asked it smiling.
"You will manage, they are still making Dramamine." Miles suggested.
In a very thick eastern European accent Mr Rat said, "The target will be staying at what was once the Cuban version of the Ritz hotel in New York. Soviet Generals and diplomats have stayed there for years. Since the demise of the Empire, the guards are now Cuban." He must have noticed the looks from the foot soldiers because he added. "They are not the revolutionary soldiers from the Vietnam era. They are the soldiers after twenty years of no real military aid from Moscow. Also it is the age of inferiority complexes. There will be very little resistance should the plan disintegrate into an assault."
"The plan is for a clandestine insertion not an assault," Miles quickly added. "The blunt force entry is a last resort"
"But the truth is that it may become necessary. We can not leave without the target. Let's take a break and let you guys get to know each other." Miles made the suggestion. It was the time for each of us to decide whether we were in or out. It wasn't a good mission, but then if it were a good mission Swamp Thing would not be the one with the contract. Swamp Thing took jobs the CIA couldn't. The CIA could not assassinate anyone, but they could pay Swamp Thing to do it, but only if the payment was labeled janitorial services. The boss always said that they could call it macaroni for all he cared, as long as the checks were good. The job as outlined was a simple snatch, not that it would be simple.
"Ricky, I have heard a lot about you," Willie said.
"If it was from Jason, it's all a lie," I laughed.
"The way I hear it you tossed that prick off a balcony. Too bad it wasn't higher," he said.
"I can see we are going to get along fine," I replied. "Anyway that was a long time ago. I have mellowed since then."
"Right," Everette commented. "I hear you do clean jobs. If that is true, then I will be happy to work with you. I am sick of leaving a trail behind."
The trail he meant was collateral damage. "I did my time for the one that went really bad and I learned from it. Killing civilians is bad business." I might as well get it out before someone else did, I thought.
"Plus they don't pay for them," Jason suggested. He had obviously been listening to at least part of the conversation.
"Another good point," I replied. Might as well play nice. Jason was a good man to have on your said and a bad man to have against you. It might come down to the later but no sense rushing it.
There were so many mission launched from the boyscout camp that it make more sense to serve meals. Not only was it easier, it prevented operatives from getting drunk and spilling their guts to stangers in short skirts. From the time of the briefing until the small plane took off, we were confined to the camp. I didn't mind. The food was good and they had a first rate satellite TV package.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
the road to nowhere
I was almost invisible leaning against the tree. I was hidden under a plastic camouflage tarp, which I had lined with an insulated blanket. The only parts of me not covered were my eyes. The antique .22 magnum rifle lay beside me under the tarp. I had arranged the tarp so that I could easily slide it off me and then raise the rifle for a quick shot.
The exercise was more to sharpen my skills, than it was about killing the small game. I delivered the small animals to a share cropper commune several miles away. I wasn't about to kill small game just to kill it. If I couldn't find someone who needed the meat, I would have cooked and eaten it myself. I would much rather feed the hungry, than to eat the animals myself.
I sat leaning against some tree, in some part of the forest, almost every winter morning. Now and then, but not often, my cell phone would vibrate as it did that morning. I gently moved the tarp aside just enough to read the caller ID. Since it was Betty Jo with Swamp Thing, I answered it. The day's hunt was already ruined so there was no need to move slowly.
"Good Morning Betty Jo what's the problem?"
"You are being summoned."
"Oh, now who would want a worn out old man?"
"Jeff, that is for me to know and you to come find out. Be in the office tomorrow morning around ten and you will find out."
"Should I bring anything.?"
"Donuts," she replied.
Swamp Thing got it's nickname from the fact that it was located inside the great dismal swamp of eastern North Carolina. It was located twenty miles from the nearest town. The town was so small it had only one grocery store and one diner nothing else. The people who worked in the aministration of Swamp Thing lived in a compound, which had started life as a boy scout camp. The cabins which were designed to hold six camper now held one employeed at least a few days a week.
Since I lived just a five hour drive from the compound, it was possible for me to drive there from my home. Most of the other part time employees had to fly into a regional airport, rent a car and then make the same five hour drive. Only two had their own small planes, those could land on a dirt airstrip, which got minimal maintenance from contractors hired by Swamp Thing.
"Donuts it is, how many should I bring?" It was a subtle way of asking would it be a meeting with someone or a briefing.
"Three dozen Krispy Kreme should do it."
"Can do, and jelly filled for me and you."
"Of course," she said with a giggle, not befitting a middle aged woman.
I put it out of my mind until I got home. At that time I gave it the thought that it deserved. Three dozen donuts made it a briefing. That made it more than just a one or two man operation this time. That happened now and then, but it was the exception not the rule. Swamp Thing used men generally who were not good at taking orders. A partner is a friend, three operatives require a boss type relationship. Me and most of the others were just not good with that kind of structure. It was a stretch every time I went on one of those things. A constant fight to keep control of my emotions. Now imagine a dozen armed men struggling to keep from killing the boss every minute of every day. It did not make for a good situation in any way whatsoever.
"So you are going to do it anyway?" Gloria asked.
"Yes I am going to do it. If I were to refuse too many jobs, Betty Jo would stop calling," I informed her.
"So?"
"So, I need the money. You can't live in this kind of luxury without a job." Gloria looked at the small but filthy fishing cabin before she answered.
"Yeah this is real luxury. Even the slums of Bagdad are cleaner."
"What I need is a good woman," I said smiling.
"You have a good woman, me. What you need is a bad woman to make you clean this place."
"Just as soon as I get back," I promised.
I oiled the antique rifle before I put it away. Being an antique the finish was pretty much gone. It had to be oiled with every use to prevent rust. I paid a lot for the small caliber rifle because it had a big caliber type sighting system. I had never seen such a good sight on such a small bore rifle. Most likely when it was made, a hundred years ago, it had been a match rifle. A rifle used in competition like the olympics or something similar.
The exercise was more to sharpen my skills, than it was about killing the small game. I delivered the small animals to a share cropper commune several miles away. I wasn't about to kill small game just to kill it. If I couldn't find someone who needed the meat, I would have cooked and eaten it myself. I would much rather feed the hungry, than to eat the animals myself.
I sat leaning against some tree, in some part of the forest, almost every winter morning. Now and then, but not often, my cell phone would vibrate as it did that morning. I gently moved the tarp aside just enough to read the caller ID. Since it was Betty Jo with Swamp Thing, I answered it. The day's hunt was already ruined so there was no need to move slowly.
"Good Morning Betty Jo what's the problem?"
"You are being summoned."
"Oh, now who would want a worn out old man?"
"Jeff, that is for me to know and you to come find out. Be in the office tomorrow morning around ten and you will find out."
"Should I bring anything.?"
"Donuts," she replied.
Swamp Thing got it's nickname from the fact that it was located inside the great dismal swamp of eastern North Carolina. It was located twenty miles from the nearest town. The town was so small it had only one grocery store and one diner nothing else. The people who worked in the aministration of Swamp Thing lived in a compound, which had started life as a boy scout camp. The cabins which were designed to hold six camper now held one employeed at least a few days a week.
Since I lived just a five hour drive from the compound, it was possible for me to drive there from my home. Most of the other part time employees had to fly into a regional airport, rent a car and then make the same five hour drive. Only two had their own small planes, those could land on a dirt airstrip, which got minimal maintenance from contractors hired by Swamp Thing.
"Donuts it is, how many should I bring?" It was a subtle way of asking would it be a meeting with someone or a briefing.
"Three dozen Krispy Kreme should do it."
"Can do, and jelly filled for me and you."
"Of course," she said with a giggle, not befitting a middle aged woman.
I put it out of my mind until I got home. At that time I gave it the thought that it deserved. Three dozen donuts made it a briefing. That made it more than just a one or two man operation this time. That happened now and then, but it was the exception not the rule. Swamp Thing used men generally who were not good at taking orders. A partner is a friend, three operatives require a boss type relationship. Me and most of the others were just not good with that kind of structure. It was a stretch every time I went on one of those things. A constant fight to keep control of my emotions. Now imagine a dozen armed men struggling to keep from killing the boss every minute of every day. It did not make for a good situation in any way whatsoever.
"So you are going to do it anyway?" Gloria asked.
"Yes I am going to do it. If I were to refuse too many jobs, Betty Jo would stop calling," I informed her.
"So?"
"So, I need the money. You can't live in this kind of luxury without a job." Gloria looked at the small but filthy fishing cabin before she answered.
"Yeah this is real luxury. Even the slums of Bagdad are cleaner."
"What I need is a good woman," I said smiling.
"You have a good woman, me. What you need is a bad woman to make you clean this place."
"Just as soon as I get back," I promised.
I oiled the antique rifle before I put it away. Being an antique the finish was pretty much gone. It had to be oiled with every use to prevent rust. I paid a lot for the small caliber rifle because it had a big caliber type sighting system. I had never seen such a good sight on such a small bore rifle. Most likely when it was made, a hundred years ago, it had been a match rifle. A rifle used in competition like the olympics or something similar.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
midnight visitor
I spent the night with Gloria, my own personal ghost. Gloria didn't stay in one place as ghosts are supposed to do. Nope. Gloria followed me around from place to place. Last night she showed up in my bed in the middle of the night. You guessed it, Gloria and I made love. It was a first for my sick mind. I mean come on sex with a ghost. Yes I do question my sanity now and then. I did it last night as much for the verbal exchange after as for the apparitional sex act.
After the sex she said, "You did good today. You let that jackass at the restaurant live."
"Gloria, you know I don't kill unless I am being paid."
"Jeffy, you know that isn't true. You just found a way to make killing pay. You would do it for nothing, if you wanted someone dead."
"Killing is a last resort, not a first option. The guy in the cafe was far from a last resort."
"So what would you have done, if he had decided to test you?"
"Most likely put a blade to his throat and toss him out."
"And if he came back?"
"Then it might be headed to a 'final solution' kind of ending."
"See, if you wanted him dead, he would die, payment or not."
"Yes but I have never had anyone decide they wanted to go that far over a gallon of gas."
"If you say so. Now I have to go." At that point she was indeed gone leaving me to doubt my sanity yet again.
After the sex she said, "You did good today. You let that jackass at the restaurant live."
"Gloria, you know I don't kill unless I am being paid."
"Jeffy, you know that isn't true. You just found a way to make killing pay. You would do it for nothing, if you wanted someone dead."
"Killing is a last resort, not a first option. The guy in the cafe was far from a last resort."
"So what would you have done, if he had decided to test you?"
"Most likely put a blade to his throat and toss him out."
"And if he came back?"
"Then it might be headed to a 'final solution' kind of ending."
"See, if you wanted him dead, he would die, payment or not."
"Yes but I have never had anyone decide they wanted to go that far over a gallon of gas."
"If you say so. Now I have to go." At that point she was indeed gone leaving me to doubt my sanity yet again.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Home again, home again
From ninety degree weather to forty degrees is a dramatic change. That was the difference between the temperature on the cruise ship and the temperature inside my dad's fishing cabin. I have been living in the shack for three years, but it was still his cabin. Where ever he is I hope he knows that it is being used by me. He would like the fact that I finally came to enjoy the old place. I had hated it as a kid, but kids hate everything their parents love. It's a law of nature like getting old, I guess.
I was almost surprised to see the place standing. Then again I always was after a trip of any length, especially during the winter. I was never too sure of the shack's wiring, but I had to leave the power turned on during the winter months even when I was away. If I didn't leave it on, the water pump at the well head would freeze. Then I would really be screwed. My dad had used a light bulb in the well house to keep it warm. I wrapped the pump in a heat tape with thermostat. Nonetheless the power had to be left on to keep it working. That seemed to be a risk but an unavoidable one.
When I left for a trip, I turned the water off at the pump. In the winter I would then have to drain the water from the pipes to keep them from freezing. A burst pipe was no fun at all. I had made a few improvements in the shack, but I kept them to a minimum. I underpinned the shack with fake rock like those used for mobile homes. The shack had only eight windows, so installing storm windows was a snap. During my forced vacation of three years, I installed those and a couple of storm doors.
I could have insulated the walls, but then I would have had to replace the siding. I liked the old weathered board and battens. It made the place look like the shack it was. I did spray ground up old newspaper into the ceilings from the outside. The metal roof got painted as well. The place was still only about forty percent fuel efficient but even that much helped.
The only heat had been a wood stove when I moved in. I lived with that for all of my parolee days, but during the last six months I had been traveling more. As a consequence I had less time to do chores, so I found an antique coal stove. I knew I was on the EPA hit list, but I really didn't care since they have the worst assassins. It would be years before they got around to me.
I liked the coal much better than wood. I could get more heat from a much a lower volume of fuel. Not only that it was easier to store the fuel and the stove gave me better control of the heat levels. At the same time the stove was installed, I had a metal liner installed inside the chimney. My dad's idea of a chimney had been an unlined concrete prefab block kind of thing. The liner would be easier to clean and much safer the chimney sweep assured me.
So that day, I turned on the water and lit a fire in the stove before I did anything else. The shack was just one big room, so the one stove seemed to work pretty well. It did take a while to heat the large volume of air that had been twenty degrees over night.
While it heated up, I drove to the diner about five miles away. The diner had started life as the two car work bay of a service station. The service station was no longer pumping gas, but it was still a pump your own location. The warning, 'credit cards only', was posted in big letters.
I ordered breakfast at five in the afternoon from a window booth. I had promised myself that I would eat no more than one meal a day at the diner. I also promised myself it would be breakfast, so no matter the time of day, I ordered breakfast.
I watched a middle aged man pull his fancy car up to the pump, remove the nozzle, stick it into his gas tank opening only to find that nothing happened. I was pretty sure that the drive of the big shiny new car could read, he just hadn't bothered. He seemed to be really upset as he walked to the diner.
"Can anyone here make that damn pump work. I am almost out of gas." He was a big man and menacingly angry.
The teenaged girl behind the counter was intimidate, but there was nothing she could do. "I'm sorry sir, it is credit or debit card only."
"Obviously I don't have a credit card," he replied in a still angry voice.
"I'm sorry sir, there is nothing I can do. I have nothing to do with the pumps, I work here in the grill."
I noticed that the cook didn't come to her rescue, but then why should the older lady get involved, there was nothing she could do either. I knew I should have stayed out of it, but the diner was the only thing standing between me and my lousing cooking. Therefore it was defuse the situation woth the stranger, or take the change that he might just decide to break the place up.
"Tell you what friend, Give me twenty bucks and I'll swipe my card for you," I suggested. "You can pump the twenty and be on your way."
"And if it won't hold twenty?" he replied angrily.
"Never mind," I said standing. I walked over to him as I said, "Tell you what friend, why don't you just drive to the next station. It's only about ten miles into Gulf." Gulf was the name of the closest town.
He was bigger, but he didn't have that hard look about him. He just looked angry. Being angry just might get him killed, if he couldn't get past it.
"I don't know if I can make it that far." he said more reasonably.
"Well you should have thought of that two minutes ago. Now your only choice is to pray." He looked at me and got the message. Most people did since they tell me I have dead eyes, whatever that means.
The man wasn't overtly angry when he left the diner, he was just seething. I did hope he wouldn't have a heart attack. Actually I think the waitress wished him a quick death. Teenager's emotions seem to run wide open all the time.
My breakfast came while I was having my discussion with the angry stranger. Deloris the teenager placed it on my table, then refilled my coffee. I found it all waiting for me. She had rushed to do it since it got her away from the angry stranger.
"Thanks," she said unenthusiastically when I sat down. She didn't have any real understanding of what might have happened. To her I just said a few words and it all went away, no biggy. What she didn't know was that it might have escalated into violence, if I had been in the place. Even with me interceding he might still have been a drunk or a bad assed redneck. In either case there could have been violence. Things like that happen everyday. They usually end just like that incident had. Then on a different day the guy pulls out a pistol and kills everyone. Life is a crap shoot, but the teenager didn't have a clue what might have happened. Unfortunately I did and it did not make me a better man for it.
I was almost surprised to see the place standing. Then again I always was after a trip of any length, especially during the winter. I was never too sure of the shack's wiring, but I had to leave the power turned on during the winter months even when I was away. If I didn't leave it on, the water pump at the well head would freeze. Then I would really be screwed. My dad had used a light bulb in the well house to keep it warm. I wrapped the pump in a heat tape with thermostat. Nonetheless the power had to be left on to keep it working. That seemed to be a risk but an unavoidable one.
When I left for a trip, I turned the water off at the pump. In the winter I would then have to drain the water from the pipes to keep them from freezing. A burst pipe was no fun at all. I had made a few improvements in the shack, but I kept them to a minimum. I underpinned the shack with fake rock like those used for mobile homes. The shack had only eight windows, so installing storm windows was a snap. During my forced vacation of three years, I installed those and a couple of storm doors.
I could have insulated the walls, but then I would have had to replace the siding. I liked the old weathered board and battens. It made the place look like the shack it was. I did spray ground up old newspaper into the ceilings from the outside. The metal roof got painted as well. The place was still only about forty percent fuel efficient but even that much helped.
The only heat had been a wood stove when I moved in. I lived with that for all of my parolee days, but during the last six months I had been traveling more. As a consequence I had less time to do chores, so I found an antique coal stove. I knew I was on the EPA hit list, but I really didn't care since they have the worst assassins. It would be years before they got around to me.
I liked the coal much better than wood. I could get more heat from a much a lower volume of fuel. Not only that it was easier to store the fuel and the stove gave me better control of the heat levels. At the same time the stove was installed, I had a metal liner installed inside the chimney. My dad's idea of a chimney had been an unlined concrete prefab block kind of thing. The liner would be easier to clean and much safer the chimney sweep assured me.
So that day, I turned on the water and lit a fire in the stove before I did anything else. The shack was just one big room, so the one stove seemed to work pretty well. It did take a while to heat the large volume of air that had been twenty degrees over night.
While it heated up, I drove to the diner about five miles away. The diner had started life as the two car work bay of a service station. The service station was no longer pumping gas, but it was still a pump your own location. The warning, 'credit cards only', was posted in big letters.
I ordered breakfast at five in the afternoon from a window booth. I had promised myself that I would eat no more than one meal a day at the diner. I also promised myself it would be breakfast, so no matter the time of day, I ordered breakfast.
I watched a middle aged man pull his fancy car up to the pump, remove the nozzle, stick it into his gas tank opening only to find that nothing happened. I was pretty sure that the drive of the big shiny new car could read, he just hadn't bothered. He seemed to be really upset as he walked to the diner.
"Can anyone here make that damn pump work. I am almost out of gas." He was a big man and menacingly angry.
The teenaged girl behind the counter was intimidate, but there was nothing she could do. "I'm sorry sir, it is credit or debit card only."
"Obviously I don't have a credit card," he replied in a still angry voice.
"I'm sorry sir, there is nothing I can do. I have nothing to do with the pumps, I work here in the grill."
I noticed that the cook didn't come to her rescue, but then why should the older lady get involved, there was nothing she could do either. I knew I should have stayed out of it, but the diner was the only thing standing between me and my lousing cooking. Therefore it was defuse the situation woth the stranger, or take the change that he might just decide to break the place up.
"Tell you what friend, Give me twenty bucks and I'll swipe my card for you," I suggested. "You can pump the twenty and be on your way."
"And if it won't hold twenty?" he replied angrily.
"Never mind," I said standing. I walked over to him as I said, "Tell you what friend, why don't you just drive to the next station. It's only about ten miles into Gulf." Gulf was the name of the closest town.
He was bigger, but he didn't have that hard look about him. He just looked angry. Being angry just might get him killed, if he couldn't get past it.
"I don't know if I can make it that far." he said more reasonably.
"Well you should have thought of that two minutes ago. Now your only choice is to pray." He looked at me and got the message. Most people did since they tell me I have dead eyes, whatever that means.
The man wasn't overtly angry when he left the diner, he was just seething. I did hope he wouldn't have a heart attack. Actually I think the waitress wished him a quick death. Teenager's emotions seem to run wide open all the time.
My breakfast came while I was having my discussion with the angry stranger. Deloris the teenager placed it on my table, then refilled my coffee. I found it all waiting for me. She had rushed to do it since it got her away from the angry stranger.
"Thanks," she said unenthusiastically when I sat down. She didn't have any real understanding of what might have happened. To her I just said a few words and it all went away, no biggy. What she didn't know was that it might have escalated into violence, if I had been in the place. Even with me interceding he might still have been a drunk or a bad assed redneck. In either case there could have been violence. Things like that happen everyday. They usually end just like that incident had. Then on a different day the guy pulls out a pistol and kills everyone. Life is a crap shoot, but the teenager didn't have a clue what might have happened. Unfortunately I did and it did not make me a better man for it.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
The journey to where I was.
The cruise ship gave me three days to relive my life, such as it had been. It had hardly been roses and cinnamon buns in the mornings. It had been more like weeds and dog crap on your shoes.
From a poor southern mill family to the United States Army. It was a familiar route where I grew up. Most all the super marksmen came from a hunting background. I was no exception. On an almost daily basis, I had hunted small animals . Some years, the family depended on them for food. I never killed for sport, everything got eaten. There were also no hunting seasons for the poor of Chatham County. I hunted every day that I wasn't in school or working.
Since the only weapon the family could afford was a .22 rifle, I learned patience and how to make the shots count. My dad not only taught me by example, but also by rationing the cartridges. Three per hunt. When they were gone, he sent me to the car to wait. It wasn't too many years until I returned at the end of the day with some, if not all, of the ammunition still in my pocket. If there were missing shells, there were dead animals in my flour sack.
I did two years of my three year enlistment as a sniper assigned to a rifle company. I had a dozen or more confirmed kills when I stepped on the land mine. The rag heads had a nasty habit of taking half the charge from the mine. War with the Russians had taught them that it was better to injure a soldier than kill him. It take two more soldiers to get him off the battlefield, if he is screaming.
Besides it was a good reminder, not just to him and his family, but to everyone who saw him, just what shitty war it was. Nothing like a man with both legs blow off to make enlistments falter. In my case I lost only one leg. Just some kind of lucky break I guess.
You know that is kind of a stupid statement. I didn't lose the damn thing, it was on the stretcher with me till I got to the trauma unit. If anyone lost it, the medics did.
"So I see you are writing your autobiography again," it was Gloria's voice.
"What's it to you?"
"You know you could make it a little more glamorous. All the guys on the other side do that. They are all heroes, while you are just a victim to hear you tell it."
"I'm no victim, but I'm no hero either."
"Well you could tell some of the good things you did as well as the killing."
"You don't know what I have done. All you know is that I managed to get you killed."
"Right, why don't you just put on a swim suit and let's go lay by the pool."
"Right, you in a bikini with your veil, and me in a small suit with my scars and titanium leg. What a sight that would be."
"You know I wouldn't be caught dead in a bikini. Oh yeah," she said. Gloria sometimes forgot that she was dead. After a moment she changed the subject. "Don't forget the CIA years. I love when you think about those."
"Why do all you rag heads hate the CIA?"
"Just give that some thought," she suggested.
"Besides they don't use near as many snipers since they have sold the world on how great that drone thing is." I replied.
"Yes, now instead of killing one wrong person, you can kill fifty at a time. No wonder us rag heads hate the CIA." With that she vanished. She had a hard time with arguments. She liked to give her view then leave before I could respond. On that subject we actually thought alike, so I wouldn't have had a good comeback.
The killing the wrong man crack was a direct slap at me. The reference was to the incident that got me a prison term. There is just no excuse for shooting a corrupt politician's brother by mistake. To appease the government somebody had to take the fall. Since I wasn't really on the direct payroll of the CIA, I took the fall. They even managed to put the blame on Swamp Thing, who I had never even heard of at the time.
I got five years for the shooting. I was lucky not to do life. Two of those years I spent in a medium security country club close to home. The location didn't matter since nobody came to visit me anyway. After two years I was released on parole. I took my nickel and dime disability pension, and moved into my dad's old fishing cabin.
I managed to make my first two visits to the parole office before Swamp Thing came calling. That isn't their real name, but it kind of fits them. A term of any parole is that the parolee not carry a handgun, I never have had much use for them anyway, Swamp Thing found a use for me even with that condition. Not as an employee, since that would be bad for business. I was after all a convicted felon. No, I did contract jobs for them, mostly things no one else would do. The three years finally ended and the jobs for ST increased in number and complexity.
Which after two more years led me to a cruise ship. I realized all by myself that I was just thirty and already well into my nine lives. I knew that I needed to retire, but I just hadn't been able to kick the addiction to that adrenaline rush.
Even when I was on parole and trying like hell to be good, so I could stay out of the joint, I was sticking my nose where it didn't belong.
"Jeffery Burk?" the man in the toy sailer suit asked.
"Yes," I replied.
"The Captain asked that I suggest you take your meals in the cabin." He was a very officious little prick.
"Oh why is that?"
"He is afraid some of the passengers may have seen you come aboard. It would be awkward, if they were to begin asking questions."
"I see."
"Actually it would be better if you remained in your cabin at all times."
"I'll give it some thought. Thanks for passing that along." The smile I gave him didn't seem to comfort him much. Some folks said I had a very forced and unnatural smile. It was forced that first morning for sure.
"Should I tell the Captain that you agree."
"Tell him whatever you like, but I'll give it the consideration it deserves." I know it all sounds too formal for a mill village boy. I picked up the better vocabulary and speech patterns from a white collar con man doing time with me. He taught diction and public speaking to all the medium security, and government's special prisoners. We were all better men for it, I might add. Most of them went back to the board rooms better able to convince the fish to swim along. I, on the other hand, learned how to play word games with the best of them. He also taught those of us from a more primitive background, which fork to use with lobster. He loved being Professor Higgins. It was a good thing he didn't do his time in a real prison. He would have been shanked the first time he put his hand on Bubba's shoulder in that fatherly way.
I really had not wanted to go to the huge dining room for dinner. I mean I had nothing to wear, but they did give me a day, and I had the Swamp Thing credit card for emergencies. I took the run of the ship.
I bought a fancy pair of cotton slacks and a club type blue blazer. I even found a strange looking patch to have sewn onto the pocket. Should anyone ask, I planned to tell them it was Maxwell Country Club's official blazer. That was the inmates name for the federal prison attached to Maxwell Air Force Base. Screw the tourist anyway, who cared what they thought, or knew. I came out of Columbia clean.
"So you have convinced yourself yet again that you have a right to be happy," Gloria stated flatly.
"Don't you ever get tired of being a pain in the ass?"
"Why should I? If it weren't for you, I would be married and have a family."
"Yeah married to a rag head terrorist, with a couple of terrorist brats running around a Madrassa somewhere."
She tried to slap me before she vanished. She couldn't, she was a figment of my sick mind. I laughed, but only after she was gone, just in case.
From a poor southern mill family to the United States Army. It was a familiar route where I grew up. Most all the super marksmen came from a hunting background. I was no exception. On an almost daily basis, I had hunted small animals . Some years, the family depended on them for food. I never killed for sport, everything got eaten. There were also no hunting seasons for the poor of Chatham County. I hunted every day that I wasn't in school or working.
Since the only weapon the family could afford was a .22 rifle, I learned patience and how to make the shots count. My dad not only taught me by example, but also by rationing the cartridges. Three per hunt. When they were gone, he sent me to the car to wait. It wasn't too many years until I returned at the end of the day with some, if not all, of the ammunition still in my pocket. If there were missing shells, there were dead animals in my flour sack.
I did two years of my three year enlistment as a sniper assigned to a rifle company. I had a dozen or more confirmed kills when I stepped on the land mine. The rag heads had a nasty habit of taking half the charge from the mine. War with the Russians had taught them that it was better to injure a soldier than kill him. It take two more soldiers to get him off the battlefield, if he is screaming.
Besides it was a good reminder, not just to him and his family, but to everyone who saw him, just what shitty war it was. Nothing like a man with both legs blow off to make enlistments falter. In my case I lost only one leg. Just some kind of lucky break I guess.
You know that is kind of a stupid statement. I didn't lose the damn thing, it was on the stretcher with me till I got to the trauma unit. If anyone lost it, the medics did.
"So I see you are writing your autobiography again," it was Gloria's voice.
"What's it to you?"
"You know you could make it a little more glamorous. All the guys on the other side do that. They are all heroes, while you are just a victim to hear you tell it."
"I'm no victim, but I'm no hero either."
"Well you could tell some of the good things you did as well as the killing."
"You don't know what I have done. All you know is that I managed to get you killed."
"Right, why don't you just put on a swim suit and let's go lay by the pool."
"Right, you in a bikini with your veil, and me in a small suit with my scars and titanium leg. What a sight that would be."
"You know I wouldn't be caught dead in a bikini. Oh yeah," she said. Gloria sometimes forgot that she was dead. After a moment she changed the subject. "Don't forget the CIA years. I love when you think about those."
"Why do all you rag heads hate the CIA?"
"Just give that some thought," she suggested.
"Besides they don't use near as many snipers since they have sold the world on how great that drone thing is." I replied.
"Yes, now instead of killing one wrong person, you can kill fifty at a time. No wonder us rag heads hate the CIA." With that she vanished. She had a hard time with arguments. She liked to give her view then leave before I could respond. On that subject we actually thought alike, so I wouldn't have had a good comeback.
The killing the wrong man crack was a direct slap at me. The reference was to the incident that got me a prison term. There is just no excuse for shooting a corrupt politician's brother by mistake. To appease the government somebody had to take the fall. Since I wasn't really on the direct payroll of the CIA, I took the fall. They even managed to put the blame on Swamp Thing, who I had never even heard of at the time.
I got five years for the shooting. I was lucky not to do life. Two of those years I spent in a medium security country club close to home. The location didn't matter since nobody came to visit me anyway. After two years I was released on parole. I took my nickel and dime disability pension, and moved into my dad's old fishing cabin.
I managed to make my first two visits to the parole office before Swamp Thing came calling. That isn't their real name, but it kind of fits them. A term of any parole is that the parolee not carry a handgun, I never have had much use for them anyway, Swamp Thing found a use for me even with that condition. Not as an employee, since that would be bad for business. I was after all a convicted felon. No, I did contract jobs for them, mostly things no one else would do. The three years finally ended and the jobs for ST increased in number and complexity.
Which after two more years led me to a cruise ship. I realized all by myself that I was just thirty and already well into my nine lives. I knew that I needed to retire, but I just hadn't been able to kick the addiction to that adrenaline rush.
Even when I was on parole and trying like hell to be good, so I could stay out of the joint, I was sticking my nose where it didn't belong.
"Jeffery Burk?" the man in the toy sailer suit asked.
"Yes," I replied.
"The Captain asked that I suggest you take your meals in the cabin." He was a very officious little prick.
"Oh why is that?"
"He is afraid some of the passengers may have seen you come aboard. It would be awkward, if they were to begin asking questions."
"I see."
"Actually it would be better if you remained in your cabin at all times."
"I'll give it some thought. Thanks for passing that along." The smile I gave him didn't seem to comfort him much. Some folks said I had a very forced and unnatural smile. It was forced that first morning for sure.
"Should I tell the Captain that you agree."
"Tell him whatever you like, but I'll give it the consideration it deserves." I know it all sounds too formal for a mill village boy. I picked up the better vocabulary and speech patterns from a white collar con man doing time with me. He taught diction and public speaking to all the medium security, and government's special prisoners. We were all better men for it, I might add. Most of them went back to the board rooms better able to convince the fish to swim along. I, on the other hand, learned how to play word games with the best of them. He also taught those of us from a more primitive background, which fork to use with lobster. He loved being Professor Higgins. It was a good thing he didn't do his time in a real prison. He would have been shanked the first time he put his hand on Bubba's shoulder in that fatherly way.
I really had not wanted to go to the huge dining room for dinner. I mean I had nothing to wear, but they did give me a day, and I had the Swamp Thing credit card for emergencies. I took the run of the ship.
I bought a fancy pair of cotton slacks and a club type blue blazer. I even found a strange looking patch to have sewn onto the pocket. Should anyone ask, I planned to tell them it was Maxwell Country Club's official blazer. That was the inmates name for the federal prison attached to Maxwell Air Force Base. Screw the tourist anyway, who cared what they thought, or knew. I came out of Columbia clean.
"So you have convinced yourself yet again that you have a right to be happy," Gloria stated flatly.
"Don't you ever get tired of being a pain in the ass?"
"Why should I? If it weren't for you, I would be married and have a family."
"Yeah married to a rag head terrorist, with a couple of terrorist brats running around a Madrassa somewhere."
She tried to slap me before she vanished. She couldn't, she was a figment of my sick mind. I laughed, but only after she was gone, just in case.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
extraction
I left the small room in the four story building one minute after the Hector exploded. I left with nothing. I mean absolutely nothing but my fake passport and a small wad of US Dollars. The Boss had sent me a message detailing the operation as much as could be anticipated. One of the things anticipated was that a man carrying a case with a rifle inside was likely to be shot on sight. If not, at least subjected to some very severe interrogation. Best not to be seen with one of those cases.
Also a man found with a huge roll of hundred dollar bills after an assassination might create some interest. Lowest on the list, but still on the list, was a gringo in a nice suit trying to get the hell out of Columbia. That also was likely to raise an eyebrow or two. The Boss had decided that it would be best, if I made my way to the coast in a taxi. What the hell, two hundred miles in an old columbian taxi, I couldn't afford the attention created by a newer one, would be a trip to remembered.
"Mr. Jeff, there is most likely going to be a checkpoint on the highway leaving Medellin," the driver said. The driver had been recommended by someone in the American government. I figured that the Boss worked hand in hand with the CIA. It's probably how I got the job in the first place. I guess you might say I had filtered down through the legitimate army programs, to the murky CIA jobs, and finally down to Swamp Thing Ops.
The guys at Swamp Thing liked me because I had once killed a man with a piece of notebook paper, or so they told each other. Actually the easiest way to kill a man with a piece of paper is to wad it up and force it into his throat. Yes I had done that, but he was unconscious at the time. The result of a blow on the head with a very heavy golfing trophy. Still the myth persisted, and I didn't discourage it. Oh yeah, the paper was a plan to dump ricin in the water system of an America town.
"Well we have to stop for it. I think I can get through, if the word hasn't filtered down about the Lawyer." Now you might wonder why a drug lawyer would warrant such a quick search for the shooter. Okay I'll tell you, he was in the running for president of Columbia. With the drug lords backing him, he had a good chance of winning. The current U.S. president might think he could negotiate drugs out of existence, but a lot of guys in the murky waters thought he was the enemy. The drug lawyer I mean, not the president. Okay maybe some of them thought he was did as well. Either way the lawyer was a big fish down there.
"Papers," the soldier demanded. He didn't look a bit friendly, of course they never did. Since the other soldiers were just smoking and hanging out, they didn't appear to be on high alert. The driver handed over his ID card, just before the soldier collected my passport. Things were tense a few minutes while he pretended that he could read my passport. Finally he handed both back to the driver and waved us on. The clerical dickie had worked one more time, I thought.
I realized that I hadn't taken a breath for the whole two minutes that the soldier had held my fake passport. If he began questioning me, the story about being a missionary would never hold up. There just weren't all that many legitimate reasons for a gringo to be in Columbia. Their only major exports were coffee and cocaine. I didn't think I could pass for a coffee expert any better than a Missionary, so the Boss went that way.
"So you whupped them again," Gloria said. I have never met an Arab with a southern accent, so it sounded really strange coming from her.
"For the moment yeah, but the odds are on their side," I whispered under my breath. There was no sense giving the driver an excuse to put my crazy ass out of the cab. "Now you either leave, or be quiet the driver is nervous enough already."
If you were to ask me how far it was from Medellin to the coast, I would have to tell you that it is six hours in a beat up old taxi. It is the only thing I know for sure. I'm not even sure there were crows there, let alone how far they fly.
The driver stopped for, not so cheap gas, once. I bought a hand full of American candy bars at the same time. Candy and American soft drinks were probably the biggest imports, led only by American hundred dollar bills from the drug trade.
"So this is the Boss's idea of a safe house?" Gloria asked after the driver left use outside the run down shack. "My God Jeffie, you can see the sky through the roof."
"Well be glad that it isn't the rainy season," I replied. Since we were alone, I could speak in a normal voice.
"How long will we be staying in this honeymoon suite?" she asked.
"Gloria, I will let you insult me if you like, but I will not sleep with you. That is just too weird."
"Don't flatter yourself. I would never sleep with the man who got me killed."
"I have told you a hundred times, the man with the bomb killed you not me."
"You changed the outcome of the operation and it got me killed. You can't change that damn it." She really was angry. She was also picking up the vocabulary of an agent. She should be it was all she heard these days.
She had heard all the arguments before, so I simply said, "Let's just not talk anymore for a while. The pickup should be in a few hours. They said sometime after dark."
I heard them coming long before they arrived at the door of the shack. Since there would likely be no metal detectors along the route of this extraction, I had concealed a small knife in my boot. I had it out as I stook behind the ruined door of the ruined shack.
"Yankee," the voice said with a passable Spanish accent.
"Clipper," I replied with an American southern accent. His accent might save his life, but mine would get me killed in most parts of the world.
"Get your things and let's get a move on man. We need to meet the big boat in half an hour."
"I have no things, let's go," I answered.
An hour and fifteen minutes later I was being shown around the stateroom on a cruise ship. "If you need anything more, don't hesitate to ring," the young woman said.
"Actually I probably need some new clothes." I said it because the clothes I had worn from Medellin were a mess. Instead of answering she opened the small closet's door. Inside were four hangers with a shirt on each. Also there were two hangers with worn blue jeans, one pair on each hanger. "Well you do think of everything."
"Someone does for sure," she said as she turned to go.
"I don't like that blonde bitch," Gloria said while the cruise ship employee turned down my bed. I didn't answer..
Also a man found with a huge roll of hundred dollar bills after an assassination might create some interest. Lowest on the list, but still on the list, was a gringo in a nice suit trying to get the hell out of Columbia. That also was likely to raise an eyebrow or two. The Boss had decided that it would be best, if I made my way to the coast in a taxi. What the hell, two hundred miles in an old columbian taxi, I couldn't afford the attention created by a newer one, would be a trip to remembered.
"Mr. Jeff, there is most likely going to be a checkpoint on the highway leaving Medellin," the driver said. The driver had been recommended by someone in the American government. I figured that the Boss worked hand in hand with the CIA. It's probably how I got the job in the first place. I guess you might say I had filtered down through the legitimate army programs, to the murky CIA jobs, and finally down to Swamp Thing Ops.
The guys at Swamp Thing liked me because I had once killed a man with a piece of notebook paper, or so they told each other. Actually the easiest way to kill a man with a piece of paper is to wad it up and force it into his throat. Yes I had done that, but he was unconscious at the time. The result of a blow on the head with a very heavy golfing trophy. Still the myth persisted, and I didn't discourage it. Oh yeah, the paper was a plan to dump ricin in the water system of an America town.
"Well we have to stop for it. I think I can get through, if the word hasn't filtered down about the Lawyer." Now you might wonder why a drug lawyer would warrant such a quick search for the shooter. Okay I'll tell you, he was in the running for president of Columbia. With the drug lords backing him, he had a good chance of winning. The current U.S. president might think he could negotiate drugs out of existence, but a lot of guys in the murky waters thought he was the enemy. The drug lawyer I mean, not the president. Okay maybe some of them thought he was did as well. Either way the lawyer was a big fish down there.
"Papers," the soldier demanded. He didn't look a bit friendly, of course they never did. Since the other soldiers were just smoking and hanging out, they didn't appear to be on high alert. The driver handed over his ID card, just before the soldier collected my passport. Things were tense a few minutes while he pretended that he could read my passport. Finally he handed both back to the driver and waved us on. The clerical dickie had worked one more time, I thought.
I realized that I hadn't taken a breath for the whole two minutes that the soldier had held my fake passport. If he began questioning me, the story about being a missionary would never hold up. There just weren't all that many legitimate reasons for a gringo to be in Columbia. Their only major exports were coffee and cocaine. I didn't think I could pass for a coffee expert any better than a Missionary, so the Boss went that way.
"So you whupped them again," Gloria said. I have never met an Arab with a southern accent, so it sounded really strange coming from her.
"For the moment yeah, but the odds are on their side," I whispered under my breath. There was no sense giving the driver an excuse to put my crazy ass out of the cab. "Now you either leave, or be quiet the driver is nervous enough already."
If you were to ask me how far it was from Medellin to the coast, I would have to tell you that it is six hours in a beat up old taxi. It is the only thing I know for sure. I'm not even sure there were crows there, let alone how far they fly.
The driver stopped for, not so cheap gas, once. I bought a hand full of American candy bars at the same time. Candy and American soft drinks were probably the biggest imports, led only by American hundred dollar bills from the drug trade.
"So this is the Boss's idea of a safe house?" Gloria asked after the driver left use outside the run down shack. "My God Jeffie, you can see the sky through the roof."
"Well be glad that it isn't the rainy season," I replied. Since we were alone, I could speak in a normal voice.
"How long will we be staying in this honeymoon suite?" she asked.
"Gloria, I will let you insult me if you like, but I will not sleep with you. That is just too weird."
"Don't flatter yourself. I would never sleep with the man who got me killed."
"I have told you a hundred times, the man with the bomb killed you not me."
"You changed the outcome of the operation and it got me killed. You can't change that damn it." She really was angry. She was also picking up the vocabulary of an agent. She should be it was all she heard these days.
She had heard all the arguments before, so I simply said, "Let's just not talk anymore for a while. The pickup should be in a few hours. They said sometime after dark."
I heard them coming long before they arrived at the door of the shack. Since there would likely be no metal detectors along the route of this extraction, I had concealed a small knife in my boot. I had it out as I stook behind the ruined door of the ruined shack.
"Yankee," the voice said with a passable Spanish accent.
"Clipper," I replied with an American southern accent. His accent might save his life, but mine would get me killed in most parts of the world.
"Get your things and let's get a move on man. We need to meet the big boat in half an hour."
"I have no things, let's go," I answered.
An hour and fifteen minutes later I was being shown around the stateroom on a cruise ship. "If you need anything more, don't hesitate to ring," the young woman said.
"Actually I probably need some new clothes." I said it because the clothes I had worn from Medellin were a mess. Instead of answering she opened the small closet's door. Inside were four hangers with a shirt on each. Also there were two hangers with worn blue jeans, one pair on each hanger. "Well you do think of everything."
"Someone does for sure," she said as she turned to go.
"I don't like that blonde bitch," Gloria said while the cruise ship employee turned down my bed. I didn't answer..
Friday, December 11, 2009
The lawyer's end
"So Jeff how you get here?" The question came in broken english from a very oily looking man.
Yes I was tempted to explain about airplanes and Helicopters but I instead I answered, "Not many places for a sniper to work, if he isn't in the military."
"So you were in the American Army?"
"Yep, that's the one."
"Why you not work for CIA. I thought everyone worked for CIA."
"Oh I worked for them a few times, but they are more a freelance gig. Every time they get a new boss, the fire all the killers. Then after reality sets in they hire new killers. I just like a steadier gig."
"I no understand?"
"Neither did I the first time they sent me packing." I looked at the building across the street where the next victim would appear in about half an hour. "After the second time, I knew that it was not for me." The building was two story with a deck on top. The soon to be deceased drug cartel lawyer would soon be taking his last meal on the roof deck.
"So now you work for the boss full time?"
"Yes, there seem to be a lot of people who need to be switched off." I looked at the watch one more time before I spoke again. "Manny, you need to go on down and bring the car to that side door. I don't want to get there and find you gone."
"Of course, it may be difficult to find a place to wait." The local version of the Mafia henchman replied. The boss would use anyone, I thought.
"Yes, go find us a good one." I was more worried about Gloria, than I was Manny. Glory would be along any minute. I just didn't need the two of them talking at the same time.
He was out the door only a few seconds when she appeared. "So Jeffie, you are going to shoot a drug lord?"
"It seems so."
"Good, it's time He turned his attention to them."
"There are a lot of worse people in the world," I replied
"Obviously he felt like this was important."
"True, ours is not to reason why etcetera. Too bad that removing this cancer won't kill the patient."
"My Goodness Jeff, are you getting poetic?"
"Not a chance, Just a shame he isn't with about a hundred of his clients."
"I expect He has his reasons."
"Yes I'm sure he does." I lifted the British .303 world war 2 sniper rifle off the desk. I attached it to the tripod, which set well back from the window. I certainly didn't want anyone to see me or the flash from the rifle. Adding three more meters to the shot wouldn't make much difference. I could either put it in his eye, or in his nose, he would still be just as dead. The exit damage would compensate for any slight variation in the entry point.
"So how do you feel about this one?" Gloria asked.
"I don't feel anything. He wants him dead and I need the money. Everything else is pretty much immaterial."
"Do you mean that if it were a mother with children, you would do her in front of them."
"Of course not there are always options in setting up the shot."
"So if Hector there comes out with his wife and kids, you will walk away."
"The place is paid for by Hector alright, but his mistress lives there. If he comes out with his mistress, she might well be wearing his brain. I have it on pretty good authority that it doesn't wash out."
"You are a cold bastard," Gloria said.
"I know." If Gloria had been real, she would have noted the sadness in my voice. Being a cold bastard wasn't much of a life.
My right ankle itched like hell. I did a lot lately,when I worked. The problem was that my right leg was missing from the knee down. It seems as though my military career ended with a bang. Land mine in the LZ. How that happened I still didn't know.
Hector came out before I could finish feeling sorry for myself. He wasn't very tall to be so powerful a man. They said he could bribe almost anyone. Those he couldn't bribe he either intimidated or had killed. That, they said, was the Columbian justice system.
The boss decided that they needed one more player in the game down there. I wasn't the player, the boss was. The order for Hector's elimination came with instructions to make as large a statement as possible. A simple head shot would have been easier, but wouldn't make much of a statement.
When he seated himself, I tickled the trigger. The copper jacketed lead slug was so hot I could almost see the smoke as it traveled through the air. The heavy slug hit him between the legs. Blood began to spurt from the artery which the bullet cut. I watched through the scope while the man quickly bled to death. I sat there ready to kill anyone who tried to help him.
Hector Bled out before my eyes. After I was 90% sure he was dead, I put a second round in his head. I didn't get paid to leave him alive so I made damn sure he was dead.
"It's time to go Jeff," Gloria said with urgency in her voice.
I nodded as I turned to the door. I made it to the waiting car. I even managed to survive the drive to the airport. Manny looked terrified as he approached the checkpoint by the airport gate. I could only hope that he was more afraid of the boss than the local drug lords or the cops.
Yes I was tempted to explain about airplanes and Helicopters but I instead I answered, "Not many places for a sniper to work, if he isn't in the military."
"So you were in the American Army?"
"Yep, that's the one."
"Why you not work for CIA. I thought everyone worked for CIA."
"Oh I worked for them a few times, but they are more a freelance gig. Every time they get a new boss, the fire all the killers. Then after reality sets in they hire new killers. I just like a steadier gig."
"I no understand?"
"Neither did I the first time they sent me packing." I looked at the building across the street where the next victim would appear in about half an hour. "After the second time, I knew that it was not for me." The building was two story with a deck on top. The soon to be deceased drug cartel lawyer would soon be taking his last meal on the roof deck.
"So now you work for the boss full time?"
"Yes, there seem to be a lot of people who need to be switched off." I looked at the watch one more time before I spoke again. "Manny, you need to go on down and bring the car to that side door. I don't want to get there and find you gone."
"Of course, it may be difficult to find a place to wait." The local version of the Mafia henchman replied. The boss would use anyone, I thought.
"Yes, go find us a good one." I was more worried about Gloria, than I was Manny. Glory would be along any minute. I just didn't need the two of them talking at the same time.
He was out the door only a few seconds when she appeared. "So Jeffie, you are going to shoot a drug lord?"
"It seems so."
"Good, it's time He turned his attention to them."
"There are a lot of worse people in the world," I replied
"Obviously he felt like this was important."
"True, ours is not to reason why etcetera. Too bad that removing this cancer won't kill the patient."
"My Goodness Jeff, are you getting poetic?"
"Not a chance, Just a shame he isn't with about a hundred of his clients."
"I expect He has his reasons."
"Yes I'm sure he does." I lifted the British .303 world war 2 sniper rifle off the desk. I attached it to the tripod, which set well back from the window. I certainly didn't want anyone to see me or the flash from the rifle. Adding three more meters to the shot wouldn't make much difference. I could either put it in his eye, or in his nose, he would still be just as dead. The exit damage would compensate for any slight variation in the entry point.
"So how do you feel about this one?" Gloria asked.
"I don't feel anything. He wants him dead and I need the money. Everything else is pretty much immaterial."
"Do you mean that if it were a mother with children, you would do her in front of them."
"Of course not there are always options in setting up the shot."
"So if Hector there comes out with his wife and kids, you will walk away."
"The place is paid for by Hector alright, but his mistress lives there. If he comes out with his mistress, she might well be wearing his brain. I have it on pretty good authority that it doesn't wash out."
"You are a cold bastard," Gloria said.
"I know." If Gloria had been real, she would have noted the sadness in my voice. Being a cold bastard wasn't much of a life.
My right ankle itched like hell. I did a lot lately,when I worked. The problem was that my right leg was missing from the knee down. It seems as though my military career ended with a bang. Land mine in the LZ. How that happened I still didn't know.
Hector came out before I could finish feeling sorry for myself. He wasn't very tall to be so powerful a man. They said he could bribe almost anyone. Those he couldn't bribe he either intimidated or had killed. That, they said, was the Columbian justice system.
The boss decided that they needed one more player in the game down there. I wasn't the player, the boss was. The order for Hector's elimination came with instructions to make as large a statement as possible. A simple head shot would have been easier, but wouldn't make much of a statement.
When he seated himself, I tickled the trigger. The copper jacketed lead slug was so hot I could almost see the smoke as it traveled through the air. The heavy slug hit him between the legs. Blood began to spurt from the artery which the bullet cut. I watched through the scope while the man quickly bled to death. I sat there ready to kill anyone who tried to help him.
Hector Bled out before my eyes. After I was 90% sure he was dead, I put a second round in his head. I didn't get paid to leave him alive so I made damn sure he was dead.
"It's time to go Jeff," Gloria said with urgency in her voice.
I nodded as I turned to the door. I made it to the waiting car. I even managed to survive the drive to the airport. Manny looked terrified as he approached the checkpoint by the airport gate. I could only hope that he was more afraid of the boss than the local drug lords or the cops.
my new friend
"Morning Jeff," the middle eastern looking woman said. I was in the middle of cooking my own breakfast when she appeared from out of nowhere. Gloria did that almost every day lately.
"Come on Gloria give it a rest." I said it trying to ignore her. If I gave her too much thought she would drive me totally insane. Of course, there were those who thought I was insane already. I thought yet again, they may know more than I do.
"You mean give you a rest?" I nodded. "You know I can't do that."
"Can't or won't?" I asked quietly.
"They are the same thing in my case." She actually smiled.
"You know Gloria. I have no idea why you are here. I mean, why me?"
"You know why I picked you."
"Of course I know. I mean why you and why me?"
"Ah I see what you mean now. There are thousands of people being killed everyday. Why am I the one who refused to go peacefully? Maybe it's because it really wasn't my time to go. If you had chosen the right man to kill, then I might still be alive."
"The one I did kill was wired up just like the other one. The one I didn't get to fast enough."
"Yes but who knows how many suicide bombers just lose their nerve. The one you killed might have run away, if you had shot the other one instead."
"You know that he pulled the trigger on that bomb outside the building instead of inside only because I was going to pop him next. There would have been ten times as many deaths, if he had gotten inside."
"Yes but that would have spared me, since I was outside in a car driving by. No matter how you slice it Jeffie, you are responsible for my death."
"And you plan to make me pay by driving me crazy?"
"No, I plan to help you avoid making that kind of mistake again. I know things you can't know. I can go places you can't go."
"But you don't really exist. You can't know more than me, since you are a symptom of my sick mind. It must be that I have finally gone crazy from all the blood and death."
I had finished scrambling the eggs by that time. "Now go away while I eat. You make it very hard to enjoy my food."
Just as quickly as she had appeared, she vanished.
"Come on Gloria give it a rest." I said it trying to ignore her. If I gave her too much thought she would drive me totally insane. Of course, there were those who thought I was insane already. I thought yet again, they may know more than I do.
"You mean give you a rest?" I nodded. "You know I can't do that."
"Can't or won't?" I asked quietly.
"They are the same thing in my case." She actually smiled.
"You know Gloria. I have no idea why you are here. I mean, why me?"
"You know why I picked you."
"Of course I know. I mean why you and why me?"
"Ah I see what you mean now. There are thousands of people being killed everyday. Why am I the one who refused to go peacefully? Maybe it's because it really wasn't my time to go. If you had chosen the right man to kill, then I might still be alive."
"The one I did kill was wired up just like the other one. The one I didn't get to fast enough."
"Yes but who knows how many suicide bombers just lose their nerve. The one you killed might have run away, if you had shot the other one instead."
"You know that he pulled the trigger on that bomb outside the building instead of inside only because I was going to pop him next. There would have been ten times as many deaths, if he had gotten inside."
"Yes but that would have spared me, since I was outside in a car driving by. No matter how you slice it Jeffie, you are responsible for my death."
"And you plan to make me pay by driving me crazy?"
"No, I plan to help you avoid making that kind of mistake again. I know things you can't know. I can go places you can't go."
"But you don't really exist. You can't know more than me, since you are a symptom of my sick mind. It must be that I have finally gone crazy from all the blood and death."
I had finished scrambling the eggs by that time. "Now go away while I eat. You make it very hard to enjoy my food."
Just as quickly as she had appeared, she vanished.
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