Sabotage: Beginnings (25 page)

Justice grabbed him by the shoulders to ease him onto the floor. A swift, powerful swat of his square-toed boot sent Guano’s limp body rolling into the stunned audience. War Child waved him away. He threw one trembling, blood-soaked hand over his shoulder and gripped Justice’s hand.

“Thanks for being a loyal brother, Razor. Take care of the new boss man.” War Child offered in hushed tones. His purplish lips quivered at death’s escort along the long and hard-fought life as he passed into the great beyond.

T
he vineyards were
bare in late November, but the hills were still more picturesque than anywhere Ben had traveled before. He rocked on his wide back porch and enjoyed the calm, still breeze that lullabied wine country into an easy afternoon.

His eyelids drooped to the rhythm of the white, wicker rocker as it bumped over the wooden slats. Wind devils frolicked to kick up dust across the barren rows of scarecrows and wooden supports for organic irrigation.

A deep crystal glass looped between lazy fingers. Red wine swayed side to side. The host bottle and another one like it sat on an ornate painted stool under which his hemp sandals sat parked beneath for the evening. It all seemed so peaceful.

So normal, except for the body affixed to the crucifix in his climate-controlled cellar. Most people used them to store wine—he used it for both. He wasn’t sure if his guest was still alive, so the porch sitting was more about waiting for death than life. It was also a lookout. Ben wasn’t much of a drinker, but his father’s expected visit caused an anxiety he’d tried to suppress since childhood.

Ben swished a sip and gurgled the vintage grape while he considered his plight. The Louisiana Sheriff’s deputy had had to be killed—Ben needed the patrol car to stop Batya. His tongue rolled through the warmed liquid as he thought about the consumption. Damn, he delighted in that. Law enforcement officers were delicious.

His chin jerked up, stretching his reed-thin neck. The eloquent drink tumbled down his throat. He held his mouth closed for a bit to experience the aftertaste of the vintage cabernet sauvignon. But try as he might, the full-bodied flavors of red plums and cassis that pranced around the oak notes of cedar and vanilla were viciously soured by the images of the Las Vegas mishap.

Ben shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. His buttocks seized in the agony of recall. Marco’s rape was unexpected and brutal. Water collected in Ben’s eyes as the thoughts of the Tel Aviv sexual assault. No matter how bad things got, that incident always hid just below his surface. It had again resurfaced to taunt him.

The difference between the two incidents was experience. He was ambushed on both accounts, but Marco allowed his abuse to turn toward sexual satisfaction instead of dominating power. It was then that Ben freed himself from the knotted bath towels and the plush robe.

Marco’s massacre was swift and primal. Ben hadn’t planned it, so the carnage was beyond what even Ben’s tainted sensibilities could conceive. In that fitful moment of weakness, he’d called daddy.

There was no way to even begin to sanitize the scene. The CIA had officially deactivated him, so there’d be no clean team to count on. He’d used cash and concealment along with bogus travel Visas. It would only be a matter of time until his identity was discovered.

Ben’s right hand slumped lower, as did his depleted body. The expensive wine poured out over the floor. The crown of his head flopped against the back of the white wicker. He sucked cool air in through his nostrils and eased air out between his teeth like exhaling cigarette tar. Fuck, it was uncalled far—he’d lost his head. Even Marco didn’t deserve that. Getting caught would serve him right.

What’d he have to look forward to, after all? He wasn’t going back to West Point. His mother was a liar—a real piece of shit. The fine wineglass bounced on its base then rolled onto its bulb. It didn’t crack from the five or so inch fall. Ben dabbed at his hot face and wet eyes. He wanted to be a hero—make his parents proud.

“Hero?” he cried. His body hitched into a V-shape in the rocking chair.

“I’m an outcast. The CIA won’t even return my calls. What the fuck have I done?”

“What have you done? Are you fucking serious, you crazy maniac?” he said.

Ben turned to the left and pouted. “All I wanted was to serve my country.” His wails were sincere, but though his ink black eyes itched with sadness, he watched the dirt-covered access road for daddy.

He punched himself in the left temple. “You gonna get served all right. In the federal penitentiary.”

Ben pushed back on his toes and powered the rocking chair back to launch him out and onto his heels. He strangled the open bottle by its slim neck and stalked the porch end to end. He rubbed at his sore temple. Weakened, his body felt as if he no longer occupied the thin frame. Intoxication wasn’t an issue; it was Vegas—he couldn’t shake it. His daddy was going to have a fit.

Vibrations from the pocket of his linen pants distracted him. Maybe daddy wasn’t coming after all. Maybe it was mother. They’d be a family again. His fingers wiggled around inside the deep cargo pocket until he wrangled the smartphone. He twisted his lips—unlisted number.

“Hello?”

“You owe me.”

The frigid bite of the death snake burrowed deep along Ben’s spine to stiffen his neck. Eyes glowered across the terrain. His hearing prickled both ears and neck. It was Heinrich.

“What do you mean?” Ben asked. He stormed to the east end of the porch and perched a watch toward the highway in the distance. He pressed the stand-by binoculars against the cold sweat that erupted onto his gaunt face.

“Vegas.”

“Daddy handled that. He told me so.”

“Your old man’s a coward and a liar. A disgrace to the badge.”

Ben welded his slight fist into his trim, muscular waist. “No, he is not.” He stomped his foot.

“Don’t get prissy with me, Gray Man. If you’d gone through with your massage you’d be dead right now.”

“There’s that name again. I don’t think I like it.”

“I love it. It sounds bad ass, like we are, Gray Man,” Ben said.

“Get used to it. Benjamin Franklin Ford is as good as dead.” Heinrich said.

“Says who?”

“Gray Man, they were waiting to eliminate you inside that massage parlor. The operative was delayed. Consider yourself lucky that Marco escorted you back to your room. He may have ripped your butthole in half, but you’re still alive to rub it.”

Ben cackled at that comment. “Good one bro.”

He looked to his right and hissed, “This isn’t funny. What do you want?”

“Boyd is missing. We’re sure he’s dead—Boudreaux and his whore Jew.”

“I’m not into finding missing persons, Heinrich.” Ben pressed his open palm against his tummy to chuckle at his crack at comedy.

“Listen to me,” Heinrich screamed. “I want them eliminated. Him first and I want to do the honors personally on her kike ass.”

Ben rubbed at the tension that felt screwed into the back of his neck. He twisted his torso to relieve the strain. “I don’t know. I think I just want to spend quiet time up here. Need to decompress—you know?” Ben arched his spine with an exaggerated inhale.

Wood splintered less than a full hand from Ben’s head. He didn’t jump—but listened as the crack of the sniper’s rifle floated across the undulating fields. Calculations aligned in his mind. Able to determine the shooter’s distance based on how long it took sound to travel, Ben knew he had no time to react—his attacker was too close for him to run for cover.

“Ben. Answer me,” Heinrich yelled into the phone.

His lips drawn tight. “What.”

“How’s the tension feel now?”

“I’m in.” His chin fell against his chest.

“I’ll send details when the time is right.”

Ben flipped a middle finger back toward the direction of the sniper’s trajectory. “I’ll be expecting them.”

“I’m sure you will. Now, enjoy your dinner before the meat gets cold.”

Ben shoved the phone back into his pocket and fumbled for the cool metal object. He swapped it for the cell phone and turned the corner to escape the sniper’s scope. His lotioned thumb molested the circular seal of the great state of California set center of the die-cast metal shape. He unpinned the jagged fabric. The khaki-colored cloth ripped from the chest of the city police officer’s uniform floated to the floor.

“Time to eat.”

C
ool licks of
wind dusted the deck atop the Imperial Palace Casino’s rooftop swimming pool and cabana. Dotted with mostly couples looking for off-season steal deals on weekday getaways, the Biloxi, Mississippi resort still bustled with January activity.

Her hand hung lightly over her husband’s tree-trunk-sized forearm. She tugged on the sleeve of his blue cotton shirt to conceal the fresh passion cross tattoo. Batya’s scarf and wide rim sunglasses concealed her from the sparse sun and curious onlookers. She pulled the collar of a snug, purple fleece jacket higher to cut off the wind’s assault. Her black yoga pants hugged trim thighs that had snapped back into fighting shape not long after Grace was born.

She nodded as Justice slid the wood and wicker chair away from cabana’s entrance. Batya eased into a chaise lounge chair while Justice jerked on a series of cords to release sidewall flaps. They both wanted privacy and protection from the cool weather and gawkers.

Her eyes squeezed into focused slits to survey the small clusters of women who halted their hushed gossip to ogle at her husband. The usual spike of jealousy wormed itself through her, but she was a rational woman. Justice was a sexy sight to behold. Six-six with dark brown hair that brushed well below the muscular humps atop his shoulders.

He was a superior genetic specimen, and she’d come to witness that each of the seven Boudreaux brothers shared striking similarities. She also learned each carried horrible psychological scars of abuse from their father and respective combat experience in various branches of the military. All but one, Lawless Boudreaux, had served. Lawless, the black sheep, entered law enforcement after high school.

Today’s attention to the others around the pool wasn’t because of seductive gazes from hopeless cougars. It was a covert mission. A mission more important than anything she—or they—had ever attempted. The stakes were high for this meeting. Nothing could be left to chance. It was just that vital.

A laugh line appeared as Batya curled the right side of her mouth. She watched the clock with overeager anticipation. Quick, with another nod, Justice responded in silence. He began a slow, deliberate circle around the pool deck. Maybe twenty-five others in all were present. She listened over her concealed earpiece as Justice described each of the them.

No one reacted. Except for inappropriate glares and exaggerated gasps as the big stud lumbered around then circled back to her. He nodded—all clear. Their cabana was located on the farthest corner from the single entry point onto the rooftop via elevator.

Tucked away, Batya remained inside the heavy canvas tent. She concealed binoculars behind a magazine to watch him. Justice moved across the deck and leaned on the bar as if to order drinks. Batya knew his eyes would never stop roaming and assessing the area. He’d stressed to her that he didn’t like the location—too open and too many variables against them if attacked. Batya tried to loosen the constricted knot in her gut as she thought about how much she adored Justice.

She nipped at her top lip with her teeth as she watched Justice yank at his untucked shirt as another brisk breeze toyed with the shirttails. He pressed his palm onto the rubberized grip of his Sig Sauer P-226 9mm pistol. She sat upright and rigid—it was time.

“Signal up.” Justice’s usual low growl sounded soft—not weak.

Batya pressed the microphone button near her ear. “Copy.”

Her grayish eyes batted wide. She gave a gasp as a sudden shadow loomed over her. Her left hand slid quickly over her Glock 9mm and she held that breath as the figure remained.

“Hi, I’m Devin. Can I get you anything to eat or drink,” asked the young woman.

Batya let out the breath slowly and cracked an uneasy smile. “No. No thank you, Devin.”