Too Wylde (11 page)

Decisions, decisions.

Mr. Smith took a tiny parabolic cone mounted
on a hand piece and leaned out the window, watching his laptop. He
focused the otherwise invisible dot from the emitter on the
hand-held on Jimmy's head, then clicked and spoke into the laptop
microphone.

Hey Jimmy.

Jimmy stopped. Looked around him.

Voice to skull, brah. Remember that?

Mr. Smith zoomed in on the vocal chords, let
the computer do the work.

Subvocalize, brah. You remember how do
that?

Jimmy nodded. Twice, slowly, looking out at
the water as though lost deep in thought.

Yeah. I remember that.

Coolio, brah. I want you to turn around and
walk towards the tree directly behind you. There's a small
children's cooler at the base of the tree. Pick it up.

Jimmy turned around, walked to the tree,
knelt and looked at the child's cooler.

Pick it up, dude.

Jimmy did. Mr. Smith had to chuckle and shake
his head, at the look on Jimmy's face.

Chillax, Jimmy John. If I wanted you gone,
I'd have gone....BANG!!

And Jimmy did jump, the chump.

Sorry, dude. Couldn't resist. Remember when
that fucking instructor set himself on fire in the IED class?

What's in here?

Claymore. Wireless detonator.

What do you want me to say?

Well, first, let's undetonate that
motherfucker, shall we? I don't want to fuck up a perfectly good
conversation. And that mom and kids coming your way down the path
would be unacceptable collateral damage. At least in my book. How
'bout in yours?

Jimmy opened up the package.

What do I do?

Shit, you forgot everything already? See the
red LED? Next to it's a tiny little knob. Turn it till the LED goes
out. Then unscrew the detonator and you're golden.

Jimmy did just that, so casual and relaxed,
he looked like a dad rummaging through his kid's cooler.

You can toss it if you want, Jimmy. Though
it's not a good idea to keep high explosives around, you know? Or
you can keep walking and I'll tell you where you can drop it and
I'll recover it. Or a friend. You bring any friends today?

No.

That's you, Jimmy John. A true blue American
Boy Scout. If it was me, I'd have friends high and low, near and
far. But you, you'll trust ol' Hank, even though you haven't seen
me for a long timey-time. Yes?

Are you Hank?

Who the fuck else knows your history, bro?
Nobody but your swim-buddy.

How...

Another time, Jimmy John. I kinda need to cut
to the chase here. So here's some info dump, you absorb all you
can, just like they told us, switch to that infallible internal
auditory mode the NLP guru gave you. In other words, just listen
the fuck up. Got it?

I understand.

Good. Knew you would. You and me, Jimmy. We
got history. And you know what? As far as I'm concerned, it's not
just a good history, it's a great history. Okay, so you left me to
burn...

I didn't fucking leave you!

Hmmm. I remember you liked all those samurai
movies. Remember that one you made me watch when we were cooling
our heels in Bogota? Or was it Lima, fuck, I'm getting old, I can't
remember. RASHOMON. Toshiro fucking Mifune. I love that guy.
Remember that movie, Jimmy John?

Yes.

So you get my point?

Yes.

Memory is a funny thing. Everybody has their
own version. So I got mine, and you got yours. Granted, we were
both pretty fucked up at the time. Getting shot *and* getting
burned? Damn, I'd say I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy, but I
have and I do and I probably always will. But that's not you, Jimmy
John. Never been you, never will be you. At the risk of being
maudlin, you're like the brother I never had. So with you, I guess
I have one, right? Never mind, I told you to listen. Jimmy John, I
was never the philosopher you were. Me, I'm just a practical guy
that has a gift for blowing shit the hell up, and a seriously
messed up set of ethical standards that continues to fail the test
in the shifting landscape of this here Global War on Terror, you
feel me? Loyalty is kind of an abstract to me unless there's a body
attached, and bro, you're about the only body that's got that
attachment for me. But maybe we'll get a chance to get all weepy
about it some other time, take turns washing each other's back in
the shower and so on. So cut to the chase time, Jimmy John: I work
for some people. Those people have you on their radar. I am not
privy as to *why* you are on their radar, but I can tell you this:
their intention is not good. Actually, seriously fucked up. Someone
who did *not* do their due diligence (or maybe they did, bro, and
they might be trying to test me and/or you, you know the hall of
mirrors drill) asked me to find you and put you down. Period. End
of story. So Jimmy, these people, they're .gov, kinda, and .mil,
kinda, and private sector, kinda -- all at the same time. If you
follow my meaning. So I'm here to tell you, I'm not pushing the
button on you. At least not today. But I can't go near you and I
can't help you directly. Capisce? So whatever you got in the way of
PERSEC better crank up as high as you got it. Because I'm going to
have to at least make the attempt, though, knowing me, it will be a
near miss of the smoky kind. And then, exit stage left. Got it?

Hank, we need...

I know we fucking need. We both fucking need.
Right now you fucking need to walk down to the bandshell and place,
not drop, place that fucking package in the recycling bin, and then
trot the fuck back to the coffee shop and pick up that piece of
shit FJ Cruiser of yours and get out of here. We'll have that day,
Jimmy John. But right now, you're an Innocent Bystander in a very
bad version of Lawyers, Guns and Money. Do it. Now.

And Mr. Smith, hard guy that he was, turned
off his gear, sat back with his collar turned up, tilted his head
back and dumped eye rinse into his eye sockets till the pink fluid
ran down his face, while the only person he loved in the whole
world did exactly as he had told him to do.

Jimmy John Wylde

My hands shook on the wheel.

Dang, Jimmy, you shake like a dog shitting
peach pits...

That's what Hank would say. The whole
conversation.

Through the windshield I watched a Lake City
PD cruiser roll by; then a mom with a stroller walking down the
sidewalk, chatting on her cell phone; an old man walking an old
poodle. Wind blowing dry leaves.

Old memories.

Just what was going on?

I took a deep breath, held it, let it out
slowly. Turned the key in the ignition
cars are great, Jimmy
Jay, you got all you need in one place: ignition sources, power,
fuel, and a contained space...remember the shaped charge in that
guy's helicopter seat?
Remembering Hank's constant laughter and
how he ran rings around the instructors...

So what to do?

I took another deep breath and shifted into
gear, pulled out of the lot and started for home.

Watched my rear view mirror for what might be
gaining on me.

Lizzy Caprica

The Space for Peaceful Living was one of
Lizzy's favorite places. Whenever she entered the building, she
felt the energy of the place wash over her like a cooling shower.
The first floor was one big open space for the yoga studio and the
dance classes; locker rooms and a sauna were there off to the side.
Upstairs were healing spaces for reiki, shamanic, massage, tarot
and a few open spaces, and the office.

The yoga classes were the best in town and
attracted other yoga teachers, professional body workers, dancers
(classical ballet as well as exotic, including several that worked
at both, many of them friends with Lizzy). The senior yoga
instructor was a serene grey haired woman with the body of a 25
year old named Amarantha Bodine, who taught yoga and as well as
healing energetic work.

Lizzy parked her bag, unrolled her mat, sat
cross-legged in her usual place, smiled and waved back at Amarantha
who walked around greeting the regulars, checking the heat and
starting her favorite warm-up CD. There were some new faces, always
a few because Amarantha was popular, and a steady stream of people
seeking a spot in her class. Lizzy noticed an attractive blonde
woman, buffed with the muscle of a serious athlete, talking with
Amarantha, who nodded, touched the blond woman's arm and pointed
her to a place in the class.

Lizzy smiled as the woman unrolled her mat
beside her.

"Hello," Lizzy said. "Welcome to the
class."

"Thanks, gorgeous!" the woman said. "I hear
this is the place to be."

"It is. You have an amazing body! Do you do a
lot of yoga?"

"No, I'm more of a strength and aerobics
kinda gal. Think it's time I started working more on flexibility,
though. Part of getting older."

"You don't look a day over 30."

The blonde woman gave Lizzy a dazzling smile.
"You are now officially my Best Friend Forever. What's your
name?"

Lizzy extended her hand; the other woman's
was strong, with a hint of callus. "I'm Lizzy."

"Hi, Lizzy! I'm Dee Dee. Happy to meet
you!"

"Hi Dee Dee. Do you prefer Dee Dee or
Dee?"

"Either or both! What do you do?"

"I'm a dancer."

"What kind?"

"Exotic."

"Oh, honey," Dee Dee said, leaning close. "I
want to *party* with you..."

Deon Oosthuizen

Deon dotted the working bits of Jimmy's
rebuilt Glocker with some Break-Free and cycled the action by hand.
Smooth as glass, smooth as silk, smooth as a baby's ass or the
inside of a young girl's thigh.

Nice work, Deon.

He'd taken the magazines apart, and carefully
filed and beveled the edges of the new magazine follower, and then
installed the Dawson Precision mag extender. Now the 15-rd
magazines held 23 rounds, and the back-up G-17 magazines held 25.
Plenty for a little fight. These Dawsons were good kit.

Good to go.

He took out a box of Speer Gold Dot 9mm in
124gr, loaded the magazines up, and then went downstairs to his
range. He set a target out at 15 meters, and systematically pumped
rounds into the black X ring of a NRA bull. He studied the ragged
hole, took his sight tool and tweaked the Warren just a fraction to
the left, then ran another magazine through a fresh target.

Bingo presto good to go.

One nice ragged hole right at POA/POI.

He went back upstairs to his work bench,
disassembled the pistol and cleaned it, lubed it, then reloaded the
magazines. Rummaged through a drawer till he found an older IWB
strong side holster from Sparks, the Executive, and a matching
double mag carrier. Hard to beat Sparks, even in this day of kydex.
He set up the holster and the mag pouch, laid it on the bench.

Nice.

His cell phone rang. It was Jimmy.

"Hello?"

"Deon, you at the shop?"

"Yes."

"I'll be by."

"I'm here. I've got a present for you."

"On my way."

Deon leaned back, kicked his feet up, lit a
cigarette, blew a circle of smoke with a contented sigh. Life was
good. The entry buzzer rang. Deon looked up at his camera and saw
three men standing at the door. Somalis, by the look of them. Hmmm.
Business had been slow, and he really couldn't afford to blow them
off, though he was tempted to. He hit the buzzer and they came
through the door. Deon got up and walked through the curtains to
the storefront with his cases of handguns and racks of rifles, ammo
and accessories.

Face to face, definitely Somali. Oftentimes
he wondered at how Lake City had come to have such a concentration
of bad-ass minorities: first the Hmong, now the Somalis, making
Lake City a hot spot for terror activity, as well as a particularly
vicious brand of armed violence.

Not that Deon minded. He did, after all,
vacation regularly in South Africa, though he was a bit saddened
watching Lake City go the way of Jo'burg.

"Hello, sir," the oldest said, early middle
age, maybe 40s, man in charge type. "We are interested in handguns
for self-defense."

Deon smiled his crocodile smile. "Well,
you've come to the right place."

The two younger shooters -- because that's
what they surely were, early 20s, cocky and grinning with the
certainty of blooded killers -- nodded in agreement.

"So who's first?" Deon said, his cigarette
smoldering in his left hand.

"I'm sorry?" the older man said.

"What sort of training do you have? Do you
have any...experience...with hand guns? That would help me help
you," Deon said affably.

Silence.

"Yes," the older man said. "I have some
experience. But we would also like training. I am told by my
friends that you are a very good trainer. We would like to take
classes from you. After we buy our pistols."

"Have you taken the CCW class yet?"

"No, sir."

"That would be a good first step. I have one
this weekend, and there will be room available. Perhaps you'd like
that? Yes?"

The two shooters began the shark-circle, one
going to the left, one going to the right. Deon grinned, took a
long drag on his cigarette.

"Well, then...let's see what we can show
you..." he said.

Number 1 shooter started the dip of the
shoulder that showed he was going for something Mexican carry, or
appendix as the tacti-cool guys said, and Deon flipped his lit
cigarette very casually and accurately directly at Number 1's face
while his right hand cleared his open shirt and came up with his
Weapon of The Day, an old USGI issue .45 manufactured by
Springfield Armory and lovingly rebuilt and refinished by Deon, who
loved an old weapon with history, and it cleared his old Bruce
Nelson Classic Summer Special and he put the first round right in
the older man's face because, well, Deon hated disrespect, and they
obviously took him for a poofer, so he planted a Federal HTX 230
grain right on the bridge of his nose, that done for and the other
two were frozen like a freeze-frame in a movie, #1 covering his
face, #2 stuck like a deer in the headlights, and now Deon acquired
a full firing grip, as shown him by that lovely man Claude Werner
during one of his periodic tune-ups down at the Harvard of
Gunfighting Schools, Bill Rogers in Georgia, thumbs forward, very
distinctive with the strong side thumb on top of the support hand,
and pressed the trigger and watched the front sight track almost
directly straight back while a pink hole emerged on the bridge of
#2 shooter's nose, and then rode the track right back to #1 who was
opening his mouth and raising his hand to say something, probably
No or Stop or something similarly useless, so Deon shot him right
in the mouth and out the back of his brain stem and watched him
drop to the floor almost simultaneously with #2 and then he came
around the counter and serviced them each once more in the head,
speed reloaded and scanned the door just as Jimmy entered, his
Glock 30 locked out and tracking, and Deon said: