Too Wylde (4 page)

He shut the door, turned on a scalding hot
shower.

In his room, Lizzy watched the door, closed
her eyes, and prayed to all that was great for the relief of the
pain that her man carried.

Nina Capushek

Nina didn't jog, she didn't power walk, she
ran. Full tilt. Like a jaguar closing in on her kill. Asics,
Smartwool socks, Athleta shorts and tank top, and an
ultra-marathoner waist pack built by Go-Lite for a water bottle and
her Glock 30.

She tore past the pretty boys and girls in
their spandex posing and preening, ripped along the path around
Lake Heron, a smooth hard flash of muscle and sweat -- no looks for
the boys, she didn't fuck boys, she didn't fuck anybody anymore,
but if she did, she'd fuck a man who had muscles from work, or
maybe a beautiful woman who didn't have the neediness of a man-boy
--

-- she felt the burn rising up in her,
stepped it up harder, fought down the fatigue by sheer will --

And came to a stop at the base of the hill,
walked, chest heaving, hands on hips, a picture Nike wish they
had...

She walked by the admiring men, the running
club she passed each morning, the same ritual, them nodding and
waving her along, she ignoring them and busting their asses with
her sprints. Up the hill, the grass beneath her feet, to her
favorite spot beneath a tree, where she could see the lake and the
rest of Lake City laid out beneath her. Sat down, stretched, began
a power yoga routine designed for her by her good friend and
occasional night out partner Lizzy Caprica, probably the most
beautiful woman inside and out she'd ever met, whose boyfriend
Jimmy Wylde Nina was probably going to have to kill.

Someday.

Nina laughed out loud. Stretched in the sun.
Lay on her back and let the fatigue drop into the earth, the sun
beating down on her.

Got up and as she walked the short blocks
home, thought:
Kill Jimmy? Fuck Jimmy?
Maybe that's why she
wanted to kill him. Not just because he was a stone killer and a
serious bad guy. Because she liked him. She'd fought beside him.
And she very likely owed him her life.

It was enough to drive a girl to drink.

***

After her shower, Nina made a cup of coffee
in her brand new Keurig machine. Poured a short shot of Amaretto in
it, splash of cream, curled up in her favorite arm chair, the only
piece of furniture she'd brought with her from Minneapolis when she
left. Snuggled in, stared out the window.

This was the way to start a new day.

Mr. Smith

"It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a
beautiful day in the neighborhood, won't you be mine, won't you be
mine..." Mr. Smith sang. He hunched over the narrow platform table
that lined one wall of the Motel 6 room, his components laid out in
neat orderly rows: good old C4 in one-pound blocks, det cord, the
detonators in a neat metal box, lined up all so carefully, his
soldering tool smoking a little bit as he worked on the circuit
board taken from the Trac-Fone (two others lined up neatly) he'd
disassembled, the green foil box that held the bottle of Bushmills
Green Label he had set to one side.

Everything in its place. Order is essential
in the bomber's business. At least the ones who live.

The challenge wasn't in making the firing
circuit; it was to install a reliable back up circuit that
wouldn't/couldn't be easily spoofed by a cell phone killer (the
very cool high tech gadget that runs off a phone cell network as
you move the gadget through it) or someone deliberately or
inadvertently setting it off with a random signal. American cities
had *so* many signals -- wi-fi, cell phones, 3G/4G data
transmission pipelines, high power cables, digital and analog
encrypted and unencrypted radio frequencies -- such a rich signal
environment and each signal ran the risk of setting off a remote
activated device.

It made Mr. Smith long for the old days of
fuses, pressure release plates, barometric switches and all the Old
School solutions to blowing things and people the fuck up.

He checked the RF monitor beside him. There
were 8 separate wi-fi signals, at least 11 cellphones (according to
the program running on his laptop) and a radio transmission from a
nearby police car across the street at the BBQ stand and an
interstate trucker taking a break down the road.

Dang. Might make some people nervous.

But it's just another day in the neighborhood
for Mr. Smith.

"Won't you be mine....won't you be
mine...."

***

He'd always liked making the big bang. Even
as a kid. Fires were first; those were easy. Then firecrackers.
Getting spanked by his mom for putting the firecrackers on the
frogs and setting them off. His first real big bang, a propane tank
with a railroad flare...dang, he still remembered that. Lit up the
whole hillside and set the summer grass aflame.

Toasty.

As a Special Forces engineer, he'd learned
how to build bridges and how to blow them up. As a door kicker he'd
worked with the legendary Steve Mattson, Gen 1 Delta, on refining
the exact requirements for explosive entry; he'd gotten so good he
could weigh it out by eye, punch a hole big enough for a hand or a
handful of shooters, you call it, he'd deliver. In the 'Stan he
could blow a wall on the run, make a breach and get the crew in
place, but the truth was, not so much call for that, though he had
some great scores, including setting a rock slide off to crush some
runaway Taliban in an unreported firefight in the far reaches of
the Tora Bora -- just like in the fucking movies, dude. Pretty
cool, and brought him more than a few beers when he told the
tale.

Task Force was like that. Old School updated,
Gen 4.5 of the Killer Elite, all the Old School attitude with the
New School technology. More like Star Wars than the civvies would
ever know, especially since the Patriot Act allowed contractors and
DHS to field test military tech for surveillance unbeknownst to the
civil liberty yo-yos...tracking dandruff from satellites, nano tags
in the blood and on their clothing, press on micro circuits. Life
was like a sci-fi movie.

Or a horror movie. Depends on the day and
which side you were on.

After his Big Burn (and there was a part of
him, someplace deep down, that wondered if there wasn't something
to this whole karma thing, when he thought of how many people he'd
blown up or burned in his life, but he'd always been on the side of
the angels, or at least he comforted himself with that thought...)
and the lengthy stay courtesy of DOD and the ever so helpful OGA in
the best rehab, he'd been hard pressed to come up with something to
do. Teaching wasn't gonna work, they wouldn't put him back in the
field, and all of his options were complicated by the fact that,
well, technically, he was dead and cremated in a box and his ashes
handed off to a third tier auntie or some such relative he'd never
met. Problem with being an orphan, there's a gnome in the DOD
computer that flags guys with certain skill sets that come up with
a certain family background: as in no family, few friends, no
social network, none of the things that get people caught or
identified; that family/social network coupled with a certain psych
profile -- ability to get along, be low key, hide in plain sight --
hell that's harder to find than the technical skills, get the right
guy (and it's mostly guys, though rumor had it there were a few
women in The Program) and you can *teach* him the skills. Reminded
him of a SEAL acquaintance, who told him the apocryphal story of
the BUDS candidate who turned up for his swim test into BUDS. Like
all the rest, he was handed a brick and told to swim it to the
other end of the pool. To the astonishment of all watching, the
young candidate held the brick, sank to the bottom, and walked the
length of the pool, before pulling himself up and out and handing
the brick to the BUDS instructor.

"Son? What the fuck did you just do?"

"I can't swim, sir."

"You can't fucking swim?"

"No sir."

"Why are you here?"

"I want to be a SEAL."

The BUDS instructor looked at his candidate,
looked at the brick, grinned and said, "Hell, son. I can teach you
to swim. Welcome to BUDS."

Kinda like that. But not as nice.

Mr. Smith was like that.

But he didn't spend much time thinking. No,
he was a in-the-moment kind of guy. He didn't spend too much time
thinking about himself. Just about what to do. One moment after the
other. During his time in the hospital, a nurse asked him if he
wanted the TV. Nope. Book? Nope. What do you want? Quiet. So she
left him alone. Eight months like that. Alone with no thought and a
great deal of pain.

And in that, a plan took shape.

And then he met someone who was looking for a
particular skill set coupled with a certain psychological bent,
and, fucked up or not, there just weren't many of them around, so
he got himself a job for as long as he could last, and plenty of
money to buy the drugs that kept him working. And the opportunity
to do a little side work, return a few favors, one in
particular.

And to look up old friends, like Jimmy
John.

"It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a
beautiful day in the neighborhood..."

Nina Capushek and Lizzy Caprica

Lizzy and Nina sat at a table near the
window, easily the two most beautiful women in the Loring Bar,
ignoring the OMG looks from the young muscle heads and soulfully
unshaven artist wannabes flocking around them, sharing a bottle of
good Chilean cabernet, and to hell with the idea that women only
drank white --

-- Nina in a classic summer frock, showing
off her tanned taut legs, arms and back, the Converse SWAT boots
her private joke; Lizzy in sleek black tights with a black
miniskirt and knee high leather boots.

"I love you, Nina," Lizzy said.

"What?"

"I love you."

Nina laughed. "Somewhere there's a guy
groaning and touching himself."

Lizzy smiled her serene smile. "Really."

"Okay."

"Is it hard for you to accept that when it's
said to you?"

Nina weighed that question, tipped her glass
and emptied it. Lizzy picked up the bottle and poured for Nina,
graceful as a geisha.

"Yes," Nina said.

"Thank you. For trusting me."

"I don't know why."

"Your heart knows you're safe with me."

"Am I?"

"Yes. And you know it."

Nina tilted her glass. Lizzy picked up hers
and they touched glasses.

"Here's to knowing," Nina said.

"Yes."

They drank their wine together as their eyes
drank each other in.

***

Later, over pate and fresh baguettes, the men
in their life.

"How's Jimmy?" Nina said.

Lizzy considered that question. The weight of
the words. Conscientiously spread pate evenly on the baguette
slice.

"Nina, have you been with men like
Jimmy?"

Nina snorted. "Honey, not to swell your head,
but there aren't many men like Jimmy. And that's both bad and
good."

"Have you?"

"Yes," Nina said. "I have."

"What should I know about a man like
him?"

"Oh, Lizzy..." Nina said. "You could write a
book."

"You could," Lizzy said. "That's not my gift.
But I need, I want, to understand. Will you help me?"

Nina slowly shredded a baguette slice, rolled
the pieces into little balls, popped them in her mouth.

"Men like Jimmy," she said. "Wow. Where to
start?"

"Just let it flow through you," Lizzy
said.

Nina nodded. "Layers, Lizzy. Think layers of
armor. On top, there's what he wants you to see. Or, rather, what
he *thinks* you want to see. Or what he thinks the rest of the
world wants to see. But that's not real. Jimmy, Jimmy's got
secrets. Not just his doings in Lake City, which we're not going to
talk about...but his whole life. Lots of secrets there. So what do
we do when we run into a man with secrets? We want him to tell us.
But if everything he's about is having and holding secrets, the
normal way, the sitting and listening, the pillow talk, the
day-to-day-ness...that doesn't work."

Lizzy nodded. "Yes. Eight fold armor."

"Yes. He's a warrior, though I hate that
word, every wannabe in the world flings it around so much it's lost
it's meaning."

"What does it mean to you?

"Warriors are defined by war. It shapes them.
Shapes their thinking, how they relate to the world. They only find
their true selves in the fight, in the battle...and most of their
lives they live impatiently between battles. Does that make
sense?"

"Yes. Like you."

Nina stared Lizzy in the eye, not the mad dog
look, just a deep and honest appraisal. "Yes. Like me."

"It's not only the men who are warriors."

"Not on my fucking planet."

They both laughed, turning heads across the
restaurant.

"And..." Lizzy said.

"He's defined by secrets he holds and fights
he enters into. And being prepared for that. And Jimmy...Jimmy in
particular -- he's got a deep hurt. A wound. A wound with a capital
W. That's one of his deepest secrets."

"Yes," Lizzy said. "He has terrible
nightmares. More lately. Something happened to him."

"The war?"

Lizzy paused, closed her eyes, tilted her
head as though listening to a voice, far away.

Opened her eyes.

"Yes. I know that I can trust you with
this."

"No. You can't. Jimmy and I aren't
necessarily on the same side of the fence. And you know it. I
respect Jimmy, but if it comes down to it, I'd take him in if it
came to that."

"You love him too."

"No."

Lizzy shrugged, a graceful flexing and
mounding of her thin, muscled shoulders. "We both do, Nina. And he
loves us both. In different ways. You're a warrior, you're his peer
in that world. He's the presence of the Divine Masculine in my
world, and I am the Feminine in his. The three of us, there's karma
and past lives --"