John Gilstrap - Damage Control

Jonathan checked the stats. “I show twelve-point-one miles as the crow flies, nearly due north, but I don’t see any roads. Can you help out there?”

“That’s affirmative,” Venice said. From the smile in her voice, he suspected that she’d been waiting for him to ask. “Churches need to be built. I found directions for the construction materials. Let me plot the route and upload it to you. Give me ten minutes.”

J onathan took the opportunity for them all to stretch their legs. Given the weaponry and equipment, the Toyota’s front seat got awfully small. It felt good to stand. It had to be over a hundred degrees out here, and the humidity topped the charts. And now that they’d stopped moving, word had traveled to the vast population of biting insects that it was dinnertime. The foliage on either side had a predatory, man-eating look to it. Stories abounded of soldiers who became separated from their units for a minute or two, only to get hopelessly lost when they tried to reconnect. Perhaps not in Mexico, but as far as Jonathan was concerned, all jungles shared the same primary danger: they removed him from his slot at the top of the food chain.

As Jonathan adjusted his vest and weapons to get them to set more comfortably, he kept an eye on Tristan, who walked to the edge of the road to pee. He noted that there wasn’t much of a stream.

When the boy returned to the vehicle, Jonathan pulled a water bottle from a side pocket of his ruck and handed it to Tristan. “Here,” he said. “It’s important to stay hydrated.”

Tristan shook his head. “No, I’m fine.”

“You’re in the jungle,” Jonathan said. “I can tell you’re dehydrated. You need to drink this. Sip it, don’t gulp.”

Reluctantly, Tristan accepted the offer and stripped the cap off the bottle. He took a sip. As he lowered the bottle, Jonathan handed him a package of Pop-Tarts, also from his ruck. “Give yourself some calories and carbs, too.”

The kid looked like he might turn those down, as well, but then accepted them anyway. “Please tell me what’s happening,” Tristan said as he ripped open his package. “I know there’s something wrong.” He sat on the Toyota’s back bumper.

Jonathan sighed. There were advantages and disadvantages to honesty when things went bad. For Jonathan, truth was always the easier option. As harsh as the truth may be, at least there wouldn’t be feelings of bitterness down the road.

“I’ll start with the good news,” he said. “You’re alive, and my single mission right now is to make sure you stay alive. You can call me Scorpion, and my friend is Big Guy.”

“Those are code names,” Tristan protested. “They’re not real names.”

“True enough,” Jonathan said. “But that’s the way it’s going to stay. Our mission is to get you home to your family. I’ve never once lost a precious cargo.”

“Until today,” Tristan said. “You lost a lot of them today.”

Jonathan bristled, yet fought the urge to equivocate. He said, “You’re right. And I’m sorry about that. I wish I could have done more.”

“So, is that what I am?” Tristan asked. “Precious cargo? I’m the ‘PC’ I hear you talking about on the radio?”

“Exactly.”

“You talked about me a lot,” Tristan said. Jonathan interpreted the statement as his request to hear details.

“That brings me to the bad news,” Jonathan said. While he caught the kid up on the recent revelations from Venice, Boxers continually scanned the surrounding jungle, his hand never leaving the grip of the rifle that he wore slung across his ample belly. Boxers had the kind of gut that looked like fat from a distance, yet would doubtless break your entire arm if you tried to hit it.

When the story was done, Tristan gaped. “So you’re telling me that the Mexican government thinks that I killed the people you killed?”

It wasn’t exactly the way Jonathan would have phrased it, but he conceded the basic point.

“But why would I do that? I mean, why would they think that I did that?”

Jonathan hesitated. Did he really want to give up that much detail?

Screw it. “You’re not thinking of it the right way,” he said. “People don’t actually believe that you killed anyone. They want other people to think that you did. You were framed. All of us were framed.”

Tristan squinted against his confusion. “But why?” “Exactly the right question,” Jonathan said. “Only I don’t have an answer. I don’t know that I’ll ever have an answer, and for right now, that’s less of an issue than getting the hell out of here. Drink some of your water.”

The abrupt change of subject took some of the dread out of the air. Tristan took another mouthful.

“So here’s what I need from you,” Jonathan said. “For this to have some semblance of a happy ending, I’m going to need something really close to blind obedience from you.”

The comment drew a skeptical look.

“Bear with me,” Jonathan went on. “I pledge two things to you. Number one is to bring you home safely. The second is to tell you the truth. That’s what I’ve been doing here. I know that the truth isn’t all that pleasant, but it is what it is. People are looking for us to hurt us, and if we don’t get out of this country sooner rather than later, they’re going to find us. At this juncture, that’s about the worst outcome I can think of. So we’re going to have to keep moving.”

“A shit sandwich,” Tristan said. “That’s what my dad used to call bad choices. Nobody wants to eat it, and no amount of mayonnaise or mustard can make it better than what it is. Still, it has to be eaten.”

Jonathan laughed. “I like that,” he said. He’d heard the analogy before, but hearing it come from a kid this young somehow made it funnier. “Your dad sounds like somebody I’d get along with.”

The words seemed to cause pain for Tristan. “Yeah,” he said, but he didn’t elaborate.

Jonathan didn’t press. “A shit sandwich is exactly what we have. I know that it’s stressful and that it’s unfair, and scary as hell, but you’re going to have to suck all that up and get over it. If that sounds harsh-”

“It doesn’t sound harsh,” Tristan said. “It sounds real. I’ve always been a better runner than a fighter anyway. What do you need me to do?”

On a day that was marked by countless surprises, the kid’s attitude marked yet another one. Jonathan had been prepared for whining and fear and maybe even recalcitrance. But “What do you need me to do?” had been nowhere on his list of expectations.

“Mostly, I need you to stay adaptable,” he said. “Tonight we’re going to find a place where you can change clothes and get some rest, and tomorrow we’ve got a couple of cloak-and-daggery things to take care of, and then hopefully, we’ll be on our way.”

Tristan’s eyes narrowed as he cocked his head. “What does cloak-and-daggery mean?”

Jonathan laughed again. “You’ll know it when you see it, I promise,” he said. He checked his GPS again to see if Venice had loaded the route yet. Nothing.

“Can I ask a question?” Tristan said.

Jonathan looked at him and waited.

“Shouldn’t we think about just contacting the police? I mean, framing people for murder has to be as illegal here as it is at home. If we talk to the police and tell them what really happened, maybe all of this will go away. If we run we’ll just look guiltier, won’t we?”

Jonathan’s GPS pinged. Literally saved by the bell. He checked the screen, and sure enough, there was the route to Santa Margarita. “This is it,” he said. “Mount up.” He looked to Boxers. “Big Guy!”

“On it,” he said. Even as he strolled back to the car, his eyes never left the woods.