Марк Грини - One Minute Out

Duvall didn’t scare, and he didn’t startle. His body had been through too much to react any way but efficiently when surprised. He turned to the light and saw a man seated there in his reading chair, one leg crossed over the other.

The man said, “Leave the hand cannon where it is and your mitts where I can see them.”

Duvall knew he didn’t have a play for his gun. In the seated man’s hand was a black Glock 19, wearing a silencer and resting easily on his knee, pointed in Duvall’s direction.

Duvall said, “Mister, if you’re after money, then this is going to be one hell of a disappointing night for you.”

To his surprise, the man said, “Take a closer look, Shep.”

Duvall slowly moved a hand to adjust his glasses. After several seconds he said, “Gentry.”

“Yep.”

“You’re alive?”

“That’s a rhetorical question, I guess.”

“I’m surprised.”

“You and me both,” Gentry said. “Sit down. I’m here to talk, but if you go for the gun, we won’t have much left to talk about.”

“I ain’t goin’ for the gun.” Duvall sat down on the vinyl sofa. “What the hell did you do to my dog?”

“I gave her a steak. Four-ounce filet mignon. Very rare. Raw, as a matter of fact.”

Duvall cocked his head. “And . . . did that juicy steak happen to be spiked with ketamine?”

“Valium. She’s fine.” A pause. “She’s great, as a matter of fact. Lying in the storeroom by your carport, dreaming of more choice cuts flying over the fence and into her mouth, I’d imagine.”

Duvall nodded now. “So . . . this is just a social call?”

“What do you think?”

Duvall leaned back on the vinyl, his hands far out to his side. “I’m gonna guess not.”

• • •

Shep Duvall is old as dirt, and this disappoints me. He’s overweight and his eyeglasses are so thick they look bulletproof. His hair is thin and gray on his head and thick and gray on his face. But I know the man, mostly by reputation. And I know that not too terribly long ago, he was a stone-cold skullfucker. As a Delta master sergeant, he’d been deployed countless times in the war on terror, and in the CIA he ran one of the best teams in Ground Branch.

I knew of him at the Agency, after his nearly two decades in the Unit. He ran another task force when I was on Golf Sierra with Hightower, and I worked under him once when the Goon Squad was non-operational, when Zack was out with a back injury.

I never had a problem with Duvall.

But that was seven or eight years ago. I thought he was old then, and it appears the intervening years have been rough on Shep.

He breaks the uncomfortable silence. “You may not know it, Violator, but I was tasked with killing you a few years ago.”

I did know this, and that is why I think he’s an asshole.

Still, I say, “You and everybody else.”

He snorts out a little laugh. “Well . . . it appears I and everybody else failed, because here you are. Is the Agency still after you?”

“Sort of,” I say. Then, “Not really.” I wrap it up with a little shrug. “It’s complicated.”

“Right,” he replies. Then, “So . . . other than roofying innocent dogs, what are you doing these days?”

“I’m working. Same as ever.”

“Private job?”

“Sort of. It’s more like . . . humanitarian work.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I need your help.” He isn’t the type of man to beat around the bush, so I say, “I need you to strap a gun on, and to get some friends with guns. And I need you all to come with me.”

“To do what?”

“I expect we’re gonna stack some bodies before it’s all through.”

“You’re the world’s greatest killer, or some shit. Aren’t you?”

I don’t answer.

He looks around. “Why me? Why does this feel like a setup?” He shakes his head. “Gentry, I got troubles of my own. I want you out of here. Either shoot or scoot. If you aren’t going to shoot me, I’m going to pick up my phone. One call to Matthew Hanley and I can have a team of Agency shitbirds crashing through the skylights.”

I look up at the ceiling of his modest house; there are no skylights, and I am reassured he is speaking metaphorically. I say, “Duvall, one call to Matt Hanley will get you a grouchy dude in a bad suit hanging up in your face. Who do you think sent me to you?”

Shep thinks this over. “I’m out. I left four years ago.”

“I know.”

He eyes me suspiciously. “What else do you know?”

“I know about Manila.”

“Yeah,” he said. “That was a mistake. Not for killing those monsters, but for getting rolled up by the local five-oh after the fact.”

“Yeah. Still . . . you did the right thing.”

“Fuck you, Gentry,” Shep barks. “That’s my cross to bear and I don’t need you breaking into my house to try to make me feel better. Make your pitch for whatever you want so you can get the fuck out of here and I can scoop my dog up and put her to bed.”

“Here’s my pitch, then. I need some shooters. You and your old team from Manila, if you can get them. Solid guys, guys who know how to run together.”

“What for?”

“To stop a human trafficking ring.”

He just looks at me in the low light of the tiny ranch-style house. “I’m not going to make any sudden moves to the fridge, so you better get us some beers. I’ll let you pull my pistol as you go.”

I step up to him and he stands and turns, his hands away from his body. I disarm him, then walk into the kitchen, keeping him in view, while I pull a couple of cold bottles of Pacifico out of the refrigerator. After popping off the tops, I walk one over to Duvall, and we sit back down.

Over the next fifteen minutes I tell him about the Consortium. My story would blow a lot of people away: the killing, the rape, the kidnapping, the Serbian general and the Greek mobster and the Italian street battle.

But not Duvall. He’s a guy who’s seen it all before. He sits there impassively, he doesn’t interrupt, and he nods knowingly now and again.

And then I finish with the fact that the entire international organization is being run by a man on the West Coast, and we think we’ve pinpointed a location where trafficked women are being kept.

Slowly Duvall’s posture changes. This isn’t a tale of remote horrors, the likes of which he’s heard more times than he can count. No, now this is about women and girls being brutalized just a few hours away by an animal, and one who is living quite well under the protection of the United States.

I can see it in his posture. He’s already in.

“What’s the target location?” he asks. “Specifically.”

“A sixty-acre ranch an hour north of LA. I assume the victims are held there to be abused and the people who run the entire worldwide enterprise go there to party. I’m going to crash that fucking party.”

“The layout of the ranch? Where are the victims kept? Where are the guards and guns?”

“I don’t have that information. From Google Maps I see one large structure. Smaller outbuildings a half mile away that look like barracks for the security force. If I had a UAV or some more dudes I could get a better picture. For now, though, it looks like we’ll have to just hit it all.”

“Oppo?”

“The opposition is unknown. Substantial, I’d be willing to bet.”

Duvall rubs his face hard. I see frustration in his movements. “You’ve got this operation of yours locked down, don’t you, Violator?” He mocks my voice now. “‘I need you to hook me up with some of your friends to help me go up against I don’t know exactly how many of I don’t know exactly who in a sixty-acre property where friend and foe are positioned I don’t know exactly where.’ That it?”