Марк Грини - One Minute Out

There are five surviving members of the Manila team in addition to Duvall, but one of their number told Shep that due to a recent hip replacement, he’d be more hindrance than help.

The four men with me have agreed to nothing; they don’t even know the target or the mission, but they are here, waiting to hear my spiel, and I take that to be a good sign.

Kareem, the African American, opens the discussion: “We all talked to Papa.”

“Papa?”

“Duvall. His call sign is Papa.”

“Makes sense.”

“He tells us you’re legit, your mission is righteous, and it’s time sensitive. But we have some questions.”

“Fair enough. Shep tells me you four are as good as they come.”

Rodney, the homeowner, eyes me suspiciously. “Then that makes me wonder if the shit he said about you was BS, too, because we sure as hell ain’t exactly at our peak.”

A.J., the one I take for Latino, says, “Speak for yourself. I’ve got my shit squared away.”

But the one calling himself Stu replies, “Rodney’s right. Shep didn’t tell you that.”

I’ve oversold the platitudes. Dumb. Quickly I backpedal. “Okay, he didn’t say that, exactly, but he said you guys were solid. Together you ran missions in the Third World rescuing kids caught up in human trafficking.”

“And then what did he tell you?” Kareem asks.

“I heard about Manila.”

The tension in the room increases a little, but no one blinks.

Stu says, “Well, if you did, then you know we’ve been blackballed by the community. No one is going to send us back out anywhere.”

“I’ll send you out.”

It’s quiet in the room for several seconds. I register the hopeful looks on the men’s faces. Yeah, they want back in the fight just as much as their leader does.

“So . . .” Rodney says, “you are Agency?”

“I’m not going to be able to answer that.”

Kareem mutters, half under his breath. “He’s Agency.”

A.J. turns to him. “How can you tell?”

“Look at him.”

“He doesn’t look CIA to me.”

“Exactly.”

It’s a good thing I don’t need Kareem for his grasp of logic.

They are still sizing me up, despite the fact that Duvall vouched for me. Kareem says, “So you want to lead us into certain death?”

“Don’t be so dramatic. Probable death.”

“Oh . . . terrific.”

Rodney speaks up now. “Tell us about your target.”

“It’s called Rancho Esmerelda. It’s the end of the line of something called the pipeline, a sex trafficking network that brings women and girls over from Eastern Europe and Asia to serve wealthy men here in the States.”

Kareem says, “Women and . . . and girls. You mean underage girls?”

“Yeah.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know how many end up in SoCal, but this is a transcontinental organization that makes billions a year.”

Rodney speaks with a whisper. “Thousands of victims, then.”

I just nod.

“Americans do this?” A.J. seems surprised, but Rodney notices this and says what I’m thinking.

“You don’t think we can be just as big pieces of shit as people from other countries?”

Stu adds, “We can be worse if we put our minds to it.”

A.J. nods slowly now. “Yeah, guess so.”

The men look at one another, and A.J. says, “If you know women and girls are being abused right here, why don’t you just go to the cops?”

“Because the cops have been tainted everywhere I’ve been along the smuggling pipeline. I can all but guarantee there are some bad ones here, protecting this operation.” I hesitate, then say, “The guy who runs the whole thing . . . I don’t know his identity, but I have been told he enjoys some federal protection, as well.”

“Shit,” Kareem says; all four stare at me, and the scrutiny makes me uncomfortable. Finally Rodney declares what the others are obviously thinking. “I’m not killing a cop. Not even a dirty cop.”

A.J. adds, “That’s right. Doesn’t matter how dirty he is. The second he’s killed in the line he turns into Eliot Ness. A hero. White as the driven snow.”

“That’s right,” echo the others on the sofa.

“I’m not killing a cop, either.” This is bullshit, and I feel bad about lying to these guys, but I’m not going into detail about all the dirty cops I’ve fragged around this planet. They deserved what was coming to them, and my conscience, such as it is, is clear. I add, “But I’ll expose a dirty one, and we can bring these guys to justice. Shit, if we do this right, we might really make a difference.”

A.J. stares me down now. “I don’t know you, bro, but I know your type. Don’t start getting too rah-rah, there. You’re here because you want to hurt people and break shit. That you’re doing it for a good cause doesn’t change your underlying motivations.”

Hurting people and breaking things are both at the top of my to-do list, so there is no sense in arguing with the man, but I’m starting to wonder if either I’m wearing a T-shirt that says “Psycho Killer” or if I’m just that transparent to others, when I myself don’t see it.

I let it go.

We hear the sound of a car pulling to a stop out front, and all four men produce handguns from under their shirts. Rodney takes a moment to look down at his phone at a text message. “Papa’s here.”

Shep Duvall enters a minute later, along with a man who looks every minute of seventy-five years old. He’s short and wiry with a patchwork of silver hair and bald spots all over the top of his head, along with a deep-set tan. He moves surprisingly fast for a guy his age, and he steps around the mess in the filthy room and shakes everyone’s hands, introducing himself as Carl as he does so.

This is going to be our pilot, obviously, and I am worried that when the other guys here learn that, it will negatively impact the effect of the sales pitch I’m in the middle of delivering.

Shep and Carl pull rickety aluminum chairs from the kitchenette and drag them ten feet to the living room. Sitting down in front of us, Shep says, “Carl will fly us into the target.”

A.J. says, “In what? A Sopwith Camel?”

I fight a smile. Carl, on the other hand, does not.

“Screw you, kid. I’ve got a Eurocopter AS350 on the ramp at Bakersfield right now. But I can fly anything with wings or rotors, tires, floats, or skids.”

Stu looks the man over now. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here. You were in Nam.”

Carl is obviously the right age. Hell, his skin makes it appear he ate Agent Orange on his breakfast cereal for most of his life.

“Damn right. Two tours flying Huey gunships and transports in Nam and Laos, and then several more years in Air America.”

Air America was an airline set up by the CIA in Southeast Asia to deliver men and equipment in support of covert operations. It employed the best pilots in the world, in extremely dangerous conditions.

Despite Carl’s advanced age, the men are impressed now. Kareem says, “Air America. That was some wild shit.”

“How the fuck would you know?”

Kareem shrugs. “Movies, I guess.”

“You went Agency after that?” Rodney asks.

“None of your goddamned business, meathead.” Carl looks at the men like they are all children, though not one of them is under forty-five.

A.J. says, “That’s badass and all, gramps, but that was then. How long ago did you retire?”

The older man shrugs. “I may be retired, but I ain’t expired. I can deliver you boys on a dime in a hurricane if that’s what it takes.”

Shep speaks up now, looking at his four former teammates across from him. “Carl is solid. Harry is solid. What say you guys?”