The Forgotten Soldier: A Pike Logan Thriller (10 page)

18

E
ven in the wintertime, Key West was muggy. Cool and crisp in the morning, the early dawn had relinquished its grip, giving way to the heat of the southernmost point in the United States.

Guy sat on a park bench outside the Westin Resort, in front of a marina housing very expensive yachts, all in the shadow of a giant cruise ship. His eyes were on one boat in particular.

Finding a spot just south of the famed Mallory Square, now deserted by the street performers and sidewalk vendors who plied the tourists coming to watch the sunset, he’d been sitting in front of the docks, drinking coffee, since nine in the morning. It was going on noon, and so far, outside of seeing some crew members, there was no other movement on the boat. The only activity had been the cruise ship vomiting out its passengers for a day in Key West. His target had not shown, and Guy was wondering if he’d missed him, mistakenly relying on his earlier reconnaissance of the target’s pattern of life.

The yacht itself was large by any standards except the cruise ship, with a line that stretched over a hundred feet, a sleek, modern vessel with sweeping decks that made it look somewhat like a large dart. It had been little trouble to locate. With the information Pike had turned up, all it had taken was asking a few questions of some locals, and a quick trip to major marinas in Key West that were big enough to house such a beast. He knew the vessel would have to register, having
come from out of the country, and he found it after a little more than an hour of pedaling his rented bike up and down the island, talking to the dockmasters. The large marina in Key West Bight held many such yachts, but his target was not moored there. He’d eventually located it outside of the Westin Resort.

He’d watched it for one cycle of darkness, finding his target and shadowing him, still in the myth that he was just pretending. Just seeing if he could do what his brother demanded. Ironically, he knew the boardwalk in front of the Westin Resort intimately, as it was just south of Fleming Key and the US Army’s Special Forces Combat Diver Qualification Course, a school he had attended not too many years ago—and one his brother was set to attend when he returned from Afghanistan. Nothing much had changed in Key West, but for what he needed to do, he had to remain completely anonymous, and the location wasn’t advantageous.

Among all the quacks and hermits of Key West, he had a greater fear of bumping into a friend from Special Forces than he did of the target identifying he was being followed. Truthfully, that was always a perennial danger inside the Taskforce. They penetrated the most hostile nations on Earth, and there weren’t that many people who could. The men and women who could do so would routinely know each other from a past life, and it wouldn’t be the first time he’d run into some badass pretending to be a pipeline surveyor while he himself was pretending to be an investment banker. But now he would be the only one professing a false reason to be in Key West. Better not to ever meet, as the soldier would invariably invite him for a night of debauchery and take him away from his target. Not that he intended to do anything with the guy anyway.

At least that’s what he kept telling himself.

By four in the afternoon, he’d had lunch, walked through the shopping area, and had gelato at an outdoor café in view of the dock. Even the cruise ship was gone, taking its passengers to another port
of call, and Guy realized he was wearing out his welcome. While many, many people sat and watched the view at this location, none stayed as long as him. There were several hired security guards along the wharf whose job was to look for anomalies in the people walking about, searching for trouble, and Guy was beginning to feel his heat state. Beginning to back off of his plan.

Since, well, he had no plan.

At fifteen minutes past five, eating his third gelato, he saw the target break the bridge of the yacht, talking to a crew member and wearing board shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and flip-flops. The neatly groomed mustache completed the ensemble, making him look like every other tourist in Key West.

Guy exited the shop and sauntered around the dock, passing the wooden path leading from the boat to dry land. Guy took a seat in Mallory Square, knowing his target was headed to Duval Street. It was now closing in on sunset, and the tourists crowds were gathering around the street performers. Perfect for blending in.

He made as if he wanted to watch someone right at the tip of the square, a graying, long-haired man with a pride of cats. He had no idea what the draw was, but the crowd provided Guy the protection he needed. Pretending to watch catman, he kept one eye on the entrance to the square. He watched the target break out of the crowds near the dock and pass by him, oblivious to his presence.

Guy followed, now intent on tracking his prey. Or just following out of idle curiosity. He wasn’t really sure which, and not looking too hard to find out. Deep down, in his soul, he knew this was ridiculous.

What was he doing? Really? Was he going to kill this guy in Key West? On US soil, all because of a grainy picture glued to an armband from Afghanistan? Seriously?

He was way outside of any official sanction. He was in the United States, where the Taskforce was forbidden from operating, tracking a guy who had no Taskforce mandate. Not even exploratory Alpha,
and certainly not Omega, with a rider of DOA. It took many, many months and reams of evidence to give Omega for a capture mission, and an imminent threat to American lives to sanction the Omega authority with the caveat of Dead or Alive. He had nothing but derision from the Taskforce commander about his theory.

He pushed the questions to the rear and wove between the crowds, keeping his target in sight.

The man took a right at a juncture of the square and walked down a narrow alley lined with beer drinkers and incredibly bad acoustic musicians mangling Jimmy Buffett. Guy followed, wondering if there was some sort of gravitational pull for musicians that caused all caterwauling guitar players to end up in Key West.

The target reached an intersection with a park. Guy hung back, near enough to still be tormented by the music, watching and waiting. A waitress approached and he waved her away, seeing the Arab enter the park. Trouble.

No more than fifty meters across, it was a jungle of busts on concrete stalks, a history of the men and women of Key West, with a large sculpture in the center of the area. The target was reading the plaques below the busts, leaving Guy at a disadvantage.

The park had a separate exit, meaning the man could escape before Guy could react from the far side. Guy could either follow in, as the only other man to do so, or wait. If he followed, he’d be remembered. Not burned, but definitely remembered. He needed the burn to happen at execution. Not now.

But if he didn’t follow, the target would exit on a different street. Away from where he was. He would lose him. Not a game changer, because odds were he could just repeat the stakeout the following day, but the risks increased with that, both because of the security guards remembering him and because he wasn’t sure how long the target was staying in Key West. Guy might wake up tomorrow only to find the boat gone, his mission foiled.

And maybe that was for the best. But something in Guy didn’t think so. Wouldn’t think that way.

Guy penetrated the park, seeing the target reading yet another bust. He hung back, pretending to be interested, but he knew it looked odd. Two single men staring at busts of those long dead at sunset was not a recipe for success. One could explain his actions. The other could not.

It was the way of surveillance, and the reason nobody in the Taskforce did singleton follows. Nobody but idiots like him, out on a mission for reasons he couldn’t articulate.

Guy was about to exit the way he’d come, calling the night a loss, when the target exited onto Front Street, walking with a purpose. Guy followed through the park, keeping his distance and wondering if the target had an ulterior motive for coming here. Board Shorts and Flip-Flops was moving with a stride he hadn’t before, the target no longer walking as a tourist but now clearly with a destination in mind.

Maybe Guy wouldn’t have to make a decision. Maybe the asshole was about to make it for him. Maybe he could get the evidence he needed.

Guy exited the park, feeling his pulse increase. The target walked across Front Street, down Greene Street, and strode right up to Captain Tony’s Saloon, an indoor/outdoor bar known the world over. A tourist attraction. The place where Jimmy Buffett got his start and Ernest Hemingway drank his life away. The only good omen about it was the tree growing through the bar and out the roof. It was a hanging tree, a place where many evil shits like the Arab had met their fate in the distant past.

The Arab tapped the bartender’s hand and took a seat. Disgusted, Guy slunk by him and found a stool across the bar, his back to the ubiquitous guitar player wailing away, with a pillar between him and the target.

19

S
o the asshole from Afghanistan is a boozing Arab.
Guy should have known. Nothing nefarious was going on in Key West, and they were both pretending to be something they weren’t. Guy that he was a tourist not out to kill, and the Arab that he was a tourist not out to embrace Allah.

It caused a spasm of anger.

Two rum drinks later, the target was on the move again, cutting across Greene to the famed Duval Street, Guy behind him, wondering why on earth he was still following. The anger was growing, a living thing, but he couldn’t brace the Arab here, on one of the most heavily congested streets in Key West.

The freaks, tourists, and all-around weird were swirling about, something that would have been fun a decade ago but was muted on this night. Guy’s wrath was palpable. Something real. Something dark, and looking for release. With this many drunks bumping about, Guy realized he’d be in a fight before the night was out, more than likely sending some poor schlub who didn’t deserve it to the hospital. He needed to break contact. To reassess.

He could not.

The target passed Petronia Street, the crosswalks painted multicolored hues, entering what Guy and his SF cohorts used to call Rainbow Row. The burlesque gay quarter. The next thing he knew, the
target went inside a gay cabaret, taking a seat up front to watch the show. For Guy, the hypocrisy only heightened his anger.

The bar smelled of stale beer and sweat. He sat in the back and basically ignored anyone who so much as paid him a glance, growing more and more enraged at the actions of the target he was following. The man supported the Islamic State, an organization that threw homosexuals off of six-story buildings just to watch them shatter on the concrete below, their innards exploding like a dropped watermelon. They stoned to death women who were merely accused of adultery, and this sack of shit was here, in Key West, watching a drag show.

It made him want to cut the man’s heart out right then, especially knowing he was here experiencing Key West, a place his brother was supposed to have enjoyed in six months, when he was to attend the Combat Diver’s Course from the Seventh Special Forces Group. Following in Guy’s footsteps.

The drag show went on, and Guy sat, stewing. Finally, it ended, with Guy not watching more than a few seconds, drinking rum punch and growing more and more angry, the blackness of the loss of his brother beginning to flow. He was losing the edge he maintained as one of the highest-trained killers in the world, and he didn’t even see it slipping down the stream of rocks, bouncing farther and farther away. He was losing his judgment, and setting in motion events even he couldn’t foresee.

Guy watched the target prepare to leave, seeing him talk to some of the clearly homosexual members in the bar, slipping one a note. Clouded by the liquor, he wanted to slice the Arab’s throat right in the bar, just because he could.

But he let the target leave, taking note of his direction, then stood to follow. He heard a voice rising above the crowd, then laughter, but thought nothing of it, intent on following his prey. He began walking to the door and heard someone yell again. He realized they were talking to him. He turned back into the bar and saw a large man
wearing a satirical version of the biker costume in the Village People. He smiled and waved his hand.

The man made a comment about him not enjoying the show. Guy had no patience for the sentiment, feeling the distance grow between him and his target.

Internally, Guy really didn’t have a position on the LBGT community. It just wasn’t something he thought about. You want to be gay, be gay. He couldn’t care less, but the men in the bar took his attitude a different way.

Guy said, “The show wasn’t as good as I expected.”

With a smirk, the biker said, “Well, maybe I could show you something better.”

Guy knew this was a no-win proposition. He’d spent enough time on Duval Street to get catcalled by the men outside the bars. It was almost a right of passage of the Special Forces at Fleming Key, the men setting up the new guys for some heckling. Verbally fighting back was a nonstarter. Humor was needed here, but he was fresh out.

Guy said, “Save it for the Navy. They’ll be here soon.” And turned to go. The catcalls turned into a crescendo, the wannabe biker coming forward, crowding into his face, sneering and talking smack. Guy said, “Don’t do this. Please.”

The man continued his bullying, the others around him cheering him on. All thought they were just taunting a tourist, enjoying something they did nightly. Nobody expected the violence that sprang forth, least of all Guy.

The biker reached up to poke Guy in the chest, and he grabbed the man’s finger, rotating it back fast enough to hear the snap of bone. The man fell to his knees and the bouncer swept forward. Guy simply pointed at him, holding the finger and shaking his head, while the biker whined like a small child. Guy let go, held his hands up, and walked backward out of the bar.

Someone from the back shouted about his “homophobia,”
misinterpreting what was driving his anger, but Guy was no longer listening. Nobody else made a move against him.

He reached the street, searching for his target, now fully enraged. He hadn’t wanted to fight. Hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone, but the fucking Arab had pushed him into it merely by making him follow into the bar.

He began walking back up Duval Street, toward the shore and the target’s boat. The direction in which he’d seen the man go when he exited the bar.

The sidewalks were swollen, full of groups of inebriated partygoers. He pushed through them, threading when he could and shoving when he couldn’t. Some reacted as if they wanted to retaliate, but one look into his eyes and they left him alone, instinctively knowing it wouldn’t end well.

He thought his target might sail out of the harbor tomorrow, and a part of him wished it so. Hoped he had lost the trail.

He passed a covered market selling original artwork, located across from the ubiquitous American icon called the Hard Rock Café, then caught a glimpse of a Hawaiian shirt. It was the Arab, sitting at an outdoor bar next to the market, a smattering of tables surrounding him and an iron arch proclaiming
CAROLINE’S CAFÉ
.

Guy backpedaled into the market, a cloistered area with individual stalls selling everything from painted coconuts to handmade earrings. He pretended to shop, circling around and seeing that the café was basically sharing space with the market. He continued deeper in, getting a feel for the exits. There were none out the back, with both the café and market butting up to a fence with houses beyond. Closest to the rear was the men’s restroom. Plopped on the ground at the end of a dimly lit gravel-lined alley, it was a stand-alone structure like an outhouse, connected to the kitchen by the roof.

His brain, a computer that was never turned off, automatically calculated the feasibility of a takedown, and the alley/restroom was
perfect if one didn’t care about exfiltrating with the target. If one knew the target was designated DOA.

He circled back around to the marketplace, threaded through the stalls, and took a seat at the farthest table in the back, his eyes on his prey. He ordered a beer from the waitress, then just sat, quietly smoldering, thinking about his actions in the other bar. Regretting them.

He toyed with the label on his beer bottle, finally turning his mind to the
problem
. Focusing on the enormity of what he was attempting to accomplish. He picked at the scab in his mind, forcing himself to admit that his actions were either borderline insane or they were justified in the name of his brother.

He wanted to believe his cause was just, but couldn’t reconcile it with the soldier he was. He knew the man on the barstool was complicit in his brother’s death, but the knowledge was tempered by twenty years of following a code that dictated his moral compass. Killing on the battlefield was war. Killing after the fact was murder. Wasn’t it?

We preemptively kill people with drone strikes all the time.

But the “we” was a body of men, sanctioned at the highest level, after enormous oversight. Not a single man on a hunt for revenge.
But what’s the difference between revenge and preemption? These fucks are going to continue killing. Motivation is irrelevant.

Those twin forces were battling inside him when he saw the target stand. A waitress pointed toward the alley, and Guy’s decision was forced upon him.

Guy stood, squeezing his hands open and closed. He took a half step, then turned back to the table, the demons inside fighting for control. He glanced toward the bar, but nobody was looking his way. He put in his earbuds and started the Pandora app. He heard the music, seeing his brother’s smiling face, and the darkness floated up.

He entered the alley.

He walked fifty feet to the end, took a quick glance behind the
building, seeing lumber stacked against a chain-link fence, but no humans. He faced the door and hesitated, his hand on the knife in his pocket. He withdrew it. A Zero Tolerance folder, it had a nearly four-inch blade, razor sharp, with a large belly designed for slicing. He flicked the knife open and stared at the dull gleam of the edge.

This is it. You cross the threshold, there is no turning back.

He paused a second longer, the demons battling it out. Finally, one rose triumphant.

He turned the knob.