Chapter Thirty-Four

An hour later, with the cops still running roughshod through my place, I'm sitting at a quiet, dimly lit little dive bar called Jack's. After giving my statements, I left the house and made a call, setting up the meet. Jack's is in a shadier part of town and only going by the reputation it has, it's probably perfect for the type of meeting I'm having. From what I gather, the place is pretty anonymous and the patrons have a great habit of not seeing or hearing anything.

“It's been a while,” he says as sits down in the booth across from me.

I push the glass of Irish whiskey across the table to him. “I assume you're still a Jameson's man?”

He holds the glass up to the light and then takes a long sniff of it. “Liquid ambrosia, my friend.”

I raise my glass and tap it against his. “Good to see you, Mike. It has been a while.”

“I was surprised to get your call.”

I shrug. “Sometimes, it's good to know people who have specialized skill sets,” I reply. “Especially when you happen to be in need of them.”

Mike Toomer. He's one of the baddest, scariest men I know. A former Navy SEAL, I'd run across him in Afghanistan on a few occasions. I'd patched him up in the field and I'd even had to patch him up again after I'd transferred to Landstuhl. Though the two things don't seem to be compatible, Mike is capable of some horrendously awful shit, and he's also a good man.

“In need of them, huh?” he asks. “Sounds interesting.”

“You still doing private contracting work?”

“You asking if my specialized skills are still sharp?”

I give him a rueful grin. “Are they?”

“Like a razor.”

“Good to know,” I say. “I have a job. Name your price.”

He swallows down his whiskey and looks at me for a long moment, saying nothing. I'd already had the bartender leave the bottle at my table, knowing that Mike likes to drink. I'm nothing, if not prepared and well organized. I pour him another shot and wait.

“You patched me up a few times,” he says.

“I remember.”

“Probably saved my life,” he says.

“I probably wouldn't go that far.”

“I would,” he says. “If you'd reported some of my wounds like you were supposed to, they probably woulda stuck a purple heart on me and shipped my ass home. That woulda been as good as death, you ask me.”

I shrug. “My job was to patch people up,” I say. “The paperwork and bureaucratic bullshit is better left for somebody else.”

He drains his glass and I pour him another. I'm not trying to get him drunk or make him sloppy – Mike is a seasoned drinker. I'm simply trying to grease the wheels. If I strike out with him, I don't know what the hell I'm going to do. Other than wait for the FBI to tell me that they recovered Calee's body.

Mike looks at his glass thoughtfully. “What's the op?”

“Rescue,” I say – and knowing what he likes to hear, add, “with the option to blow some shit up and kill some bad guys.”

His eyes light up and a slow smile spreads across his face. “No shit?” he asks. “You yankin' my chain?”

“Have I ever?”

“No, suppose not,” he says. “Where's the job?”

“Wyoming.”

“Militia country,” he says. “Bunch of Second Amendment freaks out that way.”

“And pseudo-religious, doomsday prepping cults.”

He laughs and nods. “Yeah, them too.”

“So, what's it going to cost me?”

“For you?” he says, sipping his drink. “Two fifty. That's my good friend discount.”

“Make it five,” I say. “Two things I need though.”

He looks at me curiously. “Name it.”

“One, it has to be now. We can't wait. Time is critical,” I say. “Second, I'm part of your team.”

Mike sips his drink and looks at me for a long moment. “Five hundred grand, huh?” he says. “Must be important.”

“You have no idea.”

“Done.”

“Perfect,” I say.

Over the next hour, I fill him in on all the details. I make sure to tell him that the FBI will be getting involved – something that seems to particularly delight him. He nods throughout, takes a few notes, but doesn't say much. But then, Mike's never been a big talker anyway.

“That it?” he asks.

“That's it.”

“Should be a walk in the park,” he says. “These doomsday preppers talk big, but they're a bunch of pussies when the real shit starts flying.”

“How soon can you have your team ready to go?” I ask.

“Given the urgency of the situation,” he says. “Give me until tomorrow morning. Wheels up at oh-six-hundred. That should be enough time for me to round up my team, brief them, and gather our equipment. I'll text you with the location.”

I nod. “Sounds good,” I say. “I'll wait for your text.”