Kevin Mitchum cursed his luck.
He’d been held captive in a stinking warehouse next to a stinking fishing boat, with stinking freezers and God-only-knew how many rats and crabs and bugs in the place.
He tried, for the thousandth time, to break the plastic cable ties binding his wrists.
And, for the thousandth time, he failed to get them loose.
He sighed and wished he had a bourbon and coke.
On the rocks.
—————
After the attack at the Sands, he’d been feeling the usual mixed emotions a man felt in such a situation.
He was excited and elated that he’d survived, relatively unscathed.
He felt satisfied he’d done his share of keeping the barbarians at the gate.
He felt angry that a perfectly good glass of Maker’s 46 had been wasted by some fool shooting it to pieces with his 9mm.
And, he felt glad that he’d been carrying his Kimber .45 Ultra Comp Pro, in its black alligator-skin holster, to what was some high-falootin’, hoity-toity affair.
He’d enjoyed reuniting with his old war buddies from Alpha Team, and was pleased to see the Old Man, once more.
And, his reunion with Rachel Bloomberg was bittersweet.
With all of the excitement over, he’d stood on the sidewalk, next to the garage where he’d parked his ride, waiting for the crossing lights.
He professionally scanned the other people around him, but there was nobody threatening.
Just a street bum, with a bottle of hooch.
—————
As he walked across the street he ruminated on the current situation.
He felt he’d missed an opportunity when Rachel and he had met on the cruise, even if he was really just working for the Alpha Team, and keeping an eye on her.
What had started as an assignment had morphed into something else for him.
Their dinners, the long talks, and the romantic venue had made him relax for the first time in a long time.
Mitchum found he was eager for each meeting with her.
She was beautiful, ample in all the right places, and funny.
She was charming, but also had that aloofness he preferred in women.
As the mission progressed, he kept up his reports but tried to keep them neutral.
He didn’t think he was falling for her, but there was definitely a spark.
He cared for Rachel, which was a violation of the first rule of his profession.
He found he didn’t care about those rules.
The final time he’d seen her, he was certain that they would bed.
She’d been ready, he knew that, could sense her need.
He was ready, too.
And then, she’d been given news that deeply affected her.
He’d parted company with her then and glumly reported back that everything was on schedule.
—————
Since the cruise, Mitchum kept busy on other projects.
He was still despondent over the death of his brother, at Indian Wells, but he knew that they were closing in on the killers.
This Mandarin Connection thing was surfacing, time and again, in his interactions with his LEO counterparts.
Of course, they weren’t aware of what it was exactly, but he knew the signs well enough by now.
But, all in all, things were looking up.
—————
He was walking to his Suburban now.
He’d had Ghent arrange to have it flown to Singapore at great expense.
That they did so showed that he was held in high regard by the SEALs and the Black Dog organization.
Kevin Mitchum flicked the remote start, unlocking the doors.
The eight-liter engine fired up, and a quick scan of his security fob showed nothing amiss.
Which is why he was surprised when, moments later, the man he’d thought was a street bum had managed to shoot him with some kind of gun.
Finding he couldn’t move, as blackness closed in, he wondered just where he’d fucked up.
Then, there was nothing.
—————
Now, Mitchum took stock of his surroundings.
He was fed by a grumpy old man twice and day, and allowed to use the toilet only then as well.
This had led to a couple of ‘accidents’, wherein the old bastard smacked Kevin around a bit.
He’d managed to control his urges since then.
When the old bastard showed up, he only released the cable ties long enough for Mitchum to eat.
He was allowed to use a pail of water, and a towel, to clean himself.
The water was just dredged up from the salt-water canal next to the building.
Kevin harbored no illusions that he was in deep shit.
He tried to find a crack in the armor of the place but noticed at least a dozen cameras, all with motion sensors, on the inside of the warehouse.
He could be sure to get loose, and maybe even kill the old bastard, but he wasn’t certain there weren’t a dozen armed guards waiting outside.
He bided his time, waiting for his chance.
—————
The Delta flight touched down, the wheels scraping and squealing as they screeched along the baked tarmac of Miami International Airport.
Wernher sat quietly as the aircraft followed the taxiway to the Terminal, and then waiting until almost everyone else had disembarked.
He stood, and removed his simple carrying case from the overhead.
As he walked off the plane, he tipped an imaginary hat to the flight crew.
They all remarked on what a gentleman he was, and how it was their genuine pleasure to have the ability to serve such a refined and obviously classy person.
They did wonder why he’d not availed himself of the ability to disembark from his first-class seating along with the others.
He simply smiled at them, mentioning that he was in no hurry.
Then, he walked into the Terminal and went to find his rental.
—————
Wernher had gotten considerable information from the FSB.
He’d long suspected a Latin connection to this problem, and the King organization didn’t quite fit into his suspicions as to how one would work.
He surmised and then had it affirmed, that there was another hand behind King.
Blaise White was the obvious connection there, what with his stepmother married to King.
But, the removal of King, and later Blaise, had little impact on the operation in that part of the world.
So, either King was not really part of the organization, or he was a much smaller fish than the Alpha Team was led to believe.
Derek White had managed to locate Kevin Mitchum’ s whereabouts, using tracers they had at their disposal, but Wernher had simply asked the FSB to give him the man’s last known whereabouts.
He’d been seen in Singapore, at the disastrous massacre, but by all accounts had taken on the Mandarin forces admirably, if a bit foolishly.
Wernher suspected Mitchum may have become infatuated with either Kim or Rachel.
He could understand why, after having met them while warning Derek after the attack.
The FSB gave Wernher access to a secret communique that they attributed to a Chinese signal, that had been picked up by Mossad, and validated by French INTERPOL.
The transmission was brief but seemed to point out a discussion between two men who had used the words ‘King’, ‘Miami’, and ‘warehouse’.
It was enough.
Wernher grinned at the old adage about how what goes around, comes around, as he pulled his rental car into a storage unit complex.
Parking the car in the office spaces, he put the keys on the dash, as he knew the complex owner would return it to the airport for him.
He then walked to the unit that contained an identical Suzuki Hayabusa to the one he’d used in Singapore.
Dr. Wernher Hartmann picked up the small holster he used for his Walther P-22.
It was a fairly common gun among people in his profession.
He frowned at realizing that the Old Man had been killed with probably just such a gun.
He took the suppressor off the barrel, checking it, and appraising it with his professional eyes.
Then, he examined the Stinger ammunition in the magazine.
Everything in order, he holstered the pistol in a small pouch near his waist.
Checking one of the saddlebags on the ‘Busa, he took out a small case that held a Smith & Wesson .500 magnum with an eight-inch barrel, in stainless steel.
He checked the cylinder and the small optic sights for function.
The ammunition was in perfect condition.
He looped the sling holster over his head and side and secured the belt loop.
Wernher put on his motorcycle jacket, checking to make sure the massive gun wasn’t printing too badly.
It wouldn’t do to be pulled over by a suspicious officer, even though the ‘Busa was capable of outrunning anything except a jet helicopter.
Finally, he opened the other saddlebag and took out his modified KelTec shotgun.
It was less than two feet long and had twin magazine tubes.
One side held buckshot and the other slugs.
He checked it, satisfied it was in perfect working order, and then placed it back into the saddlebag.
Ready to get on with his new mission, he pushed the ‘Busa out of its storage unit, then locked it behind him.
He put on his helmet, a black Shoei with a skull and crossbones decal on the back.
He started the bike, the throaty rumble of the powerful motor vibrating strongly.
Checking his instruments, and the fuel gauge, he watched for any signs of trouble.
Naturally, there were none.
Dr. Hartmann was very meticulous and precise, in everything he did.
He slid his gloves on, revved the ‘Busa, and went off to retrieve Kevin Mitchum.
—————
Kevin Mitchum had finally decided it was time to get the fuck out of dodge.
The last time the old bastard, (whom he nicknamed ‘OB’), had come, he’d only brought the pail of water.
No food.
That told Kevin that they had almost finished with him, and he was probably as good as dead the next time OB came into the room.
He decided it was time to try one last time with the cable ties.
—————
A few days earlier, Kevin had hatched an outlandish plan.
Something he’d thought might work was to allow OB to tie him up after he’d had his fill of water, and then not piss.
He figured, if he could hold his urine, it might make his wrists swell, just enough so that, the next time he did piss, and if he could manage to stand a couple hours of thirst, he could wriggle out.
So, when the OB came in, that morning, he drank as much water as he could stomach.
The OB left, and Kevin waited.
He figured he had three tries if luck was on his side.
The OB might want to wait until the morning to kill him.
Kevin thought he might be able to get more water if he pretended to be sick.
It was chancy because the OB might just use his weakened state as an excuse to kill him.
It wasn’t too far a stretch, though, because the hot Florida sun was baking the warehouse all day.
Kevin decided to risk it.
When the OB came back, he grumbled and begged for more water.
When the OB grudgingly fetched a pail, Kevin forced himself to drink all of it he could stand.
He struggled to not vomit it up.
The OB snugged up his cables.
Then, he left.
Kevin waited again, his bladder and stomach full.
He forced himself into a Zen state, something his brother had taught him.
All was an illusion - pain, and suffering, comfort, and succor - nothing was real.
He tried to convince himself of that, but it wasn’t easy.
When the OB returned once more, Kevin had taken in as much water as he could, again.
He told the OB he was sick, but the fucker still tightened the living shit out of the cable ties.
Then, the OB left.
In the dark, Kevin began his plan.
He didn’t really care about his physical appearance: he just emptied his swollen, aching bladder.
To any man alive, the feeling is pleasurable, but for Kevin, it held almost religious significance.
The warm piss fell down his pant legs and pooled beneath him.
He peed himself completely out, then started to try to meditate again.
He figured he could use the calming effect to reduce his blood pressure, and that maybe that would help.
He meditated for five minutes, controlling his breathing, and listening for any odd sounds.
Five minutes stretched into ten, and then fifteen.
This was it, he mentally shrugged, as he steeled himself.
He raised his bound hands above his head and bent to one knee. He was going to try to smack the cable ties across the top of his knees, and pull with all his strength.
Kevin figured he might break his wrists, but it was a chance he was going to have to take.
He counted, one, two three, and slammed the ties onto his knee.
Almost like magic, he was free!
There had been enough space!
His hands slipped enough for him to free his fingers on his left hand, and then he reached down and pulled off his boots.
His hands and feet free, he searched for something to remove the last cable tie from his right wrist, then decided against it.
He could use them as a makeshift garrote, and strangle the old bastard!
That would teach the fucker not to mess with him.
Kevin went low and crouch-waddled over next to the locked door.
He waited.
He listened and heard a motorcycle driving by, in the distance.
Pretty soon, the OB was going to come, and Kevin was ready for him!
A few minutes later, Kevin heard the OB walking towards the warehouse.
He knew it was him, because the geezer wore boots, and burped quite a bit.
Suddenly, he heard a small noise, and then a loud thump.
His blood froze.
He recognized the sound – a suppressed gun.
The OB was probably a loose end, and had just been tied up!
Well, he’d give the killer something to think about, just the same!
—————
The door slowly swung open.
Kevin was ready, his cable tie garotte poised to kill the next thing that walked into the room.
He saw movement, and then he leaped, yelling.
“Die! Die you old son of a bitch! Die…” he shouted.
Suddenly, a knife blade sliced upwards, between his outstretched hands, severing the cable ties.
It doubled back, just missing his carotid.
Then, he felt his legs being swept out from beneath him, landing in a heap.
A scalpel was pressed against his throat, and then a bright light shone in his eyes.
“Herr Mitchum, it is good to see you, again, mein freund!” said Wernher.
Kevin Mitchum breathed a sigh of relief.
Wernher helped him to his feet, smoothly sheathing the scalpel into some hidden holster.
“What kept you, buddy?” asked Kevin.
“The traffic on I-95 was horrid, as is always the case! Luckily, I was able to use 112 to get to you in an expeditious fashion,” said Wernher.
Wernher sniffed, and then looked at Kevin, wrinkling his nose.
“It appears you have pissed yourself, mein guten herr?” he asked.
“It’s a long story, pal,” said Kevin.
“Where are we heading?” he asked.
“Guam, via Navy transport. We must hurry, as our flight leaves in one hour,” said Wernher.
Kevin walked out into the light, glad to be alive.
“Where is the old bastard, I mean the guard?” he asked.
“He is in a dumpster, with the other refuse,” said Wernher, gesturing in the general direction of a series of trash cans.
“A moment, mein freund,” he said, walking around the side of the warehouse.
Wernher returned in two minutes, wearing his helmet and gloves, the ‘Busa rumbling evilly.
“Umm, don’t you have a car?” said Kevin, a bit nervously.
“Nein. Do not be a vagina! Get on behind me!” commanded Wernher.
“It’s pussy. Don’t be a pussy, is what you meant to say, right?” said Kevin as he swung into the bitch seat behind the Mad German.
Laughing, Wernher twisted the throttle wide open, popping a wheelie, as Kevin clung onto the grab handles for dear life.
He was glad he’d already pissed himself today.
“Yes! That is what I meant to say! Pussy!” yelled Wernher, cackling and throttling the bike up to cruising speed.
In the distance, Kevin heard police sirens as they sped towards the airport.
—————
Two Navy jets sat on the tarmac at Miami International Airport.
“Uh, this is Bravo Delta One - Niner, cleared for takeoff on Runway two-seven, planned ascent to flight level two-five-oh, and heading two seven one, Roger,” said the pilot in the first F-35.
“Delta one-niner, this is Miami Control, you and your flight are cleared. Godspeed and good luck. And thanks for the show!” came the voice over the headset.
Kevin Mitchum was sitting in the rear of a Naval F-35 fighter plane.
The pilot pushed the throttles to get the plane airborne, and as soon as it left the runway, sat it on its tail and pushed the throttles to the wall.
The plane shot straight up, to the cheers of the tower crew.
Kevin tried to keep his nonexistent lunch down and was immensely glad he’d not eaten in two days.
—————
“Uh, can you let me know how you two gentlemen rate such fine treatment from Uncle Sugar’s Naval Aviation Corp?” said the pilot in the second plane.
“Nein,” came Wernher’s reply.
“Beg pardon, sir, are you really a German?” the pilot asked.
“Ja,” was the curt answer.
“Why does your friend smell like piss, sir?” the pilot said.
“Ask him,” came the brusque reply.
Ok, so this guy is a hardass, thought the pilot.
“This might be a bit rough of a flight, sir,” the pilot said.
There was no reply from his passenger.
Well, then, he thought he might show this tightass Kraut a thing or two.
He pulled back on the stick, flipping the plane through an inverted loop, and coming out in an Immelman.
The man in the backseat should be losing his lunch right about now, he thought to himself, smugly.
He glanced back over his shoulder.
He sighed.
The passenger was sleeping.
He pointed his aircraft at Texas and settled in for the long flight to Guam.
The pilot and his wingman would have to conduct six aerial refueling in order to get there within the next twelve hours.
—————
Kevin Mitchum was trying to relax, using his meditative state.
Now that they were at altitude, going Mach 2, it didn’t seem so bad.
At least, if the plane exploded, he’d never know it.
He hoped.
“Don’t grab the ejection seat handles, sir,” said the pilot.
Kevin looked down to see he had them in a death grip.
He gently opened his hands and put them in his lap.
“Thank you, sir. Sorry about the takeoff, sir, we’re in kind of a hurry, sir,” said the pilot, all polite and professional.
“’S’okay, son,” replied Mitchum. “Good flying.”
“Uh, sir, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” asked the pilot.
“Sure, go ahead. I don’t suppose you carry those tiny drink bottles on this thing, like a real airline, do you?” he added, hopefully.
“No, sir, sorry, sir,” came the reply.
“Sir?” the pilot asked.
“Yeah?” said Kevin.
“Why did you smell like piss before we took off?” asked the pilot.
Kevin Mitchum sighed.
It was going to be a long flight.
—————
“Derek, there’s no one here!” said Tony.
An Alpha Team Strike Force had sped to the warehouse area as soon as Derek had been alerted to Jonathon Reighland’s reappearance.
Miami P.D. had been contacted, and Tony given permission to liaise and become OIC once on the scene.
But, they only found a dead man in a dumpster.
Kevin Mitchum had apparently been held there, but he was nowhere to be found.
Only his hat and some cheroots gave any indication he’d even been there.
—————