HONOR DUE

It'd been twelve years since I'd put myself out to pasture, and hadn't crossed anyone's path to cause concern, that I knew of. Minded my own business except for helping a friend or two and had kind of let the larger world piss itself away without my taking any real notice. It seemed like all that was now going to change.
   See, I'm retired. I hunt, fish and live about as far from the rest of humanity as I can get, and still be in these United States of America. The Olympic Peninsula, in Washington State, is a fine piece of real estate for people who want to mind their own business. Being closer to 60 than 50, six foot three, 200 pounds, and now a longtime diabetic, courtesy of Agent Orange exposure in Vietnam, I don't need trouble, and don't look for any.
   I'm not some kind of survivalist nut, though there are a few of that stripe around these parts. Even I walk around them when we meet. Left alone, I'm a peaceful kind of guy, and don't hurt anyone, although I take my right to privacy, and to keep and bear arms, dead serious.
   My piece of northwest heaven, a large chunk of timberland, came to me via an old ‘Nam War Brother long since felled by cancer. Tello had made a bundle in the beginning of the computer boom, and I'd helped him out when a nutcase decided his little daughter would make a good abduction target, and he should pay for the privilege of having her returned. Of course, the kidnapper had no intention of giving her back. So when Tello had started receiving body parts off his little girl, he'd reached out to me through the network of special operators. Took me a week, a finger and a toe, to find the lowlife. Yeah, she was marked, but very much alive—more than could be said for her captor. Tello had been very grateful, and asked no questions. He'd deeded the land to a deep cover name I maintained. When I retired, I disappeared.

I relaxed, lit another cigarette and took a sip of my diet Pepsi. No, I don't drink anymore except for the rare sip of Wild Turkey. Alcohol doesn't mix well with the diabetes, and besides I'd done my share in years past. Never chased wild women nor gambled. Now I live a fairly clean life, except for the smokes. and I don't abuse them. Getting them so cheap on the Makah Reservation up the road makes my last remaining vice acceptable, to me anyway, and that's all that counts.
   No one is supposed to smoke in bars here in Washington anymore. However it's taking awhile for the law to get out here in the provinces. Ashtrays still sit on each table in Jimmy's place. No law against putting ashtrays out. Even the once in a blue moon visit by a Clallam County deputy or State Trooper during drinking hours doesn't elicit any attempt to enforce the edict from on high and a very distant Olympia. Yet.
   I watched the kid try to pump Jimmy again. A quick slip of his left hand into his jacket conjured what looked like a photo. With hardly a glance, Jimmy shook his head and silently kept wiping glasses. When that still didn't get results, the minnow made it disappear and again turned his back to the bar to work the room with his eyes. Taking a longer look at everyone. I kept track of him in my peripheral. Sooner or later he'd scan over to me again. I kept my head down and watched the game at the closest pool table.
   Nothing was going to happen inside anyway. I looked nothing like I had twelve years ago. Besides the weight, I now wore glasses and a bushy beard halfway to my belly. I kept my hair in one long graying braid under a grungy boonie hat. Folks in these parts call people like me Hoko bums. Mostly our clothes don't match, and grooming is not something we spend a lot of time on.
   "How you doing tonight, Major?" Bottle blond and blue–eyed, with a smile and body that reels in many a tip, Tammy showed up at my elbow setting a fresh glass in front of me. There was something written on the new coaster she slipped underneath it.
   "All the better for you asking, Tam. Thanks." I took my time sipping the new drink, and turned my head away from the kid as I read what Jimmy had written. "Snake eater wants you. Got loaded fangs. Looks like a SIG." Yeah, I was gonna have to kill his ass.
   Hey, don't get me wrong, I didn't want to, but when it's your bed the hunter has crawled into, it's kill or be killed, and I had no doubt that was exactly what someone wanted. Now, I'm not accommodating that way. He looked like a good kid and should have had a much longer life, but he'd chosen the work and knew the risks. Also, the someone who'd sent him probably didn't expect to see him again. They knew what kind of predator they'd sent him after, unless they thought I'd mellowed.    Older, sure. Mellowed? I don't think so.

Page 3

Home | Back | Start Over | Order...