Too Wylde (19 page)

The bodyguard held up his phone, showed a
text the old man couldn't read. "On their way."

And so it begins, Tony Po thought. As it had
so many times before. He wondered if, this time, it would be his
last.

Guz

Went over his gear quickly. He kept it all
packed for gigs like this, whether with Deon or one of the other
people who kept him on speed-dial, but he hadn't lasted all these
years without a skill-set that included checking, double-checking,
and then checking again against his lists.

Basic load-out was in his old issue and badly
battered Mystery Ranch 3DAP; he favored it because of the very cool
and useful three-way zip. He liked the issue Kelty MAP 3500 as
well, but the slightly smaller Mystery Ranch forced load discipline
on him, and he enjoyed that. Always packed was a trauma kit,
cleaning kit for his weapons, spare ammo, light outer shell, admin
on a flash drive, $5K in cash, spare socks, snivel gear, energy
bars, water, a Norwegian Jerven Duk, paracord and some tiny
titanium stakes, his mini-survival kit, 2 knives.

He could go anywhere and do anything with
what he had there.

The rest the mission would determine, and
since it was Deon, all he had to worry about was a personal weapon
to get him there. There was a Colt Mk18 locked in a box in his
trunk with a Mayflower plate carrier rigged with magazines and a
blow out kit, but that was for true emergencies and not for work.
But again, since it was Deon, he'd not have to worry about
that.

Guz was neat and tidy and compact, 5 feet 10
inches, deceptively solid -- you wouldn't know to look at him he
had practically no body fat at all on him, years on the Teams would
do that to a guy -- hair and beard neatly trimmed. He favored a
plain glass pair of horn rim glasses; no magnifying ability to
them, but they softened his profile, always a challenge for an
off-duty SEAL.

It was all about the blend.

Comfortably worn Levis with a tan on tan Ares
Gear Ranger Belt, good to go; Salomon low-cuts, check; a baggy and
well worn tan Operators Shirt from Drop Zone Tactical. He looked
like he was ready for safari. Holsters...well, throw a drop leg in
the bag, just in case, and run a snug tight Raven Arms for his
Glock 19 on his strong side, a spare mag pouch in front of that, a
double mag pouch on his other strong side, tuck a Hissatsu
somewhere in there -- fixed blade only, a folding knife started
broken -- and he was good to go.

Slung his pack over his shoulder, and he
looked like a naturalist going out into the woods, which he did
quite often. Guz was at home in the woods, happily so even in the
worst of weather, something his Team mates often commented on. Guz
never complained, no matter what it was like. Unless it was to make
a joke.

Fired up his Wrangler Rubicon, looking over
his shoulder to make sure everything was undisturbed. Then drove
away from his neat and tidy home, carefully landscaped, staying two
miles below the speed limit.

Deon Oosthuizen

Looked up at Guz coming through the door.
Good lad. Looked like a game keeper or a bloody birdwatcher.

"How you keeping?" Deon said.

Guz grinned. Perfect teeth, like everything
else about him. "Fine, thanks, Deon. Nice to see you!"

"You as well. Ready for a bit of work?"

"Yes."

"Here you go, some kit..." Deon pointed at
the side counter. Three HK-416s with the 10.3 inch barrel, Aimpoint
Micros mounted up top and a Surefire forward, three London Bridge
E&E bags set with the tops open.

Guz poked into one, pulled out a Magpul
magazine, loaded two down. "ASYM Precison?"

"Only the best for you, lad. You're one of
the few that appreciate nuance."

Guz laughed. "So what are we doing?"

"Bit of PSP. Looking after Jimmy's dearest at
her club. Seeing her to his place, after. Sitting there."

"What's up with Jimmy?"

"Bit of a bad go outside the club. Still
sorting it out. Asian, Hmong probably. Shooters."

"On him? His girlfriend?"

"Don't think so. Jimmy and someone else
sorted them out. So there might be a bit of comeback."

"Jimmy. He's just like a lightning rod, isn't
he?"

"He is. But he's one of us."

"Yes," Guz said. "He is. So. In close,
inside? We're gonna run the long guns?"

"Better safe than sorry."

"Gonna call attention to us."

Deon grinned. "You'll like this." He pulled
out three soft guitar cases, popped them open. "I replaced the zip
with a velcro tear away. Carbine goes here, the mag-bag here. Grab,
tear, mount. Tear aways secure the gun and the bag. We sit just by
the DJ, we're elevated...you ever been in there?"

"No. Not my thing."

"Not a bad place to spend some time. The DJ
podium, off to the side. Gives you overwatch on the whole floor,
the dance runway, all that. You can work close with her back in the
lounge, since you are young and strong of heart, and I am old and
weak in will. I'll cover in front and when she's on the stage, you
can work the floor."

"Comms?"

"Standard. In that case right there. Ear
buds, throat mike."

"Gonna be tough with the background noise.
Music, what not."

"Fair point. Rather do without?"

"No. Just saying."

"You want body armor?"

"Threat assessment?"

"The ones he killed were running AKs."

"I don't want body armor."

"Light and fast, then?"

"You bet."

"Fair enough. Here. Bit of spending
money."

Deon handed Guz a bundle with 7 $100 dollar
bills, and $300 in $20s. "Day rate. That'll be good till tomorrow.
We'll sort it as we go, I don't think we'll be on this more than a
day or two."

Guz split the money into two stacks. One
stack went into his cordura combat wallet, the other stack went
into the front pocket of his jeans. "Fine with me. I got plenty of
time."

"No contracts?"

"Not right now. Way things are, thought I'd
stay home for awhile. Work on the yard."

"How are your rose-bushes?"

"Great! I've got eight of them now in the
back. Room for more, if need be."

"How did that tree chipper work for you?"

"Was fine, really. You chop the arms and legs
off, open the torso, makes it easier to grind it up good. Catch it,
mix in some high quality manure, line the hole and plant those
roses in. Roses love it. Makes for a really healthy planting mix.
Manure helps accelerate the decomposition, and masks the
smell...you know, meat and blood when it's hot. But it breaks down
pretty fast when you have it chipped down like that."

"How do you clean it? Afterwards, I
mean?"

"Hose it down over some saw dust, sweep the
saw dust up, it's all good. I wash it down with industrial bleach,
too. But c'mon...who goes DNA testing on a wood chipper?"

"Fair point. I hope we don't need to do that,
but it's good to have if need be. How's your mum and them?"

"All good, Deon. Thank you."

"I'll have to come by and pay my respects
some time."

"She'd like that. So would my aunt."

"How's she taking to Lori?"

Guz shrugged. "Ah. Women. No one will ever be
perfect. But Lori works on her. It's all good. Mom's teaching her
how to cook her secret Italian dishes."

"Progress, then."

"Yep."

"Shall we get on with it?"

"Two vehicles?"

"One is none..."

"...and two is one. Meet you in the parking
lot?"

"Stage one across the street, that would be
you; I'll take the lot. We'll have options."

"Let's do it."

Jimmy John Wylde

Jimmy John, Jimmy John, where do you
belong...

I wondered if that was actually a song
somewhere. I remembered my father singing like that to me, as a
child, when he rocked me in his arms, but I could only remember a
few words from that distant memory:
Jimmy John, Jimmy
John...

Kai, the formidable bouncer that had worked
for Lance T as long as there had been a Trojan Horse, he of the
scarred neck where he stopped a Spetsnaz spring blade in an epic
fight not that long ago, stood cross-armed beside the coat check
counter, and I found myself unconsciously falling into the same
pose as though I were working the door at Moby Dick's.

"You can go back with her," Kai whispered.
His vocal chords had been damaged in the fight. "I am fine
here."

"I'll wait till the guys get here. It'll be
safer for everybody."

Kai nodded. The other security people, all
unarmed, were as edgy as cats in a pitbull convention. "It will be
good, Jimmy."

"I'll wait out front."

The big man nodded. I went out front. It was
a sort of psychic attunement, the kind that comes on men when
you've worked together for a long time. I saw Deon first, in his
battered Cherokee; he gave me a cheery wave as he pulled into the
parking lot, waved through by the valet. He slowed down and studied
the freshly washed down lot, the bullet scars on the pavement, on
the walls outside. Parked the car and got out, a soft guitar case
slung over his shoulder, another one in his hand.

A late model Jeep Rubicon pulled into the lot
across the street, backed into a position aimed right at the front
door. Guz got out.

Guz. Good. Only the best tonight. He too was
slinging a guitar case. He did a scan of the streets, of the cars,
then crossed the street to me.

"What are you guys? Dos Amigos? Did you bring
me some tacos?" I said.

Guz grinned. He was always happy. "Thought
we'd send out later."

"I'll buy," I said.

"Fair one," Deon said.

"Is that for me?" I said, pointing at the
spare guitar case.

"About time you learned an honest trade. The
three of us, we could make a go of it, sing at retirement homes,
you know. Troubadours."

I hefted the bag. "What you got for me?"

"We'll sort it inside, lad. 416, mag in it,
28 as usual. Throw bag with ten mags. I put a few spare Glocker
mags in there for you. Like the Dawson job I did?"

"Yeah."

"Good kit."

"Came in handy today."

"World's a dangerous place."

Guz grinned. "Wherever I go, everyone is a
little safer."

"Let's go make the world a safer place," I
said. "Guz, can you handle this? There's naked women in there."

Guz grinned. "My strength is that of ten
because my heart is pure."

"I'm glad someone's is," Deon said.

It was going to be an interesting night.

Lance T

"I don't want any more of your people down
here," Lance said. "I want you to collect Tony and get him out of
here."

The man on the other end of the phone,
Lance's silent investor, said soothingly, "My friend, I have people
on the way. Extra security..."

"You're not hearing me. I don't need your
extra security, I need Tony out of here. They, whoever
they
are, know he's here and they just got their people
killed. So if they want him bad enough to come down here looking
for him, they're going to come back again and come back a lot
harder." Lance was steamed. "Every time this happens, I take a
loss, do you understand? That's money out of my pocket and out of
yours. This is a business, not a B-movie. You understand?"

"Lance," the other man said. "This is not a
negotiable. I will get him moved as soon as I am able. I cannot
take him out right now."

"Have your gun men take him to a hotel. They
can hide him there."

"I will have my men move him from there when
we have another place. That will not be immediately. As soon as I
can."

"Look...."

"This discussion is over."

The phone went dead.

Lance looked at his phone, set it down too
carefully on his desk, stood. Took a deep breath and pushed it down
through his feet, grounding himself out.

Then he picked up his chair and threw it at
the wall.

Jimmy John Wylde

I had two of the most dangerous men in Lake
City with me. I wonder if this is how Attila the Hun felt amongst
his Mongoldai. Deon is a known player among the shooters, and he
was popular with Lance's girls, as he was a regular with a generous
nature. It helped that Lizzy loved him, and made sure the girls
took good care of him. Guz? Well, Guz just had The Look. He worked
hard to hide it, and to the less discerning, he just looked like a
young guy not long out of college who worked out and liked the
outdoors. But The Look was like a big bright stamp across his
forehead to anyone with more than a little bit of experience with
violence of the professional kind.

We went up to the DJ stand, where DJ/VJ Nate
was bopping to the tunes in his head as he set up for the rest of
the night. He looked up. "You guys with the band?"

"Too right, Nate," Deon said, holding out his
free hand, and went through the elaborate handshake ritual Nate
favored.

"I don't even want to know what you're gonna
play," Nate said, eyeing the soft guitar cases.

"Heavy metal," I said. "Thrasher, AC/DC, you
know, classic death metal."

"Dude, you are so old school," Nate said.

"It's because I *am* old," I said.

"Any requests?" Nate said.

"Not from me," I said. "You guys?"

"Do you have Simon and Garfunkel, "The
Boxer"?" Guz said.

Nate stared at him. Not a known player. "Bro,
this is, uh, a *dance* club. We don't play elevator music in
here."

"I like that song," Guz said.

Deon gave Nate the eye. Nate shrugged. "I'll
see what I can do, bro."

I slapped Guz on the shoulder. "You're one of
a kind, Guz. Let's get set up."

Guz grinned. "How about Stuart Davis? The
acoustic version of 'Psycho Killer.' You got that one?"

Nate tilted his head. "I got some Stuart
Davis, bro. You're fucking with me, right?"