Too Wylde (7 page)

"What?"

"You wouldn't get it. We'll go shopping. I'm
thinking Kohls."

She turned away from Irina's insulted look
and tapped out a brief response: Do it.

And sent it.

Jimmy John Wylde and Nina Capushek

I took my time walking a lap around Lake
Heron. It wasn't the largest of the string of lakes in Lake City,
but it was my favorite. Not just because it was closest to my
house, but the symmetry of it was something I enjoyed; it was the
most nearly perfect circle of the three lakes. The southwestern
side of the lake was defined by hills; according to local history,
it had been the site of the Lakota Sioux Indian village that had
once been here, and the hillside was where the Lakota Medicine Men
had set up and had their visions, spoke to the spirits, and
communed with the sky and the trees and the lakes. I spent a fair
amount of time sitting there on that hill, when I felt like sorting
things out, and found it to be a peaceful place, a quiet place,
where the din in my head settled down to a barely perceptible
buzz.

Sometimes I wondered if this was what had
drawn me back here to Lake City, after Afghanistan and the
hospital. I wanted to go somewhere, and while I could go anywhere,
I had to wonder: Where? My family was gone. I really had no roots
after I'd cut myself off from my military and OGA family. Here I'd
created a family for myself, cobbled out of the relationships
forged in the floating water world of the night life scene in Lake
City: Lizzy, Deon, Big Dick, Theiu, my loose knit network, they
were the only family I had. Where had I read that, that friends are
the family we choose?

Wherever, it was true. You didn't get to pick
your family, but you got to pick your friends.

So what happens when they die? Do you owe
allegiance to the dead? Do you need to speak to their ghosts? The
old religions had rituals to propitiate the dead and put the
spirits to rest. But that seemed out of place here. If I put it out
of my mind, it was dead.

Or so I wanted to think.

...a mountain top in the 'Stan, the CH-47
chopped apart by heavy machine gunfire, heavy lumps, some ablaze,
my crew scattered around the crash site, and the muj probing with
fire, darting from rock to rock, closing in, QRF out there
somewhere, no guidance other than from the Predator circling above,
maybe a Hellfire would help out but not against this...

...Jimmy John, help me, brah, fuck, I'm on
fire...

...the Glock running dry, fumbling through a
one-handed reload, the whip of rounds over my head, forcing myself
to slow down, get it right, Jimmy, this is all you've got, and then
back over the rock, bap bap bap...

...JIMMY! FUCK YOU! HELP ME! FUCK....

A crow cawed from a tree ahead of me, rose
into the sky, and then two others followed it across the still
lake. I hated getting lost in my head. But wondering if someone had
returned from the dead, and he'd been dead, I'd seen it myself
before the QRF plucked me off that mountain top, that was enough to
get me lost and keep me lost, wasn't it?

I lapped the band shell and headed up the
hill to get a coffee. Lots of people out enjoying the day, the
water, the turning leaves. And me, wandering, with the dead in my
head.

"Jimmy?"

I spun, hand dropping to the hem of my shirt
where my Glock 30 was tucked away.

Nina, coffee and a white bag in her hand,
jocked up for the street in snug fitting Arc'Teryx pants and a
black Smartwool t-shirt under a battered leather jacket to hide
that cut down Glock 21 she sported, hair pulled back tight in a
business-like ponytail and eyes hidden behind VR-28 Oakleys.

"Nina."

"Look like you've seen a fucking ghost."

I just stared at her.

***

With coffee, by the water.

One of the things I prized about Nina was her
ability to just hold the space, just sit and be still. I remember
my dad, long ago, when I was a boy, and the two of us just sitting
and content with that, happy to be in each other's presence and
"keeping company" as he liked to say. There were days when I missed
him, but I never went down to his grave.

"I was just talking about you," Nina said,
after a long sip on her brew, the refill I'd brought her back from
the Coffee Bean.

"Yeah?"

"Lizzy and I."

"Um."

She laughed. "Makes you nervous, doesn't it?
It should."

"Why is that?"

"What the fuck is up with you, Jimmy? You're
off your feed."

With Nina it was always walking the razor's
edge. We'd fought together, killed together, and that was a bond
more intimate than marriage in a warrior's mind. She was a cop, and
a righteous one, and always conscious of where she stood in the
world. Me, I was a ragged edger, and I lived in the world of the
grey; there was no black and white for me and hadn't been since
that mountain in Afghanistan. Talking with her was fraught with
risk, not only because with a cop's unerring instincts she'd go to
the jugular of the story, but as a woman, and easily one of the
most desirable women he'd ever met, she'd be guided ever deeper
into who I am, and I wasn't ready for that.

I think.

Lizzy was in there, deeper than anyone else,
but in her serene fashion she was just as fierce about my privacy
as I was. Or was it privacy? Was it just the vestige of someone I
wasn't anymore?

I had to laugh. Nina grinned at that.

I had to be careful not to confess to murder
so she'd arrest my ass, which she would, unless it was someone she
didn't like.

"You ever think about the people you've
killed?"

She snorted. "That's a wannabe question.
You're in The Club, you don't ask shit like that. You know
better."

"They ever talk to you?"

Now it was full on laughter. "They've got
meds for that, Jimmy. Why, you getting the guilts late in life?
Come the fuck on, Jimmy."

She studied my non-response.

"So..." she said.

So I told her.

Nicholas La Fronte, aka Nico

Nico sported a 2001 Tacoma, TRD Off Road,
with an Old Man Emu lift, Nitro tires, and ARB bumpers front and
rear. The truck was dinged and striped with off road use, but the
real reason was that one time, when he was working in Miami, he'd
gotten into a car fight with some of the Zetas who were on a
working vacation and sporting a customized Hummer that put his
Cherokee into a ditch and smashed it to shit. So the car fight
turned into a gun fight, long story short, three dead Zetas,
including one who was a multiple graduate of certain high speed
training courses offered at Ft. Benning and Bragg, so Lil Nico was
sent off to the frozen fucking north (though, he had to admit,
there was a serious overage of single beauties of Nordic descent
that made him glad those bumpers were there, to avoid more road
damage when his head snapped to cover a local beauty).

Tooling down Lake, then turning to follow
H-Street down to the E-block, check out this place that muscle head
wrestler (he had to give the old guy points, he could probably open
up a can of whip-ass yet on most guys have his age) owned, because
free drinks in a House of Pussy was never a bad thing, was it?

He hitched his Comp-Tac 2 o'clock over to one
side, Glock 19 rubbing his inside thigh a bit, shifted around, his
old Ares Gear Ranger belt battered and worn but perfect under his
faded denim shirt that hid his rig. He was an investigator, but in
his heart of hearts he was a manhunter and a gunfighter -- always
had been, always would be. These days it wasn't the muj but the
domestic variety of bad guy, though he hoped to get in on one of
the Federal slots that supported the Task Force over the water in
the Big Sandy, one of these days, if they'd ever get him the fuck
out of here. But his was not to reason why, his was just to do or
die, and so it was off and running on tracking down some military
grade boom boom.

Interesting case, though. Not your run of the
mill parking lot swap of cash for explosives. At least one layer of
cut-out, and that meant someone who'd thought about it, done it, or
at least read the right thriller novels. So a higher grade of
felon, which made things interesting. And the possibility (oh, joy)
of working with the fucking locals, in a town that had layers upon
layers of bad guys on the streets.

Ah well. At least he'd found a good gym, and
and a titty bar with free beer. Things could be worse.

He wove in and out of traffic, hands
positioned properly on the wheel, just like The Gryphon Group
taught, enjoying the feel of his truck flowing in and out of the
traffic. A light vehicle, but man with them bumpers and dropping it
into 4 wheel, he could climb over or through just about anything
someone tossed his way, including a fucking Hummer this time
around, though he'd make up for light weight with his fucking
superior driving skills. Hell yeah.

Hard to miss The Trojan Horse; big gleaming
brass, gold and mahogany entrance with a huge mural of a wooden
horse being drawn, not by Athenian warriors, but nude women right
out of a Frank Frazetta panel. Big parking lot, well lit, staffed
by two Hispanics in red coats, who were studiously bland when he
pulled the beat up Tacoma into a space, and tossed them the
keys.

"Here you go, hermano. Don't let me catch you
sitting in there listening to my stereo, you sabe?"

"No worries, man," the younger one said.
"We'll take care of your ride."

"Cool."

Inside, a seriously hot Scandinavian blonde
with breasts that defied gravity's bobble and perked straight out
at him greeted him with a smile.

"Hey there! Welcome to the Trojan Horse!"

"Hey there back! Is Lance in? He asked me to
stop by..."

"And your name is?"

"Nico."

"Oh, Mr. Nico! Yes, Lance is expecting you,
but he's going to be busy for few minutes, so we have someone to
look after you...just minute, 'kay?"

She picked up a phone and whispered into
it.

After a moment, Nico turned as he felt
someone coming up on his gun side. And what a someone...short,
maybe 5'2", but perfectly formed with breasts, waist and hips in
accord, black mini-skirt, white blouse opened nearly to her navel,
spike heels, net hose, long black hair down her back, brilliant
blue eyes...

Oh, my goodness.

"Are you Nico?" she said, a faint hint of the
South in her soft voice.

"I most certainly am, miss," Nico said. "Do I
detect an origin somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon line?"

She dimpled. "Well, I *am* a Bama
girl..."

He extended his arm, waited till she tucked
her hands into it. "Take me, Bama. I'm yours."

Love that giggle..."My name is Mia..."

"...and I'm glad to meetya," Nico said.

More giggle. "...and I'm supposed to take
care of you till Lance gets back."

"Well, I'll let you take care of me, and
we'll let Lance take care of himself, 'kay, Bama?"

She led him into the club, and Nico was at
home. This was no titty bar, this was raw naked orgy blow jobs on
demand with premium Scotch and Dutch Chocolate upscale GENTLEMAN'S
CLUB. Just his kind of place.

The girl up on the runway working a pole was
a ripped athlete of the Scandinavian blonde kind, but her routine
set her out -- serious acrobatics, not just the lazy stand and
twitch, but someone who had a routine, worked the music and the
thin afternoon crowd hard, and obviously worked just as hard on her
physique.

"You like?" Mia said.

"I like. Very much."

"What's your pleasure, Nico?"

He pressed his arm hard against his side,
pinning her small hands against his pecs. Grinned at her. "I'm
partial to steel magnolias..."

She was completely relaxed, leaned into him
with the ease of a woman who handled men all the time. The swell of
her breast was real, no enhancement there. "Well, Nico, let's get
you started with a drink. Let me guess, you're a bourbon kind of
guy?"

"How astute of you."

"Oooh. I like guys who use big words."

***

Happily slouched down in a leather booth,
feet kicked up on a leather davenport, Mia tucked in beside him and
signaling to the on-duty cocktail waitress to keep his Kentucky
reserve fresh, a bevy of dancers stopping by the table to say hi
--

-- life was good in Nico world.

"So what's Lance's story?" he said.

Mia sipped on her iced Coke Lite. "I thought
you were friends."

"We just met."

"Oh. Well, I don't get into Lance's business.
I'm *part* of Lance's business."

"I mean what did he do before he established
this mighty fine establishment?"

"He's got what he calls his 'I Love Me Wall'
over there," Mia said, pointing one long nailed, elegantly painted
finger.

Nico took his time untangling, got up.

"Where you going?"

"Check the man out. I'll be right back. Hold
my seat."

He wandered over to the wall, a full length
stretch of mahogany with multiple framed pictures and several cases
mounted, with championship wrestling belts, trophies, and beaucoup
pictures of Lance T with wrestler types he recognized and more than
a few mainstream movie celebrities. Some with folks he didn't
recognize till he leaned in and checked the fine print; apparently
wrestler-dude collected author celebrities, too. David Morrell, the
Rambo guy, Janet Evanovich, mystery gal, some others, hey, Marcus
Wynne, thriller guy -- Nico liked his books, F. Paul Wilson, the
Repairman Jack guy...

Interesting. Who'd a thunk it?

He wandered down the hall to the palatial
men's room, done in shades of white marble, pulled out his JoyStick
and drained it into a gleaming urinal, washed his hands, and winked
at himself in the mirror.

This whole Federale gunfighter thing was
under rated, if you asked him.