It was a typical Saturday night at the Spring Tavern. Lots of locals playing pool, dancing to the jukebox, smoking and drinking beer. Jimmy poured a lot of it on weekends, and little during the week. Men who use axes and chainsaws don't do much drinking on work nights. Most of them start in the woods before 0400, so early to bed is the norm.
Except for a knot of local Indians at one of the pool tables, it was a pretty white crowd. There were four fresh Coasties from the Coast Guard station up at Neah Bay, and other than that, I knew or had seen everyone else before. That's why the little wannabe shark slipping into my small pool stood out. When the door swung open and the kid sidled through, I knew I was going to have to kill him. How did I know? Why? Instinct and almost forty years experience. The why? He might look like a minnow now, but little fish grow up fast and are harder to swallow when they're full grown and think they're Great Whites.
This was my isolated pond he'd swum into and I didn't intend to become the main course at anyone's table. Since I'm a carnivore, I tend to eat first and ask questions later. I may not have a high school diploma, but I've earned several doctorates in the killing arts. I prefer to be the predator than the prey.
The kid was around twenty-five, six feet plus a bit, and maybe a slim 180, in a worked-out kind of way. His dark hair hadn't grown out enough to hide what had been a military buzz. He wore a supple, thigh-length black leather coat, unbuttoned, and by the way it was cut, I figured he was packing. Probably a large auto-loader of some type with a suppressor in a custom rig in the left armpit. He didn't look exactly comfortable wearing civvies.
The way he moved told me this was someone who didn't feel threatened, and thought he could eat anyone in this puddle. I've been around somewhat longer and knew there were several in this crowd I wouldn't want to tangle with, on my best day. Guys who work with axes and chainsaws in the deep woods are very tough nuts, and will break your teeth if you bite on ‘em wrong.
I watched the kid's eyes travel slowly around the room and pass me by without a flicker of recognition. There was no reason he should know me on sight, although for him to be here, I knew an advance team had swept the area and put together a package on the lay of the land. That's the way it worked, so now I had to figure out if he was solo, or had backup out in the dark.
He was giving off a nervous kind of energy. Not fear. Just a twitchiness. The way he put money on the bar and kept kind of shrugging his shoulders. Frustrated would be one way of putting it. Maybe a bit worried. I wondered what might cause a reaction like that from someone who probably wouldn't duck when the lead was flying. Interesting.
I watched Jimmy behind the bar, wiping glasses. He wasn't acting any different. He was, however, two feet closer to the register than where the glasses were racked. That meant he was standing directly in front of the Government model .45 Auto he kept cocked and locked under the bar. Jimmy, I'd learned, knew when trouble walked into his place of business.
I also knew I'd be taking my dinner out, as I never eat where I'm known. And know me, everyone there did. Not by name maybe, but by the way the herd recognizes a predator. They keep their distance.
Back to the big question: How did I know someone was hunting me, you ask? Part of my protective cover here is the smallness of the community. I know, at least by sight, most all of the local color. Even the tourists have certain vibes they give off. Dress and mannerisms. In like manner all predators do the same, and in humans those in tune with those vibes know when something wants you for lunch. All that and those little tingles of fear spiking along my nerves, bringing me to an alertness I hadn't felt in a long time.
I'd faced no real threats to my safety in twelve years. You see, fear is what keeps your soul in the body you're born in. No fear, no caution. No caution, no survival. I'm all about survival. That's why I'm still alive after nearly twenty-five years in the killing fields. I didn't intend to cut that short by being over confident. No, this hunter was young and full of all kinds of piss and vinegar. Old bulls get to be old by never underestimating young bulls. I would be taking no chances when it came time to put him down.
When the youngster had settled himself at the bar with a long-neck brew and was checking out the other side of the room, I stubbed out my smoke and slipped out of my corner booth behind the pool table. The back door, down the hall from the little boys' room, was always propped open on late autumn nights like this for the folks who like to sneak out back and smoke a little homegrown weed. It's also a shortcut to the parking lot on the west side of the building. I figured it would take him a while to work the room, matching faces and maybe a description, to the crowd. That would let me take a look-see at the cars in the lot. If he wasn't wound too tight, then any partner he might have, would probably feel the same.
The Spring Tavern sits right on the Strait of Juan de Fuca, a little out from Clallam Bay, west along state Highway 112. At 2330 there wasn't much traffic in either direction. The parking lot was quiet as most people by now were either home or settled into where they would drink. Parking was a single line of cars, mostly nose in, along the front of the building, except to the west where latecomers have to find a place to double-up without blocking anyone. That's where he'd have had to park. Bessy, my old rusted beater of a ‘73 GMC pickup was backed in very close to the rear door.
Once clear of the indirect light spilling from the doorway, I stopped to get a feel for the night. After a few moments of hearing nothing except the soft swish of the distant surf against the shore to my right, I moved on. Keeping to the edge of the brush and trees growing above the shoreline, I slowly made my way around the parking lot and stopped again. Jimmy had long since quit trying to keep the back lit during business hours as he didn't want prying eyes watching the rear area too closely.
Waiting for my eyes to acquire some night vision and get used to the occasional car going by, I reconnoitered the vehicles under the trees, letting myself settle deeper into the grooves of my past life. Nothing moved. It used to be watching for the smoke of a stakeout was a sure sign. In these oh-so-correct PC days of fitness, it wasn't something I could rely on. The fall nights were getting decidedly chillier, and a heavy fog was moving in off the Strait, so a heater would be nice for someone waiting. Nothing. A slight onshore breeze brought the kiss of marine mist to my right cheek. All the twenty or so vehicles in sight were showing the glitter of moisture in the reflected light from the bar.
I slowly moved around the verge of the parking area to the first of the last three cars. I recognized Jimmy's old ‘72 El Dorado Caddie and Tammy's almost new VW Bug, both pulled in head first, and I knew the kid was trained enough not to make that mistake. It had to be the new-looking dark blue Ford Explorer closest to the highway, facing east, nose out, a little away from the rest. Just enough to stick out to the trained eye. I waited. From the lights of the intermittent passing cars I could see no one inside.
Moving slowly, I quietly stepped up to within a few feet of its left rear and waited again. Nothing. Keeping an eye on the front door of Jimmy's, and a watch on my back trail, I moved alongside and peered into the back then the driver's window. Empty. Good. Squatting, I duck walked forward, reached in over the left front tire and checked the inside of the fender well. Sure enough, still warm to the touch.
Now, all I had to do was separate the baby bull from the herd and see what came of it. I quickly eased back into the bar, and my booth. The kid was leaning forward, trying to engage Jimmy. I could imagine how that was going. He finally gave up and turned toward the east side of the room. Jimmy's eyes flicked in my direction, and went back to the beer he was drawing.
I'm particular about my friends, and Jimmy's one I'd helped out in the past. He was solid. An old 'Nam Vet who wasn't particularly enamored with anything government. His mouth didn't flap. No problem there.
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 swig 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 a*s.
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.
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