Chapter 5 US Marshals
The Kuwaitis gave me a stipend until the Army declared me undead. I was grateful they didn't present me with a hospital bill, I didn't expect an allowance too.
I continued to receive rehab in Kuwait as an outpatient for another few months living in a very swank apartment and chauffeur. To pass the time I studied Persian Gulf history in particular Kuwaiti history. One afternoon Colonel Samaha came to visit and noted my reading material on the desk. He was surprised and honored. Two weeks later I had a private audience with the Emir of Kuwait and had the opportunity to thank him personally for my care and accommodations. His reply was to thank me for helping his country.
When the time came to leave Kuwait, I was apprehensive. First I had to testify at the Court Martial. It wasn't pretty. The defense branded me a traitor and deserter. Prosecution presented the other side. I wanted to be done with the whole mess and start a new life. Second, what type of life would I have back home?
Finally my discharge was complete; I was alive and allowed to finish physical and mental rehab at VA Harbor View medical facilities. It was there Bob Simon introduced himself.
"I'm Bob Simon, with US Marshal Service, I'd like to talk to you."
"I'm confused, why would US Marshals be interested in arresting me?" I asked.
He looked at me, "No, I'm here to offer you a job."
Apparently some little fairy whispered in his ear I needed a job, I couldn't continue living on Kuwait stipend forever.
"Do you troll the VA hospitals for new employees? I asked.
"No, I have military friends here and abroad and your name has come up several times."
Physically I was doing quite well. The Kuwaiti doctors and rehab put me back together. Mentally, I had very little PTSD, instead I was super pissed fellow soldiers tried to kill me for their own profit. I was becoming surly at a ripe young age.
I had not returned to the Hamptons and had only sent Fernando a note saying I was alive, deeply sorry for getting Carlos killed, and I needed time.
I agreed to test for the Marshal Service and eventually, when cleared by the VA and government doctors, I became part of Bob Simon's team based in Virginia. In addition to Simon, our team consisted of Antonio Mendez and Ralph Johnson.
The job was mainly bringing in federal fugitives or transporting them from one facility to another. Army Intel gave me the "bloodhound" nose for finding people.
"Road trip" Antonio called. Our next fugitive was in West Virginia. We loaded up two Suburbans with gear and headed out.
Our research, actually my research, said our fugitive usually drank at the Old Mill bar from 2 pm until 3:30pm. In addition to the bar, the "town" consisted of a diner, gas station, and hardware store. The bank and drug store were about 5 miles further down the road. We had to be careful not to be identified.
Ralph Johnson went into the bar pretending he was lost asking directions to a legitimate location several miles away. While there he quickly observed the occupants and building layout. He left and drove off. He would double back , but remained out of sight while we waited for our fugitive, Benson, to arrive. Using binoculars we recorded and checked on the license plates on all vehicles in the area. One came back as a rental by Vincent Plum Bail Bonds in Trenton, NJ. I called their office.
"This is Connie, how may I help you?"
"My name is Cathy Castillo, US Marshals in Brownbourgh, West Virginia. I have traced a rental car to your agency. We like to know your agent's name and fugitive he or she is pursuing. We don't want to bump heads over the same individual."
"Our man is Ricardo Carlos Manoso seeking Dan Swanson."
"Who?" I gasped.
"Our agent is Ricardo Carlos Manoso, street name Ranger. Six feet of Latino lushness, longer hair pulled back and tied. He often dresses in camo. His FTA is Dan Swanson, age 27, 5'10 inches scruffy longish dirty blonde, usually unshaven, tattoo on his abdomen of a scorpion.
"Carlos Manoso," I whispered. "Former Special Forces?" I'm sure my face blanched.
"Yes, ma'am, do you know him?"
I wanted to scream "He's dead," but instead I mumbled "I believe I met him in the Army."
"You'd remember him. He's hot," said the bail bonds' secretary. I could hear her panting.
When I hung up, Bob had been watching my face. "Is there a problem?"
"Yeah, remember my traveling companion in Kuwait?" Bob knew my "war' stories. "Apparently he didn't die."
"Is that going to be a problem for you?" He asked.
Before I could answer Ralph Johnson joined us, "Benson is already here. He is talking to some Latino in the back."
"Let me guess," I said, "Six feet, long hair tied back, super fit."
"You got it."
"He's a bounty hunter out of New Jersey looking for Dan Swanson, not Benson. I suspect he's pumping Benson for information. Be assured Manoso is carrying." How I sounded so professional when my heart was beating a salsa beat I don't know. But apparently it was enough to convince Bob I was in the correct mind set.
Our apprehension plans were altered with Benson already on site and Manoso present. We considered waiting until either Manoso or Benson walked out. The other option was to go in and contain Manoso and apprehend Benson. We were leaning toward the first when a biker with a Harley CVO Streetglide pulled into the gas station several hundred yards away.
"I've got it," I said and removed my ballistic vest, untucked the blouse, undid a few buttons on the bottom and then tied the shirt ends together baring my abdomen. Yeah, some Kuwait scars were visible. Johnson shuddered when he saw them, but I figured it would play to my character. I undid a two buttons on top exposing my generous bust. Pushing the girls up a bit to increase the cleavage I realized only two buttons held everything in place. YIPES! Taking my hair from the elastic tie, I fluffed it and topped it with WV Mountaineers cap pulled low over my face. My Glock went down the pants in back and I reminded myself not to turn around then sashayed down the road to the gas station.
"I need a favor," I said to the biker.
The biker looked me up one side and down the over, glancing at the scars but lingering over my bust. "For you hot stuff, anything."
"My good for nothing, old man ran off and left me to tend his filthy, stinky goats. I've traced his sorry ass to the bar down there. How about you give me a ride there, rev the bike so he's looking at the front door when I go in and blow his fucking brains out."
He looked me over and smirked, "Where you got your gun sweetie?"
Reaching behind and pulling my Glock out from my jeans, "Here."
His eyes shot up. "Holy cow, that's a big gun! I'll give you a ride and rev the bike but after than I'm gone. If you need to hide, come to my place. About 7 miles down the road, near exact. Road forks, take the left road, then a third of a mile down. The gate is open but I'll know you are coming anyway.
"Oh?"
"Yeah, starting with the cattle guard at the gate, the whole property is monitored."
My eyes danced, "You either making 'shine or you've got people lookin' for ya. Probably both."
He smirked again.
"I'm Candy Baca...seriously, that's the shit name my mama gave me," I said and extended my hand.
"I'm Dan Swanson, Swanee for short. Hope to see you again Sweet Candy."
"I suggest you not call me that again," I scowled as I threw my leg across the back of the Harley and wrapped my left arm around his waist purposely resting my hand just below his belly button just above his Johnson. I wanted his mind distracted. I scooted forward wrapping my thighs around his hips and pushed the Glock against his right kidney, "Just in case you don't stop at the bar."
As promised, we arrived at the bar, I got off and he began revving the engine. Using my left hand I pulled his head towards mine and kissed him, forcing my tongue down this throat as a thank you. My mind flashed on hoof and mouth disease. I was close, he chewed tobacco. When I pulled back he said, "Are you really going to kill him?"
"If I did I'd never get to your place. I'm going in and scare the crap out of him, maybe flatten his balls or castrate him." I reached into my boot and pulled out a blade then returned it to the boot. Swanson wisely roared away. With that I turned, tucked the Glock back down my pants and strode into the bar muttering, "Show Time."
The bar wasn't dark so I could do a quick scan without waiting for my eyes to adjust. I spotted Bob and Antonio at the bar with beer bottles in front of them. Ralph was no doubt at the back door. In the back I saw our fugitive Benson and Manoso seated with his back against the wall. Carlos was dressed in tan canvas pants and a woodland leafy camo shirt. He looked like a hunter. His hair was just long enough to pull into a low tail on his head.
I paused for a moment and then hoping the glare from the sunshine behind me and the cap hid my identity, purposely strode with my long legs towards the back. Half way down I began a tirade at Manoso, "You good for nothing fucking asshole, you left me all alone out there in that shit hole and heat. What the hell was I to do with all those stinking goats?"
By then I was standing beside Manoso. At first he thought I was talking to Benson. When he recognized me his eyes grew slightly larger but his breathing remained controlled. I quickly straddled him and planted my tongue down his throat, far better than Swanee's mouth moments earlier. Manoso's body language was all over the place, surprise, wary, receptive.
When I broke the kiss, my hand was behind him covering his gun, "Relax," I whispered in his ear, I'm a US Marshal here for the guy across the table, not you. I know where Dan Swanson is. Sit tight."
With that I turned back to Benson, "You wouldn't leave me with a bunch of stinky goats would you?"
"No ma'am," he answered but his eyes never left my chest.
"Wanna buy a lady a drink?" I was bent backwards so my girls were trying hard to leave my bra and shirt.
"Yeah" he said. I quickly sat on the table, lifted my feet, swung on my butt to face Benson and then slipped into his lap, straddling him, "Hi, my name is Candy...and if you call me sweet anything I blow your brains out. I'll have what you are drinking." And with that I grabbed the glass in front of him and downed the liquid in several large gulps. I was so in character I didn't realize I had just gulped down about 7 ounces of moonshine, 2000% proof, or so it seemed.
Benson' s eyes were wide open. He expected me to cough or spit the liquid fire back out. By some miracle I was able to keep from vomiting. I shook my head slowly in affirmation which was also a signal to my associates to move in. "May I have another?" I asked. When Benson turned I pinned his arms to his body and waited until my guys could take over the situation and hand cuff the guy. When secure, I pushed myself back onto the table out of the way. As Antonio and Bob perp-walked Benson out, Manoso looked at me, grabbed my hand and led me to the dirtiest bathroom imaginable. He didn't need to tell me to vomit; it came back up immediately along with breakfast and the dinner the night before.
Like Manoso, my hair hadn't grown too long after the Army but I appreciated the hand holding back what I had as well as hanging onto my pants keeping me from tumbling into the toilet. There was no kneeling onto the urine drenched floor. When I was empty, Manoso carefully helped me stand up. I went to the sink and rinsed my mouth several times wondering if I could use soap too. I decided not. When I felt I could stand without falling, I turned and looked into those lovely chocolate eyes. The room began to tilt and he reached out and grabbed my upper arms, "I saw you die," I whispered.
"I was buried but somehow the rocks fell in such a way so as to create just enough open space to survive. I had a few broken bones, concussion. I was unconscious when they pulled me out. They told me you died. What happened to you?
"Grenade. I woke up in a Kuwait hospital. The Kuwaitis kept me under wraps for nine months until the investigation on arms thefts was over. I was doing more rehab here when Bob Simon, the older guy in our team, signed me up with US Marshals."
"Tio Fernando really mourned your passing and when he received your note, he was and still is confused since I didn't die."
"I couldn't face him thinking you were dead. I felt responsible."
We stood looking at each other. I thought about our trek through Iraq. I have no idea what he was thinking about but his eyes were getting softer. I expected a kiss but the bathroom door opened. Bob handed me a couple of breath mints breaking the moment.
"Tell me about Swanson," Manoso asked.
So much for intimate moments, I mused. "Rides a Harley Streetglide, lives seven miles south, road forks, take the left, one third mile. Cattle guard at gate, beware, place is monitored. He said he'll know when someone is coming."
Bob left by the front, Manoso and I left by the rear. As we exited the door, Manoso pulled me into him, "I'm really glad you didn't die."
I smiled, "I'm glad you make it out, too. I gazed at him but only saw his uncle. "Please tell Fernando...I really miss him." And I kissed Carlos on the cheek and left.