*a/n This story picks up just after the introductory story here "Shelter from the Storm"; The Math Teacher and upcoming Mercenaries R Us take place about the same time too. Zoe is an infant...

Shelter from the Storm

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Chapter Five ~ Be Careful What You Wish For

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[Ranger]

Another job, another roof...I find myself saying that a lot lately. And, oh okay, not really a roof. But still.

We are running a surveillance-to-sting operation for a joint task force of the DEA and FBI. This is a Rangeman contract, not a solo clandestine job, and so here we are camped out in a moldy unoccupied apartment across the street from our targets.

I am currently trying to work in-country, so this is me, Tank, and some fed named Bill. Who knew I'd be nostalgic for caves and goat shit? A-stan is looking pretty good to me—probably I'd stand up and cheer if a Taliban a-hole trotted in about now. But no, we are watching a small group of sleaze-bag drug merchants of the apparently Mexican variety.

Sometimes even a man like me—determined, resourceful, can I say smart?—ends up with a situation he's not 100% happy with. When Stephanie found out that she was expecting our baby, I was so effin' thrilled. A baby, a family, a chance to get things right this time—Ranger Manoso was gonna have it all. And so far I have kept my promise to stick around and be supportive. But, well.

I look through my binoculars, checking the street and then the live feed of the cameras we installed in the targets' crappy flat.

And it isn't as if Steph and baby Zoe are tying me down—no, this is all about me, keeping my promises, turning over a new leaf. Being a regular guy. I mull that over, wondering if I am trying to walk in Morelli's grungy sneakers, be something I am not... I rub my forehead, fighting a headache and the fatigue of utter boredom. The "tell" attracts Tank's attention and he glances at me in surprise; I am not a man who usually gives away anything, but the tedium is overwhelming. I swallow a yawn but Bill, the federal agent, picks it up and yawns too.

A couple hours pass. At long last, 'round midnight, our guys come into their place. We listen intently. Three Hispanic males in their late twenties and a couple of bimbo-esque ladies. The men put their guns down on the cluttered coffee table, one guy picks up a small handful of red envelopes, fans them out, shows them to the other guys.

"Think that's some kind of drugs?" asks Bill.

Tank and I turn and stare at him, then redirect ourselves to the monitors. We listen while they open beers, and hang out in the kitchen. Then they all head out of camera range, picked up a moment later by the next camera feed, showing the hall.

We listen, Bill with a perplexed frown that keeps getter bigger.

I say, "We can relax for awhile—the boss is taking a break with the two bimbos and a couple of porn movies, just got 'em in the mail from Netflix."

Bill looks at me, says, "How'd you get that?"

I shrug. Even I know what Netflix is. [films/dvds you order online, come in the mail, if not av in other countries.]

Bill says, "I took Spanish. I didn't understand a word of that. What was it?"

I say, "Quechua, local Incan dialect."

"Where'd you learn that one?" asks Bill.

I answer, "Long story."

Bill grins and motions to our survey cams. The henchman are lolling on the tatty sofa while drug boss is getting busy with his lady friends, eeeeew. Bill says, "I got time."

Tank and I exchange looks again. Tank says, "Uh...well..."

I go back to watching the monitors and say casually, "Go ahead, man. It probably isn't classified anymore."

Tank hides a grins and says again, "Well...," doing reluctant.

Bill looks intrigued, urges Tank, "C'mon, tell me! I sense a story here! And we got time, we'll be here all night with these scumbags."

Tanks fake-hesitates, then begins, " We-e-e-lllll, okay, but it was top secret, so don't repeat this, y'hear?"

Bill nods.

Tank goes on, "We were new in Special Ops and this was a training mission. They—" he makes finger quotes, 275 pounds of solid 6'6" muscle, he looks ridiculous— "sent us to Cancun, Mexico, we thought it was gonna be an R & R weekend, but no. They flew us out into the jungle, just me, Ranger and half a dozen college girls, gonna see the ruins at...where was that, Rangeman? Machu Picchu?"

"No. That was Peru," I say coldly, egging him on.

"Oh yeah, road trip to Chichen Itza with a side trip to Tulum, cisterns right? Human sacrifice, and all..."

Bill weighs in, "Isn't that a Mayan site?"

Tank snorts. "That's what they'd like you to think...Anyways, this plane we was on, it was old and rusty, remember that plane, Rangeman?"

I nod. "It was so old the windows opened instead of having air-conditioning, didn't—shit, couldn't—fly more than maybe 500 feet above the jungle. Dropped us off in the middle of nowhere."

This part is true and Tank and both grimace.

I listen with half an ear as Tank spins this incredibly long, boring, 100% apocryphal story of being lost in the jungle with these college girls, captured by Incan cannibals! who maybe, probably ate the girls because we never saw them again—but kept us for sex slaves...!

"Sex slaves! So you did it with...?"

"Yeah, learned a lot. Well, mostly they did it to us, you know what I'm sayin' ?" Tank leered. Worse than the finger quotes, geez. "And during our ordeal, Rangeman learned their lingo, Quechua. And so he finally got us out. Army woulda given us a medal 'cept we lost the girls...Anyways, we got out of their camp—Mexican Riviera, my skinny black ass!—and all, but man, we wanted the US of A. We walked miles and miles, the jungle seemed like it went on for..."

Bill's eyes were glazing over, lulled by Tank's way too long story and Tank's ever increasing Louisiana accent. Fake Louisiana accent. Like me, Tank is from New York, we went to elementary school together.

A snore interrupts Tank's account of our third week hiking back to Cancun.

Tank is miffed."Well, damn! He asked, didn't he?"

Like I was saying, you gotta be careful what you wish for.

An hour later Bill woke up, all refreshed, took a piss, got some coffee and sat back down beside me. He said, "Those must been the days, my man. You guys must of had an awesome time."

I don't respond.

"I hear you're staying stateside these days though, is that right?" asks Bill, a mean glint in his eyes.

Nothing from me.

"Got a steady woman, new bambino in the house? That's the rumor anyway."

When I remain silent, Bill looks at Tank and says, "Whaddaya think the kid's gonna do to his work ethic, Tank? Can't be easy, up all night on surveillance, home at dawn—the kid is crying, the wife is bitching, probably you won't even get a hot meal at home, let alone some horizontal mambo action. How's that working for you, big shot?" Bill looks back at me and smirks.

He is paying us back for the Mexican recon story.

He says to Tank, "What's he gonna do now? Hard to be a badass when you're the daddy."

I put my hand on my gun and turn to face the idiot federal agent, but Tank rests his big hand on Bill's shoulder, draws him aside. Tank whispers loudly, "I don't think he planned that far ahead, Bill. He gonna play it by ear, probably."

[sigh] It didn't used to be like this. I used to get respect.

Bill says calmly, "I think the drug delivery is gonna go down just about—now!"

Across the filthy rain-slicked street burst out the sounds of shouts and pounding footsteps, "Go go go!" Freeze, freeze!" We hear them in surround sound, via the hidden mics and through the thin, drafty glass of the dirty windows. The commands are repeated in Spanish then again in both Spanish and English.

Tank and I look at each other and I sigh again.

Quechua, guys. Remember? Quechua.

the end of this story/ series tbc