On the Bourbon Trail – chapter eight

Still wearing the boyfriend sweater, a healthy fuck you to her insecurities, Miljana ran up the front steps, taking them two at a time. The tunes were blaring again today and she pulled up short on the porch listening to the music. It was an odd choice for Tim. She didn't even know they owned a copy of the Guardians of the Galaxy soundtrack, Awesome Mix #1. She danced a little when the track Come and Get Your Love started up, feeling good about doing something for Tim today. He never asked for much, independent shit that he was. She kept dancing her way into the front hall, called out his name and Tim answered with a "Hey," boogieing his way to the door to greet her.

Tim Weaver, CIA operator, not Tim Gutterson, owner of the boyfriend sweater.

Weaver was doing a convincing version of the opening alien world scene from the movie, lip-syncing and spinning. "My new favorite movie!" he said, calling down the hall as he danced, hilarious gyrations and hip thrusts. "I downloaded the soundtrack for you!"

Miljana stopped when she saw him, but Weaver didn't, continuing down the hall and sweeping her up in his dance moves, pulling her around in circles then back down the hall toward the kitchen. Even with the room spinning, Miljana could see that her Tim wasn't home.

"How did you get my password to download it?" She had to scream to be heard above the wall of '70s sound.

"What?"

"Never mind. Do I need to get a security system?"

"No. It's okay. I'm here. No one's likely to break in during the day when someone's home."

She disengaged herself from her dance partner who kept up the disco, not missing a beat, then she sidestepped to the kitchen table and shifted the morning paper, snatched up a remote, aimed it and turned the music down a notch. "That's kind of my point," she said, and it came out very loudly.

"Oh." Tim Weaver looked hurt, a faked hurt, then sly. "You could give me a key."

"Why bother?"

"Yeah, I guess. I have to admit, it is kinda fun breaking in." He grinned wickedly. "Nice hoodie," he said. "You look so cute in it."

"Shut up! Don't go there, just don't!"

Tim Weaver's eyes opened wide and he put his arms up and took a step away from Miljana. "Backing up slowly, submissive posture."

"Grrr."

"The alpha predator proclaims her dominance."

"Fuck off," she said, laughing now, unable to help herself. "Just fuck off about the sweater. How have you been, Tim? We've missed you…sort of."

"No." Finger to his lips, then frantically waving, chasing away some voodoo, Tim said, "Tim is no more. Call me…Stella."

The bizarre fake name-calling routine was actually becoming routine to Miljana now. She recognized that it was Tim Weaver's way of dealing with being a non-person in his black-ops role with the CIA. And it helped with the confusion when he was visiting, no Tim/Tim mix-ups. "You didn't even have to think about that," she said. "You already had it picked out."

"I've had an hour or two to come up with it."

"I like it – Stella. It suits you somehow." She drifted around the house while she talked, peering into corners, looking for a rucksack or a pair of boots, sniffing for gun oil, hoping.

Tim watched her. "Where's Timtoo? You thought he'd be home, didn't you? He's not answering his phone."

"He's supposed to be killing me with bourbon and bacon this week."

"That sounds like a porn movie plot."

"A bit like, I think. Speaking of bourbon, can I get you a drink?"

"Another one? Sure."

"Beer, bourbon…something else?"

"Beer would be great, but only if you'll join me."

"Oh, sure, what the hell. Don't I always drink on Wednesdays?" She opened two bottles and they stood looking at each other, alone together in the house for the first time. "I don't think Tim's making dinner tonight," she said. "Why don't we go to the burger place at the corner when he gets back?"

"Mmm…burger. He working?"

"No, he's off today." She chewed on her lip and paced the house again looking for a clue that Tim had been home. "He's sua sponte-ing something, he said." She ended up back in the kitchen, clueless.

"Ooh, that sounds like fun."

"Yeah. No. Not really."

"How long do we wait?"

"Until I get hungry, or start worrying, whichever comes first."

"Cool."

"So, Stella, what have you been up to?"

"Can't tell you or I'd have to kill you, and that'd piss Tim off."

"I suspect it would. Where's your beard gone?"

"I'm back for a few months – training and shit. Thought I'd take the opportunity to get rid of the crawlies."

Miljana's eyes flicked up to the high and very tight hair, then back to the wicked grin. She wasn't sure whether he was serious or not, probably not, maybe… She took a sip of her beer and thought fondly back to a time in her life before military and law enforcement and secret spy shit.

Tim was putting the final touches on his hide when he heard the vehicles. He crouched down out of sight and watched them pull into the laneway to the house, four of them, white SUVs, serious looking. Ducking down quickly, he slipped into position and set up his rifle and peered through the scope, scanning for license plates and faces.

His nest was set a hundred yards from the back corner of the house, up the rise. This gave him a clear line of sight to the front and side entrances of the garage which had been built perpendicular to the entrance to the property, and it also gave him easy observation of the goings-on in the log cabin, with its open-concept design and large windows across the back for a view of the woods.

The doors of the first two vehicles opened and five men climbed out of each, positioning themselves along the convoy in traditional military security fashion, setting up at fives and twenty-fives. There were weapons visible, at the ready, assault rifles, and handguns likely concealed under bulging jackets, but it was the sight of the men spreading out in so familiar a pattern that sent a chill through Tim and he pulled himself more tightly into his space. It was too late now to extricate himself from the situation, so he wriggled down into the leaves he'd collected, sinking a little lower into the ground. Reaching slowly out to the side, he finished his covering, carefully sliding the branches that he'd set close by over his legs. He hadn't felt it necessary to be so fussy with his screen, but he was grateful now that he'd let his training and caution take over earlier, especially when five more men stepped out of the fourth car, each carrying an assault rifle of his own and carrying it like he knew which end was which. That made fifteen in total. They moved to join the others, leaving six with the vehicles while the rest split into three groups of three, forming into patrols and heading up the hills surrounding the house, two toward the ridge he was hiding on.

"Fuck," said Tim, just a breath, lips hardly moving. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Inching his right hand down his side, he unclipped and pulled his handgun from his thigh holster and brought it back up near his chin, then he lay very still, breathing slowly, as one group passed barely an inch in front of his camouflaged rifle barrel. The men settled into three positions on the hilltops forming a triangle, a group on either side of Tim, covering the back corners of the house, and the last in front with a view of the road in. One of the armed men still at the convoy opened the door on the last vehicle and a suited man stepped out and looked around.

Money, thought Tim, and he took a good look at the face, curious. It was Asian, confident. A second man climbed out of the car, less confidence, definitely less Asian. In fact, Tim recognized this face. It was Wynn Duffy.

Miljana put out some chips and salsa, and she and Tim Weaver discussed the situation in Crimea until finally she took the last mouthful of her second beer and slammed the bottle on the counter. She eyed the clock, then Tim's friend, then said, "How about a burger? I'm starving."

"Did you know they've calculated that the average person spends six months of their life waiting at red lights?"

"What?"

"You're worried, not hungry. If you were just hungry, that fact would make you furious. Burger sounds good though. I'm hungry."

"I'll just leave Tim a note."

"Waste of ink if you ask me." He turned to look at the time.

The clock squirmed, getting more attention than it was used to on a Wednesday night.

"Eight-thirty," said Miljana. "I couldn't possibly nurse a third beer without some food."

"Burgers then – Stella's treat," said Weaver. "And don't worry about Tim. I'm sure he's fine."

"I'm worried."

"I know. And that's why you're going to have a burger with me and tell me what you think Tim's doing and then you're going to go to bed and pretend to get some sleep and I'm going to go find him. And if my opinion is worth anything then trust me, he's fine."

"I know you, Tim, and I know what you do for a living. So your opinion is worthless."

"Well, I was going to say, either he's fine or he's dead. Either way, no point worrying."

"Can you imagine a situation where you might honestly start worrying?"

"Hell, yeah. I thought I got this girl pregnant once…"

"And you have no filters."

"Filters take a lot of energy."

Miljana huffed and the penguin arms came out, flapping nervously. "Tim's gone hunting."

"Hunting. Sounds pretty harmless. Do you know where?"

"I think so."

"Do you know what he's hunting?"

"A philanthropist."

"Really? I didn't know they were in season. Are they dangerous?"

"I didn't think so."

Miljana looked at the clock again. It blushed an eight-thirty-five.

The hours passed, dark now and cold. The men would take turns walking a route which took them spitting distance from Tim, and back. Tim was regretting that he hadn't had time to tuck some food and water into his hiding spot. The initial fear of being caught had been driven away by frustration and discomfort. By ten he had a routine down, shifting to relieve muscles and joints when a breeze would rustle the leaves and hide his movements, in between patrol passes. A few more hours and he decided to risk getting into the only liquid he had with him, just to wet his tongue. There was a bottle of the Old Pappy hidden in the leaves near his face, keeping him company, a temptation. He had pulled it out of the case after he'd carried it up the hill, just to hold it, run his hands over the glass and read the label and gloat over his find. He had set it down on the ground while he worked at the nest, and so the bottle now shared the space with him. Pulling it free after the latest patrol, he carefully broke the seal and took his time pulling out the cork, slowly, slowly, to avoid that pop, usually such a satisfying sound. He set the bottle to his lips, tipped it up and allowed himself a mouthful, just a mouthful, and it warmed him to his toes. Cork back in, content and feeling smugly luxurious, he tenderly slid his temptress under a blanket of leaves and watched another pair of boots go by.

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