On the Bourbon Trail – chapter ten

It was a good spot for a tailgate breakfast, parked on the edge of the Daniel Boone National Forest, leaves crispy underfoot, sun peppering the woods through the autumn remains of foliage. Tim had hoisted his pack and his rifle and followed Weaver back to where he had hidden his truck. Weaver produced some food and they sat happily, legs dangling from the truck bed, munching on a cold breakfast, sipping lukewarm coffee and catching up.

After he'd eaten two bagels in record time, Tim reached for the bourbon, uncorked the open bottle and offered it to Weaver with a grin. "You know what this is, right?"

"Whiskey?"

"Not just whiskey. This is twenty-year-old Pappy van Winkle, fresh from the stolen batch bottled this past month. People kill for a taste of it, pay like seventy-five dollars for a glass of it at a bar. They have lotteries at the local liquor store just for the opportunity to buy a bottle when it's released. It's more precious than gold."

Weaver took a drink, swished the liquid in his mouth, tilted his head back and forth, looked up, looked down, shrugged and said, "I don't get what all the fuss is about. It's okay, I guess."

"It's okay, I guess?" Tim snatched the bottle from Weaver's hand. "Give that back, I'm not wasting it on you. Go get your cheap tequila shit and drink that." He corked the whiskey, cradled it in the crook of his arm. "Should it bother me, the fact that I say 'stolen bourbon' and you don't even blink?"

Weaver blinked.

"I'm just saying," said Tim. "It's not a criticism, but it doesn't bother you at all, does it?"

"That rifle I gave you was stolen, remember? Didn't seem to bother you."

Tim eyed the rifle lying beside him. "You never said anything about it being stolen."

"Didn't I? Oh, well, don't worry – the owner's in no condition to report it missing."

Tim thought about that just long enough to decide he didn't want to think about it, moved on. "Nice truck. Yours?"

"Nope. Stole it."

Tim closed his eyes, uncorked the bourbon again and had a second gulp. In that instant, he understood Art in a way that had previously eluded him. In that instant, he walked in Art's shoes. In that instant, he wore the expression that was Art's daily uniform at the office dealing with the likes of Raylan, and himself, and even occasionally Rachel. He didn't like it much, soured up his face even more.

Weaver elbowed him hard. "Just kidding. Dude, I wish you could see yourself right now, that look." He pointed a finger a little too close and Tim grabbed it and twisted until Weaver dropped off the back of his truck still laughing, but relenting. "All right, shit, calm down. I rented it. This isn't Iraq."

"You fucker. What does it say about you that I believed you when you said it was stolen? Fuck, I miss your beard, less of your face to have to deal with. How did you rent a truck? Don't you have to be an actual person to do that, have ID and all?"

"I got ID." Weaver dug into his pocket and pulled out a wallet, a driver's license, a credit card, handed them to Tim for inspection.

"Hadadezer Flint? You pick the name?"

"I figured it would blend in well in Kentucky."

"Not so much in Lexington but you'd fit right in in Harlan. So do I call you Hadadezer, or just Had?"

"Call me Stella."

"What's wrong with Had?"

"You'll confuse your girl."

Tim took another drink, picturing Miljana and Weaver together without him there to run interference. He chewed his lip wondering how best to make it up to her.

"Look at you," said Weaver, and shook his head.

"What? She's worth it."

"Not her – her, I get. You. Go look in the mirror, dude. You got it bad."

"I got what bad?"

"Recce wannabe."

The comment was dismissed with a head tilt and a huff. "Recce wannabe. I need a shave, is all."

"So does the entire recce platoon."

"So does half the country. Maybe I'm going for hipster."

"You're wearing socks."

Tim looked down at his boots tied tightly, as if he needed to confirm that he was indeed wearing socks. "What's your point?"

"My point is you're not so much hipster as operator. You love this shit. Don't deny it. You need to come work with me."

"Are we gonna start this again? You are such a nag. If I'm gonna do anything stupid, it's gonna be hopping a plane to Syria and fighting ISIS or IS, or whatever the fuck you wanna call them, with the Yezidi."

"The Yezidi?'"

"That's right."

"She'd let you?"

"I don't think she'd be happy about it, but she wouldn't try to stop me. She's not like that."

Weaver shook his head. "CIA, dude. We're everywhere. Never boring. Imagine the fun."

"I can imagine, and there's my problem. You all are too embroiled in Washington politics, and spread out all over the place, different country every six months, left with your ass hanging out if you're caught. At least in the military you've got a platoon of buddies who won't leave you behind, not to mention something close to plausible deniability, a nice buffer of generals between you and DC, and an actual declaration of war to point at. Besides, I like to focus on one fight at a time, keep it simple. You guys are like the fucking ADHD of government organizations. Speaking of a declaration of war" – Tim dropped off the tailgate – "come see what I found."

Weaver stayed put, watching bemused as Tim slipped his bottle of whiskey gently back into the case and the case carefully behind the seat in Weaver's truck. Then, tucking his bag beside a tree and kicking some leaves over it, Tim shouldered his rifle and headed back in the direction of the house.

"You are so fucking single-minded," said Weaver loudly to Tim's back disappearing through the trees. "It's fucking weird."

"Hey, ADHD." Tim pulled his keys from his pocket, jangled them up in the air, said, "Shiny thing, shiny thing," without turning around.

With a dramatic shoulder slump that only the trees took note of, Weaver pushed off the tailgate and closed it, locked the truck, kicked a few more leaves around the abandoned pack, then followed behind Tim, complaining as he trudged. "What's so fucking important about this house that you'll worry your girl and not come vacationing with me?"

Tim's voice carried back through the forest. "He said, 'Snipers are cowards,' said it to my face in a crowded room."

"Seriously?" Weaver jogged to catch up. "So just shoot him."

"He doesn't carry."

"Well then, why didn't you just punch him in the face? Would've been quicker and more to the point than all this, whatever this is."

"Bruises don't last; a criminal record, though, that'll sting a while, give him some time to think about his words."

"Dude, that's overkill."

Tim returned a sub-zero smile.

Raylan made no attempt to disguise the fact that he was following Wynn Duffy's man after the locals disregarded his advice and let Mikey go on his way. He waved and smiled at Mikey's angry eyes reflected in the rearview mirror while they both waited at a red light, signaled every turn that Mikey made, kept no more than a car-length back, pulled in right next to him in the parking lot where the RV was waiting. There was a synchronized turning off of engines and opening of drivers' side doors and stepping out onto the asphalt, then Raylan finished the pairs routine with a hand gesture – 'take me to your leader'. It was as if the whole routine were choreographed and Raylan was working through it from memory, anticipating the next move, anticipating yet another conversation with Duffy, anticipating everything but the three men stepping out from behind the RV as they approached the door, each with an assault rifle up and aimed, and not one of them smiling.

Raylan stopped abruptly. "Well, shit. Mikey, you didn't tell me your boss had company."

"You didn't ask."

The door opened and Raylan was greeted by the muzzle of another rifle, and an equally business-like thug stepped out and relieved Raylan of his sidearm and backup and then prodded him inside. It was a full house – three more armed men, and a suit and tie on the couch exuding confidence and ease and a suppressed threat.

Duffy stood before the threat looking like a nervous courtier. He turned his head, a stiff smile for his favorite marshal. "Raylan, what a surprise."

"Not unwelcome, I hope." Raylan spoke to Duffy but kept his eyes on the threat.

"A party can never suffer from the addition of one more guest."

"And what exactly are we celebrating today?"

"Fucked if I know."

Raylan turned in a circle, taking a good look at the crowd, gave them a facetious oriental bow. "So boys, whose birthday is it?"

No one answered.

"Duffy?"

A shrug.

"Well then, a tough crowd. Okay, it was never my best thing, being the life of the party, but I'll give it a shot. Shall we break out the Old Pappy and I'll make a toast?"

"I prefer a martini, Raylan. I don't keep much bourbon. You might find some Jack Daniels in the liquor cabinet."

"I heard that there was some van Winkle tasting going on here."

"No."

"No?"

"I think I might have noticed something like that, Raylan. It's a luxurious coach home, but still, it's not that big."

"You don't have any stolen bourbon?"

Duffy lifted an eyebrow, shook his head, no. "What are you talking about?"

Raylan was beginning to suspect that he'd arrived at the wrong RV. "The stolen bourbon – the sixty-five cases of Pappy van Winkle. Isn't that what Mikey was looking for at Teddy Newton's place?"

"No."

"He wasn't?"

Duffy looked heavenward and sighed and shook his head. It was evident that the head shake was exasperation, not a repetition of the 'no.'

Having a trail as wide as the one he was following end so abruptly left Raylan completely confounded. He wasn't prepared. He lurched forward as if coming to a sudden, unexpected stop. He was staring at a dead end, and he wasn't used to that. "Then what's going on here?"

"I had the misplaced hope that you're unexpected presence here might indicate that you knew what was going on. Apparently not. How's your Japanese?"

They both turned to the gentleman seated silently on the couch. Raylan showed off his star; the gentleman looked unimpressed.

"Does he speak at all?"

"Yes," said the gentleman.

"Okay then, well, who are you and what are you doing here? I'm gonna want to see some ID – passports will do – and permits for all of these weapons."

"Ore wa Yamaguchi-gumi to tsutometete..." He bowed his head slightly and pointed to himself, then added, "Ore no sakazuki ga hoshii yo."

Screwing up his face didn't help his comprehension, so Raylan turned back to Duffy for clarification. "Does he not speak English?"

"Not a great deal. He does, however, make himself understood. I've discovered a gun to the head is better than Fodor's for easy Japanese translation."

"Probably true for any language."

"Likely. For the record, I'd be happy not to test that theory."

Raylan nodded agreement. "So what happens now?"

"I hate to repeat myself, but...fucked if I know."

"Okay, so it's a nice woodworking shop." The Tims stood admiring Craig Franklin's garage, the pristine saws and lathes and drill presses, the large worktable in the center with frames and vises, chests of tools, even a working sink and a stocked refrigerator. Weaver helped himself to a beer. "Let me rephrase that. It's a really nice shop."

"It's a blind." Tim pointed at the closest chop saw. "Still got the cheap-shit factory blade on it. As if. Give me a hand."

Pitching in when he figured out what Tim was doing, Weaver set his beer on the nearest tool chest, and the two men pushed the center table to the side, revealing a trap door. "How the fuck did you find this? That table looks cemented in place."

"No sawdust anywhere. You ever been in a workshop without any dirt, nothing?"

"Nope."

"Me neither. Not possible."

Tim pulled up the trap door and disappeared down a set of stairs, Weaver following. The stairs led into a large finished room stacked with boxes, the closest pile bearing the label Buffalo Trace Distillery.

"Seventy-five dollars a glass, huh?"

"Yep, and more in some places."

"Insane."

They spent a few minutes trying to figure out what else was hidden in the smuggler's hole, peering into boxes and holding up items for each other to inspect, mirrored shrugs.

"Your friends coming back anytime soon?"

"I don't know. They didn't leave me an itinerary." Tim dug a tiny porcelain bowl out of a crate of packing material. "What could you possibly serve in this?"

"Looks ornamental."

"Looks small." He replaced the bowl and the crate lid and started up the stairs again. "We'd better get going. Don't wanna get caught down here."

They put everything back as they'd found it and locked up, then Tim dragged Weaver over to the main house, pointed at the alarm panel visible just inside the door.

"Can you bypass the security system?"

"Sure."

"Great."

Stepping back from the door, Tim waved Stella over.

"Now?"

"No, how 'bout next year when I don't fucking give a shit anymore?"

"I don't have my gear here."

"Why the fuck not?"

"I'm on fucking vacation, dude."

"So am I, and I got all my fucking gear with me."

"We've already established that you're weird, all right?"

"Fuck." Tim dropped his forehead on the window pane, growled at the blinking lights on the panel inside.

"So what do you want to do? How 'bout a beer and some lunch?"

"I wanna get into the house and have a look around and see why Mr. Yakuza and his Crazy 88 are hanging out in backwoods Kentucky."

"You sure they're Japanese?"

"Well, they look Japanese, and they were speaking Japanese."

"You know Japanese?"

"No."

"Well, how do you know?"

"It didn't sound like Chinese."

"What's the difference?"

"Japanese sounds like everyone's apologizing and angry about it. Chinese is…different."

"See, you belong in the CIA. You're such a natural at languages."

Tim didn't want to start that conversation again, brushed impatiently passed his buddy, knocking him into the wall of the house. "They were Japanese."

"Okay, I believe you."

Weaver watched Tim stomping back up the hill in the direction of his sniper's nest, sighed loudly enough that Tim heard him and stopped and turned around.

"Are you coming, or are you hoping they're gonna show up back here with some sushi?"

"Sushi and sake sounds good," said Weaver, once again jogging to catch up with his buddy. "I know a good sushi place in Lexington."

"Enjoy yourself. I'm gonna stay. Let Milja know I'm fine?"

"No. She'll just yell at me. Why don't I stay and guard the bourbon and you go deal with her?"

"I can't. I need to find something to call in."

"You've got a small mountain of stolen bourbon."

"That I found in an illegal search. I need to give a judge a reason to okay a legal search, not something you'd all be familiar with at the CIA. Hey, could you talk to my boss, see what he thinks?"

"He? I thought Miljana was your boss."

"My other boss."

"Does he know you're doing this?"

"No."

"So I gotta do all the dangerous work while you sit here on vacation and play recce?"

"When did you start being such a pussy?"

"I hate you."

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Author's Note: I think I'm caught up, woot. New chapters from here on. Thanks again for your patience. And anyone fluent in Japanese who wants to correct my attempts at the language, I'd love to hear from you.