cell phone number and told Luis to memorize it, and not to write it down or put it in his cell phone. He further advised, “Address him as General. He’ll buy you a beer.”
Luis forced a smile, no doubt thinking about leaving his country and heading into the unknown.
Brodie assured him, “Someday you can return.”
“Sí. Someday.”
Taylor returned with a plastic bag, which she handed to Luis. “Traveling money.”
Luis hesitated, then took the bag. “Gracias.”
Brodie said, “Don’t get robbed.”
Luis tapped the Glock under his jacket. “I am okay.”
Right. Luis had undergone his baptism of fire and he wasn’t afraid anymore. He was scared, which was normal and healthy, but he wasn’t afraid. Brodie recalled when he’d made that subtle transition himself.
Taylor gave Luis a hug and Brodie shook his hand, but neither man said anything. Taylor said, “Vaya con Dios.”
Luis got in the waiting taxi, and Brodie and Taylor watched as the cab went through the open security gate and disappeared on the dark street.
Taylor said, “We really had no right to drag him into this.”
“He volunteered.” He added, “When you’re out there someday, Maggie, in some fucked-up country—without me—you won’t hesitate to recruit a trustworthy local. Kids, pregnant women, Christian missionaries, Buddhist monks… anyone who can help you accomplish the mission.”
“The only part about that I liked was ‘without me.’ ”
Brodie smiled. “I think this is our last assignment together.”
“You can bet money on it.”
“Which reminds me—how much did you give him?”
“Three thousand.”
“Bolívars?”
“Dollars, Brodie.”
“That’s more than I made tonight.”
“You didn’t get beat up.”
“I got shot at,” he reminded her.
“Me too. Thanks to you.”
“Right. Ready for a drink?”
“Been ready since the first bullet went through my windshield.”
“Any excuse for a drink.”
Taylor went into the hotel and Brodie followed. He said, “If we have a drink in the bar, we might run into Worley, which I don’t want. Let’s raid the minibar in the room.”
“Okay, and we can call the boss and report.”
“Right. After two drinks.”
They rode up the elevator in silence. The doors opened on their floor and Brodie said, “Meet you in the living room for a post-op. Twenty minutes.”
“Thirty.” She opened her door and went into her room.
Brodie entered his bedroom and walked to the balcony. The night air was warm and thick with humidity, and the sky was cloaked in a dense cloud cover. He stared out at the city and the dark hills of Petare. One day, he knew, he would meet his fate in some godforsaken shithole. But until that day arrived, he was happy doing what he did. Tempting fate. Giving the cosmos another shot at him. Sometimes he wondered why he did this. Maybe it had to do with Iraq, and survivor’s guilt. Maybe it had to do with nothing more than the thrill of looking death in the eye, spitting in his face, and getting away with it.
Brodie had a feeling, a sense that Kyle Mercer was a kindred spirit, fucked up by war, maybe afraid of peace, and definitely high on danger.
Why did he desert? Why did he come to Venezuela? Why was he in the jungle?
Brodie looked forward to asking him.
CHAPTER 33
Brodie took off his shirt and went into the bathroom to wash up. He noticed a few small cuts on his face, maybe from the glass shards flying around the Mitsubishi. Better than a bullet hole through the head.
He had Pío’s blood on his hands, and noticed his knuckles were swollen from battering the guy’s face.
Brodie washed his hands and face with soap and hot water, and again looked at himself in the mirror, seeing Sergeant Brodie a dozen years ago in Iraq.
The Army had given him the Combat Infantry Badge, a Purple Heart, and a Bronze Star, which sort of summarized and memorialized his time in hell. These uniform adornments meant something to the Army, and to him, and maybe someday his service would mean something to a future civilian employer—or a future wife and children. But only those who’d been to hell could know that every medal and every scar recalled a memory of death, blood, and brutality.
But there was also the brotherhood. The bravery and sacrifice. The extraordinary concept of trusting your life to the man next to you, and discovering that your trust was reciprocated, with no questions asked.
He’d known men who’d gone wrong after a combat tour—drugs, alcohol, crime—and men who’d found God and lost God, and men who’d blotted it all out, and men like himself who tried to find some meaning in their experience,