Page 97 of Exit Strategy

“So,you’re going to spend days out at your cabin, working to fix what Kyle and Sadie said was wrong with it, and Roan will be going with you?” Callie asked. She looked stunning in some smart wool-blend blazer and pencil skirt, a pair of power heels making her calves pop and adding a few inches to her height. Given the way her breasts seemed higher and more pronounced had to be Sadie’s handiwork, some fancy brassiere or something. Callie radiated confidence and sophistication.

“Aye, that’s the plan,” I said.

“But you’ll be back here, at the end of the day?” she asked.

“We both will,” the captain said, his eyes meeting Sadie’s. It seemed like it was ultimately her consent that mattered here. It was a strange dynamic they had between them. I could see Kyle’s complete indifference. It wasn’t a cold indifference, like apathy, it was the vibe that those American Army Rangers shed like condensation from a freezer.

“I’m not sure that I’m a fan of the idea, but I can tell he’s getting restless,” she said and gave me a head nod, and then back to the captain, “And I can see that mister fix-it gleam in your eye. No point trying to stop you?”

“None,” he said, a polite smile on his face.

The drive to the cabin seemed to take forever, but it was a different perspective when I was in the passenger seat, rather than driving. The captain insisted on taking his big white Range Rover, and we made a brief stop at a mom-and-pop hardware store, the place looking like it was about two years from going out of business. When we left, the back of the Rover was loaded down with all the tools and hardware we might need for the task, and the people that ran the place seemed like they were going to break down in tears.

The captain said that was something he did. He didn’t spend money at the big box places, especially now that he could afford not to.

The cabin was worse than I expected.

The tree that fell on the cabin was a century white alder, and the angle of the fall crushed the porch, the front wall of the living room, and smashed the entire roof. Everything inside had been exposed to months of weather, a Maryland winter, and possibly a big bloody storm or two. I let out a sigh, and the captain clapped me on the shoulder.

“Do ye remember the Wolfhound the Mad Lads put together?” he asked.

“Aye, that beast truck they put a pair of 20 mil cannons over the cab?”

“Oh, that’s the one.” He smiled. “You remember what happened to it?”

“Sure, some Talibani flipped it with an IED and hit it with small arms and a few RPGs.”

“How bad was it?”

“Well, no one died, and we took care of the cunts with the guns. The lads had the ‘hound running in like a week,” I said.

“This here is a lot less complicated than a shot to shit Wolfhound, innit?” He gave me another encouraging grin.

“You know a lot about repairing and rebuilding houses, Cap?”

“Oh, fuckin’ aye,” he said. “I’ve given two the business now, putting armor plating inside drywall and plaster without damaging it, that’s a fair trick. The last place had a drone launcher, an automated gun system, a bloody minefield, and more electronics than you can imagine.”

“The current house?”

“Oh, shite no,” he said. “Better armor, a bigger and better panic room, and it has active security from a private company, and the local police.”

“The local police?”

“Oh, yeah. Dropping a hundred grand into the local police fund and shaking a few hands was quicker and cheaper than what I spent on drones and Soviet surplus. We have a discrete hotline to ICPD, about as close to the Bat Signal as a bloke could want.”

“But what about the business?”

“To the ICPD, our business is being rich, and that’s all that matters to them.”

“Fair, fair,” I said.

We set to work. We both went after the alder with chainsaws. Debris was cleared, and I ended up getting a good fire going. It was easier to let the trash burn than try to haul it all out. The good news was that a few of the guns were perfectly safe, and the liquor supply survived.

Having a few sniffs of proper Irish spirits wasn’t the brightest thing when handling fire and chainsaws, but there were a few times over in-country when we were manning million-pound vehicles, lit up on stimulants and local hashish. A little of the old country spirits just gave us that camaraderie.

The second day, we had something the locals called a bobcat brought out, so that as we cut the big tree up, this comically small mock-construction vehicle could pick up the pieces and move it away.

It proved useful again when the truck of treated lumber arrived and we used its attachments to unload the wood, and then to set beams for the new roof.

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