16. SEALS and their Podcasts
Chapter 16
SEALS and their Podcasts
Taz
There was only one association of mine that did not involve Kai Griffith.
That was my employer, Noam Braun, owner of Braun Bails.
He was a silver-haired old man that hit the gym with far more regularity than men forty years his junior. He was a former 19th Group guy, with a bushy beard, crew cut, and broad frame that still screamed “Military”.
As soon as I walked in, he looked up from his papers, closed a yellow folder, and bellowed, “What can I do you for?”
I walked through his empty office, to his large desk with the Army memorabilia strewn about.
“Got anything coming down the pipe?” I asked, hoping that there was someone I could hunt the way I was being hunted.
I glared through the large storefront window and crossed my arms.
Kai had parked the Maybach in the street parking that was supposed to make downtown shopping easier. He’d backed into the space, so that the front faced me, and he was making no secret about watching us through the glass.
“Feeling a little itchy?” Noam leaned back in his leather seat and creaked under his weight. “Or you need money to buy yourself something pretty?”
“Need the distraction.”
Noam followed my eye line, to the fancy car that was a few paygrades too high for the likes of Mourningkill and let out a low whistle. “Boyfriend?”
“Nope.” I popped the p, and looked away, deciding to pull up a chair and talk to Noam.
He pulled out a drawer, grabbing a box that had the Afghan flag and the words “Tali-banned Cigar Club” with a camel smoking a stogie with a Clark Gable smile.
He handed me a Cohiba, and placed his feet on his table, his muddy boots hanging off the corner of the desk. I matched his energy, as he threw a zippo my way, and we both lit up.
“Good job with that Kyle Lowell guy,” he chuckled, as he puffed out ringlets. “He give you trouble?”
“No more than usual.”
Of the bonds Noam had given me, he never gave the easy ones. One of my colleagues, Ronan Neff, always got the easy shit. White collar scaredy-cats who wouldn’t put up a fight, the random college DUI who thought that he could just ignore his court date, and things like that. People who would go quietly. Boring shit. Blah-blah-blah.
Noam gave me the fun jobs.
“So, you got anything for me, or have I wasted a trip?” I asked, putting my feet up on his desk as the two of us basked in the glory of the tiny plastic fan that lazily turned back and forth in the small office space.
Smoking rooms should come back into fashion. There was something about smoking indoors that felt verboten and decadent. Like I was in Mad Men.
“You think that coming to visit Uncle Noam is a waste?” he said, in that slow, Midwestern drawl, almost sounding offended.
“Come on, you know I don’t make social calls.”
“That I do. I guess you have good timing. I was about to call Sheriff Whitlaw to get information, but since you’re here, I can just dump this steaming pile of shit on you.” He pulled his feet down off the table, and leaned forward to the folder he’d been reading when I got in.
“Lovely,” I said, wrinkling my nose at his metaphor.
“I got something interesting from an old associate of mine. In fact, you just missed him. The guy goes by the name of Brett Bradley.”
“Brett Bradley? Really?” I snorted. “Was Chris America taken?”
I brought my feet down and propped my elbows on his desk, the cigar still between my index and middle finger.
Noam chuckled at my remark and opened the folder. He bit his lower lip as if he was thinking about something.
He swung his knees to the side, so that his back was to the front window.
“Your boyfriend outside… is he a long tabber?” He was asking if Griff was a Special Forces guy. I gave a nod.
I followed suit, turning away from the window and facing the back wall. Noam was making sure that Griff couldn’t read our lips or look at the folder.
“You kids and your silly games,” Noam chuckled, as he turned the folder so I could read it. The target’s name was Mike Trout. Older guy, bit of a beer gut. He had a round face, a weak chin, and a fat, dangling lower lip that was a tell-tale sign of too much dipping.
“My friend, Brett Bradley,” He motioned bunny ear quotes around the name, “works for an agency that contracts with the Company and those fancy pants in Washington.”
Noam was totally unimpressed with the whole thing. I wonder what he would think of Kai, the fancy pants outside. The Griffith family was more Washington than the Kennedys.
“This Mike Trout is here with that new bike gang and those small-dick compensators between their legs - no offense–”
“None taken.” I laughed, quickly eyeing my Ducati that was parked outside.
Noam had no love for motorcycles. He thought they were too loud, inefficient, and flashy.
“It’s one thing for you young people to ride around on those organ donor creators, but a guy my age?” He shook his head in disgust. “That’s a sure sign of a man whose life isn’t worth living.”
I didn’t agree with him. I tolerated his old man ramblings though because he paid me to.
“So what did Mike Trout do wrong?” I asked, looking down at the picture again.
“Oh, you know. Something vague about wanting to overthrow the government, undermine democracy and take back the country or… whatever.” Noam turned his hand in the air to make his point. “Et cetra, et cetra, so on and so forth. He doesn’t like the current president, or his nominees, and wants to blow something up on American soil to make sure everyone knows it –”
“Ah, democracy by explosives,” I chuckled. “Worked for that McVeigh guy.”
“Ah, yes, McVeigh,” Noam smirked. “That happened before you were born, didn’t it?”
“No!” I protested. “I was like… two at the time, or something.”
“So you don’t even remember it,” he said, throwing his head back in a belly laugh. “Ah, you kids these days. You make me feel old.”
“It's not my fault you were in the Army when Christ was a Corporal,'' I said with a smirk.
“Don’t get smart with me, young lady,” he said, and I braced myself for his sarcasm. “Christ was a Sergeant by the time I made it to Group.”
Noam loved talking Army. He had been skeptical when I came in. He didn’t believe me when I said I had been a Green Beret, until I rattled off my class number. He called two days later after he verified my credentials, and it hadn’t been an issue since. Hell, he even stopped giving Ronan assignments in favor of me anytime I let him know I needed a quick injection of cash.
Long tabbers had to stick together. That was his thing.
“So, Mike…” I tapped the picture. “Can I get a little bit more about him? I mean, he was a Navy SEAL. He can’t be hard to find. Don’t they all get discharged with a how-to guide on their own book deal and a podcast?” I looked at Mike’s picture and wondered how difficult he could be. “I mean, you know how to tell if someone was a Navy SEAL, right?”
“They’ll tell you,” Noam said with a laugh. “Kinda like a Vegan or an influencer.”
He did the air quotes again. He had a disdain for so many things, and he liked to put them in bunny air quotes.
“You really should be off somewhere, sitting on a lawn and screaming at kids who play their music too loud,” I chuckled.
“That’d be the life,” he said. Then he went back to the SEAL. “My contact at this company says Trout might be recruiting the Prodigal Sons into his little revenge scheme. They want to roll him up and bring him in for questioning…”
“Before they dump him into a black site never to be seen again?” I finished the thought for him.
“Bingo!”
“And how do I know that this is legit, and you don’t just have a beef with this guy?”
“What kind of beef do you think I could have?” he lifted his silver brow, which still had a small line of black on the arch.
“I dunno, maybe he banged your wife at a Jody bar or something.” I turned my head to Kai, wincing even though he couldn’t hear my off-color joke. Sometimes I forgot that’s what Kristin had done to him. Except it was worse.
Noam pulled on a drawer again and pulled out an object, and bounced it in the palm of his hand.
“Brett Bradley left me this, in addition to the payment that I’ll very graciously share with you,” he said, dumping the large metal disc onto his desk. The disc spun on its edges before settling onto the table. It was a large challenge coin with a tree of life. The branch above ran as deep as the roots below. An old Celtic symbol of community, growth, and some other mystic bullshit.
That wasn’t what was of interest to me. It was the embossed name of the company this illusive Brett Bradley was a part of. The Green name in plain, bold, Times New Roman: Paradigm.
“We worked with them in the service,” I said, remembering the time those spies had come into our team room. A strange looking guy with brown hair and brown eyes, along with a guy who could have been his more charming brother. Corbin, or something. He was staggeringly good looking, and I almost let my mouth hang open, tongue falling to the floor like a red-carpet unfurling.
“So you know how rare these coins are,” Noam said. “And you know how especially valuable an IOU from them can be.”
That was the point of the challenge coin. It was a blood chit. A marker. A favor to be cashed in at a later date. It was an oath given in the most earnest pledge.
“Bring Mike in, and I’ll give you the cash. This,” he said, picking up the coin and letting it glint in the light. “Is all the payment I need.”
I finished my cigar, putting it out into his glass ashtray, which had a dummy bullet embedded into the side, with the phrase “De Oppresso Liber” carved into the brass - the motto of the Special Forces.
“Any idea where those maniac Prodigal Sons hang their hat?” Noam asked.
“Yeah,” I said, remembering Cobra from the other night. “I have an idea.”