Page 94 of Lash

"Second issue was the asset was a legit dumbfuck. Like, listen, most dumbfucks in this world aren’t actually stupid, they just don't always think things through or make good decisions. But this dude, he was…" Rev shakes his head, laughing. "He not only got the day and time of the meet wrong, he was in the wrong place. At the wrong time on the wrong day. Once we were boots down, we had no communication with anyone, so we had no way of getting in touch with anyone to let them know the asset never showed. Our hostel sprang a leak the second day and all our shit got soaked. And then, once we finally made contact with the idiot fuckin' asset, a big ol' fight popped off and we couldn't go anywhere—couldn't get out of the city, couldn't leave our leaky fuckin' room. So finally, middle of the night, we packedour sopping wet shit and piled in that cosmic joke of a van, and we booked it outta there. But the fuckin' thing was so goddamn loud between the squealing belt and the missing muffler that we got made before we'd gone a mile and had to shoot our way out."

Chance snickers. "And that little fuckin' asset, man. Dumb as a post. We were behind cover, right? Hunkered down behind this old piece of wall, who knows how fuckin' old that shit was. And this dipshit kept poppin' his head up to see what was going on. He didn't speak dick for English and none of us spoke his language, and again, some pencil pusher decided we didn't need a fuckin' interpreter."

"It was an actual literal miracle he didn't take one to the head," Rev says. “It was pop goes the weasel with that guy. We'd shove his head down and get off a few shots, and then he'd crawl somewhere else and pop right back up, like duhhhh, please shoot me."

“Dude was stupid," Chance says.

"If he was so stupid, why was he an asset?" I ask.

Chance and Rev shake their heads, guffawing in laughter. "That right there is the million dollar question," Chance says. "Why the actual motherfuckwould you send a whole-ass Recon unit all the fuckin' way to the Congo with no comms to mission control, no ride, no oversight, and no interpreter to protect a so-called asset who couldn't find his own ass if you gave him a map and a goddamn flashlight? Like, what possible value could someone as empty-headed as that dude provide to the CIA? And why the Congo? A billion questions and no answers.”

"Every time I see a white church van," Rev says, "I think about that op. I think about that pipsqueak of an asset justtryingto get himself killed."

Kane launches into an even funnier story of a mission he went on, which featured a runaway cow and a very angry farmer. All the way to our destination, then, the team regales each otherwith stories, and it seems to be a competition to see who can get the most laughs. The stories get increasingly ridiculous, to the point that I eventually lean into Nico again.

"Are these stories true?" I ask. "Some of them seem…quite implausible."

Nico laughs. "They're probably sixty or seventy percent true, ten or twenty percent heavily embellished, and the rest is made up."

"Why?"

He shrugs. "Time-honored tradition among soldiers, my love. You tell stories to pass the time. Life in the military is a lot of waiting around, so you find ways of entertaining yourselves and each other. You sleep, play cards, read books, write letters, and tell stories to make your friends laugh. Especially if you're about to go into combat."

"And lying and embellishing the truth is part of it?"

"Sure. If your friend tells a funny story, it is an unspoken rule that you or someone else has to tell a funnier one. It's just the way it is. And in order to make it funnier, you make things up. Everyone knows it's all bullshit, or mostly, but it's for fun. Later, you might talk to your friend who told the story and get the truth from him." He shrugs. “It is the way of things with men like us." Scarlett, behind us, clears her throat. "My apologies, Scarlett—guys andgirlslike us."

She leans forward onto the bench-back between us. "By the way, Tati, it's more like fifty percent true and fifty percent made up or embellished. And anything that Sol tells you, probably all bullshit."

Solomon hears this and holds up both middle fingers without turning around. "Heard that. And that's just not true. Now Scarlett—she'sa real bullshit artist."

We have been traveling away from Rio de Janeiro and into increasingly rugged terrain. The road switches back and forth aswe climb, and the engine is groaning as if in agony. Solomon consults his phone and then leans forward. "Should be a turnoff up ahead, Rev. Pull over. We're getting close—less than three miles to the estate."

Rev nods, and sure enough, we round a bend and the road widens, the shoulder infringing into the forest to create a place where you can pull over or turn around. Rev pulls over and stops, shuts the engine off and rolls down the window.

Sol consults his phone again. "So, we're gonna have to send a couple people to do some recon. Get the lay of the land, check out possible approaches, see how many tangos Mercado has, and if possible, get eyes on Inez." He glances at Nico. "Lash—Nico, I mean. You and me. Yeah?"

Nico nods. "Very well, then. Let us recon."

And yet again I have to sit idly by and watch as the man I love strides boldly into danger.

the assault

Lash

Solomon and I walk casually down the middle of the narrow dirt road for the first mile or so, chatting easily in low tones—the kind of idle chatter meant to pass the time on a march that soldiers have engaged in since humans first began forming armies.

It's a damned hot day, the air close and thick and humid, the sky heavily laden with dark, angry gray storm clouds that rumble and flash but hold their rain. The dirt under our feet is fine and dust-like, accepting our prints silently.

About halfway into the second mile, Solomon holds up a fist, calling a halt, and crouches, frowning. "So far there's only been one set of tire tracks, which I can only assume are recent, right? I mean, it rains here just about every day, which is gonna wash away older tracks." He indicates an array of boot prints. "Looks like four guys come this way, stop, and turn around."

"We are, what, a mile, a mile and a half from the estate?" I ask.

He nods, glancing at his phone. "About that, yeah."

"Then we had better get off the road," I say. "This is a recon mission, so we cannot afford to risk encountering them."

"Agreed," Solomon says. "You wanna stick together, or separate?"