Goodbye

The three men remaining looked down at the bodies of their former colleagues in silence.

“Fucker,” Julio said and kicked dirt in Tony’s face. That’s about as close as Tony would come to a burial by his ‘friends’.

Nacho merely looked at Tony. They had been close. Same RangeMan class, best friends, partners. Well, partners. No one was friends with Tony. You simply had ‘allied interests’.

He looked around. They were in a jungle. That much he knew. They were in their cargoes and he had a knife. Since his mouth was wired, that was his information to share if he wanted.

He knew that’s why Thomas had given it to him. The ultimate ‘Fuck You’ to the others. The man who couldn’t speak without difficulty couldn’t tell them he had a knife.

He was the most dangerous man here.

Patrice was thinking about his great life in Miami. Great job, good benefits, a chance. He looked up at the tree canopy currently sheltering them from the hot sun. If only . . .

He’d die thinking ‘if only’.

Julio’s thoughts were simpler. Find shelter and food. He had no idea how long they’d been out, no idea where they were, but they needed to figure some shit out quick. Staying near two dead bodies meant they might be lunch. Already, the animals were feasting.

They weren’t dead. They still had a chance.

—oOo—

This was the first day they all had energy to sit up. They’d been here for at least two sunrises. They were hungry and parched. The heat was oppressive but the jungle floor was dark. It had taken forever to get out of the body bags.

From the splatter, Pedro had taken a header from the plane they’d been dropped out of. He was definitely dead. Tony died hours later, weeping for his mamí. Just Nacho, Julio, and Patrice left.

And not one trusted his fellow RangeMan brothers.

For Patrice, this hurt. RangeMan was the closest he’d come to being in a true brotherhood in years. Even when things were at their worst he’d never doubted that RangeMan brotherhood would be there to pull him out of the fire. He’d been loyal to the company, he thought, and loyal to Ranger.

And Ranger had dropped his ass in a jungle somewhere.

Nacho slapped his arm. Fucking mosquitos. This was worse than Miami in the summer. Mosquitoes everywhere and they were eating his ass up. He’d always been a beacon to the little fuckers, since he was a child, and they were having a feast now.

“Shit,” Patrice muttered, moving away from him. “I told you you put on too much cologne. You’re just attracting mosquitoes.”

Fuck you, Nacho thought. You think I don‘t know that? He slapped the back of his neck and came away with a small amount of blood on his finger. Yeah, he was definitely lunch.

Julio had always been practical. “Come on. Survival skills. This is how we became RangeMen.”

That galvanized them. They were still alive and they had a chance. Nacho agreed to hold position while Julio and Patrice scouted. They returned in one hour to find Nacho stripping a tree for water.

“You fucker! You have a knife?” Julio yelled. Nacho nodded and patted his pocket then shrugged.

“Did you have the knife or do you think Thomas left you the knife?” Patrice asked, considering the possibilities. Nacho flashed two fingers and Julio calmed down. Patrice had been a leader in their RangeMan class and was known for being the voice of reason in a crisis.

“Did you find water?”

A head shake no.

Patrice turned to Julio. “You scout anything that would indicate where we are?”

“No,” Julio muttered. He’d always been jealous of Patrice’s natural authority and here it was on display again. Shit.

Patrice stared up at the sky but he couldn’t see through the tree canopy. He’d been military, infantry, two tours in Iraq. He knew better than to make assumptions. Ranger had contacts everywhere, men who owed him favors everywhere. Wherever they were, they were meant to die.

The instructions had been crystal clear and he’d left that fateful lunch too late.

Julio felt the first drop and cursed mentally. It rained at least four times a day and it was about to start. They all felt it. That galvanized them to check the body bags, and their dead comrades, quickly for anything that might be useful, fold them up, and get moving.

—oOo—

When you don’t know where you are, where you are going, and how long it will take to get anywhere, walking seems to take forever. Julio, Patrice, and Nacho continued to trudge along, hoping beyond hope that they would reach something at some point. They stopped the first day after having walked until they were tired and the sun came down. Well, the tree canopy effectively blocked sunlight, so they walked until they couldn’t see each other anymore.

None of them were missing all the strange sounds the jungle produced. Nacho was deathly afraid of frogs and he knew the deadliest frogs in the world lived in the Amazon. He was wondering if that’s where they were, the Amazon. If so, how long until they ran across a frog? Or a jaguar? Or something else that thought they might be tasty?

“Plan?” Patrice said, weary. His feet hurt and he remembered all the warnings in the military about trench foot. He checked. His socks were no longer dry and his feet were definitely feeling … moist. They needed to build a fire and get warm. They needed to eat. This was day three without food.

Nacho snorted. We walk until we die, fucker. What do you think? He slapped his arm again. He’d stopped cursing the mosquitoes. At least someone was getting a meal.

Julio wondered what they could eat. His stomach was grumbling and he was thinking about what he ate last. Tequila, a cubano, and chips. That was right before he went to the club.

All three mutually decided that it was safer to climb inside their shrouds and go to sleep.

—oOo—

Two days later, they realized they had a major problem.

They were sick. Weakened by the unrelenting heat, the four or five times daily rain, the mosquitoes and the walking, they were rundown. Their bodies were burning fat and muscle for energy. They were starting to stoop, then falter. Plans were incoherent, then nonexistent.

They had to rest.

They needed to eat more than the occasional plant that Patrice identified as edible.

They began to feel dizzy and lightheaded.

They needed water.

In the middle of the jungle, no idea where they were, they felt chills.

Scariest of all? They stopped feeling hunger.

Nacho fell first. The fall itself was unspectacular. It was the way his body seemed to deflate and sink into the ground that terrified Julio and Patrice.

A RangeMan was giving up? Giving in? NO! This is not how they would die! They would die on their feet, like men. Not with their faces in the mud and asses in the air, like women.

Not crying for their mamís, like Tony.

Julio and Patrice stopped and stared, uncertain. Julio finally walked back over and rolled Nacho over to check his forehead. He was burning up.

“Patrice?”

“Yeah?”

“How do you feel?”

“Like shit.” Patrice walked over and squatted down, checking Nacho over. His lips were cracked and bleeding and his mosquito bites had mosquito bites.

Julio agreed mentally. This was the worst fucking flu ever. He looked at Nacho and realized that Nacho was too hot for that to be OK. This man was burning up, truly burning up and he needed help. He was waffling on what to do, stay or go, when Nacho cracked one eye open.

There’s a moment, when a man is accepting his death, when you realize that no one deserves to die alone. Patrice, who had milliseconds before resolved to leave Nacho, got comfortable. He glanced over at Julio.

“Your choice.”

Julio looked at Nacho, this fucker who had led him into the jungle because of his mouth, and sat down.

They would wait it out.

Nacho would not die alone.

—oOo—

Beep beep beep beep

I meant to replace that fucking alarm clock. Nacho opened one eye.

God did not hate him.

He was naked, under cool crisp sheets, with enough tubes sticking out of him to look like a Matrix pod. Those itchy mosquito bites were covered in gauze and he was dry.

Two tears slipped from him. He’d survived. A miracle. A welcome miracle.

Como você se sente?”

The voice was soft and sweet. He strained to find it, this miracle, and his eyes slowly focused on a beautiful young woman, her warm hands tucking in his sheets. She leaned over and, for the first time since he’d become a man, the smell of sweat and hair spray on a woman was turning him on.

His body responded.

Nice to know that, even near death, his dick worked.

The nurse scanned his body, noticed the reaction, and blushed. “Impressionante, mas você não pode fazer nada com isso agora. Tentando ficar melhor primeiro.”

Nacho frowned. The language was familiar, but not Spanish. One of his RangeMan brothers spoke it though. Which one? “Español?” It took effort, since his jaw was wired, but the pain of his mouth moving was less than his need to know.

“Português.”

Deuce. Deuce spoke Portuguese, Brazilian Portuguese. He tried to remember the words he’d learned, but most of them were useless to ask useful questions. At the time, knowing how to ask a woman to suck his dick is eight languages seemed like a useful skill, one he’d put to good use in Miami.

Somehow, he didn’t think she’d appreciate the suggestion.

Hospital?

Sim.”

OK, he was in a hospital. Now, “Dos hombres?

She frowned then raised two fingers. “Dois homens?”

Sounded close enough. He nodded slightly and she gave him a half smile and pointed to his left. He strained to look.

Patrice was in the bed next to him, out cold. He assumed Julio must be close by. He smiled at her.

They’d survived.

They would get better, get stronger, and survive.

—oOo—

They all seemed to be getting better. Their fevers broke, the pain lessened, and they had some energy. They each felt hopeful again.

Then Nacho entered the second phase of what they later learned was yellow fever and became the poster boy for the disease. Black vomit and yellow skin. His breath rattled in his chest and he moaned constantly. He seemed delirious half of the time.

Patrice, staring at him, thought he looked like the Yellow Bastard from Sin City.

Julio wished he’d shut up. He didn’t want to know Nacho’s hopes, regrets, and dreams. He had his own. He didn’t want to know that Nacho wanted to fuck the fat chick that lived next door to him in Miami (and having seen that chick, Julio wondered about Nacho’s taste) and that he preferred the girly drinks at the club to shots of straight vodka.

Both men wished that Nacho had never admitted that he and Tony had a three-way with one of Tony’s girlfriends once and it was the best sex Nacho ever had because both of his bed partners were hot. Neither man wanted to know that Nacho had had a thing for Tony.

Patrice was both relieved and disturbed to know that, if the end came, he would remember the entire Rosary. Nacho, who was never known for his devotion, made it through without a single stumble.

They woke up on the fifth day in the hospital and realized immediately that it was silent. They strained to look.

Nacho was gone.

They looked at each other and settled back on their pillows.

Nacho had not died alone.

—oOo—

Because it’s highly contagious, their room had been locked down. The pretty nurse that got them all excited (they refused to acknowledge it because, I mean, she wasn’t hot) was replaced by the men in white spacesuits, taking blood, changing their medications, and making sure they ate, drank, and stayed hydrated.

And they had lots of questions.

Name?

Address?

Family?

Money?

Julio and Patrice could withstand questions. It helped that they spoke Spanish, so the hospital had to wait two days to get an interpreter in there. Once the interpreter arrived, the questions started again. They quickly realized that the hospital was nervous, wondering if they were drug runners or refugees. They assured the doctors and administrators that they were not Colombians, which calmed everyone down considerably. That’s when they realized that they didn’t have a cover story.

Julio, ever quick on his feet, had the perfect excuse. “Somos americanos.”

“Ah!” Everyone relaxed.

Idiot Americans. Someone had robbed them and left them for dead. Gotcha.

—oOo—

Have you ever wondered how you would prove who you were if you had absolutely no way of proving who you were?

No driver’s license?

No credit cards?

No birth certificate or passport?

No identifying information at all?

Healthcare all over the world has two main concerns: One, heal the sick. Two, squeeze you free of your last dime. Brazilian healthcare is no exception and neither was this tiny rural hospital. Yellow fever had a cost and the rich americanos needed to pay.

The doctors and administrators, who were already suspicious of these Americans who showed up out of nowhere without ID, reservations in town, or any working knowledge of the language, refused to let them go without payment. Julio and Patrice were not above sneaking out of town, they even discussed it, but they realized it was a no go.

They were in the middle of the Amazon. They needed to get back to civilization. For that, they needed help, so they needed these people. Besides, these people had saved their lives and treated them well. Sneaking out would be kinda shitty.

They asked to call the American Embassy, which made everyone less suspicious. They were given a phone and the number was dialed. They requested Emergency Services and after detailing their story (carefully crafted to contain as few holes as possible), the consular officer immediately told them to call family back home and have money wired to them. When they mentioned having been completely robbed, no ID, no money, nothing, the consular official was quiet.

“Airline tickets?”

“No. And we can’t get replacements because we don’t have ID,” Julio said. Patrice was impressed with the little liar. “Sir, right now, we can’t leave this hospital because we’re being treated for yellow fever. Our friend is dead. We were rescued by the Brazilian military. We’re in our pants. Everything else is borrowed. We have nothing.”

“My condolences,” the consular officer said quietly. “Do you have credit cards?”

“With us? No. In general? Yes.”

“Call your credit card company and have an emergency card shipped to you. Then you can pay the hospital bill. Just an FYI: prepare for sticker shock. Contact your families and have your birth certificates shipped here. We can use your birth certificate to issue you a new passport.”

“OK. How do you suggest we get to Brasilia? Can we get on a plane without ID?”

“No. Take a bus. The roads are terrible, but it’s your best bet.”

—oOo—

Their credit cards arrived in two days. The hospital wasn’t exactly happy to have to take cards, but money is money. Julio nearly had a heart attack over the bill. He hoped Visa understood they weren’t going to get that money back anytime soon.

Patrice didn’t give a damn. They had the ability to leave and they were alive.

The hospital wanted to know what they should do with Nacho’s body. Julio and Patrice, weak, in grief, and tired, looked at each other and realized they knew nothing about Nacho’s family. They didn’t know who to call.

They told the hospital to bury him.

Julio and Patrice left the hospital weak and in tears. Silent tears. They were still men. They’d never admit to mourning that asshole but they did.

They left the hospital and wondered what to do next. At least they had more information. They were in the state of Amazonas, in the extreme west of the country. They were in the most rural, most tropical part of the Amazon and two days (by boat) over the Colombian border. They’d been found by the Brazilian military, on maneuvers, which is what prompted all the questions. It wasn’t common, but gang violence (in the back of no fucking where!) was on the rise, so their explanation made some sense.

They’d just barely missed being found by one of the native tribes. That would not have been good for them. Not all of the native tribes were friendly and they definitely didn’t like Spanish-speakers. Spanish speakers crossed the borders with their drugs and their guns and killed natives.

“Let’s find a hotel,” Patrice said. Julio raised a brow. “We stink and we need to get bus tickets. I’d like a night on a soft bed before I have to sit in a bus for days.”

Again, Julio seethed. Patrice had the right idea again.

The hotel would be classified as a ‘hell no-tel!” in Miami, but it was clean and neat and the high class option where they were. Julio took a cash advance against his card, paid for the room and went searching for food. Patrice got a cash advance and bought the bus tickets. A quick scan of the city and he grabbed some socks, deodorant, cheap sneakers and two shirts for each of them. He returned to the room and they showered, ate, and relaxed.

They were going to make it.

Patrice decided to test his ability to recite the Rosary. He got through the Apostles’ Creed before fumbling.

Not near death yet.

—oOo—

The trip to Brasilia is best not discussed. By the time they reached the American Embassy, they felt like shit again. Hot, tired, and feeling the after effects of yellow fever, they climbed the stairs and walked inside.

Being an American is wonderful. They asked for the consular officer they’d spoken to and were assisted to his office. Their birth certificates had arrived and both Patrice and Julio had served in the military. The consular official had leaned on the military attaché, who leaned on a friend, so forth and so on, and he’d gotten their records. He was able to verify that the two men in front of him were indeed Julio Melendez and Patrice Hernandez. He took their statement (something about their story was iffy …) then helped them hit a camera store and take official pictures for a new passport.

It took all day but they left with official papers. They were who they said they were. Now, there was the awkward fact that they didn’t have official paperwork to document that they entered the country legally, which they needed to exit the country legally …

The consular official was back to being suspicious, but he finally supplied a lifeline: They would have to get clearance from the Brazilian Federal Police and pay a fine, but they might be able to leave. Off the record? Be prepared to pay a bribe.

Julio immediately started working on his lie to explain how they arrived in country.

Patrice was thinking about dinner and his family. He and Julio found another cheap hotel and cleaned up. Patrice bought a cheap cell phone and a phone card and called home. His family was overjoyed to hear from him. Conchita Delgado and Consuela Cortes had everyone whipped into frenzy, worried about their sons, wondering if something horrible had happened, but the calm non-response from RangeMan had them assuming something was going on and being kept very quiet. Now they could tell everyone that the boys were fine—

NO. Please, do not tell anyone. No one. Especially not RangeMan or anyone associated with them. Pretend he was still missing until he said otherwise.

His family stopped, stunned by his vehemence. Patrice, wishing he were as great a liar as Julio, quickly explained that he was in Brazil. He was just getting over a serious illness but he was safe and would send photos to prove he was fine. Thank you for sending his birth certificate. They’d been robbed but he was coming home soon. This vacation sucked.

His family laughed nervously and hung up wondering what was really going on.

Minutes later, a smiling picture of Patrice arrived in his sister’s email. The sight of him calmed their fears. He’d been truthful. He looked weaker and tired, but he was smiling.

The Hernandezes ignored the ring at the door. They didn’t want to lie to Chita Delgado. They’d just realized that Patrice had not mentioned any of the other missing men.

—oOo—

The ‘Gang of Five’ had always said that they intended to take a joint vacation to Brazil. At least once. The women are acknowledged as the hottest women on the planet, the beaches are known for being nudity friendly, and the nightlife is spectacular. They’d intended to fuck their way from one beach to another.

It was a pipe dream, but one they all cherished on the rare occasion that they struck out at the club.

Julio and Patrice were now there and, in honor of their fallen comrades, they decided to live it up.

Now that they were in Brasilia, they could hit their banks and get money! They took out plenty of cash, just in case, and went shopping for clothes and shoes. They hit the clubs and enjoyed themselves. They traveled down to Rio and started partying again. The americanos weren’t the richest men, by far, nor were they the hottest or most handsome, but they were definitely the friendliest.

And they were great in bed.

They soon found a club they enjoyed and each night for a week they went, drank three shots to their fallen comrades, then started picking out the night’s entertainment. Their tenth night in Rio, Julio was three sheets to the wind and fondling a beautiful woman’s breast when another man walked up.

Que porra você acha que está fazendo?” the man asked the woman coldly. (What the fuck do you think you’re doing?)

Ter um bom tempo. Você pode deixar.” (Having a good time. You can leave.)

Tome sua casa ass menor de idade. Você não o conhece. Ele poderia estuprar ou matar.” (Take your underage ass home. You don’t know him. He could rape or kill you.)

Então, poderia qualquer homem neste lugar, mas ele é legal e ele é americano. Vá-se embora. (So could any man in this place but he’s nice and he’s American. Go away.)

Julio was watching this in amusement. “Is he bothering you?” he asked in Spanish. The girl smiled and, with an arch look at the man, settled in Julio’s lap and wiggled, smiling coyly. The man was not amused. He yanked her off Julio’s lap and Julio jumped to his feet. “Yo, your girl moved on. Respect that and let it go.”

The man stepped closer. “Fique fora disso. Esta é minha irmã e ela tem dezesseis anos (Stay out of this. This is my sister and she’s seventeen),” he hissed, yanking the girl behind him and getting right into Julio’s face. Julio looked around him and stared at the girl, who looked scared and angry, rubbing her arm where her brother was holding it tightly.

Julio, although drunk and unsteady on his feet, was still a RangeMan. He focused long enough to drop the bastard and move the girl away quickly. “Here, let me get you another drink,” he said, leading her to the bar.

He forgot that he didn’t have his RangeMan brothers watching his back. Patrice had already left with his evening’s entertainment.

The girl looked back at her brother, who was getting up from the floor, furious about being embarrassed in front of his friends. Julio, ignoring all of it like he would in Miami, copped a feel of her ass.

In front of her brother.

Her angry, embarrassed brother.

—oOo—

Patrice was mildly concerned when he woke and Julio wasn’t there. He didn’t stress, though. Julio had been waking up and immediately going for a run, trying to regain his strength and get over that fever faster. He usually left a note, though. By lunch, Patrice was wondering what was up. By dinner, Patrice was a bit pissed.

He arrived at the club and the bartender met him at the door. The bartender had found a Spaniard who spoke Brazilian Portuguese and was willing to translate.

Julio’s body had been found around three a.m. in the alleyway behind the club. He’d been stabbed to death. The girl and her brother had disappeared and Julio had been stripped of his money and credit cards. His body was at the morgue and it was probably best that Patrice not come in tonight. Not if he wanted to live.

The Spaniard patted his shoulder in sympathy and walked away, reminding himself to tell all his buddies that, no matter how curvy the ass, everyone left with his buddy. This man had left his friend alone at the club and his buddy died fighting over some woman. No piece of ass was worth your life. None.

Patrice immediately dropped to his haunches and hyperventilated. He wasn’t sure what to do. Ranger had dropped them in the fucking Amazon and he was the last survivor. The only one. Yeah, he could go home and throw himself of Ranger’s mercy, but why? The man had made himself clear: you are dead to me. No man dropped overseas had ever been heard from again.

Nah.

He was the last survivor.

He would not crawl home. He would not beg. He would not set himself up for a worse death.

He would survive.

—oOo—

Knowing he was the last man alive changed Patrice. He left Brazil immediately and made his way to Argentina. Unlike most countries, Argentina welcomed immigrants. He pretended not to know how he’d gotten to Argentina and said he just wanted to make a simple life there.

Argentina had heard that reason in a hundred different languages since WWII. They didn’t care. He was issued a visa and welcomed into the country.

RangeMan brotherhood was dead to him and his brothers, the men he was tight with, they were all dead now. He used his temporary passport to fly back home and shut down his life in America. He sold everything he could, broke his apartment lease, and gave away his dog. He visited family and told them he was moving to Argentina, a bizarre move in their opinion. He told them he met a woman on his trip and had resigned from RangeMan.

They didn’t quite believe that (Patrice was not the kind of man to fall head over heels in love and do impetuous things) but they accepted it. His mother demanded he call home weekly so she’d know he was alive. He promised to do just that.

—oOo—

Years later, Patrice would have his full name, SSN, birthplace and date of birth stamped on a dog tag for him to wear around his neck constantly. He had the same information tattooed to the inside of his left thigh.

If he died, he wanted to be identifiable.

Five years after he became an Argentine citizen, he came home to find an unwelcome, but not unexpected, surprise.

“Sir.”

He motioned for his wife, daughter, and newborn son to walk into the house. His wife was nervous. She knew some, but not all, of his American background and this was the first time anyone had arrived to talk to her husband that she didn’t know. The man was gorgeous, but her husband, who was never frightened, was instantly terrified.

“Patrice.”

“Sir.” He swallowed hard. “How are you?”

Mando looked at Patrice. He hadn’t thought of him in years, but a Chita and his Mamí had finally gotten a hit on the databases. They knew Patrice was alive and they were hoping again. They hoped Tony would be found.

Mando had known for ten years that Patrice was alive. He knew Nacho and Julio were dead. Pedro and Tony were presumed dead.

“I’m fine, Patrice. Excellent. May I come in?”

He nodded and Mando nodded him in first, smiling. Patrice hoped the presence of his family would keep him alive. Mando hadn’t changed. His body still looked hard and he still had that cold grey stare. Patrice was developing a gut. Looking at Mando, he made a pledge to start running again. Mando looked as if he could still beat his ass on the mats.

His wife brought them drinks and stayed to listen. Mando turned that half-smile on Patrice and Patrice motioned for her to leave. She did, slowly and unwillingly.

“What do you need?”

“Tony?”

“Dead in the Amazon.”

“How?”

“Yellow fever. Same for Nacho. Mosquitoes tore them up.”

“Pedro?”

“I don’t know. He went out with some woman one night and I never saw him again.”

“Julio?”

“Killed in a knife fight.”

“Why didn’t you get the inoculations? Plan this out? Leave notes? Call family?”

“It was a last minute decision. We didn’t really think the plan through. We just wanted to get away, take a vacation for a while. Shit, we’d just been fired from RangeMan. I mean, that’s embarrassing as fuck. We knew if we didn’t go then, we’d never go. Our last hurrah as brothers before we all split up for different jobs and lives.”

He’d practiced this excuse for years, just in case. It flowed off his tongue easily and he was mentally amused that Mando also played his part perfectly. They both knew he was lying and he knew Mando was taping this. He was grateful Mando asked his questions in English. His wife’s English wasn’t that great.

“And you didn’t inform your families?”

“My family knows I’m alive. I told them when I regained my memory.”

His family had never told Chita and Connie. Knowing Patrice was alive was all they needed and when he asked them not to tell anyone that he was alive, they agreed. He specifically mentioned not speaking to Consuela Cortes and Concepcion Delgado. After meeting them, his family agreed easily. Those women acted as if they were the only ones in grief and, as much as they would have liked to give them some hope, if there was a chance, no matter how slim, that it would put Patrice in danger again, they would ignore those women for the rest of their lives.

And they would.

“So what have you been up to?”

“I work in security here. Good work. Not as good as RangeMan, but then nothing is.”

“Our leadership is concerned about you.” Patrice shook a little and Mando’s face grew cold. “What should I tell them?”

“I’m happy here. I have a good life, a wife, two children, and no interest in coming back to America for anything other than the occasional visit to see family.” He looked at Mando and dropped all pretenses. “I have too much to lose and nothing to gain by coming back or talking. I’m not stupid.”

Mando nodded and took the recorder out of his pocket. He held it up and stopped the recording.

“That was the official record. It took me 24 hours to find you once you made a move to draw against your bank accounts.” Patrice closed his eyes. He knew that had been a mistake, but he needed money. “It took me 24 hours. Our Leadership knew the moment you requested another card be shipped to you. We were certain when you validated your identity at the Embassy since they pulled your military records. They’ve been watching.” Patrice didn’t doubt it. “Now, Tony?”

“Massive internal injuries from the fall from the plane. My condolences.”

“Thank you.” Cold as ice.

“Pedro landed on his head. I think he died on impact.”

“Nacho?”

“Yellow fever.”

“Julio?”

“Killed in a knife fight protecting a woman’s honor. Turns out, he was protecting an underage girl from her very unhappy older brother.”

“Shit.” Mando snorted. So Julio died protecting an underage girl. Poetic justice. Mando had never forgotten the sound of Sasha Michaels’ tears as she described Julio coming onto her on his birthday.

Seems the man had not gotten any better at identifying legal ass but Mando had to admit, his Alyssa was now fifteen and had the body of a twenty year old. She had the best of Mari’s looks and men whistled at her on the beach and tried to buy her drinks. Elena was twelve and starting to develop.

It scared him. He was grateful his last two were boys.

Patrice sat silently, waiting for the next question. He’d worked as a cowboy, a laborer, a field hand, and a janitor for years, trying to stay below the radar. The janitorial job left him feeling sorry about the way he treated Rafe and Maria and thinking he wished he could tell them. The security job was new and it was good. Good benefits.

He thought about telling what he knew (when he was angry about his exile) but who would believe him? Besides, Ranger Mañoso had skills. He could be found.

He had been found. They’d known where he was the entire time.

He’d keep his mouth shut and keep his life. He got a third chance. He’d take it.

He’d had a wonderful life in Miami. He’d been a free man. He had a good life in Argentina. He wasn’t the same. He’d matured, gotten serious, and settled down. He’d married a beautiful woman, a woman too smart and pretty for him, but she seemed to like slumming it with him (as he often teased her). She was a bank officer and he was trying to move into management at his new company.

RangeMan was his past. He never mentioned them, although he bitterly regretted not being a RangeMan anymore. He would teach his son not to be a part of a clique. Think for himself. Patrice had, but it had been just a few hours too late. If he’d never gone to lunch with Tony, Nacho, Julio, and Pedro, he’d still be in Miami . . .

Then again, he might not be married and a father. He had a good job, a good home, and his money. He had one last chance to make it. He’d also teach his son to respect women, respect all women. That was the beginning of his end. He’d pissed off the women of RangeMan. That’s why he’d been at that lunch.

Small actions that had a big result. A lack of respect had nearly cost him everything.

Now that he was married and had a daughter, he considered his old behavior and was sorry. He didn’t want any man to treat his daughter as he’d treated women. His wife didn’t put up with his shit. Hell, she’d kicked him out twice for thinking that she was going to wait on him hand and foot. She was definitely not his slave, as Mando once said, so he’d gotten his act together.

Mando sat back. “Lovely house. You look good. Got a gut.”

Patrice smiled. “Yeah.”

“Well, Mari is waiting for me. I’ll leave you and your wife, who looks entirely too good for you, in peace.” Mando flashed a smile at Patrice’s wife, who smiled and looked at her husband. She’d hovered close enough to hear talking, but not the conversation. She offered their guest a drink, which he declined. She chanced a glimpse at her husband. He looked relaxed again, so maybe the threat was over.

“How is Mari?”

“Good. Anniversary trip.”

“And you’re here?”

Mando shrugged. “Our life. I needed a little time to handle business.”

Mando stood and stuck his hand out to shake and Patrice took it. For a moment, Patrice felt all the brotherhood Mando used to give him, the brotherhood Patrice disdained thinking Mando was weak. Well, Mando was still employed by RangeMan and on an anniversary trip with his wife. Four of his tormentors were dead in a foreign country, bodies in unmarked graves, and the last was in exile, never to return home.

Mando had won but so had Patrice. They’d both survived.

Mando released his hand and Patrice knew that, as long as he kept his mouth closed, he’d never see another RangeMan ever again, although they would always be watching. He rubbed the cross on the rosary he wore constantly, biting his lip to keep from tearing up at the thought. He truly missed his life in America at times, but … no use in having regrets. They can only eat away at you, like happiness mosquitoes, sucking you dry one memory at a time.

Mando watched him carefully and, for the first time since he’d arrived, he remembered the Army infantry vet that had initially applied to RangeMan. Patrice had been a quiet man, but when you got him away from everyone else and talked to him one on one, he was level-headed. Firm. Determined to forget his time overseas, the shit he’d seen, and live life to its fullest. He’d survived a war zone and Mando understood, having been over there longer than he’d like to remember.

He clapped Patrice’s back and Patrice, startled by the contact, looked up, alarmed. Mando allowed his hand to linger and Patrice calmed and tried not to cry. The brotherhood he’d once been given being given to him again by Mando, the last RangeMan he’d ever see.

“Goodbye, Patrice.”

“Goodbye, sir.”

2 comments

  1. Linda

    Fantastic chapter! I can’t help wondering how our favortie couple is faring in this future time, and what is going on with Rangeman, and the leader ship core. I’m sure Mando had reasons for the visit besides the obvious, and is there a parallel we should be watching for? Not to mention we should never forget just how dangerous the Rangeman world is…

  2. Allyssa

    Wow! Now we know what happened to them. Fabulous chapter. It’s definitely eye opening for Patrice.

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