Jamaican Wedding Part VII

“I have something to tell you,” DB said.

“Oh, dear God, I knew it, the chicken dance the nice clothes, the neatness. You’re gay,” I said.

“No, damn it I’m not gay. I’m getting married tomorrow.”

“It could be a cover up.”

“It’s not a cover up; well it’s not the kind of cover up you think it is. The truth of the matter is I work for the CIA. This wedding trip was partially planned here so that I could keep an eye on Macho Man when he sold that disk.”

I felt as if my head were going to explode. Just inside the building my friend was most likely lying with several holes in his head.

DB pulled out an ID that looked official. I held it up and studied it carefully. “These water marks look fake.”

DB snatched his ID. “They’re not fake. I’m not going to argue this with you anymore. We’ve got to get in there to save the Captain.” From a backpack he was carrying DB removed some sort of sub machine gun and handed it to me. “Have you ever shot one of these?”

“I was quite proficient with the beginner models, although they generally shot caps.”

“Just pull the trigger.”

“Right.”

“On the count of three I want you to open up the double doors and then I’ll burst in. I’m going to need you to cover me. Can you do that?”

“Of course I can. I’m a quick study.”

“Just do what I say…are you drunk?”

“Slightly but I tend to golf better drunk so I’m sure I can shoot better.”

The look on DB’s face told me that he was having second thoughts about involving me in this little adventure. Sure, I’d fucked up plenty of weddings, formal gatherings, inaugurations and so forth but this was no reason to doubt me now.

“You’re a pretty good actor. I thought you were really mad at me,” I said.

“I was mad at you. Now lets go. On the count of three. One…two…three…”

I thrust the doors open and immediately shots began to fly around us. DB ducked and rolled and then hid behind a box. I shot wildly throughout the warehouse blowing out lights and ripping into a crate of dill pickles. One shot hit the box DB was hiding behind right next to his head. Rum began to pour out onto red Hawaiian shirt.

“Watch where you’re shooting,” DB yelled.

“Drop your weapons,” I called.

“Shut up, I’m the one that’s supposed to say that.”

“Right. Come out with your hands up. We’ve got you surrounded.”

“That’s not what you say. You tell them to get rid of their weapons and lie face down with their arms spread out by their sides.”

“Get rid of your weapons. Lie face down with your arms spread by your sides,” I called.

DB had turned a very dark shade of red and I thought he might have some sort of aneurysm or heart attack. Evidently our techniques were clashing. Of course my technique was based largely on old cowboy movies I didn’t think it inferior to DB’s own CIA constructed ways.

“Screw you, I’m not coming out,” someone called.

“Was that Timball?” I asked DB.

“I don’t know what he sounds like.”

“Me either. Throw your weapon out so we can see it,” I said.

“Shut up,” DB said.

“I think you’re sending him mixed messages.”

“No, I wasn’t telling him to shut up. I was telling you to shut up.”

“Oh.”

“I’m going to go around the right flank and try to surprise him. I need you to cover me. Aim at the roof. I don’t want to get shot.”

“What if I have a clear shot? Maybe I should take it.”

“Just shoot at the roof.”

“Right.”

“Ready, go!”

DB darted out from behind his box and I began to fire. Shots came back at me and I ducked behind a crate but continued to fire.

“You’ll never take me alive,” someone yelled.

It was then that I recognized the voice. It was the Captain.

“Captain, is that you?” I yelled.

“Yes, it is.”

“Well, stop shooting at me.”

I looked out over the crate I was hiding behind and saw the Captain slowly rising from behind his crate.

“Jesus, you almost killed us,” I said.

Slowly I worked my way to where the Captain was in the middle of the warehouse. On the floor were several bodies including Macho Man.

“You killed them all?” I asked.

“He works for the CIA too,” DB said.

“But he’s drunk most of the time,” I said.

“Drinking doesn’t seem to interfere with his ability to hunt bad guys,” DB said.

This was all too much. I grasped my head between my hands. “So, I accidentally shot the shorts off one of the guys you were observing?”

DB ran his hand through his spiked hair. “That’s right. He and Timball stole the plans to make a very sophisticated nuke. They were going to sell it to a contact in the Middle East. I don’t need to tell you what the consequences might have been had they succeeded.”

“We had a homing device sewn into Macho Man’s Euroshorts. He was easy to find until you shot his shorts off. Luckily you were able to get close to him and things worked out,” the Captain said.

I’d never heard the Captain string two sentences together and now he was speaking as if he really were with the CIA. Had his drunkenness all been an act to throw off the enemy? If so he’d been practicing all his adult life to be in the CIA.

“We could use a man like you,” DB said. “You’ve got a couple college degrees. I could get you in.”

“Thanks but I’m not built for this life.”

DB raised his gun. “Well, then we’re going to have to kill you.”

Unfortunately I had left my gun back at the crate I’d been hiding behind. I closed my eyes. “Go ahead shoot.”

“Jesus, I was just kidding,” DB said.

“I need a beer,” the Captain said.

“I need more than a beer to recover from this wedding trip. What does Summer think of you being in the CIA?”

“She doesn’t know. She thinks I work in a hospital.”

I turned to address the Captain but he was gone, off to drink away the day at the pool bar. I’d often wondered what he did when he said he worked for the state. He always seemed to be online and answered my E-mails in seconds during anytime of the day. I thought he’d just been goofing off but evidently he’d been hard at work capturing bad guys…