Chapter 5: Rekindling the Fire

1715 Hours (5:15 PM) Mountain Standard Time, Monday 16 April 2012

Downtown Denver, Colorado

Upon arriving at the Denver 24 Hour Fitness gym closest to Ted’s Montana Grill, I placed my button down shirt, slacks, and sport coat, into the garment bag from the ranch. From the go bag I brought from Quantico, I grabbed a USMC PT shirt and shorts, athletic shoes, and my shaving kit, and added them to the garment bag. Ensuring my rental 2012 Ford Edge was locked, I strode into the gym, raring for a strenuous workout. I figured it would be just the thing to help clear my mind before getting together with Loni Hellström.

I guess they don’t see many Marines in Denver. I got plenty of stares on my way to the locker room; not many of them friendly. A few minutes later, when I started my warm up routine, I got even more stares. Mostly at my snazzy titanium and polymer lower left leg. Pumping iron helped me push back many of my concerns. The endorphins muted the twinges of pain and stiffness from protracted traveling. By the time I finished with a long hot shower I was feeling much better. Out in the parking lot I stored everything in the back of the Ford Edge, and ensured the privacy panel was in place. With firearms in my rental vehicle, I didn’t want anything to attract car prowlers.

I parked as close as I could to the entrance to Ted’s Montana Grill, then sent a text to Loni letting her know I had arrived. I was fifteen minutes early. While I was standing in the shadows, scouting the terrain, and observing for snipers, IEDs, or whatever; Loni texted for me to meet her in the bar. Walking to the door, I reconsidered my resistance to obtaining a disability parking placard. When I met Loni in the bar, she urged me to get a drink while we were waiting. I asked for Glenmorangie Quinta Ruban, and Loni ordered another “Eruption” something with Canadian whiskey and a cherry. Before our drinks arrived, the hostess led us to our table; a waitress brought our drinks to us.

After the hostess left us with our menus, Loni said, “Order what you want, within reason, this is on Uncle Sam.”

“Playing fast and loose with an agency credit card,” I teased her.

She blushed, and said, “tonight is supposed to be a working dinner, however, most of the guys claim that they were going to meet with C.I.s or some such. I figure what’s good for the gander, is good for the goose.”

“I can’t argue against that. Besides, in the ‘Stan, it’s not unheard of for OGA’s to pocket a couple of bundles of hundred dollar bills to take to a meeting with tribal elders. Not all of that money ended up in the pockets of tribal elders,” I told her.

She quirked an eyebrow, and said, “OGA’s?”

“Other Government Agency. CIA, mostly, but they could be DEA, Contractors, DIA, NSA, or even Feebs,” I said, and winked.

Loni grinned, and said, “Just to keep this on the up and up, I’ll tell you the Marines should be aware that MS13 is expanding their presence in the USA.”

“Should that be of concern to Quantico?” I asked, semi-seriously.

She replied, “Of course. You know it’s not just Marines at Quantico. We have a presence too. As do some other agencies. However, what I have been hearing lately might concern your family. As I recall your folks live in a pretty isolated area. Although these bad boys are focusing mostly south of Denver, they are constantly expanding northwards. Drugs, guns, human trafficking, home invasions, and other violent crimes. These are very scary dudes! Many get their whole bodies, even their faces tattooed. Subtle they are not. Nor do they like to leave live witnesses.”

“These aren’t Mexicans, they’re Columbians, or something, right?” I asked, only mildly interested.

Loni said, “No. Originally they were Salvadorans living in Los Angeles, California. They spread back to El Salvador, Honduras, and Guatemala. They have spread to Mexico, and now Texas and Colorado. I don’t think the Marines have had to deal with them much. Maybe they get alerts at Twenty Nine Palms. SEALs, and Green Berets from Seventh Group are a little more involved. Enough talking business.”

She continued, “How are you doing?”

“Oh, okay. You know ... actually, I hope you don’t. Losing your family is tough,” I said.

Loni looked down, took a big swallow from her drink, and replied, “It’s just mom and me. Ever since I joined the Marines, we’ve been sort of estranged. She never wanted me to join up, let alone deploy. She was proud, I guess, when I graduated from the academy. She came to my graduation. It seems she respects the Feebs more than the Marines. We don’t talk much.”

“Gramps was really proud of me. He razzed me about switching to the Marines. Both he and my dad retired as Sergeants Major from the Army. Cavalry. Buffalo Soldiers! I’m the sixth generation. Only Gramps and my dad were professional soldiers. My other ancestors served a hitch or two, then became cowboys. My Great Great Great Grandfather John Randall was the originator of our line. Before that they were slaves, I suppose, but for all I know they were free Negros.” I told her.

Continuing my family history, I explained, “Great Grandpa Amos Randall joined the Army, and served in the Southwest with General Pershing. Lieutenant Patton, a future General, was his Troop Leader, during the Mexican Expedition. He got out when the Army was being massively downsized after World War One. He was a Top Hand. What most folks call Cowboys, they are properly called Ranch Hands, or just Hands, the owners are Cattle Men. Unlike most of his peers he didn’t drink or gamble his money away. At the beginning of the Great Depression, he seized and opportunity and bought Big Boulder Creek Ranch.”

“That’s not an official name. Colored Folks were careful back then about being considered uppity. A Black Man owning a ranch was a mite unusual. It helped that he was a Top Hand, and had a good reputation. He was generous to the folks in the area too.” I said.

Loni was rapt, when I wound down, she said, “you know so much about your family. Mom’s family is German, I can’t recall if they immigrated before the First World War, or the Second. My Dad’s family is Swedish, they’ve lived in the Seattle area for more than a hundred years. Mom lives in Ballard, that’s a neighborhood north of downtown Seattle. We lost touch with his family when my parents divorced in ninety six. He was a crab fisherman, and went missing when his boat sank in Alaskan waters five years ago. He always called me Daddy’s Little Girl, but I hadn’t seen him much for a decade before he died.”

We both sat silently for a bit, finished our drinks, then Loni asked, “How about the rest of your family? I thought you said your dad didn’t like living on the ranch. He lives in Denver I think you said? Is your younger brother deployed or did he get out?”

I looked in my empty glass before saying, “My father died a couple of years ago. Cancer. Probably from Agent Orange in Vietnam. My mom died in a car accident two winters after we met. Grandma died a couple of years ago. The flu. Influenza kills up to a hundred thousand people a year, most people don’t really realize that. My older brother, James Junior was in Building Two of the World trade Center on September Eleventh. They recovered his graduation ring. My younger brother, John, named after my ancestor who fought in the civil war, he was a Ranger. He was KIA in The ‘Stan in Oh-Eight. It’s just me now.”

Before she could respond, I added, “My Uncle Jacob LeBeau, my Father’s half-brother. He lives in Denver. There’s his mom, too. I guess.”

The void that followed was relieved by our waitress bringing our meals and drinks. We had ordered earlier, during a break in the conversation. Both of us chose a specialty of the house, Bison meat, she chose Bison meatloaf, and I chose the brisket. Loni selected the house merlot, and I got a porter from a local micro-brewery. The food was better than I expected, and our conversation shifted to more pleasant topics. She had a Kahlua brownie, and I had cheesecake topped with wild berries; we both enjoyed a snifter of brandy.

By the time we finished desert, we were both smiling, Loni smothered a giggle, and she blushed when she asked me, “Would you join me for a night cap?”

“I would enjoy that very much. I must ask if you are sure? Might this result in complications, if your colleagues see me?” I stated.

She was blushing brightly, and admitted, “I was hoping you would want to spend the night with me, so I reserved a suite at a different hotel than where they are staying. Foolish of me, because I didn’t consider that you might be staying with your family.”

Loni had taken a taxi here, so we were walking to my rental vehicle, when I told her, “Lucky you. An explosion knocked my home off its foundation, so I was going to spend the night in a dinky hotel. Alone.”

“What? An Explosion! I thought you said your grandfather died of a heart attack.” Loni exclaimed.

I opened the passenger door for her, offering her a hand; I had a moment to collect my thoughts as I went around and got behind the wheel, before I replied, “It’s confusing. Disturbing, actually. From what I was told he called 9-1-1 from the kitchen, however, that part of the house was severely damaged by an explosion. Neither my uncle, nor I have been told much. My uncle is a lawyer with a locally prominent law firm. He told me he has an investigator looking in to it.”

She gave me the address, and while I was entering it into the GPS, she said, “If you want, I can look into it using some resources and influence of the FBI. Unofficially, of course.”

As I began driving, I told her, “You probably shouldn’t. I would refuse you outright, however, an hour after I arrived in Nederland, the county sheriff came to my table in a local diner. He said he was just paying his respects. I love my grandpa, and he had earned the respect of some of his fellow ranchers and others in the community. But unless they had a connection, I’m not aware of, I don’t know why the sheriff would make an hour round trip just to speak to me.”

Loni said, “that’s extremely odd. The sheriff? How would he even know if you were in town? Don’t they notify service members of a death in the family through the Red Cross, not the sheriff’s office? Or is it different in rural areas?”

I told her, “We are in Boulder County, which is almost a suburb of Denver, although the western part of the county is kind of remote. Ward, the nearest town, has a population of a hundred and fifty, Nederland, in the opposite direction is significantly bigger, but still a small town. Gramps was a regular at Ned’s, the restaurant where I had my second breakfast, and I was greeted by name. There was a sheriff’s deputy eating his breakfast when I came in. but that doesn’t explain Why the sheriff would want to keep tabs on me.”

“Has your grandfather had any difficulties with either criminals, or possibly law enforcement, or government officials?” She asked.

I told her, “I doubt it. He sold of his cattle herd nearly a decade ago. A couple years later he sold most of the horses, and the bulls. He leases out the grazing rights to some nearby ranchers. Also, some other small deals, like Christmas trees.”

“Might he keep his problems from you?” Loni asked.

I shook my head, and said, “Unlikely. Maybe when I was first wounded. I’ve been in physical therapy for months before they fitted me for a prosthetic. I’m still in the Marine Corps Wounded Warrior Regiment. Since I’ve been back from The ‘Stan, we talked on the phone kind of regularly. Now I wish we had talked even more, or I had taken some of my leave. He knew I was reconsidering finishing my twenty. Gramps wanted me to continue the family tradition, and make the BBC a working ranch again. He wouldn’t push me, but he might have nudged me. He would have told me if there was some kind of threat.”

Loni nodded, but didn’t respond to my assertations. She asked me to drop her off at the main entrance, so she could check in while I parked. I chose to park in the garage, I didn’t want to walk by the front desk with a gun bag. I slung the gun bag over my left shoulder, so that it rested on my right side; if necessary, I could access either the shotgun or pistol. I slung my laptop bag over my right shoulder, and carried my go bag from Quantico in my left hand. I left my uniform in the Ford Edge. Just as I arrived at the elevator, Loni texted me her room number.

I didn’t encounter anyone in the elevator, nor the hallway; Loni opened the door as soon as I knocked, and she grinned, and said, “Looks like you are moving in.”

Shrugging my shoulders, I muttered, “all things considered, I didn’t want to leave either my guns, nor my computer in the rental.”

Soberly, Loni said, “Guns? No, it’s not a good idea to leave them in a vehicle. You might be surprised how many weapons are stolen from the vehicles of law enforcement officers every year. Even Feds. Are you legal? Or am I going to have to cuff you?”

“I don’t swing that way. So, it’s a good thing I have a valid concealed weapons permit from the state of Colorado. If you pull out some handcuffs, you’ll end up wearing them, because I recall a little girl who enjoys being restrained,” I said with a leer.

“Show me.” Loni said.

“Break out your cuffs,” I taunted her.

Loni pouted for a moment, then burst into giggles, and said. “No. Show me your firearms. I expected even your rental SUV would have a gun rack, Cattle Man. See Cowboy, I was listening! Seriously, I’m more adept with weapons since we last met. I am interested in learning what firearms you choose to carry off duty.”

As I set my bags down, I teased her, saying, “Show me yours, and I will show you mine!”

Loni drew a Sig P229 from a discrete holster on the back of her right hip, she ejected the magazine, then pulled the slide back and caught the ejected round; she observed the chamber, then handed it to me, smirking as she said, “Show me yours.”

Laughing seemed to make her angry, until I unzipped my bag, and pulled my Sig P229 from the shoulder holster. I cleared my pistol too, then we exchanged weapons. Her pistol was chambered for .40 S&W also. Not surprising, actually; the caliber was developed at the request of the FBI after the Feds decided the 10mm pistol cartridge was too big. Performance was what they desired in the aftermath of an ill-fated gun battle in Miami in 1986 between two serial bank robbers and a dozen FBI agents, resulting in the death of several of the good guys. Unfortunately, the modified M1911A1 pistol designed to use 10mm ammo had a grip too big for many FBI agents, especially female agents. I noticed there was no government serial number, it was probably Loni’s personal weapon.