1
AKR

Garrett Walker sat at a small table, enjoying the sun on his back and the gentle tug of trade winds that carried the sweet smell of oleander and frangipani. The Ballyhoo Restaurant was not the kind of watering hole he would normally choose; he preferred a workingman's bar, but right now, dressed as he was, he would have been very much out of place. At the Ballyhoo there was always a steady flow of tourists coming and going, and since he might have to be here for some time, it was an enjoyable spot to wait. The lunch crowd had thinned out a bit, only to be replaced by those who came to drink and socialize. His table had a clear view of the Fort and Banks Street intersection and the famous Circus Clock Monument, which dated back to the French occupation of Basseterre. There was enough activity below to hold his attention while he waited.

"Another, sir?" the waitress asked pleasantly.

Garrett glanced at his watch. "Why not?" He smiled. "And could you also bring me another mineral water?" A few minutes later she returned with a bottle of Perrier and a tumbler charged with Cane Spirits Rothschild and Tang. She gave him her best smile and retreated from the table.

Garrett grinned to himself, knowing that she had marked him as a "player," a wealthy visitor who might be a big tipper. He eyed the drink with some apprehension. CSR, a sweet liquor made locally from sugar cane, mixed with Tang, a grapefruit soda, was the national drink of St. Kitts. He had already choked down one of the sweet concoctions for appearance's sake, but he was not so sure that he could do another. He would have much preferred a scotch. The whole charade made him uneasy, and it was not just the sweet drink. His normally straightforward military haircut was moussed and pulled back flat across the top of his head. He was dressed in a red T-shirt, a white linen sport coat with pleated matching slacks, and woven leather loafers—no socks. Everything felt a size too big. The heavy gold necklace and diamond pinkie were gaudy and made him feel awkward, as did the gold Rolex strapped to his wrist. His rich deep tan and wraparound sunglasses completed the look. AKR had suggested a diamond stud in one ear, but he had drawn the line with a definitive "not on your life." Garrett had his limits about masquerading in public in what he had come to call his gigolo cover.

They had arrived two days ago and tied the boat up in the Basseterre Marina. The fifty-five-foot Viking motor yacht had turned a few heads as they entered the harbor, but boats that size and bigger were not unusual. It was ostentatious, but all part of the plan. They had chartered the boat out of San Juan and made the run down through the Virgin Islands and the northern portion of the Leeward Island group, thoroughly enjoying themselves. Anchoring at night, Garrett free-dived for langouste and occasionally shot a small grouper. The Viking, named Ragtime, had an amply stocked bar. It had been a leisurely four-day run. If all went well, they would be finished in another day or so and be back on their way.

Garrett found himself thinking of Judy and how much she would have enjoyed the trip, especially the journey through the islands. It would have been great to have her along, but he would have wanted her well on her way before they got to the business end of their venture. Her presence would have been natural enough, even enhancing their cover, but knowing Judy Burks, she would have been hard to get rid of once the action started. AKR had been the one to propose this idea, and it was not a bad one, but Garrett had ruled it out. His employer, Guardian Systems International, would not have objected, but Garrett's time in the military had conditioned him differently. Men, at least men in his line of work, went overseas to do their job, and their women waited for their return. He had always felt that was as it should be, even though he seldom had a woman waiting at home for him. Despite the yacht and the elegant tropical setting, this was business, and perhaps it would become nasty business before it was over. As much as the lively Miss Judy would have added to the enjoyment of the voyage down to St. Kitts, there were issues that might come up that he did not want her to be a party to. They were on the same side, but not on the same team. Still, the thought of her and the audacious way she would have carried off her part in this venture brought a smile to his lips. His smile only deepened as AKR made his entrance onto the Ballyhoo deck.

He bent to say something in the waitress's ear, his hand casually dropping to her waist. She moved imperceptibly closer to him, smiling broadly. Then she squealed and danced away from him, heading for the bar to get his drink order. As he made his way to Garrett, every woman in the bar had her eye on him. He paused when he got to the table and gave Garrett an infectious grin.

"Tonight?" Garrett asked quietly.

"Tonight, mon," he replied, then gracefully swung into the chair across from Garrett.

Akheem Kelly-Rogers had joined GSI only five months ago. Except for some training exercises, this was his first actual operation—their first together. In the short time that Garrett had known him, they had become almost like brothers; they were so alike—and yet so different. Garrett was a team player, but not one to be easily given over to deep friendships. However, with Kelly-Rogers it had been different. Much to Garrett's surprise, they had become close in a very short time. Initially, he had been a little disturbed when Fagan had hired Kelly-Rogers without first consulting him. His résumé was impressive, and on paper he seemed ideally suited for the work they did. His military credentials were impeccable. But their work was dangerous and demanded absolute trust. Garrett more than trusted Steven Fagan, but he also found it odd that Steven hadn't talked with him before he actually hired AKR.

He vividly recalled the morning of their first meeting. Garrett had been up early, preparing for a morning run. They were at the field training site on the Big Island of Hawaii. GSI occupied a large tract of land on the western slopes of Mona Kea, midway between Kailua and Waimea. It was here that Steven Fagan developed the infrastructure and facilities to support the training of the Intervention Force, or IFOR. Garrett had come to work for GSI soon after the completion of the complex. It was a modern, compact military training facility and completely self-contained. Garrett knew that Kelly-Rogers had come in late the night before, and assumed that he would still be sleeping. The sun was just coming up as Garrett finished his stretching routine. Suddenly a tall man was standing before him, arms folded, regarding him quietly. He was dark, with chiseled features, broad shoulders, and a very narrow waist and hips. Except for an inch or two in height, he was built very much like Garrett.

"Mind if I run with you?" he asked. He spoke with a crisp British public-school accent.

"Not at all," Garrett replied, and they set off at a brisk trot.

They were at three thousand feet, well above the lava fields of the Kona Coast, and the trail wound up the side of Mona Kea, gaining close to five hundred feet every mile. The chill in the air did not entirely mask the smell of decaying vegetation from the previous day's heat. The only sound was the padding of their running shoes on the crushed lava roadbed. In the growing light, Garrett glanced at his running companion. He was not really black, but more of a deep chocolate color, and he ran with ease and grace. Garrett was aware that the new man was in his early forties, the same as himself, but he carried himself as if he were much younger.

"How far do you want to go?" Garrett asked.

"How about until one of us drops?" Kelly-Rogers replied.

Garrett didn't say a word, but gently picked up the pace. Not another word was spoken, nor would there be until it was over. The two men were silently locked into battle, one that could only end when one or both of them had reached the end of his endurance. There are few men who can willingly turn a casual morning run into mortal combat, but Akheem Kelly-Rogers and Garrett Walker were two such men. In many ways, it was the basis of their relationship and their evolving friendship; neither was a man who would yield to another, which amounted to asking for quarter. When they arrived back at the base camp two hours later, both of them were out of breath and spent. Neither man could have maintained the wicked pace had the other not been there.

"Garrett Walker," he managed, holding his hand out.

"Akheem Kelly-Rogers," the newcomer replied firmly, taking Garrett's hand. "But my friends call me AKR."

Copyright © 2005 by Dick Couch