WALKABOUT - Taking a Mulligan (116 - 120)

116

Jasmine

Jasmine looked out the window of the Boeing 777, at the reflection of the sun on the blue Pacific. Her thoughts at the moment were not on the job ahead, but of the events of the past several days.

The memorial service held for Ty Hamilton at the Winters-Snowden Funeral Home had been short and simple. A recording of Scottish bagpipes playing Amazing Grace, followed by a preacher. “I never got the opportunity to know Ty Hamilton,” he’d said, as if that fact alone had major implications regards where the deceased would be spending eternity. “But I’m told he was a good man. A man who loved his family. A man who would help friends or strangers in times of need.” And on it went for perhaps ten minutes, touching on the familiar themes—It is not ours to understand God’s plan; We are in this world, but not of it; etcetera—finally ending in a prayer for Ty Hamilton’s soul and for forgiveness of the collective sins of all those in attendance.

As the visitors filed past the grieving family, expressing sympathy and pledging to help in any way they could, a recording of Elvis Presley singing My Way played in the background.

“Not a lot of people came out for Dad,” Travis Hamilton observed.

“Your father was always one to keep to himself,” Dianna said, clutching the arm of Dallas Remington for support. “The only friends he had were the guys he flew with.”

“Where are they?” Raquel asked.

“Scattered all over the country, I suppose,” Dianna said.  “I doubt many even know that he passed.”

“I called Randy Chamberlain,” Travis said. “I found his number on Dad’s desk. You know, in that old rolodex? Randy said he would call the union, let them know. He said they usually have some pilots show up in uniform to show their respects. Randy said he would be here today.”

“I didn’t see him,” Dianna said. “Or any of them, for that matter.”

“Yeah, well, that’s Randy,” Raquel said. Jasmine, stood next to her, with a hand resting gently on Raquel’s shoulder for emotional support.

Jasmine noticed Raquel’s brother, Travis, giving her the eye. She was used to it. Guys ogled her. More so when she was together with Raquel. Lord only knew what thoughts he was having. He averted his eyes when he realized Jasmine was looking at him.

“Some people from the church have brought food to the house, Raquel,” Dianna said. “If you could come by, I’m sure they would love to see you again.”

“We have to go, Mother,” Raquel snapped. “It was good seeing you.” She then turned to Travis, said, “Love you,” kissed him on the cheek, turned on her heel and headed for the door.

Jasmine stood there a moment, not knowing quite what to say. It had saddened her to see the display of hostility from Raquel toward her mother. It also saddened her to know that, other than the blonde woman who had been sitting alone in the third row, she, Jasmine, was the only one in attendance who had shed any tears.

117

When the contract had come in, Jasmine had thought it ironic that she would be travelling on business to Page, Indiana, home of her lover and life partner, Raquel. Small world, she had thought. But then, when she studied the details, it became apparent that the world was in fact even smaller than she at first realized.

Despite the fact that Raquel Hamilton was estranged from her parents, with a burning hatred, or perhaps anger, toward her father, Jasmine could not bring herself to kill Tyler Hamilton. Her partner, Mulligan, had no qualms about it. He never did. And Raquel knew that it would do no good to let him know just how close to her this particular target was and ask him to take a pass. And even if they did, another professional would have been brought in to cover the job.

So she attempted to do the next best thing: Kill Mulligan and anonymously warn Ty Hamilton. She never liked Mulligan all that much, anyway. She followed him to the boat launch, waited for the right moment, and shot him. Unfortunately, she had only wounded him and he had still managed to complete his end of the contract. With Hamilton out of the picture, it was up to Jasmine to sabotage the brakes on the van and run it off the road, eliminating the remaining targets.

Now, she had to figure out what to do about Mulligan. He was bound to be pissed. People tend to take it personally when you try to kill them.

118

Jared Mulligan

Tahiti

The ship docked near center of Papeete, the capital of French Polynesia. From my balcony I spotted a public market across the street, with its numerous cafes, shops that sold wine, jewelry and fabrics, souvenirs, and everything in between.

Street traffic was heavy. City buses, cabs, tour buses. Put them all together in a congested street, and you get a lot of noise.

Me being an aspiring writer now, I booked a tour of the home of James Norman Hall, one of the coauthors of Mutiny on the Bounty. There was plenty of time before the tour began, so I waited a while prior to disembarking, opting for a cabin service breakfast on my balcony rather than fighting the crowd.

119

Jasmine

Her friends and family knew her as Jasmine Figueroa, but, this being a business trip, she was travelling under an assumed identity. Jasmine was a professional assassin. A killer for hire.

The flight from LAX to Papeete had not been pleasant. To begin with, it was a business trip, and she was in coach, mingling with the masses. Once this job was finished, she would make a point of making life difficult for the person who had booked her reservation. To make matters worse, many were with a tour group, a bunch of farmers going to tour the plantations, agricultural processing facilities of Tahiti. Everyone was in a festive mood, drinking and acting foolish. Everyone but Jasmine.

One of the best kept secrets in the United States military is its joint services female special operations unit. It isn’t always a matter of brute strength or endurance, although those attributes are highly desirable. Deploying in groups ranging in size from two to a dozen or more, there are places women can go, targets they can get close to, and missions they can accomplish that men simply cannot.

Jasmine knew a dozen ways to eliminate a target and make it appear to be a death by natural causes. And a hundred or more methods to stage an accident. The Army had taken the raw talent she already possessed as a recruit and developed her into a killing machine. Special ops took her to the next level. An assassin. Cold. Calculating. Ruthless. 

Her first trip to Indiana had been difficult, to say the least. To begin with, she’d been forced to shoot her partner, preventing him from fulfilling his end of the contract. That was personal.

After that, she’d sabotaged and run the van loaded with college kids off the road. That was business.

120

Raquel Hamilton had not wanted to go to her father’s memorial service, but Jasmine had insisted. “Your father was not perfect,” she had told Raquel. “So what? Neither are you. He loved you anyway.”

“Well, he’s got . . . he had . . .  a funny way of showing it,” was all Raquel had to say about that.

Jasmine almost broke her promise. Almost told Raquel that Ty Hamilton had called her a few months back. “I don’t understand, Jasmine,” he’d said. “I really don’t understand why Rocky feels so much animosity toward me. And toward her mother.” He broke down, cried.

At first it disgusted Jasmine. ‘Crying is a sign of weakness,’ she thought. ‘He would never survive in my world.’

But then, he said, “I just wish I knew what I did, or what I said that turned her against us. I’d do anything. I’d give anything, just to know, so that maybe I could try to make it right. If you know, could you tell me? Without jeopardizing your relationship with her, I mean?” And she knew that he was sincere. That his calling her, his crying, did not reveal his weakness. It revealed his character. His love for his daughter.

And that was why she insisted that Raquel attend the memorial service. And it was also why, a few days prior, she had shot her partner. She didn’t know him well, but she knew—Ty Hamilton was a good man. She only wished that she had been successful in preventing Jared Mulligan for fulfilling the contract.

She kept thinking of Raquel, back home in Atlanta, alone. Was she grieving? Or was it already back to life as usual?

 Jasmine felt a twinge of guilt for having lied to Raquel the past two years about what she did for a living. How do you tell someone you are an assassin for hire and not have it change the way they think of you? As far as Raquel knew, Jasmine was travelling on business, working for an international real estate developer.