Four Blind Mice Read Free Page B

happening now is well deserved.”
    “Bet your ass we earned it. Couple or three foreign wars. Our other exploits over the past few years,” said Harris. “Families. Eleven kids between us. Plus we did pretty good out in the big, bad civilian world too. I sure never figured I’d be knocking down a hundred and a half a year.”
    They clinked the heavy beer glasses again. “We did good, boys. And believe it or not, it can only get better,” said Starkey.
    As they always did, they retold old war stories — Grenada, Mogadishu, the Gulf War, but mostly Vietnam.
    Starkey recounted the time they had made a Vietnamese woman “ride the submarine.” The woman — a VC sympathizer, of course — had been stripped naked, then tied to a wooden plank, face upward. Harris had tied a towel around her face. Water from a barrel was slowly sprinkled onto the towel. As the towel eventually became soaked, the woman was forced to inhale water to breathe. Her lungs and stomach soon swelled with the water. Then Harris pounded on her chest to expel the water. The woman talked, but of course she didn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know. So they dragged her out to a kaki tree, which produced a sweet fruit and was always covered with large yellow ants. They tied the mama-san to the tree, lit up marijuana cigars, and watched as her body swelled beyond recognition. When it was close to bursting, they “wired” her with a field telephone and electrocuted her. Starkey always said that was about the most creative kill ever. “And the VC terrorist bitch deserved it.”
    Brownley Harris started to talk about “mad minutes” in Vietnam. If there were answering shots from a village, even one, they would have a “mad minute.” All hell would break loose because the answering shots
proved
that the whole village was VC. After the “mad minute,” the village, or what remained of it, would be burned to the ground.
    “Let’s go into the den, boys,” Starkey said. “I’m in the mood for a movie. And I know just the one.”
    “Any good?” Brownley Harris asked, and grinned.
    “Scary as hell, I’ll tell you that. Makes
Hannibal
look like a popcorn fart. Scary as any movie you ever saw.”

Chapter 9
    THE THREE OF them headed for the den, their favorite place in the cabin. A long time ago in Vietnam, the trio had been given the code name Three Blind Mice. They had been elite military assassins — did what they were told, never asked embarrassing questions, executed their orders. It was still pretty much that way. And they were the best at what they did.
    Starkey was the leader, just as he had been in Vietnam. He was the smartest and the toughest. Starkey hadn’t changed much physically over the years. He was six-one, had a thirty-three-inch waist and a tan, weathered face, appropriate for his fifty-five years. His blond hair was now peppered with gray. He didn’t laugh easily, but when he did, everybody usually laughed with him.
    Brownley Harris was a stocky five-eight, but with a surprisingly well-toned body at age fifty-one, considering all the beer he drank. He had hooded brown eyes with thick, bushy eyebrows, almost a unibrow. His hair was still black but flecked with gray now, and he wore it in a military-style buzz cut, though not a “high and tight.”
    Warren “the Kid” Griffin was the youngest of the group, and still the most impulsive. He looked up to both of the other men, especially Starkey. Griffin was six-two, lanky, and reminded people, especially older women, of the folk-rock singer James Taylor. His strawberry blond hair was long on the sides but thinning on top.
    “I kind of like old Hannibal the Cannibal,” Griffin said as they entered the den. “Especially now that Hollywood decided he’s the good guy. Only kills people who don’t have nice manners, or taste in fine art. Hey, what’s wrong with that?”
    “Works for me,” said Harris.
    Starkey locked the door to the den, then slid a plain,