Blood & Tacos #2 (4 page)

Considering the book’s Prologue murdered a man carrying a briefcase,
I was a little shocked to find another dead man by the end of Chapter One, and
another dead guy in Chapter Two. Not to mention the dead woman in Chapter Six,
and the other dead woman in Chapter Nineteen.

Yeah, I know, there can never be too many murders in a crime novel, right?
Usually for me, the bloodier the better. But the deaths in this book happen
so quickly I found myself rereading sections just to understand what was happening.
And the death of the first woman was so senseless, and her character made to
be so helpless that I found myself angry and unbelievably irritated, as her
death was caused by the learning-curve of one of Barrington’s "elite"
members. Even more frustrating is that that same elite member makes the same
mistake later in the book, which, unsurprisingly leads to the death of the woman
in Chapter Nineteen. I thought these crime fighters were the best of the best?
Yeah, not so much. Or maybe Mr. Hamilton just doesn’t know what the word
"elite" means.

And then we have Barrington, or Barry as he likes to be called, burning the
midnight oil as he seduces a beautiful woman, meets with financial leaders,
and shows off his mariner and astronomy skills while "watching"
Trask gather secret intel. Then, just when you’re about to give up on
Barrington’s peacemaker ideals and savior-like qualities, he bursts onto
the scene with a .50-caliber machine gun attached to his Lear jet (not a euphemism
… although that might have made the book more interesting) and sinks the
very ship that’s about to bring war to two nations.

That last scene … made me giggle.

But it also reminded me why I liked playing the role of Charlie Townsend so
much. Playing the damsel in distress has never been my kind of thing. But playing
the role of the character that doesn’t really do anything doesn’t
sound like much fun anymore, either. I mean, really. Other than giving out assignments,
what did Charlie bring to the team? Nothing, absolutely nothing.

So, flash forward some thirty years or so later when I’ve been given
this treasured book to read, and I’m thinking Barrington Hughes-Bradford
would have been a pretty fun role to play, too. I mean, really, Barry is James
Bond sexy with a ’70s porn–style look. He’s like Charlie Townsend,
only his Angels are all men. He’s giving the orders and busting a few
moves along the way. Something tells me that even without reading the other
books in this series; Barrington Hughes-Bradford always saves the day. In the
words of my friend Kari, Barrington is the perfect "man-whore, puppet-master
protagonist."

So, if we dump the porn-star looks for a sexy femme fatale style, keep the
male Angels, and switch the cocktails to Coca-Cola Classic with extra ice …
you’ve got another win-win situation for a girl like me, ’cause
I’ve always wanted to be a puppet master. Haven’t you?

WANTED: MALE ANGELS WITH SOLID SIX PACKS (of Coke, that is) *wink wink*

I probably wouldn’t go out of my way to recommend this series, but even
with its flaws and over-the-top storyline, I found this book in the series rather
entertaining, even comical at times. Would I read the other books in the series?
Well, I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that I’m curious …

Sabrina Ogden is a grasshopper by day, wife, mother to two adorable beagles,
and a lover of books and dreaming. She spends her free time reading, playing
on twitter, and editing for the online web-zine Shotgun Honey. You can find
her sharing personal stories and writing book reviews at
myfriendscallmekate.com
.

 
By Greg Peppard, Jr., 1st Sgt., US Army (Ret.)

(discovered by Jimmy Callaway)

San Diego, California, is a big military town, and lifelong resident JIMMY
CALLAWAY has met many retired soldiers in his time. Greg Peppard, a grizzled
former Army sergeant, often frequented the neighborhood convenience store where
Callaway worked for a number of years. Over time, a grudging friendship grew
out of a shared fondness for Lee Van Cleef movies. It turns out Peppard had
more than a few stories published—stories he based on his tours in Vietnam
during the final ten years of his military service, from 1963 to 1973. His work
never cracked the big men’s adventure market, appearing in such forgettable
titles as Man Digest for Men, General Macho, and Highlights for Green Berets.
This story is one Peppard never managed to sell before he quit writing altogether
and bought a small hardware store.

Mr. Callaway would like to thank Matthew C. Funk and Johnny Shaw for their
assistance in restoring this piece to a publishable form.

It was 3 a.m. and the VAA Nightclub was enjoying another quiet evening. The
rain pattered its soft staccato on the tin roof, accompanied by the dribble-drop
of the leaky patches in the ceiling into old gourds. Mama Tu had gotten the
children to sleep around midnight and allowed herself to doze in her chair.

But just as she was nodding off, Yen awoke, fussing in her crib. Mama Tu gripped
the worn bamboo arms of her chair and hoisted her tiny, wrinkled form up and
over to the infant. It wasn’t just that Yen was the fussiest baby she
had seen in all her years, it was that she was the saddest. As if the oddly
rounded eyes had glimpsed her future and that of her homeland. It pulled at
a place deep inside Mama Tu every time the baby girl looked at her.

Wrapping the child in her blankets, Mama Tu picked her up. As she walked the
baby around the room, she sang softly:

But in Saigon, peace never lasted for long. Just as the lines in the baby’s
tiny forehead softened into slumber, a big man wearing a burlap sack for a mask
kicked in the front door and aimed an AK-47 at Mama Tu. Two others followed,
hurriedly closing the door behind them. They were also armed and masked—one
an even bigger man, and the other a skinny young woman.

Yen did not rouse from her sleep.

Xuan Loc was forty miles north of MACV, but it took Corporal Mathes nearly
an hour to get there. He’d learned to drive on the freeways of Los Angeles,
but that was nothing compared to Saigon during rainy season. The greasy rain
slid down in lazy sheets. Motor scooters and Renaults slalomed through the traffic,
horns bleating and braying. It was a little easier going once outside city limits,
and Mathes finally arrived at III Corps and met with Major Le.

"Bonjour, Corporal," said the little major as he returned Mathes’
salute. "And how may I be of service to the United States Army today?"

Mathes frowned. "I’m sorry, sir, didn’t Major Taylor call
your office?"

Major Le cleared his throat. "And how may I be of service to the United
States Army today?"

Mathes’ frowned deepened, and then it hit him. He retrieved the transfer
papers Major Taylor had given him: yesterday’s copy of Le Courrier du
Vietnam wrapped around five American twenty-dollar bills.

Major Le took the papers and smiled. "Please follow me, Corporal."

Mathes had been in-country for a year, and he still couldn’t get used
to these ARVN officers, their accents more French than Vietnamese. But he saluted
properly and followed Le to a group of Quonset huts. Two ARVN privates came
to attention on their arrival. They held their M-16s to the side, order arms
position. Le barked at them in Vietnamese, and one of the privates opened the
padlock on the door.

"Sergeant Tinh!" Le shouted in English. "Front and center!"

In the shadows of the hut, through the drizzly rain in his face, Mathes could
see several figures stirring from various positions of confinement. And then
through the door came the meanest-looking gook Mathes had ever seen.

Like a lot of Vietnamese, he was a little guy, but he stood as though he were
Atlas, as though he held up the world without breaking a sweat. His face looked
carved from stone—hooded almond eyes and a scar across his brow gave him
a permanent scowl. His wide shoulders strained at the dingy tigerstripe cammies.
His biceps bulged at the sleeves. His hands were as cracked and dirty as his
combat boots. He blinked at the gray light of day, and his eyes landed on Mathes.

"Got a cigarette, Joe?" he said.

"Sergeant Tinh," Major Le said, "I am temporarily releasing
you into the custody of Corporal Mathes. Our American allies have a situation
they feel you are well suited to handle. Upon completion of this mission, you
are to return at once to serve the remainder of your sentence. Is that clear?"

Tinh grunted. "Mm. Yes, sir."

Le smiled at Mathes. "He is, as you say, all yours, Corporal. Please
extend my regards to Major Taylor."

Mathes saluted again, doing his best not to show his dislike for this little
ratfuck officer. Tinh caught his eye and winked.

In the jeep, Mathes handed Tinh a pack of Luckies and matches, both wrapped
in cellophane. Tinh carefully unwrapped them, poked a nail into the corner of
his mouth, and lit it, striking the match with his thumbnail, his hand protecting
the flame from the wet.

"Mm," he said, "makes a fine tobacco. Thanks, Joe."

"Mathes."

"Thanks, Mathes."

"Had you in the stockade, huh?"

Tinh raised his eyebrows. "Yep."

"What for?"

Tinh shrugged. "Don’t know. Could be anything. I was drunk."

Mathes grinned as he fought to keep the Jeep in the flooded ruts of the dirt
road. When Tinh tried to hand back the smokes, Mathes waved him off.

Major Taylor had gotten bored with lobbing darts at the picture
of Henry Cabot Lodge. So now Sergeant Kitchen stood in front of the dartboard,
doing his best to stand completely at attention.

"Uh, sir?" he said.

Major Taylor closed one eye, aimed. "Hold it right there." Taylor
released the dart and reformed the part in Kitchen’s hair. "Excellent.
Yes, Sergeant, what is it?"

"Sir, I don’t mean to, you know…I just don’t understand
why this Tinh, sir? Why bring a gook in on American business?"