Essence of Betrayal

Chapter One:

The Lost Coast, Humboldt County, night

My phone buzzes with a message: “It’s done; expect company.” La Barbie, my old ally from darker days, still has a finger on the pulse of the action.

The hidden door to my armory opens, steel walls gleaming menacingly in the dim light. I select the M-249; its familiar weight offers cold confirmation of life in the shadows. The clang of a round racked into the chamber stirs memories of sleepless nights with no guarantee of seeing the morning sun.

I stand on the veranda under a starless sky, the thunderous sea quaking. Offshore, an approaching fog bank glows ominously as I brace against the Pacific breeze. The distant crash of waves fills the silence, interrupted only by the occasional creak of the veranda boards under my weight. The stillness of the night magnifies every sound.

The lights of an SUV cut through the thickening fog and stop thirty feet away, its occupants concealed behind tinted glass. I tense, every muscle ready for action. A large, professionally dressed man steps out, his movements confident.

“Mr. Caldwell, Mr. Smith would like a word.” He addresses me, but his attention remains vigilant.

I nod, keeping my finger close to the trigger. The SUV’s back door opens. A man in an expensive suit emerges, his eyes scanning the surroundings before facing me. “El Sigiloso…”

The bodyguard’s eyes widen as he shifts his attention to me. I click off the safety and wait.

Mr. Smith’s eyes flick to the weapon. “Expecting trouble?”

“Nah, it’s just for show.”

He steps back, maintaining a respectful distance. His resemblance to the man I met in the Sonoran Desert all those years ago stirs distant memories. He draws me back to the task at hand, saying, “No signs of the cannabis grow remain. I apologize for my oversight.” His bodyguard extends a thick envelope.

I raise my hand in protest. “My peace of mind isn’t for sale.” Then, in a low, cryptic tone, I say, “Consider this a lesson about planting seeds where they don’t belong. The consequences of federal agents disrupting a peaceful old man’s solitude can be… dire.”

“Understood. This won’t happen again.”

I nod. “Thank your uncle for me. La Barbie’s wise guidance bridged our differences.”

He motions his bodyguard back to the SUV. “My uncle made it clear—a threat against El Sigiloso is a threat against La Barbie.” He extends his hand. “Perhaps one day, the two of you can share stories of the old days with me over drinks and cigars.”

“Perhaps when my nights are no longer filled with concerns,” I reply.

He nods and retreats to the SUV. They sit with the engine running, lights on, yet unmoving.

The front passenger-side door opens, and the bodyguard approaches. I wait patiently, easing my finger onto the trigger.

The big man stops two steps away, his expression uncertain. “El Sigiloso, mi abuelo,” he waves a hand, struggling for words. “I’m sorry. My grandfather searched for you for many years. May I extend the gratitude he wanted to express?”

“Who is your grandfather, and why would he want to thank me?”

“My grandfather is Manuel Rodriguez. Many years ago, men paid him to fuel your airplane in the Sonoran Desert.”

Trembling, he reveals the story of his grandmother’s troubled pregnancy, refusing local doctors’ advice to abort the baby. He bows his head. “La Barbie told you of this, and one night, you smuggled them from Puerto Peñasco in a small twin-engine plane to San Jose, California, where an ambulance took her to Stanford Hospital.”

“I remember that night,” I say, my surprise evident.

“Yes, thanks to you, my mother and grandmother are still alive.” Standing tall, a tear rolls down his cheek. “And for this, I am forever in your debt.”

A familiar sensation tugs at the edges of my conscience. Like tossing a pebble into a still lake, the smallest act sends ripples far beyond the initial splash, reaching distant shores I never intended to touch. His gratitude reminds me that even in a life shrouded by shadows, moments of light can emanate far beyond the horizon.

A smile spreads as I extend my hand. “You owe me nothing. I am honored to have helped your family in their time of need.”

Brushing my hand aside, he worries me with his hug of appreciation. “Will you allow my family to show their gratitude?” he asks, his voice rich in hope.

“Mr. Smith has my number. Call anytime.”

Turning back to the waiting vehicle, the SUV’s engine fades into the distance moments later, but the ensuing silence is anything but peaceful.

I press call on the last message I received.

“Is everybody still alive?” Joaquin asks.

I chuckle. “Roberto lives to make more mistakes. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. I enjoyed reliving the days of La Barbie and El Sigiloso.”

“Speaking of reminiscing, Alexandria still has a burr under her saddle. I may take a road trip to the valley and check on the ranch.”

“I’ll be here,” Joaquin says, ending the call. The memories flood back.

Before reaching the threshold, Alexandria appears at the door, an M-16 in her grip. Her discerning eyes fix on me with an intensity sharper than the coastal wind. We’ve been through enough together for me to know she’s not easily shaken, but tonight, something’s different.

“We need to talk,” she says, voice steady yet laden with urgency.

“Put that damn thing away before you blow your foot off,” I say, attempting to derail the pending conversation.

Her eyes narrow—she’s not buying it. “There’s no chance of that happening. Daddy taught me to shoot soon after learning to walk.” Despite the tension, a small smile tugs at her lips, reminding me of the countless nights we sparred physically and verbally.

“Yeah, from what I hear, you ruined his day. He wanted a son,” I say with a smug smile and a wink.

Alexandria giggles. “Not after I became a better shot than most men under his command.”

The weight of her gaze reminds me that the past is never just the past—not for people like us. It’s alive, as turbulent and unpredictable as the sea.

A noncommittal shrug follows, her penetrating eyes still fixed on me. “Buck, who were you talking to out there?”

Despite her directness, Alexandria’s perceptiveness catches me off guard, and hesitation follows, weighing how much truth to share. “Just… old ghosts,” I admit, the words feeling more like a confession than intended.

Her full attention now on me, she presses, “I can’t shake the feeling that something’s bothering you,” her intuition cutting through my defenses.

In our conversation last night, her probing questions about my past loom between us. Determined to understand my secrets—the memory of dark deeds I’ve kept locked away too tightly and for too long—casts a shadow over our quiet morning.

“About last night,” I begin, voice steady despite the inner turmoil, “were you serious?”

Her expression shifts, features becoming a mask of frustrated resolve. “Buck, whatever it is, we can face it together. I’m here for you, always.”

Sincerity strikes a chord, and the walls built around my past feel more oppressive than protective. She’s right; she deserves to understand the full spectrum of my demons.

Amidst the serene morning calm, I nod, confident in my decision. “What say we venture to a place you’ve visited but never understood? The place my story started.” Her confused expression draws a smile. “Dos Palos, where this mischievous kid learned the lessons to become such a mysterious man,” I say, sliding an arm around her waist.

“Thank you,” she says, with a beaming smile.

“Curb the euphoria until you hear the entire story.” I turn, snatching the keys from the key tree. I lock the door behind me, knowing that Alexandria’s curiosity might uncover the secrets that could change everything.

Chapter Two:

Everyone’s got intuition, but most don’t listen. After saving my bacon three times, I pay due diligence to my inner voice. Unfortunately, today, I’m up to my butt in alligators, and my little friend suffers from laryngitis.

Leaving the coastal views behind, we enter the farmlands of my childhood. The rhythm of the tires syncs with my heartbeat, each mile unearthing buried memories. The familiar landscape is now altered, shadows stretching longer, hiding secrets waiting to resurface.

I glance at Alexandria, her anticipation mirroring my unease. She focuses on the scenery, anticipation palpable. “So, this is your old stomping ground,” she asks, curiosity lacing her voice.

Nodding, I take in the flat, wide-open valley with nostalgia and unease. “Dos Palos,” I say, emotions swirling. “It’s more than just a small town—it’s where I learned life’s hardest lessons and dreamed of more than a life eked out of black adobe dirt.”

We drive through the quiet streets, past the high school. “That field… it’s where I first dreamed of escaping the path laid out for the son of Dust Bowl survivors,” I say, the memories as clear as the faded lines on the field.

We pull over near the old park, emanating childhood memories. The oak trees still stand tall, casting long shadows across the grass.

“Can we talk about the vineyard and the winery?” Alexandria asks, avoiding my eyes.

“There’s no mystery. Your grandfather had a rough gem; I just helped him polish it,” I say, pulling the picnic basket from the backseat.

“Buck!” She grips my hand. “Why’d you give Grandpa so much money?”

I shrug, unwilling to disclose how little a hundred million affects my bottom line.

She nods, ready to listen. The afternoon stretches out, filled with sharing past stories and finding new understandings under the shade of the old oaks.

The late afternoon sun filters through the trees, casting long shadows. Alexandria’s hand in mine keeps me grounded as we walk through the park, retracing the steps of my childhood.

“Tell me about Linda,” she whispers, gently probing into a past I’ve kept hidden.

The question tightens my chest, but it’s time. Pulling back a twisted oleander branch, I reveal a secluded spot. “This is where Linda and I used to hide from the world,” I say, tracing the ‘B + L’ carved in the bark of the ancient cypress. “This was our secret place. Here, we dreamed of unattainable futures.”

Alexandria’s gentle touch contrasts with the sting of old wounds. A sigh escapes me as second-grade playground scenes replay in my mind. “It started innocently,” I offer, drawn back into those vivid memories.

Linda made school exciting. The memory of first seeing the tall, raven-haired girl radiated. Her smile drew me in. “Hi, I’m Linda,” sparked something deep inside me.

Her laughter at my awkward “I’m Buck” was enchanting and humiliating. “See you around, Bucko,” she teased, leaving me confused and eager for more.

The next day, drawn to her again, I saw Linda whispering to Robert Davidson, a sixth grader with a rough reputation. As I approached, eager for another exchange, the air changed. Suddenly, the boy turned and punched me. The shock, the taste of blood, Linda’s laughter—it all marked the end of innocence.

The memory of Uncle Al’s makeshift boxing ring pulls me back to his welding and blacksmith shop. The smell of sweat and leather mingles with smoke and molten steel as the playground fades into the background.

“Got to learn to stand up for yourself, Buck,” Uncle Al said, teaching me how to dodge and weave. Each session built my resilience, changing me not just physically but mentally.

By spring, when Linda egged Robert into challenging me again, I was ready. The fight was quick, my training showing as I dodged and countered, standing my ground. As I walked away, leaving Robert sniveling on the ground, Linda stared, her expression a mix of surprise and something unrecognizable.

Turning back to Alexandria, I say, “Those fights weren’t just about fists. They were about standing up for myself.”

Alexandria nods, understanding. “And flying?” she asks, linking my past struggles to the freedom I found in the sky.

“Thank Uncle Wallace for that. He flew an F-86 in Korea,” I say, thinking back. “He never mentioned what possessed him to give up a seat in a jet for a crop duster.”

My mind echoed with the distant hum of aircraft engines, a sound that had been a constant in my life for as long as I could remember. I stand next to Alexandria, eyes squinting against the afternoon sun, and allow my mind to drift back to my twelfth birthday, the day it all began.

It was a crisp fall morning in 1960. The twelve-year-old boy with unruly blond hair and a heart brimming with excitement approached the yellow Stearman. My uncle, a seasoned pilot with a rugged face and eyes that gleamed with mischief, was waiting for me by the cockpit. The smell of Avgas filled the air, a scent that would become as familiar as my breath in the years to come.

“Ready, kid?” Uncle Wallace asked, a grin spreading across his weathered face.

I nodded vigorously, my eyes wide with anticipation. The thrill of the unknown, the promise of adventure, was more intoxicating than anything I had ever known. I clambered into the cockpit, my small hands trembling as they grasped the controls. My uncle’s voice, steady, guided me through the pre-flight checks.

The world fell away as we lifted off. Holding the control stick, I followed every move. The landscape of Dos Palos unfolded below—a patchwork of fields bordered by canals and ditches, stretching across the Central Valley like veins of the earth.

At that moment, a long-forgotten memory surfaces. High over Dos Palos, my mind traveled half a world away. I imagined flying over Korea in an F-86, searching for Migs and itching for a fight.

Descending back to the airstrip, the ground pulled me back, but part of me knew I’d never fully come down. Flying showed me a bigger world, a glimpse of what could be.

Decades later, the thrill of that first flight remains vivid in my mind. But the boy who had once dreamed of adventure found himself caught in a world far more complex and dangerous than he could have ever imagined. My skills as a pilot caught the attention of the CIA, and before long, I found myself flying covert missions over Southeast Asia, transporting everything from intelligence agents to contraband. The adrenaline rush was addictive, the stakes high.

A tear rolls down Alexandria’s cheek. “Would you like for me to stop,” I whisper.

She shakes her head.

My interactions with these people became a dangerous dance. I viewed them as a necessary evil, a means to an end. I descended into the dark underbelly of a world I once viewed with wide-eyed wonder. The lines between right and wrong blurred, and the once-clear skies of my youth were now clouded with moral ambiguity.

Standing by an old oak, I scan the horizon. The years had etched lines into my face and turned my hair silver, but the spark of that twelve-year-old boy still burned within me. I lived a life of danger and deceit, of secrets and shadows. But as the mental image of a young boy running across the tarmac towards a waiting yellow Stearman plays in my mind, I can’t help but smile.

Alexandria squeezes my hand as the day cools, a silent acknowledgment of our shared journey. As we drive away, my mind drifts to the upheaval in 1965 and the tumultuous events of a nation at war intertwined with my personal struggles.

Her gaze meets mine, reflecting deep understanding and curiosity. “I saw those traits the first time we met—your strength, your resilience. But there was something more, something beneath the surface. A sharp edge, a depth shaped by pain, not visible in that naive farm boy facade you wore like a coat of armor.”

Her words hang between us, a new thread in our ongoing exploration of each other. Her grip tightens, her presence promising companionship through the shadows of my past and the light of our future as we navigate the winding landscapes of my tumultuous teenage years. Drawing a deep breath, I squeeze her hand. “Okay, let’s do this thing.”

Chapter Three:

Dos Palos High School, April 1965

I arrived for my first day of high school three years ago, blissfully unaware of the shadow the Vietnam War would cast over my life. By the end of my junior year, the haunting sound of a military bugle playing taps for classmates in flag-covered coffins became a grim familiarity—five in total. Each funeral left an indelible mark, a reminder that death was no longer a distant specter but a close, unwelcome acquaintance.

On the canal access road in front of the high school, I toss the crisply ironed shirt Mom insisted I wear into the back seat of my Mustang. Pulling my white tee over my belt, I study my reflection—James Dean might have had the role, but I am the real rebel searching for a cause.

Beside the entrance, a spattering of seniors stands sentinel on the senior patio, ensuring no underclassman dares trespass on their sanctified ground. Ignoring their taunts, I study my classmates as they dart through the high school’s front door. I want to remember them laughing and carefree, not as recipients of a bugle’s sad farewell.

The first bell rings, giving us a five-minute warning. I weave through the stragglers, eyes darting for an opening. Getting sent to the office by Mr. Angelone for being late isn’t an option today. An eerie buzz fills the hallway as the crowd slows, then halts.

Midge Howard side-steps students, her head down. As she approaches, I ask, “Hey, Midge, what’s going on?”

She shrugs, her eyes avoiding mine. “I guess somebody beat up Billy Brandon. He’s crying by his locker.”

Billy, who weighs less than a buck twenty-five soaking wet, is always an easy target ...