Darrell Bowling

Chapter One

Sáric Highlands, Sonora — 1982

The desert wind whispered through the mesquite, rattling branches like bones. I lay prone beneath a scrub canopy, coarse sand pressed hot against my skin despite the hour. A coyote howled—long, low, and lonesome. A sound that made you wonder if it was mourning something it lost… or warning what it might take.

I adjusted the magnification on my scope and waited.

Patience wasn’t a skill—it was the last part of me they hadn’t taken.

Downrange, the target’s compound squatted against the hillside like a sunbaked secret—cracked stucco walls and chain-link fencing pretending to be security. One guard walked the gate. Two more lounged beneath a rusting awning, shirt collars open, rifles draped across their laps like forgotten burdens.

I counted shadows in the windows. Lazy guards make easy work.

Somewhere in that compound was the man who made the mistake of pissing off the highest elements of the U.S. government.

I was here to ensure El Jefe understood the error of his ways.

Caldwell Strategic Solutions didn’t advertise. We didn’t need to. If you knew us, it was because you were hiring us… or trying to bury us.

You stay alive in this business by becoming something else.
I’m the point of the spear—focused on targets, orders, and results.
What’s left is a man who doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pause, and doesn’t miss.

I’m not the villain.
I’m what gets sent when politicians who need plausible deniability stop sending warnings.

A low chirp broke the silence in my earpiece.

“You’re green, Buck. All yours,” Gunny said.

El Jefe sat in a faded plastic chair, laughing with his men, sipping from a beer bottle. His shirt hung open to the navel, a fat gold chain glinting in the morning light. No vest. No concern. He thought himself untouchable.

I adjusted my breathing.
Then squeezed.

The shot echoed through the hills, bouncing from rock to ridge—disorienting and hollow. The men below spun in confusion, rifles raised, eyes scanning empty brush.

The round caught him low in the throat.

The bottle slipped from his fingers, and El Jefe arrived in hell before it hit the ground.

The compound erupted—shouts in Spanish, scrambling feet—but no return fire. No direction. They lost interest in guarding a corpse and focused on not joining him.

I backed out through the brush, careful not to disturb the scene. No brass left behind. No signature. Just the wind, the silence, and a name crossed off a list.

An hour later, at a break in the stone ridge, La Barbie met me where the trail gave way to shale. He handed me a battered canteen and lit a cigarette with a windbreak from his palm.

“You made it loud,” he said.

“Louder than I like,” I admitted.

He grinned. “But just right. They don’t know where it came from. They don’t even know if it’s a hit or an attack.”

I nodded. “That was the idea.” I took another sip. “Like the wind, I come and go unseen.”

We walked downhill in silence. An old flatbed truck rumbled up the path—suspension creaking, engine wheezing. The driver looked as battered and sun-seared as the vehicle itself. He didn’t acknowledge us. Just stopped.

We climbed in.

A man, both the cartel and Federales, gave a pass. They don’t see him. That’s why he’s useful.

An hour into the ride, the driver studied me. After a moment, he said, “So you’re El Sigiloso?”

I nodded.

He spat out the window. “I expected you to be ten feet tall and bulletproof.”

We rode for hours through winding dirt tracks that peeled away from civilization and into shadows. Dust clung to the windows. No words. None needed.

At dusk, Gunny and Gerald waited on a remote plateau beside the canvas-draped Pilatus PC-6, its whisper-quiet prop and rugged frame gleaming in the last light.

Fuel drums stood ready. Gear packed tight.

We didn’t talk. Just loaded. Routine carved into bone.

By the time the plane was in the air, Sonora’s night had swallowed the trail behind us.

Chapter Two

The Lost Coast, Humboldt County — Present Day

The past slides into the shadows—but it never really left.

You’d think with grandkids in college, hiding bodies would’ve long since fallen off my to-do list.
But here I am—CEO of Caldwell Strategic Solutions.
A company Wall Street’s never heard of… but every U.S. president since Carter has used.

My phone buzzes once.

It’s done. Expect company.

Gunny still has my back. No questions. No quarter.
But the days of me, Gunny, and La Barbie shoulder-to-shoulder are long gone.
These days, we’ve got an in-house army for the wet work.

This one? It’s mine.

A hidden door slides open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing a military-grade armory tucked behind the wine cellar.
Cooled by a whisper of air, the smell of oil, cordite, and spent memories hangs thick.

I run my hand across the racks.
Berettas, SCARs, suppressed .22s—quiet toys for noisy men.

I settle on the SAW.
The old M249 feels like home.
Made for those occasions when a problem warrants a scream instead of a whisper.

The boards groan under my boots as I step onto the veranda.
Fog hangs thick over the cliffs.
Below, the Pacific roars its relentless warning.

The cold wraps around me—but doesn’t reach the bone.
The jungle heat rewired me in a way the cold can’t touch.
I wear the jacket for optics—not for warmth.

The wind shifts.

I catch it.
Old smoke. Rotting jungle.
Southeast Asia, riding the breeze.

Not a change in place. A change in being.
No less real. Just more dangerous—the past calls the shots, and I’m just along for the ride.

Sunlight slices through the canopy.
Cicadas scream.
Sweat clings to my spine.

My hands—slick with fear—tighten around the M16.

A branch snaps.
I freeze.

Thirty feet ahead, a boy stumbles into the clearing.
Black pajamas. No older than me.

He lifts the AK.

I squeeze first. Three rounds burst from the muzzle.

The jungle folds him back into itself.

The blood of the first kill stains the soul. There were others. But only the first one follows you home.

Gravel crunches in the drive. The past recedes. But not far.

I adjust my grip on the SAW. Cold metal steadies me.

Headlights cut the mist. A black SUV rolls to a stop thirty feet out.

Shadows behind tinted glass. Secrets inside.

The driver’s door opens. A man steps out. Slow. Careful. Respectful.

The rear door follows. Another man—suit tailored, hair too slick—adjusts his lapels like armor. But his hands betray him. Trembling.

I don’t move. Let them wonder what they’re walking into.

“Roberto,” I say, flat.

He offers a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “El Sigiloso.”

The name lands like a dropped blade. He’s heard the stories—told in cantinas God-fearing men don’t dare enter. Whispers passed from evil men to worse ones.

His face pales. His bodyguard stiffens.

I see the flicker—the moment he realizes he’s standing in front of a man who doesn’t give second chances.

“Expecting trouble?” he asks, nodding at the SAW.

“Nah.” I roll it once in my grip. “Just a precaution.”

A beat.

“If I expected trouble, you’d be talking to Jesus, not me.”

My face hardens—the look men don’t walk away from.

The chuckle he forces sounds like cracked glass. He signals to the bodyguard, who steps forward with an envelope.

“No signs of the grow remain,” Roberto says carefully.

I don’t take the envelope. “My peace of mind isn’t for sale.”

“You planted on my land,” I say, letting the words land. “Now comes the price.”

He swallows. “Understood. My amends.”

Silence again. Let him squirm.

“My uncle sends his regards,” he says. “La Barbie’s guidance kept us from… unnecessary conflict.”

“What was his warning?”

Roberto hesitates. “He reminded me of the cost of expanding into the United States.”

I nod once.

“He mentioned Sáric. ’82.”

His expression shifts—recognition. Fear. The bodyguard stiffens again.

Roberto extends a hand.

I take it. His palm is damp.

“I hope we’ll share drinks and stories sometime.”

“You’ve got fences to mend first,” I reply. “Threats to my security don’t exactly put me in the mood for cigars.”

They turn toward the SUV.

The headlights stretch my shadow across the gravel.

The bodyguard pauses. Steps out again. Head slightly bowed.

“El Sigiloso,” he breathes. “My family searched a lifetime for you.”

I tense. “Why?”

“Years ago, two Americans hired my grandfather to refuel your plane in the Sonoran desert. A woman was with them—burning with fever, belly round. He said a ghost flew her through the mountains that night.”

The memory pulls at me.

A moonless night. The desert in the green glow of Starscope goggles. Kerosene burning in tin cans transformed a dirt road into a landing strip. The cactus and cattle guards left no room for error, only a prayer.

The local doctors offered an abortion. Stanford gave her a shot—if I could get them there in time. I throttled up and flew like hell.

Dropped them in Palo Alto. Watched the ambulance doors close.

“She was my grandmother,” he says. “The child she carried was my mother. I’m a U.S. citizen because of you.”

“You owe me nothing.”

“No, señor. We owe you everything.”

He steps back toward the SUV, then pauses.

“One last thing,” he says. “That grow? It wasn’t rogue. The cartel thinks they own that land now. They don’t forgive. They don’t forget.”

I shift the SAW.

“That’s their mistake.” My voice drops to gravel. “Let them try. Everyone’s doing something just before they die.”

The SUV backs down the gravel, taillights swallowed by the mist. But the warning lingers long after they’re gone.

Chapter Three

The soft hum of the fridge breaks the silence in the cabin. I pour a finger of whiskey into the coffee I never finished.

Even those closest to me don’t know the truth.
Not my wife of fifty years.
Not my princess, who still calls me Daddy—even though she’s another man’s daughter.
Not even my son, my spitting image, the man who now runs my legal empire.

They see the man I became.
But the man I was?
I buried him beneath layers of lies, secrets, and sins that don’t wash off.

My phone buzzes. Langston.
“Talk to me,” I say.

“We picked up cartel chatter out of Sinaloa. Someone kicked the nest.”

“I was the boot,” I reply, adding another splash of whiskey.

“You had a visitor?”

“Roberto. Rolled up like he was delivering a gift basket. Brought a bodyguard and an apology.”

Langston whistles. “Ballsy. What was he offering?”

“Said the grow was a misunderstanding.” I sip. “You buying that?”

“Nope. But La Barbie probably gave him reason to come bearing flowers.”

“He did. Said any threat to me is a threat to him.”

Langston pauses. “Good to know we’re still pulling favors from ghosts.”

“Favors are one thing,” I say, watching fog drift past the window. “But Roberto’s man told me something you didn’t.”

“I’ve told you everything I’ve got,” Langston snaps.

“That’s the problem. Intel should be news to me.”

Langston exhales. “Fair. What’d the kid say?”

“The cartel brass sanctioned the grow. Not a rogue cell. A probe.”

“You sure?”

“He didn’t blink. It was a test.”

“You bit.”

“Hard.”

Langston mutters. “You think they’re after you—or something bigger?”

“They’re fishing. But if it’s war they want, they knocked on the right door.”

A pause.

“You ready to activate CSS?”

“No. This stays off-grid.”

“Everything’s always fun and games until somebody gets shot.”

“Then have a medevac on standby.”

Langston sighs. “Great. You take on the cartel, and I’ll decorate your office—posthumously.”

“Touch my coffee machine,” I growl, “and I’ll introduce you to Jesus.”

Langston chuckles. “You’re hell to work with, Buck. But never boring.”

“If this goes south,” I say flatly, “burn Sinaloa to the ground.”

“You just say the word.”

“I just did.”

A floorboard creaks behind me.

Alexandria leans against the doorframe. Auburn braid. Sharp jaw. Emerald eyes. An M16 slung over one shoulder.

Call me crazy, but there’s something about a woman who can hit a gnat in the ass at a hundred yards—and takes exception to anyone shooting her husband—that gives me that warm, fuzzy feeling.

“You gonna tell me why a cartel SUV just left our property?” she asks, “or should I guess?”

“It’s handled.”

She steps closer, arms crossed. “You don’t greet old friends with a SAW.”

“They weren’t friends.”

“Then who were they?”

I don’t answer.

Her jaw tightens. “Old ghosts?”

“That’s right.”

She scoffs. “Old ghosts don’t drive Escalades.”

“Alex, drop it.”

The past slides into the shadows—but it never really left.

Her voice sharpens. “I’m done being treated like a mushroom.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Kept in the dark and fed shit,” she says.

I sigh. “You don’t want the truth.”

“I want you, Buck. All of you. Not just the polished half.”

She holds my stare. There’s steel in her stance—but something softer in her eyes. I feel it catch somewhere deep in my chest. A flicker of fear. A flicker of guilt.

“You want to know who I am?”

“I want to know who I’ve always loved.”

“Then you need to meet the boy who became me.”

“I’m listening.”

I grab the keys from the hook. “Get dressed. We’re going for a drive.”

“You can’t tell me here?”

“The cabin doesn’t offer the visual references.”

She snorts. “You’re the only man I know who calls a ten-thousand-square-foot mansion a cabin.”

I glance back over my shoulder.

“Then let’s go,” she says.

I nod. “Buckle up.”

Dos Palos, CA

The quiet hum of tires on Highway 33 accentuates the silence. The Sierra Nevada range fades into the haze as almond groves and flat farmland open up. We turn onto Blossom Street and roll into town like ghosts returning to a forgotten dream.

Time hasn’t been kind to Dos Palos. Sun-worn storefronts. Cracked sidewalks. The town looks more haunted than aged.

But one place still shines: the high school football field.
That green slice of pride sparkles like a diamond in a goat’s ass.

“If district lines hadn’t changed, this town would’ve claimed Josh Allen,” I mutter. “He would’ve graduated from Dos Palos instead of Firebaugh. Another brush with greatness gone to someone else’s trophy case.”

We park beneath a eucalyptus tree across from the field. The sign reads “Home of the Broncos.” I can still see the kids running wind sprints, coaches barking like generals.

In towns like this, football isn’t a sport. It’s a religion. A Friday night escape from black adobe dirt and unpaid bills.

Across the street, an old woman watches from her porch, phone to her ear. A boy on a bike swings wide to circle the Mercedes.

“Nice ride,” he mutters, impressed.

“Subtle,” Alex says, nodding toward the nosy neighbors.

I nod. “That’s the culture. The Okies who escaped the Dust Bowl didn’t come here trusting.”

Alex scrunches her nose. “That was … 90 years ago?”

“You don’t forget losing everything overnight.”

A cruiser glides up behind us, gravel crunching.

I watch the mirror as the door creaks open. Boots hit the dirt. The man walking toward us wears a tan uniform with stars on the collar. Wiry frame. Close-cropped gray hair. The stride of someone who ends conversations.

He slaps the rear quarter panel with a jarring thud. “Out of the car, Caldwell.”

I step out, jaw tight. “What the fuck’s your problem?”

“We got a call from some Hollywood pimp who wants his car back.”

My fist clenches—then I see it.

The crooked half-smile.

“Billy?”

The smile widens. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

We hug. A hard pat on the back. Fifty years fall away.

“How’d you know it was me?”

“Six calls. All reporting the same license plate—but each pinned to a different crime family.”

“Last I heard, you were with Santa Clara County.”

“Thirty years. Last ten as sheriff.”

“What brought you back?”

He shrugs. “Folks passed. Thought I’d finally do what I wanted.”

A grin creeps in. “Turns out I couldn’t afford doing what I wanted—and I’m too busted up for my wife’s honey-do list.”

We both laugh.

“What are you up to these days?” he asks.

“Just gettin’ by gettin’ by.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” He eyes the Mercedes.

“You got a card?”

Billy fishes one from his wallet.

I tuck it in my coat. “Let’s stay in touch. I might have something you’d be interested in.”

He raises an eyebrow—but doesn’t press.

“We’re headed to the park,” I say.

“I’ll let the station know to leave you alone,” he nods. “Welcome home, Buck.”

Alex follows me to the old cypress tree that’s stood guard near the bench for sixty years.

Its bark still holds the story.

B + L. I trace it with one finger.

“Linda,” Alex says quietly.

I nod. “That’s who started it.”

I turn toward the high school. “That’s where everything changed.”

We leave the tree behind—but not the memory it holds.

She’s seen where it started.

Now she needs to see how it all fell apart.

Chapter Four

Dos Palos High School — April 1965

Three years ago, the biggest challenge I faced was passing algebra or finding a prom date. Vietnam was just background noise.

By junior year, I’d already stood graveside five times.
Watched friends carried to the grave beneath flag-draped coffins—Felt the sad cry of Taps echo through the tombstones.
That kind of grief changes you—even before the battlefield has a chance.

That morning, I parked the Mustang along the canal road. Tossed my crisply starched shirt in the back seat.
Pulled my white tee down over my belt—a subtle jab at conformity.
Messy blond hair. Cocky grin.
James Dean might’ve played the part.
I lived it.

The bell rang, but something inside felt off.

The hallway buzzed with whispers. Tension percolated just beneath the surface. Students moved like cattle