Chapter Text
Lancer: A New Century
The Road to Beijing – Part Two
The Trials
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Chapter One
The pressure surrounded him. Compressed against his skin, it was as if two hands laid across his face, the fingers crushing down on his closed eyelids, thumbs digging into his ears causing sound to both be both amplified and muffled.
Slowly, slowly the air leeched from his lungs and the need to breath mounted.
His feet reached for the hard surface beneath him. His legs extended with a propelling punch upwards. His head broke through the plane of water, opening his mouth to draw in air while shaking his head, water droplets flying in all directions.
A loud splash preceded the rush of water that struck him full in the face, coughing erupting as he sucked in more water than air.
“Hey, what the hell did you do that for!?!” He spat out the words with the water.
“And what took you so long to come up, Madrid? It’s cold standing on that board waiting for you.”
Johnny eyed his friend Kevin as they tread water in the deep end of the pool. Granted, the first dive into the pool brought uncomfortable chills but now the sensations had reversed. The water offered a pleasurable warmth against the autumn breezes stirring the still falling leaves of the mesquite trees which grew scattered behind the black metal fencing that surrounded the backyard and pool area of the main house on the Hoskin Ranch.
“I made it to 200 this time,” Johnny explained as he dropped his shoulder into the water and stroked toward the shallow end. He heard Kevin following.
“Great. Next time you try to break 240 holding your breath, give me advanced notice. It was fucking cold up there.”
“You could see where I was,” Johnny shot back with a glance to one side as his best friend pulled up next to him. “You coulda jumped in anytime.”
“Yeah, but I could see what you were doing, asshole. Didn’t want to mess ya up.”
“Well, that was mighty considerate of ya, amigo,” the dark-haired teenager grinned. He swam up to the rounded barrier that sat close to the house and pulled himself over the tiled wall, diving headfirst into the whirlpool. .[friend].
“Wouldn’t wanna interfere with whatever quest for greatness you have your mind set on today,” the other boy teased. Kevin splatted up the cement steps to exit the pool, trotted to a cooler left under the covered patio and nabbed two plastic bottles of Gatorade—one red, one blue—and slipped onto the continuous bench seat of the whirlpool, handing his friend the Blue Cherry. Both boys settled opposite one another with their backs against a pulsating jet as they twisted off the orange lids and contentedly sipped at their drinks.
Kevin leaned his head back against the wall, his legs stretched out, floating into the center of the churning water, his toes bobbing in and out of the rumbling surface. Johnny, never really still except when he had a gun in his hands, was also laid out, eyes closed, his arms moving in and out from his sides as if taking a leisurely swim.
It had been a good day.
They started early, Kevin joining Johnny at Shore Shot at eight in the morning for a skeet tournament. With both coming from ranching families, their Saturday had started closer to six to get their chores complete.
Kevin had arrived a little after his friend and was waiting in line to sign up for the 15-16 age group. Off to one side of the tables, he couldn’t help but listen as one mother grumbled to the tournament director that Johnny shouldn’t be allowed to participate since he was a professional. The director corrected the woman explaining that, though skilled shooters, the Junior National Team was considered an amateur organization. He went on to say that Johnny Madrid paid his entry fees like everyone else and since none of the brackets for minors offered prizes beyond a trophy, he wasn’t taking advantage of anyone. Mr. Tulley, the regional president of the National Skeet Shooting Association that included Uvalde County, kept his arms crossed and nodded occasionally as the woman complained about the lack of sportsmanship and she wasn’t going to tolerate it when the other children were being adversely affected.
Kevin snorted out loud when Mr. Tulley explained that Johnny had voluntarily placed himself in the 19–20 age group as a 16-year-old and the woman raised her arms in frustration yelling that was her son’s bracket. He, and a few others around him, chuckled and he wondered just how embarrassed that shooter might be having his mom making such an issue over a one off, non-qualifying event intended for fund-raising while facing off against someone at least three years younger. Johnny hadn’t competed in any of the area qualifying meets since he made the Junior National Team, not wanting to hurt other kids’ chances to advance into regional events.
The red head rolled his eyes when Mr. Tulley stated the shooter could withdraw and receive a refund if they chose not to compete and the mother argued back that she would take the refund if her son could still shoot “for practice”. More laughs echoed around him when Mr. Tulley declined that offer and the woman stalked away in a huff. Kevin paid his fees along with turning in the agreement his mom had signed allowing him to participate and wandered among the vendor’s booths on his way toward the indoor range.
A man stationed at the doors started to turn him around saying that tournament participants should remain outside until he explained, “My name’s Kevin Jackson. I’m meeting Johnny Madrid.” The man opened the door and thumbed him toward an observation bench at the far side of the sparsely filled indoor booths visible through plates of bullet-proof glass. Johnny was standing, his back toward the open reception area, as Kevin sidled up to him. Johnny raised a finger until he concluded a set of breathing exercises, removed a thin metal straw from his mouth, then gave his friend a wide grin.
“Another one of your gadgets?” The freckles across the boy’s nose wiggled as he raised his eyebrows.
“Don’t argue with success, cuate. These just help focus your breathing,” Johnny explained as he slid the tube into a rectangular container then placed it inside his gun bag. “Glad you made it. Thought maybe your mom hog-tied you to those pigs of yours.” .[buddy].
“Nah. She knew I planned on kicking your ass this morning,” Kevin laughed.
“Much of a draw out there?”
“Big enough that one lady was trying to get you kicked out.” Johnny raised an eyebrow as Kevin went on to explain.
“Hmph,” Johnny shrugged, “not hard to beat someone with no clue how to step up and shoot. But I’m not shooting against anybody but me anyway.”
“Johnny,” a gray-haired man called from behind the indoor registration desk. “Oh, hey Kevin. Didn’t see you come in.”
“Hey, Mr. Dixon,” Kevin waved to the assistant manager of Shore Shot in return.
“They’re about ready to start out there. It’s a big crowd drawing a lot of folks from San Antonio. Not too many skeet and trap ranges in the big city. That and the organization offered some nice prizes for the adult classes. Even drew some local press. You can hide out in here between your shoots if you need to.”
“Thanks, Mr. Dixon. Appreciate it.” Johnny gestured toward the main doors “We’ll go out the front and walk around.” The boys grabbed their gun bags and headed out toward the parking lot then followed the signs with plastic red flags back toward the tournament grounds where registrations were winding down.
Kevin took second in his division while Johnny…duh, Kevin thought…won his. He noticed the whiney mother a few times throughout the morning easily identifying who her kid was based on the exuberant applause each time he hit a target. He finished out of the finalists and did not advance. Johnny, on the other hand, drew larger and larger crowds as the event went on—all wanting to see if he could pull it off.
A perfect score.
He received the loudest applause of the day when he snapped off his last two shots in the finals, the clay fragments tumbling to the ground. He smiled briefly and waved his hand at the acknowledgement then ducked his head as he stepped on to the main concourse, shaking outstretched hands, including the son of Grumpy Mom, as he picked his way through the crowd.
“You just nailed it, buddy. Why aren’t you happy?” Kevin whispered as he caught up with his friend, grabbing his shoulder and shaking it with congratulations.
“These American competition targets are easier to break and move so much slower.”
“Compared to…?”
“International.”
“Johnny, my friend. You just shot a perfect score, an achievement no matter what targets you’re aiming at. Can’t you just enjoy the moment?”
“Guess so. Thanks, Kev.”
One of the San Antonio television news teams did a special interest interview with Johnny, and Mr. Dixon slipped him some vouchers for free targets to use during his personal practice sessions in appreciation for the publicity for the range before they headed to the parking lot.
After that, they went with his Uncle Jake to the junk yard to traipse around scavenging whatever he could find for his garage. He helped pick out parts for the engine rebuild they were doing on Johnny’s Harley and found a seat to replace the cracked one on Kev’s Indian hand-me-down from his Uncle Carl. They then threw out hay and salt licks to the Hoskin’s ranch cattle but because it was Johnny, when they were done, they took turns driving the golf cart through a trail Johnny had put together with tree obstacles, hill and water hazards while Barranca, Johnny’s palomino, and JoJo, the ranch donkey, raced them. Of course, they had to wash the cart when they got back but it was worth it.
Both boys found themselves nodding off in the comfort of the whirlpool until demanding honks and flapping wings intruded.
“Fuck you, Dewdrop. We’re not leaving,” Johnny groused, throwing a palm-full of water in the gander’s direction as he patrolled the raised wall of the whirlpool. “Get on back to your own place.” Dewdrop sprung into the air executing a smooth landing into the larger pool.
“Your Gramps sure has gone all out for that bird,” Kev smiled looking at the extensive open pen with grain feeder and predator-proof covered shelter built on the other side of the pool fence.
“He is a bit tetched sometimes,” the dark-haired teen explained, causing Dewdrop to squawk even louder. Johnny leaned one elbow on the poolside wall as he yelled back, “And who do you think he’s gonna believe when I tell him you misunderstood what I said, bird brain.”
“I don’t know Johnny,” Kevin grinned. “I think my money’s on the goose.”
“Yeah well, maybe I should remind Dewdrop that a well-known coach has suggested that shooting live game makes for the best results.”
Dewdrop lifted out of the water, his wings flapping with the water spraying toward the boys. The gander quickly returned to the concrete patio and began pacing in front of the sliding glass door, tapping it with his beak.
“You shoot at paper targets, Johnny. Other than trap or skeet…and even those stay on an expected trajectory. What shooting coach says there’s a benefit to shooting at game birds?”
“Guy Fieri.”
“The cooking guy?
“Coach,” he said loudly in Dewdrop’s direction. “Shhh. Yes, the chef guy. It got that damn bird out of the pool, didn’t it? Don’t give him any ideas about coming back.”
“Ahh, first, I’m not sure why you think you’re having meaningful conversations with a goose, and second, I don’t know why you let him bother you so much. He doesn’t hurt anything.”
“Really? Well, first, you should hang around and listen to my Gramps talk to the damn bird. Second, I’m the one who has to clean the pool and wiping up his slimy mess ain’t no fun.”
Johnny pulled to his knees, his cutoff jeans dripping from the unraveling strings, and leaned over the dividing wall grabbing a handful of pool water to drop on the back of his neck.
“Here, fill this up for me.” Kevin handed his friend the empty Gatorade bottle which Johnny obliged and followed the example by filling his own. Kevin dumped about a quarter of the bottle over the top of his head. “Man, here it is the first week of November and it’s still hot enough to swim.”
“Unseasonable warm as predicted by the Farmer’s Almanac,” Johnny sounded like an announcer.
“Does anyone still read that? What with the internet, I wouldn’t think anyone would bother.”
“According to Jellifer B. Hoskins, there isn’t any finer tool for a man in the ranching trade.”
“What about a woman?” the red head asked.
“They’re smart enough to check out the internet.”
“So just how did you get Jellifer B. Hoskins to get you out of school next week? Something to do with… umm, you know… California?” The boy, older by a few days than his friend, tilted his head toward the west.
“Dios, Kevin. Remind me not to let you in on any more of my secrets!” .[God].
“What do you mean? I haven’t said anything, and you know I won’t tell anybody about… you know.”
“That! That, cuate! You and all that nudge-nudge-wink-wink shit. Better yet, let’s go play some poker. I bet you got so many tells, I’ll wipe you out.”
“Har-de-har-har. Sooo, tomorrow, are you flying to… umm, you know?”
Johnny slapped his friend’s face full of water in fun but mostly to buy time to come up with a plausible response. He hated lying to Kevin. His best friend had learned about Johnny’s Lancer identity and hidden family over two years ago as they were going into their freshman year. Scott had dropped by unannounced before his first deployment, a covert SEAL mission into Iraq, and wasn’t going into a combat zone without spending some time in Sabinal with his brother.
Scott burst in, dumping his little brother to the floor for a wrestling match yelling, “Who’s the smarter brother, huh, Johnny? Who’s better looking? Who’s the wisest of them all? Say it! You can say it!” before he realized there was company in the house. Kevin had been excited to be a part of the “big secret” although a little miffed to discover his mother had known for years.
“No, it’s nothing to do with… umm, you know,” Johnny said with all the sarcasm he could roll into three syllables. “It’s a shooting thing.”
“Oh. I thought the Junior’s season ended in the summer when you won everything.”
“Not a tournament. More like a demonstration kind of thing. Because I did win the whole thing.” He couldn’t hide a grin. And he wasn’t lying… exactly.
Kevin cupped his hands with water and squeezed a stream toward Johnny’s face which he dodged. “Your modesty is underwhelming. But it is cool. You get to go shooting AND get out of school for a week.”
“Not cool. I need a whole extra suitcase just to pack my books and assignments. In fact, I want you to jot down everything you do in Ms. Vargas’s class.”
“English? Why?”
“‘Cause you ought to see the assignment list she gave. No way in hell that’s only one week. I think she’s padding the work just to make me miserable.”
“Whiner.”
Scurrying back toward the boys, Dewdrop loudly concurred.
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xXxXx
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The thud of the dropped suitcase against the foyer floor brought looks of consternation to both Jelly and Johnny, albeit for differing reasons.
“Don’t ya be breakin’ things in there, boy. I spent all day cleanin’ ta leave this place presentable.”
“I couldn’t break this stuff if I tried. ‘Cause I did. Try, I mean. Still don’t know why my teachers decided to assign every book they ever read in this one week.”
“Quit yer belly achin’ an’ jus’ git it done.”
“I am done. Packed and ready ‘cept for my laptop which I’m takin’ carry-on.”
“We still got time, ya know,” the old man rocked back to his heels, his chin jutted up. Johnny braced himself for a pronouncement that his Gramps knew he wouldn’t care to hear.
“Time for what?”
“To let yer Pa know ‘bout this.” Jelly spoke a little faster when Johnny opened his mouth to argue. “He’s gonna be mightily put out if that plane crashes an’ he didn’t know we was on it.”
“I would hope he’d be mighty put out because we were on it regardless of whether he knew about it or not.” Johnny crossed his arms at his chest.
“Ya know what I mean.”
“Please, Gramps. We have that welcome dinner tomorrow night to meet the coach and the board with the competition starting right off on Monday morning. They’ve invited me to try out for six events, so I’ll be shooting every day and squeezing all this book work in-between.” Johnny kicked insolently at the soft-side luggage he had just dropped on the floor. “And you know my Dad would be barking at me with instructions just before every one of my time slots if he knew about The Olympic Trials. Tellin’ me what to do and how to do it even though he hasn’t even seen me shoot except at the Lancer range. He has no idea what a meet is like. It’s hard enough switching to the tougher targets and faster speeds of International competition. I just don’t need him all in my ear right now.”
“Well, Mr. Smarty Pants, I happen to know he ain’t available to be in yer ear right now. He’s just gonna be happier if he gets the chance to know about it ‘afore it happens is all.”
“Well, Gramps, if he’s out on a mission, then he doesn’t need to know until it’s done. I’m nervous enough as it is.”
“Ya ain’t actin’ perticularly nervous.”
Johnny sighed as his mind wandered wondering where his dad was now. Out somewhere saving the world. Or Scott for that matter. His brother had served on active duty as a Navy SEAL for the last two years and Johnny had learned to compartmentalize his worry for both. “I wouldn’t be ready for this level of shooting if you knew I was nervous, now would I?” The snip in his voice slipped out before he could rein it back in.
“Watch yer mouth, boy.” Jelly lowered his voice as his finger rose up.
“Gramps, I’m not trying to be rude or anything. Just as honest as I can be. My stomach’s in knots knowing a lot of things are just different once you go up another level and this is a big jump. And I’m not satisfied just saying I tried out. I want to make the Team.”
“Tarnation, boy. Ain’t no point in going if you ain’t doing yer best.” Jelly let his shoulders drop but his thumbs hooked his suspenders as he looked around the living room. “Alright Johnny. We’ll do it yer way. Ya do got yer Pa’s ways down pretty good. Can’t argue ‘bout that.” Johnny allowed a relieved grin to tug at his lips. “Let’s git these bags by the door. Hector’s droppin’ us off at San Antone International well before dawn, ‘specially since we gotta get through TSA with yer guns then we got a connecting flight in Dallas.”
After helping stack their travel suitcases and his gun bag where Jelly instructed, Johnny hid the grimace cause by the ache in his belly. He wrapped his arms around his torso and did his best to keep his tone light.
“Hey Gramps, did my dad say where he was this time?”
Jelly Hoskins gave his adopted grandson an understanding smile. “Ya know he can’t say ‘xactly but somewhere in Columbia. Some kinda up-an’-comer name a’Sandoval. Been as slippery as a rattlesnake in a rockpile hear ta tell.”
“Nothing to worry about then,” Johnny muttered softly.
A longtime Marine who served under General Lancer before he was entrusted with the care of his two-year old, traumatized son, Hoskins knew better than to respond with platitudes and promises no one could guarantee. Military service was dangerous, and General Murdoch Lancer’s career had placed him at the frontlines of that danger with the cooperation of the South American authorities to root out and undercut the powerful cartels that spawned like spiders whenever one cell was taken down. The general had been fighting those battles since before Johnny was born.
“Yer father is a strong man with the best men surroundin’ ‘im. No upstart drug smuggler’s gonna touch ‘im without a helluva fight on his hands.”
Johnny couldn’t help but grin at his guardian’s choice of words. He knew Gramps had a head full of colorful language but had always been strict about what he said around his grandson and expected Johnny to follow that example.
“Yeah. Nothing to be worried about then.” Johnny’s grip on his ribs grew tighter. He let out a long breath. “Since we’re leaving at the crack of dawn, guess I better head out to the barn and let Barranca know where I’m headed. He’s gonna be ornery enough while we’re gone. Need to tell him to behave himself for Patrick and Jesse while they’re taking care of things for me.”
“Ya do that. An’ don’t ya worry. I left some extree carrots in the feed room. Not that it’ll do a durn bit a’good, but ya tell Josephine if she don’t stay put where they put her, I’m gonna sell her off fer glue when we git back.”
Johnny laughed as he swung the front door open. “We’ll call it ‘Pegamento hecho de Josefina’. That’s about the only thing that could hold that donkey in place.” .[Glue made of Josephine.].
Jelly’s shoulders slumped as the door slammed shut. He sure didn’t want to admit to the boy that he had typed an email to Murdoch describing Johnny’s invitation to participate in the Olympic Trials. He knew that’s what the man expected, and he depended on his former Gunnery Sergeant to keep him informed of his son’s activities.
The decision to proclaim the death of his son along with the murder of his wife fourteen years ago was made in the chaos when reports surfaced that the toddler had died with his mother during a kidnapping attempt at the Lancer estate. The general determined that it was best to let the perpetrators believe the child was gone. Dead babies tell no tales and even as young as he was, Johnny was an eyewitness to his mother’s torture and slaying. Not that the husband and father intended to let the attackers make it to a prison cell if they gave him any reason. Two had met their ends as a direct result of the general’s on-going fight against the cartels but at least one other and whoever had hired them remained at large. Johnny Lancer would remain in his grave as long as those assassins hid in the shadows while Johnny Madrid lived a normal life, safe in the small town of Sabinal, Texas.
Jelly knew how much Murdoch cared about Johnny’s life—that sending him away had ripped the man to shreds—and the weekly emails were his way of being a part of it, if only through words on a screen. Murdoch called Johnny on the secured family phones whenever he could. Jelly knew the boy kept his satellite phone stashed under his pillow almost like a security blanket. And they had family trips and vacations together. Some at the Lancer estância which had been repurposed as a clandestine military training base where both Scott and Johnny could unobtrusively see their father and one another. Some at any one of Harlan Garrett’s worldwide properties. In fact, Murdoch made a point of ensuring that Scott’s bedroom in Boston and Johnny’s in Sabinal were identical to their rooms at Lancer down to the books on the shelf for Scott and the games for the Playstation for Johnny so they would always feel like they belonged there. .[ranch/estate].
Garrett’s very public ruse of stripping Murdoch Lancer of his parental rights was to protect young Scott from his father’s enemies. Both men were thankful that when the attack occurred, eight-year-old Scott had gone to visit his maternal grandfather in Boston during Summer Break, otherwise he may have met the same fate as his Mama. And Garrett had the resources to establish near impenetrable security around his grandson. Harlan had offered to take Johnny, but General Lancer was firm in his belief that a living Johnny Lancer was in far more peril than an obscure Johnny Madrid.
So far, the decision had been sound. No one thought of Johnny Madrid as anything more than a kid in small town south Texas who did well in rodeo events including bronc riding, had a flair for risk-taking on his dirt bike, and made a name for himself winning a Junior National Shooting Title last summer. Even with that publicity, no one suspected his secret family connections.
Scott had flourished in Boston entering Harvard at fifteen, the Naval Academy at Annapolis two years later, proved himself in SEAL training and was currently serving in Iraq winning promotion and commendations as a result of his service. Although it was public knowledge that he was General Murdoch Lancer’s oldest son, the estrangement was well-documented and perpetuated as irrevocable.
But Jelly knew his grandson well. He had held Johnny through too many night terrors as he screamed for his father and brother thinking the “mal mens”, as Johnny called them, would hurt them the way they hurt his Mama. He recognized that crease in his forehead and tight clench of his jaw that announced worry he wouldn’t share with anyone. Worry that they weren’t safe from Murdoch’s enemies. Worry that his family might die on the frontlines of military service. The last terrible dreams that shattered the quiet of the night when Johnny couldn’t escape the vicious hold of his terrors was shortly after Scott’s first deployment. It had taken days to settle the boy back into a routine. .[mal mens = bad and baby speak for men].
Shooting had seemed to give Johnny some control. Some sense that he had a weapon, a tool to combat the fear that dogged his heels from his earliest memories. Jelly wanted to give him that control. That small sense of security. The more the boy achieved in the sport, the more his confidence grew and the better he had learned to cope with the stress and pressure that churned under his feet. And if Johnny pleaded with him to keep a part of his shooting between the two of them, Jelly gave that serious thought.
He had written the email to Murdoch about Johnny’s chance to try out for the US Olympic Team.
He just never sent it.
.