Snow Day Part One

A wintery Mercenary Ranger fic, not too long, short on plot, etc, but some good backstory---
IF the guys aren’t lying!

Morelli is in this fic as a major character, no bashing by me----and Ranger and Anthony
treat him very gently, LOL!

commentary on this story: here  however you may want to read the entire story first,
link is also at the end of pt 4 and in the sidebar to the right.

This takes place shortly after my fics Half Past Eleven [on ff] and All I Want for Xmas. Enjoy!

Snow Day ~ The Idaho Job

Part One

Chapter One
 

Joe POV

OK , I get it. I’m stuck here in a blizzard in Buttfuck, Idaho with Ranger Manoso and his scary blond pal. The blond boy was sound asleep on the sofa, guns stacked on the coffee table in front of him.

The remote cabin was spacious, elegantly furnished, and well-stocked. And let’s face it, this eight bedroom cedar, glass, and fieldstone house was a cabin like the White House is a shack. This place was at least four times the size of my row house in Trenton---oh, who am I kidding? Maybe eight or ten times the size of Aunt Rose’s little house---- but Ranger and Stewart persisted in calling it a cabin. It was spectacular. No electricity though, the power failed an hour ago. And no way off this mountain until the weather improved.

Ranger lounged in one of the big brown leather club chairs, long legs stuck out in front of him. He was wearing---oddly to me, accustomed to him in black urban commando gear, his street uniform of SWAT fatigues---very pale arctic cammie cargoes, a heavy grey cashmere sweater (it screamed Ralph Lauren, I thought snidely) and a softly faded black/ grey/ green flannel shirt and heavy wool socks. Rolex watch. Diamond gangsta ear studs. Ski lodge chic with an urban edge. Fucker.

We all had left our parkas and boots at the door. 

I turned away from the snow-obscured view and sighed loudly. And now Ranger turned his blank gaze on me.

He said, “Relax, Morelli. We have plenty of wood, camp lights, food, plumbing. Even a generator for the hot water tank. It could be a lot worse.”

His eyes flicked to the third man, his sleeping friend.

I said, “Is he gonna be okay?”

Ranger did the miniscule head jerk that I presumed meant yes. No was a tiny shoulder shrug….God, I’m getting to know Ranger Manoso. Isn’t that weird.

The bad guys we’d been chasing had turned back on us, catching us in a Wal-Mart where we stopped to buy me some better cold weather gear. A winter coat from Trenton just wasn’t enough in good ol’ Buttfuck. Thompson and company had tried to even the odds, doing a drive-by in the middle of the busy store parking lot. Anthony Stewart, Manoso’s what? friend? colleague? clone?—had taken a round through and through in his side. Ranger had opted to stay and help him instead of following the pick-up. We loaded Anthony in the Porsche SUV (only Ranger!) and beat the storm to this cabin. By the time Ranger cleaned and calmly sutured his wounded friend, we were totally socked in.

Ranger’s medical skills had been impressive. I was ready to puke, watching him set an IV, anesthetize and clean the wound, then watching the needle go through the other guy’s skin. Ranger showed nothing.

Stewart was about Ranger’s age, or a few years younger. As Ranger stripped him and treated him, I noticed the young guy’s excellent if too thin build, beautiful, elaborate tattoos, bellybutton diamond, and miscellaneous awful scars. Ranger had drugged Stewart off to la-la land, and after patching him up, redressed him in soft grey sweats, tucking him under a warm blanket on the big sofa, Ranger’s hands as gentle as a new mom dressing her first child.

I said, “How come your computer is working, even with wireless you need electricity.”

“Sat link.”

Huh?

He went back to his screen and his work. I paced, I walked the floor, and I searched the large main room of the cabin. Finally I sat and stared at Ranger, who had worked quietly all day, getting up only to stretch, use the facilities, and to bring fluids to his injured friend, whom he would rouse enough to swallow water or juice. Since Stewart was able to drink on his own, Ranger had removed the IV, saying, “Just in case we need to make a quick getaway.”

“What?”

“Nevermind, Joe.”

Now he finally again looked up at me, black eyes with no expression, no thoughts. He did the annoying chin thing that was his version of saying what s up.

?

I said, “You know, Ranger, I’ve known you for what? 4 years? And now and then I look you up in the TPD files or the DoJ files or even DoD files. It’s amazing, there you sit, big as life but on the computer you don’t exist.”

“Yet here we are,” Ranger said in his deadpan way.

I said, “Yeah, and it’s strange because I know I’ve personally filed reports on you and your activities, but, hey—no jacket at all. Except the military who say your records are sealed.”

Manoso let a few beats go by, another annoying habit he had, then he said, “Do you think TPD would like to contract Rangeman to assist them in keeping better track of their files? Upgrade their forensic computer programs?”

He sounded absolutely serious, but I knew he was fucking with me. TPD doesn’t lose his files. They removed them. As had the FBI and the military, and so on.

I said, “I used to think you hacked in and removed them yourself, but then I see how every time I start looking into you and your  company, I get a call from way high up, from my boss whose boss called him---and I get told, Back off from Ranger.”

The head tilt.

?

“Yeah, everyone knows you and everyone knows to leave you alone. What the hell is that about, huh? So then I’m thinking some more.”

?

“And I get to wondering what a guy like you is doing in Trenton.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Well, you always imply that you’re a local kid, Newark? Trenton? A small-time banger who has grown up and made good. But even so---why Trenton? Why not NYC, I’m wondering. And I figure it’s for three  or four reasons---.”

?

I continue, careful to keep my voice level, to be non-confrontational, “One is that you are already well-known in New York, maybe you really are from there. Or, 2---You want to work in a centrally located place, but not right in NYC or Philly or DC because you’d be known and recognized too quickly, people remember you.”

I waved my hand at him, indicating his muscular body and distinctive face. My voice got sarcastic as I said, “Or 3-forgive me for mentioning this---you are so, uh---hot—that you don’t like to be in a media town, because you get hassled. People think you re a film star, or when you’re thugged out, a rap star, whatever. GQ model. Something. Someone. You can’t keep a low profile, you get too noticed. And 4, well it’s all of the above plus something that explains it all. You’re a cop, aren’t you? Deep undercover, but you’re a cop. I can’t believe it took me years to figure it out.”

Manoso looked blank but out of the corner of my eye I saw that Anthony Stewart was awake and held a gun in his hand. It wasn’t pointed at me exactly, but he could certainly shoot and kill me before I could get to my gun which was in my duffle bag.

Ranger’s black eyes were entirely neutral. After a long cold silence he said, “I’m not a cop, Joe.”

I thought, Okaaaaaay, but….

I said, “You are undercover.”

Teeny tiny shoulder shrug.

I said, “Does Ricardo Carlos Manoso even exist? Or you made him up? What’s the story, Ranger? We have all day.”

No response.

I said, “Steph used to try to get me to go back to college, she wanted a guy with a college degree. Rumor was, not from Steph of course, so don’t think she gossiped about you—that you actually went to college somewhere, did a few years. Is that true? Or you got your GED in prison? What’s with that?”

Stewart relaxed and the gun disappeared.

Ranger said, “Gimme a break, prison? And why would you possibly care where I went to school, Morelli, that’s absurd.”

“Well, I guess it’s just one more way I don’t measure up, big man. Go on, tell me--Newark City Community College? Some tech school? You had to go somewhere if you were in the Rangers, don’t they require some college?”

Stewart grinned at the tech school comment, even though he didn’t open his eyes again.

Ranger said, “Joe, you won’t get Steph back by having a pissing contest with me, she’s not about material stuff or money, she’s not impressed by a good CV.”

He meant curriculum vitae, how pretentious is that! I’d mention my work jacket, or if really on the spot, I’d say “resume”. Geez.

Manoso added, “If she spoke to you about continuing your education, it wasn't because she was comparing you to me, she just wanted what’s best for you. You’ll never get very high in the TPD without a college degree. And Special Forces requires a college degree for commissioned officers, as do most branches of the military….”

He paused, then said, “And they don’t hand out commissions to convicted felons. You should know that, Morelli.”

The grammar, the vocabulary, the educated accent, the low refined voice, the aura of money----yeah, I was noticing. I said, “So?”

His eyes now looked a little amused. “I went to Stanford undergrad, economics and government. Harvard Business School. Army Officers Candidates School, Rangers School….uh….”

I gaped at him. “You freakin’ made that up!”

“No.” But his eyes flick quickly to Stewart who, eyes shut and apparently sleeping peacefully, does not respond.

I said, “No wonder you keep it quiet!”

“Yeah. Bad for my street cred.” Blank face. He isn’t joking.

“So---you were in the Rangers?” I ask. “You call yourself Ranger but you actually say “special forces” and of course your military file is sealed.”

Ranger shrugged. “I was in Rangers for awhile, got to jump out of those planes you like to rag me about. Somalia, Afghanistan….”

“Iraq. Chechnya. Libya…………” Stewart chimed in. Like a bad version of the old Beach Boys song. Guess he wasn’t asleep after all.

Ranger said, “Saudi, Panama, Iran.”

“Cote d’Ivoire. Buenos Aires.”

“Bolivia, Colombia….”

“El Salvador….”

“Nicaragua….”

“Uzbekistan? Bosnia?” suggested Stewart.

Ranger looked at him and said, “Not Iran or Uzbekistan or Chechnya, or, uh, uh, ummm….you know. Remember? Most of those were….almost all of them were….”

“Oh yeah, I like get confused, so many ops, so little time.” A pause then Stewart added, “Those are the good old days, dude.”

I noted the confused tense, as if those days are still happening and I thought Ok, they were trying to tell me something here, but what? I asked, “Not Rangers ops? What, then?”

Ranger moved his head a fraction, Ranger-speak for shaking his head violently No. He said, “This conversation is over.” He got up and left, walking to the kitchen area, opening the darkened fridge.

Stewart looked at me from his sofa, his eyes black and deep and scary. He looked so much like Ranger that they had to be related. And he had once admitted to working for various government agencies.

He smiled at me and spoke softly, he had a low, cultured voice like Ranger’s when Ranger wasn’t talking street. Guess that’s what an Ivy League education and lots of money can get you. Among other things, like my girlfriend who was now sleeping in Ranger’s bed, fucking Ranger. Loving Ranger. Fuckin’ Ranger.

Anyway. I forced myself to refocus.

Stewart was saying, “Let it go, Joe, he can’t tell you, they make us swear not to tell. Lives, sometimes a lot of lives, depend on us keeping our word. And you’re best off knowing as little as possible.”

Ranger opened a bottle of water and looked at us then turned and stared out at the blizzard.

Stewart said, “He’s one of the good guys, okay? Back off.”

I asked, “What about you, are you one of the good guys?”

“Oh yeah.” And he and Ranger----who was surely too far away from us to hear---smiled in unison, their stunning, beautiful, million dollar smiles. Looking amazing, looking alike, looking---well, not quite real.

I thought, Omigod Steph, what have you gotten into?

 Stewart added, “We’ll keep her safe, he loves her. I love her---we love her.”

Did he just do ESP on me?

Ranger came back to us, flopped down on the sofa at Stewart’s feet and said, “Poker anyone? Gonna be a long night.”

Snow Day ~ Chapter 2

Antonio POV

I wasn’t expecting a gangbanger-style drive-by shooting at the Wal-Mart in Nowhere, Idaho. It was cold, it was snowy, a blizzard was coming and we were so bundled up that we couldn’t wear all our guns. It really sucked. These white guys been watching too much TV.

Anyways, I wasn’t like looking for trouble but I was aware, you know what I m sayin’? And so the dirty red pickup with the rifle aimed our way---well, it drew my attention. I shoved Ranger out of the line of fire (ooops) and drew my Glock out of my parka pocket….like, fumble city, man. Got a shot off, broke the truck’s window. The truck swerved bad---ice? Or a lucky hit?

I watched Ranger go down where I shoved him. He slid sideways on his left shoulder, drawing his gun as he fell. He rolled and got off a few rounds too. Morelli stood there, mouth agape, shopping bag in hand. Geez.

Ranger rolled onto his back in the grimy snow and glared up at me. His eyes tracked down my chest, I hoped he wasn’t considering where to shoot me. I looked too and saw that my parka was leaking feathers.

Shit. The white dudes tagged me, I thought as my knees went to jelly and the sky went black. My last thought was that I shoulda stayed home in NYC where I belong.

My name is Anthony Stewart and I’m ---heheheh---a lethal weapon. Covert ops and so on. Picture this twenty-something commando sort of dude, yeah that’s me. Cute as a button.

……..

We were here in this tiny Idaho town to pick up a high bond felony assault skip. Morelli was here to officially haul the guy’s ass back to Jersey. Idaho law requires a cop to accompany a fugitive back to another state. Why was I here instead of Tank, you may ask. Well, it was one of those Ranger deals, you know what I m sayin’. We’d pick up the skip and then stay on here in Idaho for some heli skiing. My mother owns a small but nice chalet up in the mountains and Ranger really needed a break, the guy works way too many hours, so I said okay.

The rest of the story is that Ranger did not want to fly commercial into Boise, probably via, what? Denver? Vegas? No clue. Then get on some tiny pond hopper plane and fly into the nearest real town, then rent an SUV and drive and drive and drive. Oh and hey, leave your guns at home when you fly the friendly skies. I don’t think so. Yeah, yeah, we’ve got carry permits but that’d be just one more thing to explain to Detective M. No, Ranger wanted to pack all his favorite weapons and his snowboard stuff  and fly one of my corporate Lear jets---Lears are small and fast--- into this little town where somehow, magic? a nice brand new Porsche Cayenne would be waiting for him. He wanted a chopper too, just in case. And he wanted everything to be mine, in case Morelli checked up.

Morelli had eyed me suspiciously but accepted the luxurious private jet with no argument. He had ragged Ranger about the Porsche SUV, all the way here to the mall. The car was obviously not a rental. It was parked at the curb in front of the terminal, keys in the cup holder. Ranger finally told him that all silver SUVs look alike, “It’s generic, no one will notice.’’

Morelli looked at the boss like he was crazy but let it go, shaking his head and muttering to himself. So far I’m not real fond of Morelli but I’m, like, keeping an open mind. Ranger says he’s a good cop and a good man, try to tolerate him. But when I think of Steph having a relationship with this guy, I get crazy. In fact I’d be questioning her taste and sanity if I hadn't been an unfortunate witness to one of her mother’s rants about marrying Joe, he’s a catch, any girl from the Burg would be thrilled that Joseph Morelli would be willing to marry her, he’s your only hope, count your lucky stars and light a candle Stephanie Michelle Plum. This may be your Last Chance! 

Both Ranger and I put our hands instinctively on our guns, like shoot that woman. Then realized, no way, ’cos she’s Steph’s mom. Poor babe. And you know Ranger thinks his mom is a pain in the ass, hah, Elizabeth Mann is an angel, she’s a Madonna on a golden throne in comparison. Okay, she’s a little remote, and she sets high standards, but she doesn’t nag and she’s a mob boss’s kid, she knows how to be cool.

The sad part is I think Mrs. Plum: a- believes what she says and b- loves Steph and this was her way of expressing it. Can you say dysfunctional? Yeah, I thought so……

Not to mention, picture this: your daughter could marry Carlos Manoso (or me, Anthony Stewart ---cute investment banker, black ops assassin and all ‘round hottie) or she could live with/ maybe someday marry Joe Morelli. Which would you chose? Yeah, thanks, but we all know it’s not gonna be me. Ranger is the man. But what mom in her right mind would hold out for Morelli? I tell you the woman is a few fries short of a Happy Meal. And please don’t play the Italian card, Ranger is half Italian-American, it oughta be enough. Or the race card, since maybe our Cuban side is a real mix, ‘cos most people think it’s a very attractive mix. We always look tan, it’s very cool.

And I sent some Thank you, God vibes for my own wonderful, adorable mom. My mom is awesome.

Anyways, so Morelli didn’t have nearly warm enough gear for sub-zero, pending blizzard Idaho, so we traipsed off to the Wal-Mart early this AM and now these rednecks fucking shot me. As if shopping at Wal-Mart wasn’t bad enough! Wal-Mart!  Ranger had said, when I quibbled at breakfast, K-Mart or Wal-Mart, buddy. Those are your choices.

I said, “Where does Robert Redford shop, not in those kinda stores?”

Ranger eyed me and growled, “In Utah! This is Idaho, get with the program.”

Huh. After the Hudson River, it’s all, like, nada til you hit LA, am I right? And I am so not sure about Redford, I think Sundance is in Idaho maybe…? Ranger is thinking of Sun Valley…or Park City, who knows.

So we get to the Wal-Mart and everyone stared at us, like we were, I don’t know, fuckin’ aliens. Or film stars. Shit even Morelli is a good looking guy, him and Ranger together could draw crowds. Yeah, ok, I look like Ranger, a lot, so my presence wasn’t helping the low-profile gig either. And it was one of those situations, nope, the sunglasses won’t help, if you keep them on indoors you really look like a poser movie star. Please, Ranger, I wanna go home to Manhattan where I’m considered hot but normal….

My mother keeps this cabin in the middle of nowhere ‘cos she’s an artist, a painter, she likes the vistas in the summer. And I suppose she meets her lover here. My dad? Ranger’s dad? Both of them? Let’s not go there, they’re supposed to be ---um---you know, like, dead. Dead with their billions in Hawaii, right. ‘Nother story, nevermind.

I came to in the back of the SUV. Ranger was driving, looking for a hospital on the GPS. Morelli was unzipping my parka and pulling up my sweater and thermal tee-shirt. Everything was soaked in blood. I reached down and pulled my shirt up some more. Morelli pushed my hands away and applied a pressure pad, maybe one of his new undershirts, poor guy. I got a good look and I could see that the bullet only creased my side just above my waistband. If I had love handles, they’d be pierced now.

I said, “Ranger, I’m okay, no hospital! We can’t waste time with the cops and the doctors and all the red tape. Go to the cabin, you can patch me up there.”

Ranger looked at us in the rear view mirror then screeched to a stop on the shoulder of the road. He got out and leaned into the backseat, looming over me.

He said, “Lemme see.”

Morelli lifted the oh okay, bloodsoaked, but still…compress and Ranger did a fast eval. Mini nod, and he got back in the front, punching up the route to the cabin.

Now that he was fairly sure I wasn’t gonna die, Ranger was getting mad. He was cursing me out because I shoved him out of the way of the bullet and thus got shot myself. And now I was bleeding on his custom pale grey ultrasuede and glove leather Porsche seats, less than 100 miles on the car and I fucking was bleeding on his new car, what’s with that, he can’t take me anywhere, it’s like I’m still  3 years old, dropping my ice cream cone, making a mess, grow up, dude, let the bad guys shoot him. It kills him when they shoot me, gives him agita…. (You get the picture.) He wasn’t yelling but he was getting that tense tight voice and it was a little uh, louder than he usually spoke. And except for the agita comment, it was all in Spanish, so I knew he was upset.

I said in Farsi, which I figured was safe, “The cop may understand more Spanish than you think, he’s a street cop. And he speaks some Italian.”

Ranger seamlessly switched to Farsi but the cursing stayed in Spanish and the madder he got the sillier it sounded. He was saying rudenastygutterslang but he was forgetting and speaking with his beautiful, upper crust Havana accent that we learned as little kids. Mixed with Farsi. In private we spoke the Spanish of our childhood---on the streets of NY or NJ Ranger could sound ghetto in a half a dozen languages, English and Spanish included. Finally he said something nasty that sounded so absurdly elegant that I laughed. He glared in the mirror and than he smiled at me, saying, “Hang in there, Antonio, we’ll be home in a few.”

“Si, Carlito,” I whispered. I tried to smile back at him and zoned off again, came to in the chalet, lying on my mom’s  god only knows how expensive, museum quality antique Shaker pine and cherry table. Ranger had stuck my arm, starting an IV. I said, “Be sure to warm up the saline, I’ll get hypothermic if you start me on ice cold fluids.”

Ranger nodded.

He said, “The new emergency kits are equipped with saline packed in those chem warmers. You’ll be nice and warm, okay?” He handed me some pills and a glass of water, adding, “These are antibiotics and Vicodin, they ll knock you out. You need about twelve stitches. I’ll wait for the meds to take before I use the local, you’ll sleep through it all.”

He covered me with a blanket and went to wash his hands again, I could hear him scrubbing up. Morelli was still with us, looking kinda green. He said to Ranger, “How do you know what to do, this is way beyond field first aid?”

Ranger said something about being prepared. My boy scout buddy.

I smiled and drifted off. Ranger insisted everyone who worked with him, not just Rangeman guys, but black op guys like me, know extensive field medicine. We were all trained and retrained, just in case.

Next time I woke up, geez this is getting old, I was listening to Morelli rag on Ranger about his cover, about who /what Ranger really is. He was surprisingly insightful too, I was impressed. I told everyone, Ranger included, that having NO files, no info was a mistake, I wanted to plant fake jackets. But Ranger said it was too complex, too easy for an operative to forget yet another cover story. The only thing they let me do was mark our military files “sealed” as opposed to Top Secret/ Highly Classified/ NTKO…that means need to know only. “Sealed” is sooo much more discreet, isn’t it. Not as cool, but discreet.

I opened my eyes just a teeny bit. I was lying on the big sofa, wrapped in blankets, toasty and warm. Ranger had dressed me in something, I was aware of wearing something soft, probably sweats and wool socks. I looked a bit more, and could see all my guns except my 9mm, and most of Ranger’s, piled neatly in front of me on the coffee table. Ranger is soooo efficient. I love Ranger. Slowly slid my hand under my pillow, grasping my Glock. Ranger would never leave me unarmed and defenseless, I could be on my death bed and he’d slip my gun to me.  Not that I really need a gun, you understand…..

Morelli got louder, ending by saying, “…you’re a cop! An undercover cop!”

I pulled out my hand and aimed the gun. Why his conclusion was making him so mad, I had no idea. But he sounded like a guy on the edge.

Ranger saw my gun and shook his head a tiny bit, telling me it was okay. Uh huh. Not.

But Morelli rambled on, some shit about going to college. Morelli never went to college? What’s with that? I thought everyone went to college nowadays. God knows Ranger and I did, endlessly it seemed.

I drifted off………………

Endless snow.

Dinner.

Poker, excellent. I didn’t get this rich by being easy, did I?

………………………………………..

Ranger POV

Why me?

tbc