Free Independence Day by Ben Coes

of them occurred on complicated, difficult operations. Mexico should’ve been easy. It wasn’t particularly dangerous, complicated, or logistically challenging. It was a brilliantly planned operation, which is why it was so relatively safe and simple. Yet he froze like a deer in the headlights.
    Dewey was searching for the meaning of it all. Why had he not grabbed the door handle? Where had that paralysis come from? But the harder he searched for an answer, the more elusive it became. Yet he knew he needed to find the answer. He didn’t have a choice. Calibrisi hadn’t come to Castine to recruit him. He’d come to rescue him.
    Dewey pulled out his cell phone and hit a speed-dial number.
    “Yeah?” came the voice.
    “Hey, Rob.”
    Tacoma, an ex–Navy SEAL, was Dewey’s closest friend, that is, if he actually had friends. Dewey hadn’t spoken to Tacoma since a few days before Jessica’s funeral.
    “Dewey.”
    “I’m good, thanks for asking,” said Dewey.
    “Like I’m the one who went off grid, asshole. What are you doing? Are you still up in Maine? What are you gonna become, a fucking lobsterman?”
    “Maybe,” said Dewey. “I like lobsters. Sorry for not calling. I’ve been … well, I’ve been getting my head straight.”
    “Uh-oh. Are you doing yoga or some shit like that? Acupuncture? No, wait, you’re a fucking vegan, aren’t you? I knew it. Just tell me you’re not driving a Prius. I swear, I’ll never talk to you again.”
    Dewey laughed.
    “No, I still have my balls. I’m in D.C. I’m at Jess’s.”
    “Really? Awesome.”
    Tacoma did his best to act positive, despite the mention of Jessica and the fact that Dewey was in what was to have been their future home, obviously alone.
    “I’ll be back in a few days,” continued Tacoma. “You want to get together?”
    “Yeah, that sounds good.”
    “Listen, they’re telling us to shut off our phones,” said Tacoma. “I’ll call you when—”
    “I have a quick question.”
    “Uh-oh. Let me guess. You’re in jail. Call fuckin’ Hector, man.”
    Dewey laughed again.
    “You still fight?” asked Dewey.
    “What do you mean, ‘fight’?”
    “Mixed martial arts. That UFC shit you’re always talking about.”
    Tacoma paused.
    “Yeah,” he involuntarily offered. “Why?”
    “You like it?”
    “It’s not as much fun as it used to be. There are some punks out there. Last time I was at a gym, I almost got my neck broken. All these guys think they’re gonna be famous. Scouts from UFC are always there, so they’re showing off. That being said, it’s the only way to keep sharp, other than running ops, of course.”
    Dewey reached for the brown bag. He unscrewed the cap and took a large swig.
    “There’s a decent gym in Adams Morgan. Some good fighters.”
    “Is that where you almost got your neck broke?”
    “No,” said Tacoma. He paused for several moments. “Dewey, look, I know you.”
    “What the fuck does that mean?”
    “I know you’ve been drinking.”
    Dewey looked at the case of beer. He picked up the Jack Daniel’s and took another gulp.
    “Tell me the name of the gym,” said Dewey. “I promise I won’t kill anyone.”
    Tacoma laughed.
    “I’m not worried about them.”
    “Rob.”
    Tacoma let out a sigh.
    “Okay, fine. It’s in southeast, out near Redskins stadium. It’s called Whitewater. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
    *   *   *
    The neighborhood was one, possibly two steps up the economic ladder from ghetto. A few stores had hand-scrawled signs advertising their wares. Others sat vacant, shuttered in graffiti-covered corrugated steel. People were gathered on the stoops of boarded-up, burned-out town houses, drinking and smoking.
    At eight o’clock, the night was still young. But darkness had long ago descended on this forgotten part of the nation’s capital.
    The taxi driver dropped Dewey at the back edge of Lincoln Park, unwilling to go any farther into the neighborhood. Dewey climbed