Page 21 of Coming In Hot
Hell, maybe he’s not eventhatbusy. Maybe he’s just avoiding me, which, honestly, I can’t blame him for. If I were him, I’d avoid me, too.
Okay, fine. He’s probably not a hitman. I’m, like, 87.6 percent sure he’s not. But what does that leave? Special Ops? Gun for hire? Every time I think I’ve got a handle on the mystery that is Pharo, I end up more confused than when I started.
But then there’s Rhett. I know he works at the airfield where Pharo flew out of. I watched his plane take off from the parking lot just this morning. And now I’m left wondering—when the hell did Pharo get his pilot’s license? It’s not like it’s a piece of information he’s volunteered.
I tap my fingers against the phone, staring at the screen, the unanswered message to Pharo staring back at me. What else don’t I know about him? What kind of life has he been leading that I’ve never bothered to ask about?
Maybe it’s time I got some answers, even if they come from the one person who probably knows less about Pharo than I do. But right now, any lead is better than nothing.
I pull up Rhett’s name and hit dial. When he answers, I can hear the hum of a small aircraft in the background, the sound buzzing through the phone like a constant reminder that I’m talking to someone who’s clearly a step closer to the truth than I am.
“Hello?”
“How often does Pharo fly out of your hangar?” I cut straight to the point, not in the mood for anything else.
“Oh, hey, Jax. How’s your day going? Mine, you ask? Peachy. I’m having a killer meatball sub for lunch. What about you?”
I roll my eyes, leaning back in my chair. “I’m not hungry. How often?” I repeat, my patience is starting to wear thin.
Rhett’s voice dips into a tone that tells me he knows this isn’t a friendly check-in. “Well, let’s see… Pharo? I don’t know. He pops in when he needs to. Maybe a couple times a month. Sometimes more. I’m not always here when he flies in or out. Why?”
It’s not the answer I was hoping for, but it's something. “What else?” I push, needing more. “How long has he been flying? Does he own a plane?” I’m not even sure why I’m asking all this. The more I know, the more tangled it feels. But I can’t stop myself.
Rhett pauses, a little longer than I like. “I don’t know much about his personal stuff, Jax. Just that he’s a damn good pilot. He’s got his shit together up there, that’s for sure. As for owning a plane—well, that’s not something I’ve ever asked him. He’s not exactly chatty when it comes to that kind of stuff. The one he uses is registered to a company called Greystone Security.”
Greystone Security? What kind of company just hands out small planes like door prizes to their employees? Great, now I’ve got even more questions swirling around in my head.
“Alright,” I mutter. “Thanks, Rhett. I’ll let you get back to that sub.”
Rhett chuckles. “Anytime, man. Let me know if you need anything else. I’ll be here, shoving these balls in my mouth.”
Christ. Ball jokes from the Bitches. How novel.
Time to get to work.
I move the mouse, bringing Cerberus to life. The hum of the computer fills the space around me, a sound that’s almost comforting in its predictability. I typeGreystone Securityinto the search bar, watching the results flood the screen. Pages upon pages of links. Most of it’s corporate fluff, all polished PR crap designed to make them appear to be saving the world one secure facility at a time.
But I’m not here for that. I don’t care about the glossy surface. What I want to know is what’s behind it. What’s Greystone securing? Who’s behind it? What do they do when the cameras are off and the official reports are filed?
I scroll past the predictable sales pitch, clicking through until I find something a little less polished, a little more… real. A blog post, one buried under layers of sponsored content, gives me a sliver of insight. There are whispers, off-the-record comments about “black ops” and “classified clients” that make my skin crawl. That’s the part I need to focus on.
I dig deeper, my fingers flying over the keyboard as I start to piece things together. Greystone’s website is slick—too slick—and everything in the open is designed to distract, misdirect. But beneath that layer, I know there’s something dark. Something worth knowing. And I’ll find it.
This time, there’s no avoiding it.
As the screen fills with more layers of disjointed, fragmented info, I can feel the pieces of the puzzle starting to fit together—just barely. I’m close, but not quite there. The deeper I dive, the more I realize how carefully Greystone’s managed to cover their tracks. They’ve set up a web of false leads, clever misdirection to make anyone who comes snooping think it’s all above board.
Then, a new link catches my eye—one that doesn’t belong. It’s buried under pages of standard intel, with an innocuous name like “Operations Overview.” But there’s something in the back of my mind that tells me it’s different. The domain’s not part of their main website, and it doesn’t look like any of the other professional feeds I’ve seen.
My pulse quickens as I click it.
A password prompt pops up.
“Damn it,” I mutter to myself. They were expecting someone like me to dig. I’ve been around long enough to know the game.
I pull up my secure chat and reach out to the one person I know who will give me answers without asking too many questions.
Got a favor to ask.
