Page 9 of ELITE Justice
“Six mon—” Her gaze flew to the door as a bearded man all but fell through. “Kane.” Concern saturated the single word.
She jumped up and grabbed the man around the waist and placed one hand under a bent elbow. Half-carrying, half-guiding him to the back, the two spoke so low Jonathan couldn’t hear.
But he could smell, and the stench was revolting. Jonathan’s Spec Ops team had spent two weeks without a shower in the Afghani desert hunting an al Qaida leader and he was sure none of them smelled that bad when they returned to Camp Leatherneck. He pegged the man close to his age, maybe a little older. It was hard to tell with most of his face covered in hair and lined eyes that had been exposed to too much sun and heat.
Through the open window to the kitchen, he watched Gwen and…Kane, that’s what she’d called him. Most of their movements took place out of Jonathan’s sight but when she’d checked Kane’s eyes, the scowl on her face said everything.
Her friend was a junkie in need of a fix.
She retrieved a very small bottle from the fridge door and the man pulled up the plaid shirt that hung loosely over his broad shoulders. He could see a neat row of injection sites approximately one inch apart across his abdomen. Unusual for a junkie to be so precise, not to mention a weird place to shoot up.
Jonathan sat frozen on the round stool as Gwen tipped the bottle upside down and filled a syringe. She pushed the plunger until a drop ran down the needle. Kane had already opened an alcohol packet enough for her to extract the soaked square.
The rest was hidden by the four-foot wall between the dining area and the kitchen, but Jonathan knew what was happening by their facial expressions. Almost instantly, the pain that had creased the vagrant’s face eased as he inhaled slowly through his nose and exhaled through lips shaped like an O.
“Go sit at the counter.” Gwen’s order was reinforced by the stern look on her pretty face. She glanced at the cook.
“Already on it,” he replied.
Jonathan heard something hit the grill and sizzle.
“Your order is up, Gwen.” The cook gave her a friendly smile.
“Oh, thanks.” In seconds she appeared on the service side of the counter and slid the dish in front of Jonathan.
The huge steak was flawlessly cooked with red juices pooling on the bottom of the plate. Half-inch slices of green pepper and browned onions dotted the pile of golden cubes of potatoes. Jonathan scooped up the egg, its bright yellow center jiggling as he laid it on top of the home fries.
Damn, he loved this kind of food. He peered up at Gwen. “This is perfect.”
“Luis is an awesome cook,” she said loudly and flashed the man in the kitchen a smile.
Gwen refilled Jonathan’s coffee and handed a full cup to Kane, three seats down. Minutes later, she served the disheveled man a repeat of Jonathan’s meal.
“Where are you sleeping tonight? The mission has already closed its doors.” Although her voice was quiet, Jonathan heard.
Kane shrugged. “Nice night.” He forked a gigantic piece of steak and dragged it through the gooey egg center before stuffing it into his mouth. “Under the stars.”
The other man finished his food first, even though Jonathan had been served several minutes before Kane. Taking his dishes to the kitchen, as though this was a common occurrence, he disappeared into the back.
Jonathan surveyed his empty plate and blew out a long breath. As though Gwen had been watching, waiting for him to finish, she appeared with his ticket.
Gesturing to the coffee pot, she asked, “More?”
He shook his head. “I need to get to work.”
When she laid his bill on the counter, he placed his hand over hers. “What was that about?” He tilted his head toward the kitchen. “Because if you’re dealing drugs out of here, I’ll have to report you.”
Gwen glanced toward the pass-through window then faced him and glared. “How dare you accuse me of selling drugs? You don’t know anything about me, or Kane.” She whipped her hand away and called to one of the waitresses, “Please check Mr. O’Neil out.”
As Jonathan stood, Kane suddenly appeared at his side. In a move so fast Jonathan didn’t have time to counter, Kane grabbed his wrist and bent it back while twisting. Pain shot all the way up Jonathan’s arm as his knees automatically bent. He found himself in a hold used primarily by police and special operators.
“What Gwen and I do is none of your fucking business.” Kane pushed the hand a little more, increasing the agony. “She’s one of the best people I know. She’d never do anything illegal.”
Jonathan grabbed the other man’s arm as he stepped back, releasing the hold, and spun Kane around, pushing his bare forearm to his spine.
That’s when Jonathan saw them. Frog tracks. A tattooed path led under the blue plaid sleeve. He’d seen those webbed, three-toed footprints on SEALs in the secret Afghani Special Operations Command camp where he’d lived for nearly a year. “Where did you get these?”
Kane’s sneer would have stopped a lesser man. “Not that it’s any of your fucking business, but to let you know who you’re dealing with, I’ll share. A hole-in-wall just outside the back gate in Virginia Beach.” The man jerked his arm away and shoved his sleeve down.
