Page 7 of Cast in Shadow
He set it aside, picked up the money, and counted it. Ten thousand in slightly used, mixed denominations.
He put that down, too, and looked at the business card. Matte black with an engraved bird in a metallic hue. No name. No number. Just a handwritten note in neat script, done in metallic Sharpie: For your time.
He snorted at that and looked at the photo again. He couldn’t count how many pictures he’d been handed over the years with one order or another. Locate. Recover. Eliminate.
He couldn’t help wondering, Who is she? A target? A package? He sincerely hoped she wasn’t a target. He didn’t have a hell of a lot of rules these days, but one he was adamant about was not hurting women or kids.
He peered into the envelope again, thinking there had to be more but there wasn’t. No instructions, no directive. What the fuck was he supposed to do with that?
He tucked everything back into the envelope and snorted, not caring much for Charley’s methods. They reeked of bureaucracy and government, where the dissemination of information to those carrying out a mission was tightly controlled beneath a premise of need to know. Unfortunately, what was necessary was subject to interpretation and often grossly underestimated.
He hadn’t liked it when he’d been in the Teams. Liked it even less now.
But cash was cash, and if Charley thought a few minutes of his time was worth ten grand, he’d listen to what she had to say before he gave a firm thanks, but no, thanks and went on his merry way.
He used some of the money to buy a steak dinner at a nearby roadhouse, then used a little more to pick up a bottle of quality bourbon on the way back to his hotel.
His room was just as he’d left it. The small traps he’d set remained untriggered. No more mysterious, unmarked packages were left at his door. He felt almost disappointed.
Zeke showered and watched lousy television for the rest of the night, biding his time until Charley called again with more info. No doubt, she was giving him time to think and wonder in the hopes of piquing his interest.
He had to admit, he was intrigued. He pulled out the photo of the mysterious female again and studied it, burning the image into his brain, cataloging every feature down to the finest detail. It was her eyes that commanded most of his attention. They were demure. Shuttered. Hinting at great depths and many secrets. Secrets he suddenly wanted to discover.
When Charley called again—if she called again—he might be inclined to listen.
* * *
There was still no word when he woke the next morning. His latest burner remained silent. Perhaps the situation had changed, and his services were no longer required. A sharp blade sliced across his chest at the thought.
Zeke decided to grab breakfast and coffee. If there was still no word when he got back, he’d simply forget the whole thing and move on. Or at least, he’d try to. He had a feeling those hazel eyes would be haunting him for a while.
Thankfully, another package was waiting for him when he returned. This one contained more cash and a shiny black phone.
He powered on the phone. An eagle appeared, then disappeared in a burst of animated fire. A new image emerged—that of a phoenix rising from the ashes and flying away. The screen went back to black again, and then a static logo faded in—that of an anchor, trident, and phoenix, similar to the Navy SEAL insignia he knew so well.
What message was that supposed to convey? That Charley’s organization was made up of a bunch of SEALs who’d been burned, like him? Was this supposed to be a chance for him to rise anew from the ashes?
He laughed at that. If that was what she thought, she’d picked the wrong guy. His past was his past. He’d learned hard lessons and moved on, and he didn’t give a shit what anyone else thought. He knew the truth, and ultimately, that was all that mattered.
The phone vibrated in his hand, as if she had known the moment he turned it on.
Because of course she had.
“Did you enjoy your pancakes?”
He wasn’t as surprised as he’d been the first time. “A little doughy for my taste but edible enough. Are you ready to stop playing games now and tell me what you really want?”
“The woman in the picture. I want you to find her.”
He didn’t bother asking, Why me? He knew why. Because he was damn good at finding people, one of the top SOs—special warfare operators—in the business. He could slip into any situation, any environment, and get the job done.
He might not be a SEAL anymore, but he kept his skills sharp by taking care of scum like Fat Tony and his boys. He provided a service, one that should have been performed by cops and lawyers and judges. And he didn’t feel bad about taking money for it. They took money to do their jobs. Why shouldn’t he?
It wasn’t only for the money though. He got a sense of personal satisfaction as well.
The people upon which Raguel meted out justice deserved it. They were criminals, drug lords, and serial abusers with a proven history of fucking people over. Bottom feeders who manipulated the system to their advantage.
Nothing about the woman’s picture suggested she met any of his criteria, but looks could be deceiving. Could he find the woman? Absolutely. Would he? That depended.
