His attempt to scrub the dirt from the cracks in his calloused hands with the cheap soap in the dispenser in the men’s room proved futile.
He blew out an obscenity and gave up, turning off the water and reaching for a coarse brown paper towel.
Screw it. It wasn’t like he was having dinner at the Ritz. Hell, he could barely afford to eat at this local hole-in-the-wall once a week.
Tossing the balled up towel into the trash with his right hand, he pushed open the door with his left. He moved from the unforgiving glare of the bathroom and welcomed the comforting cocoon of the dim dive-bar.
A man could fade into the background in a place like this, just the way he liked it. Nothing good came from being in the spotlight. He’d learned that the hard way.
He took a seat in a back corner booth that faced the bar and the waitress who appeared more interested in watching TV and talking to the bartender than doing her job. He glanced at the news report playing. A picture of a woman flashed on along with the caption, CEO Missing.
The service here sucked, but the food was good and cheap and, most important, kept him from having to shop and cook on the single burner hotplate in his rented room.
He never thought he’d miss the food in the chow hall . . . He missed a lot of things about his old life.
That thought brought back the familiar sick feeling in his gut. A tight knot that felt like a twisted tangle of anger mixed with panic that resulted in nausea strong enough he almost second-guessed ordering food. But no, the feeling would eventually pass and then he’d be starving and end up back in his room eating that salty brown water over instant noodles that passed for soup.
The vibration of his cell phone was for once a welcome interruption from his morose thoughts. He hated the damn phone. Hated having to answer every call from every unknown caller. But for now, it was his keeping a roof over his head and putting food in his belly.
He answered the phone with, “Adam Nichols.”
“Hi, Adam. It’s Bianca.”
He braced himself at the sound of the breathy, sex-phone-operator voice on the line.
“Mrs. Tuttle, is everything all right?” He used her married name to remind her she was indeed married. Married to the man who paid him.
She could flirt her little ass off but there was no way he was going to risk his reputation and future jobs by fucking the wife of one of his best customers.
“Well, not really.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“The door on the walk-in closet you built for me is sticking.”
He’d installed a closet organizer inside her existing closet. He hadn’t installed the door in question, but he knew this woman, and her friends. They wouldn’t make that distinction.
In her mind, he’d worked on the closet and now that closet was making her unhappy. Forget the fact it was summer, in the south, and humid as fuck. Sometimes, doors stuck.
Even so, this was a delicate situation. The last thing he needed was her spreading it around he did shoddy work. But he also knew she called him for every little thing just to get him over there. Especially when her husband wasn’t home.
“Can you come over tonight and fix it?” she cooed, making him think tonight might be one of those nights her husband wasn’t around.
“I can be there in the morning,” he said.
He didn’t need her neighbors seeing him coming and going at night.
It was bad enough he’d have to shave down the door tomorrow while trying to ignore her prancing around half-dressed in front of him. But he’d do it, then he’d hand her a bill for the work.
He needed the money. The two front tires on his truck were nearly bald and he didn’t have the cash to replace them.
“All right. I’ll see you first thing in the morning. But don’t you show up too early. I wouldn’t want you to catch me indisposed.”
That was exactly what she wanted. He was starting to feel like a piece of meat. It was definitely a change after working in the all-male environment in the SEALs.
Eager to get off this call, he said, “Okay. Bye.”
He disconnected as the waitress approached. She’d finally noticing he was there. “Hey, there. What can I get ya?”
“Tossed salad with grilled chicken, vinegar and oil and a seltzer, please.” He knew the menu by heart after a year of eating here.
A year. That’s how long it had been since his life had taken a nosedive for the shitter.
The time had gone by in a blink of an eye, while at the same time seeming like an eternity. Was that a hallmark of being in Hell?
As the waitress left, his cell rang again. What now?
He shouldn’t complain. Busy was good. Busy paid the bills, but couldn’t a man take a dinner break in peace? He checked the display.
Unknown number. That figured.
Missing the days of having a sniper’s rifle ever present in his hand rather than a cell phone, he swiped to answer the call. “Adam Nichols speaking.”
“Master Sergeant Nichols.” Her voice was silky and smooth, but unlike Bianca’s, there was no flirtation in it.
This woman’s tone was all business. And she knew more about his business than she should.
The Navy had stripped him of all he’d worked for over his eighteen year in service, including his rank. Yet she’d addressed him by it anyway.
He’d left that chapter of his life back in Virginia Beach to start fresh in South Carolina. No one here knew about his past. But, apparently, this woman on the phone did.
“Who is this?” he asked.
“You can call me Charley.”
That tidbit didn’t provide a whole lot of information. The name, and the way she’d said you can call me Charley made it all sound like a fake name anyway.
No straight answers were going to be forthcoming from her. He was confident in making that prediction already after less than a minute.
That didn’t prevent him from asking, “How do you know me?”
“I don’t, except by reputation. And quite a reputation it is too. Top scoring sniper on your team. An impressive number of confirmed kills.”
What the— No one should have access to that information.
“Your record was stellar…right up until the end, that is,” she continued.
Jaw clenched, he drew in a breath through his nose at the reminder of what he’d rather forget.
Who the hell was this woman who knew too much about him?
Was she with the military? Or the government? Maybe one of the three-letter organizations.
That wouldn’t make him trust her. Far from it.
He drew in a breath. “Was there a purpose to your call?” Other than a trip down memory lane he’d rather not take.
“Yes, in fact there is. I have a proposition for you, Master Sergeant.”
Her addressing him as such put a bitter taste in his mouth. Maybe he should change that order to a beer and a shot instead of seltzer.
“I’m no longer addressed by that rank,” he reminded her, though he was sure she knew that already.
“Yes, but you could be again.”
His nostrils flared with the angry breath he drew in at her insinuation that she could perform the miracle that would turn his upside down life, right side up again.
“Look, I don’t know who you are but—”
“I don’t expect you to trust me blindly, Master Sergeant. I’m prepared to offer a show of good faith. After you see I’m serious, and can do for you what I say I can, we can talk business.”
“What kind of business?”
“I’ll be in touch again. Have a good dinner, Master Sergeant. Enjoy that salad.” She disconnected the call.
He stared at the cell in his hand through narrowed eyes.
Damn smart phones. God only knew who was spying on them all. Obviously this woman had been.
He tossed it on the table, hoping she’d enjoyed monitoring him during his riveting day of handyman work.
When he got home, that sucker was going to get powered down and spend the night in his truck. Tomorrow, he’d head to the store and see about getting a flip-phone. But they could probably monitor that too.
The waitress approached the table with his meal, but dammit all, he’d lost his appetite.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“Yeah. Draft beer and a shot of whisky.” He eyed the cell when the waitress left. “You hear that, Charley? Six-months sober, down the drain after one call from you. You happy about that?”
An hour later, he unlocked the door of his apartment, a six-pack of beer he’d bought from the gas station in one hand and the box filled with the leftovers from his salad in the other as he juggled the key in the door.
He flipped on the light and set what he carried on the counter.
Reaching for the fridge door, he stopped when a thick envelope caught his eye.
He picked it up. It was heavy in his hand.
Frowning, he slipped a finger beneath the flap and peered inside, his eyes widening when he saw the stack of bills.
A white piece of paper stood out against the green cash. He slid it out and unfolded it.
My show of good faith. Enough to cover next month’s rent plus. Yours to keep. Consider it up-front payment for your time speaking with me when I call again. And no, I’m not happy my call upset you. But whether you drink or not is your responsibility and your choice. It has nothing to do with me. I’ll be in touch. Charley.
Mother fucker!
Rage rose hot within him.
In the old days, fueled by alcohol and anger, he would have punched a wall. And probably would have broken his hand. Not now. He couldn’t afford it. He’d lost his pension and his health insurance along with his rank.
Scowling, he shoved the six-pack and takeout box onto a shelf in the fridge, but he didn’t take out a beer as her little censure about whose fault his drinking was nagged at him.
He slammed the fridge door shut then turned back toward the envelope.
Flipping through the bills again, he counted them.
It was more than enough for rent plus the tires he needed for the truck.
All for what? Taking the time to talk to her on the phone?
He took the cell out of his pocket and tossed it on the counter, eyeing it like it was alive. Wasn’t it though? At least the surveillance technology inside sure was. He’d forgotten to leave it in the truck. He supposed that was a good thing, considering she’d paid him so handsomely in advance to take her next call.
He’d listen to her. But that didn’t mean he’d believe a word that came out of her mouth. Or that he’d take her up on whatever proposition she made him.
Motion caught his eye as a cockroach shot across the wall and disappeared behind his single wall cabinet.
He eyed the stack of cash, sitting so incongruously on the cheap, chipped countertop in the one room shithole of a rental. It was a far cry from what he used to be able to afford. Before the military had stripped him of everything he’d worked for.
Gnawing on the inside of his cheek, he considered the situation. All she knew. All he didn’t know. What she could do for him. What he’d have to do for her—or whoever she worked for—in exchange.
Maybe he would take her up on her offer. What did he have to lose?
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