The night had ended with more than thirty stitches, and a new leather vest to wear wherever he went.
Only after the fact had he learned that the man he helped was a deputy himself with the Wolves. Taken in under his wing, the man had shepherded him through, putting him on a trajectory to the top.
A path that had stalled out three years prior when that same man eventually found himself in a fight where nobody came to his aid. Three well-placed stab wounds proved too much, taking with them his life, and Byrdie’s ascension plan.
In the wake of the man’s death, a power scramble had ensued, Ringer ending up atop the heap. How that had happened, Byrdie could still only speculate at, believing it had more to do with who the man knew outside of the organization than anything he’d ever done within it.
Don’t let it ever be said that politics don’t infiltrate every aspect of America these days.
In a sign of goodwill, Ringer had asked Byrdie to stay on as a deputy, and had been pretty decent to him, only occasionally throwing him the odd shit job to remind him of the internal pecking order.
Despite his initial reaction, and wanting to believe otherwise, he had to admit this was not such an instance.
The woman that walked into The Wolf Den was a bombshell, but even she paled in comparison to the news she came to deliver. One of their own it seemed had been taken out, and there was reason to believe it hadn’t been an accident. That served the double ignominy of targeting a friend and by extension attacking the vest itself.
There is no way they can abide such a thing. Sending out anybody lower on the totem pole would send the wrong message. It would tell anybody that might be watching that they didn’t value their members and they didn’t take such offenses seriously.
If that news were to get out, it would set off a veritable frenzy of people trying to move in, looking to get their own piece of the Wolves territory.
The target they are here to see is a two-story structure five doors down from where there are now parked. Painted red at one point, it has faded to something closer to pink, the shutters white. A small fenced-in yard sits out front, a fan palm tree shading much of the front stoop.
“How damn long-“ Gamer asks, letting out a mighty sigh. Raising the towel that is draped across his knee, he swipes it over his bald head, wiping heavy droplets from his scalp.
“As long as it takes,” Byrdie says. Keeping his gaze on the front of the place, he inventories everything in his mind, seeing the situation for what it is.
The location isn’t ideal. Placed in the middle of the street, there are houses tight on both sides. Cars line the curb as well, meaning there are plenty of eyes and ears around at all times.
Working the small dusty patch inside the fence next door is a trio of dogs. Given the angle and their low stature, he can’t make out the breed, but can safely surmise that they are equipped with the ability to bark. Loudly.
On the corners at either end of the street sit security lights, their angle putting their future glow out into the intersections, likely casting a wide cone of illumination.
The report they got was extremely thin. Nothing more than a name, the person that needed to be removed was a woman. Based on the spelling, it was likely she was foreign, though from where, Byrdie hadn’t a clue. Same for her age. Or even what she had done to earn such ire.
Not that any of that greatly matters. What does is making sure she is eliminated, getting them what they want.
The name of the first person on the list. And by extension, whoever they were working with that had taken out Linc.
“Ringer give us a timeline?” Gamer asks, his first comment in some time that isn’t a complaint.
“Not yet,” Byrdie replies. “He’s waiting to see what we come back with.”
He doesn’t bother to add that it will be soon. The clock has already started ticking on their response, Linc gone several days and counting now. Their countermove will need to be quick, and it will need to be decisive.
The afternoon hasn’t yielded a great amount of information, but it’s been enough. “Okay,” Byrdie says.
“Okay?” Gamer asks, a hint of surprise in his voice.
Byrdie doesn’t bother to repeat himself. “Drive slow when you exit. Go by the house, but don’t you dare even glance over as we roll by.”
My shoulders ached. My ankles were sore. Even my face seemed to hurt from having the oppressive rubber goggles clamped down onto it for the last hour and a half. A thick ridge had been indented into the skin, apparent every time I moved my jaw from side to side.
“Good game, superstar,” Mira said, a smirk on her face as she handed down a bottle of water. Not having the energy, or the wits, to muster up a retort, I merely accepted it, too tired to even move.
Waiting, as if giving me ample opportunity to fire back, Mira eventually conceded that it probably wasn’t coming, letting things go with a simple shrug. Turning to face away, she put her back against the wall of the racquetball court we’d just been playing on, using it as a brace to slide her way to the floor. Landing effortlessly, she twisted off the top of her own bottle and took a short drink, the hair lining her forehead just barely damp.
“Why do you hate me?” I muttered.
Rolling her head my direction, Mira let out a small puff of air, a smile forming on her face. “Oh, come on, it wasn’t that bad.”
It was that bad. And then some. Maybe even worse than the beating I’d seen her put on her teammate and my arch-nemesis Nancy Raye almost a year ago to the day on this very spot.
“You’re just being nice, which is a first for today.”
The day before, we had both gotten back early from Christmas vacation. Equal parts wanting to see each other and needing to return for the start of our respective sport’s winter training, somehow I had allowed myself to get talked into joining her for a match at the local gym they trained in.
A situation I was now fast regretting, my every tendon and ligament feeling like it had been placed in a blender and pulsed a few dozen times.
“You realize I have to somehow play baseball tomorrow, right?”
“Aw, geez,” Mira replied, “you went home and your mama made you soft. You’re welcome for me getting you back in shape before the coaches got ahold of you.”
My eyes bulged a bit as I looked at her, a comment forming, before letting it go and reclining my head against the wall. Around us, the world was a solid white box with a glossy wooden floor, the faint buzz of the lights the sole sound.
“Thank you, I think?”
“That’s right,” Mira replied.
Raising the bottle, I upended the bottom, cool liquid sliding down my throat. When over half of it was gone, I lowered it into position, using the back of my wrist to wipe my chin.
“How’d you get into this to begin with?”
Once more, Mira shifted her focus my way, her eyebrows rising. “Hmm?”
“This,” I repeated, gesturing to the court we know sat in.
“You mean racquetball?” she asked, a hint of defiance creeping in.
Just as fast, I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks, my head rising from the wall. “I just mean...well...”
Keeping her face neutral for a moment, she eventually broke into a smile, the back of her hand flipping my way, her fingers just barely tapping against my arm. “Relax, I’m just playing with you. Don’t pull a muscle over there.”
“You mean another?”
A slight chuckle slid out as she returned her gaze to face forward, her eyes glazing, clearly in another place.
“The Hillcrest Sports Club,” she said.
Recognizing the tone, the look on her face, I remained silent, letting her continue, not needing to insert a clarifying question. She would get there in time.
“Hillcrest is this trendy, upscale neighborhood in San Diego,” she said. “It’s right near Balboa Park, close to where all the freeways come together.”
I vaguely recalled the name of the pl
ace from some of the stories she’d shared, though it didn’t mean anything to me. Just another suburb in what sounded like an interminable urban sprawl.
“One of the first places to really start the regentrification boon, that’s where people with money fled to after downtown was no longer the place to be.”
Staring on a parallel track, I allowed my vision to blur as well, listening to the sound of her voice, letting it carry me fifteen hundred miles south.
“And you guys were members?” I asked.
A derisive snort was the first response, followed by a low scoff. “God, no. My parents didn’t make enough money to even cover the membership fees there, let alone have any leftover for us to eat on afterward.”
Pausing, she took a swig of water, before continuing, “Mama worked there. She was a janitor for years when we were little, and sometimes after school, if she couldn’t make other arrangements, she would bring Hiram and me along.
“We were supposed to sit in the break room and do our homework, but have you ever known me to do what I was told?”
Smiling, I let out a single laugh, just enough to let her know I was following along without interrupting her flow.
“Anyway, one day, somebody had left their gear out and we found it. Went in and started hitting around. After a few minutes, the lady whose stuff it was came by and saw me wiping the floor with Hiram, which was no great feat, but she didn’t know that.”
“So she started giving you lessons?” I asked.
“For a while,” Mira replied, “but within a couple of years, I was well beyond her.”
Extending a hand before her, she held her water bottle as if it were a racquet, alternating forehands and backhands. “From the moment I was inside that room, I just couldn’t get enough. I’d beg mom to bring me along. I’d play anybody that was willing to climb inside with a girl.”
Blinking herself out of the moment, she turned my way. The same wistful smile remained in place, her eyes clear and bright. “It was just unshakeable. You know?”
I did know. I knew because I’d had that same feeling the first time I held a baseball to my face, feeling the seams against my skin. I knew it when I connected on my first home run, feeling that ball give, thinking it might travel forever.
And I knew it sitting there, at that moment.
“Mira, I love you.”
Chapter Nineteen
It is steamy in the front seat of my car. Not from any sort of physical interaction, but from the combination of the warmth outside and the humidity within, Mallory and I both having shed more tears than anticipated. Sitting just inches apart, we are both silent as I glance over, seeing her cheeks still damp, her eyes puffy.
“It just...” she begins, groping for the words. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“No,” I agree, unable to argue, but lacking the ability to add anything further. It doesn’t make any sense. None of it does. So badly I want to wake up and have it be last Thursday again, to have the chance to do something – everything – differently.
“And you think it has something to do with work?” she asks, her tone relaying the disbelief her face is currently unable to.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“But you know for a fact that he was aiming for her?”
The story I’ve given Mallory is a bastardized version of the truth. There was no way to get around telling her what happened to Mira, no chance of her letting me into the office to take a look without admitting that her killer had said she was the target. How and when those two things occurred, that part I got a little creative with.
Reaching up, I slide the sleeve of my t-shirt back, letting her see the ridge of furled scab. More than three inches long, it is a half-inch thick, still a long way from fully healed. In truth, I probably should have gotten it sewn up, but in the hours after her murder, my focus was pretty one-track.
Not that it’s changed a great deal in the time since.
“The guy was three feet away and this is all I got,” I whisper. “Mira took two in the chest.”
Releasing my hold on the cotton fabric, I pull in a slow breath through my nose, shifting my gaze back to the front window. “And he said as much as he was fleeing.”
Beside me, Mallory makes no effort to respond. Also staring straight ahead, she begins to sniffle, her body rocking slightly as small gasps escape her. The temperature in the car continues to climb as she reaches to the floorboards, taking up a black leather bag trimmed in tassels from between her feet. Rummaging through it, she snatches a keyring and peels a single key off of it, placing it on the front dash.
“Take it. I can’t face going up to her desk right now, but keep it as long as you need. I can always get someone to let me in.”
Shifting my gaze to the key, I stare at the polished brass item for a moment. Having her hand it over to me is about the best thing I could have hoped for, though I have to keep any reaction in check. I can’t let her see that, cannot have her thinking for even a second that any of this was planned.
“Are you sure?”
Her head bobs slightly as she draws in a deep breath. “Positive. I have no idea what it might have been, but if something from work is what got her...”
She can’t bring herself to say the last word, though she doesn’t have to. Just like she doesn’t need to finish the thought for me to already see where she is going with things.
They work in the same office, doing basically the same thing. If Mira was targeted, she wants as much warning as possible.
Even under the worst of circumstances, the strongest basic human emotion is always self-preservation.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“I’m so sorry,” she replies, opening the door and stepping out into the parking lot.
I wait until she is gone before starting the engine to head across the street.
Chapter Twenty
Being married to a Navy SEAL isn’t easy. Aside from all the usual tropes about never knowing exactly where I am or if I’m safe, Mira also had to deal with the constant relocation. Many times in my ten years in the service we were bounced around, with various levels of comfort and enjoyability. Starting and ending here in San Diego, the middle portions took us to the Philippines, Hawaii, and Guam, three distinct locations that all had a lot of sunshine in common, and very little else.
Despite having an undergraduate degree in public health, it wasn’t until my second tour that she was able to complete a master’s in social work at the University of Hawaii. Basically ensuring that she would be looking at years of being overworked and underappreciated, she never once viewed things through those terms. Her own upbringing had instilled a deep sense of thankfulness in her, a vein that was only made stronger by our stints in the third world and the atrocities we saw there.
The name of the place she went to each day was officially dubbed the Wittenauer Institute for Global Health Outreach, the sort of long and pompous title that some rich bastard insisted on after cutting a check years before. The name is the third one listed in order on the panel board along the street as I pull into the front row of the parking lot, killing the ignition and staring up at the building I’ve been to dozens of times before. Three stories in height, it looks to have been made sometime in the seventies, when dark brick and black framing was in style, the place almost ominous in its appearance.
Stepping out, I give a quick glance around the parking lot. Just after six o’clock, most of the spaces are now empty, keeping in line with the dentist and accountant offices also taking up residence inside. Keeping strict business hours, the majority of the windows are dark for the night as I grip the single key from Mallory in my hand, heading fast up the sidewalk to the building.
Stepping inside, I bypass the elevator, instead going for the staircase running vertically beside it. Taking the steps three at a time, I cross the second-floor landing in a few bounds, reaching the third less than a half minute after entering the building.
Pausing at the to
p, I wait to make sure my breathing is even, that no sweat crosses my brow. Despite having been here so many times over the years, knowing virtually all of her coworkers by name, I can’t help but feel my heart hammering as I push from the stairwell and out into the hallway, the familiar grey carpet underfoot.
Crossing past the elevators, I head for the single wooden door on the far wall. Plastered beside it is an oversized plaque with the same ridiculous title strewn across it, Mira’s voice strong in my head, mocking it endlessly.
A humorless smile comes to my face as I extend the key before me and give the lock a twist, the bolt clicking audibly in the quiet space. I am careful not to glance in either direction as I pull it open and step inside, not wanting to give anybody that might happen by or be watching on a security monitor any reason to think I don’t belong.
Just one full minute after exiting the car, I am inside her office, the place she spent the second most time in the world. My back pressed against the front door, I swing my gaze around the space, taking in everything as if seeing it for the first time.
Whenever I’d visited in the past, it was almost always for an impromptu lunch. Home on leave or having a rare weekday off from the base, I’d swing by and ask if she’d be up for some taquitos, knowing no matter how busy she was, she would never say no.
To me, or the taquitos.
In those moments, my focus was always on her. On the way she looked in her business attire, all buttoned up and professional. On the thick-framed glasses she only wore at the office. On the crinkle that formed along the bridge of her nose whenever she was deep in thought.
Now, I force those things to the side, making myself see the odd space before me. Square in shape, there is one desk in front of me for reception. Behind it are two banks of cubicles, each portioned into four equal parcels. Those are where the social workers sit most of the time, doing their research or following up on basic administrative matters.
Office Visit Page 8
