Jonathan’s office resided in a corner suite that he called The Cave. He shared the space with Venice and Boxers, the latter of whom rarely spent much time in the office. Of everyone on the payroll, Boxers was the most . . . action-oriented.
A light rapping on his open office door pulled his eyes from his papers, happy for some relief. Venice stood in the doorway with Dom D’Angelo. “Have you got a minute?” Venice asked.
He didn’t like the expression on her face. “What’s wrong?”
“We need to talk,” Dom said.
“Uh-oh.” Jonathan had known Venice since he was a teenager and she was a little girl with a crush. Her mother—Mama Alexander—had officially been Jonathan’s family housekeeper, but in reality became Jonathan’s surrogate mother after his own mom died when he was very young. He’d known Venice long enough to translate her facial expressions into emotions, and she was upset. Dom had been Jonathan’s roommate through college, and close friend ever since.
They started for the guest chairs in front of his desk, but he stood and diverted them to the conversation group in front of the fireplace. “Let’s get comfortable,” he said. “My back’s beginning to ache anyway.” That’s what happened when you spent a career jumping out of perfectly good airplanes. His chair of choice was a wooden Hitchcock rocker marked with the Seal of the College of William and Mary in Virginia, his and Dom’s alma mater. He swung it around a few degrees so he could face them as they sat next to each other on the green leather love seat.
“Who died?” Jonathan asked. Sometimes, the quickest, most merciful way to the point was to steal the punchline.
They seemed startled. “No one,” Venice said. “It’s not like that.”
“Well, sort of,” Dom corrected. As was his habit when off duty, Dom wore a regular collared shirt and jeans.
“Someone is sort of dead?”
“I mean that’s not the point,” Venice said.
“Then how ’bout you get to the point,” Jonathan said.
“Do you remember Ethan Falk?” Venice asked.
Jonathan looked to Dom and scowled. “Why does that name ring such a loud bell?”
“He was the precious cargo on a rescue mission about ten, eleven years ago.”
Jonathan winced, feeling busted. He’d made it a point over the years not to think much about the people he rescued. They were all just PCs—precious cargo—the points of the missions for which he would risk his life. To get too close was to lose perspective, and getting distracted was the surest way to come home dead.
“James Stepahin,” Dom said.
And that did it. Jonathan rarely forgot a bad guy. “Kid-toucher, right? Sold boys into slavery?”
“That’s the guy,” Dom confirmed.
“And Ethan was the PC we snatched.”
“Exactly.”
“Okay. What about him?”
“James Stepahin was killed yesterday,” Venice explained.
“Good,” Jonathan said. The details of the operation were coming back to him. “He and his buddies were sick sons of bitches. I think we toasted one of them and one got away. That was Stepahin, right?”
“Two were killed and one got away,” Venice corrected. Jonathan knew that she had just pulled that detail from memory.
“So, why the long faces? Where’s the Champagne?” Jonathan shot an uncomfortable glance toward Dom. “Meaning no disrespect, but I think we can agree that Stepahin won’t be impacting Saint Peter’s day.”
“This is where Ethan Falk comes in,” Venice said. “He’s the one who killed him.”
Jonathan laughed. “Really? Well, good for him. Justice the way it’s supposed to be done.”
“The kid is being charged with murder,” Dom said.
Something snagged in Jonathan’s gut. He said nothing, choosing instead for them to play the rest of their hand.
“He’s trying to claim self-defense,” Venice explained. “He told the police about his kidnapping and his rescue, but no one’s listening.”
Jonathan brought both hands to his head and pulled his hair back from his forehead. “Because there’s no record,” he said.
The others nodded in unison.
“Well, shit,” Jonathan said
LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2016 John Gilstrap, Inc.
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First electronic edition: May 2016
ISBN: 978-1-6018-3702-8
ISBN-10: 1-60183-702-X
Time to Live: Part Five Page 11
