by Logan Ryles
How could all of that be shut off so quickly?
What did I do?
The Gulfstream touched down with a shriek of tires on pavement. Wolfgang looked out the window at the beautiful expanse of Missouri farmlands and sucked in a deep breath. It had been less than a week since he was home, yet it felt like an eternity. He never imagined it could feel this good to be back on American soil.
The stairs whirred down, but Edric motioned for everyone to remain seated. Megan appeared from the aft cabin with Rose in tow.
The girl wore a clean set of pajamas, and her face was freshly washed. Bruises still covered her arms and neck, stretching as high as her cheeks, but she held her head high now, pausing at the door to look back at Lyle, Kevin, and Wolfgang. “Thank you,” she whispered, tears welling up in her eyes.
Wolfgang smiled but said nothing, watching through his window as Megan led Rose to the foot of the stairs.
A black Cadillac sat twenty yards from the plane, and as soon as Rose touched the tarmac, she ran toward the car. A tall man with salt-and-pepper hair appeared from the back seat and wrapped the girl in a hug, pulling her off her feet and spinning around until Rose squealed.
Wolfgang smiled and blinked away the blurriness in his vision. He thought about all the movies he’d seen with reunions like this, but none of them brought on the feels quite like the real thing.
“Come on,” Edric said. “Nigel wants to see us.”
Nigel?
Wolfgang followed the others down the steps into the bright Missouri day. He cast another hopeful look at Megan, but again, she ignored him. As they reached the tarmac, Wolfgang noticed another black Cadillac parked near the nose of the plane, and standing near it was a tall, skinny man with wispy blond hair. He wore black from head to toe—a black suit with a black shirt, a black tie, black shoes, and a black belt. Even the belt’s buckle was black, and dark sunglasses completed the look.
“Who’s this?” Wolfgang whispered to Edric.
“Nigel,” Edric said. “He works for the director . . . kinda like a secretary.”
Doesn’t look like any secretary I’ve ever seen.
Charlie Team assembled around the trunk of Nigel’s car, and the unsmiling man offered a stiff bow. “Congratulations on an outstanding job. The director asked me to present each of you with a token of his gratitude.”
Nigel pressed a button on a key fob, and the trunk of the car popped open. He reached inside and withdrew a white shopping bag, then dispersed little cardboard boxes to each of them. Wolfgang was last in line, and when Nigel reached him, he paused. Wolfgang couldn’t see behind his glasses, but he had the very real impression that Nigel was staring into him more than at him.
“Thank you for your valor,” Nigel said.
Thank you for your valor? Who says that?
Wolfgang accepted the box and slipped the lid off. He blinked in surprise. Nestled inside the box was a silver Rolex watch with a black face and a metal band. It gleamed in the sun as the second hand ticked slowly over the word Submariner at the bottom of the face.
Wolfgang knew almost nothing about watches, but he knew what a Rolex was, and he knew they weren’t cheap. He looked up in confusion and saw that Nigel was still standing directly in front of him. Still unsmiling.
“Do you like it?” Nigel asked.
“I . . . um . . . yeah.” Wolfgang glanced down the line of his teammates. They all received watches, and Kevin and Edric were excitedly comparing theirs while Megan held an elegant gold lady’s watch in the sun to admire its crystal face.
Wolfgang looked back at the Submariner, then slid it out to feel its heft. It felt good in his hands, and he suddenly realized that next to his Mercedes, this had to be the nicest thing he’d ever owned. “Thank you,” he said.
This time Nigel smiled, but it wasn’t a warm expression. The way his lips curled, so stiff and tight, sent a chill into Wolfgang’s blood. It was like the smile of a shark.
“Enjoy it,” Nigel said. He shut the trunk, slid into his car, and then both Cadillacs drove off the tarmac and disappeared on the road.
Wolfgang watched them go, at once confused and intrigued by the strange exchange. He looked down at the watch again, then slid it on and snapped the clasp shut.
Strange man.
Thoughts of Nigel vanished as Wolfgang found Megan standing by herself, watching him. As their gazes met, he felt a tug deep inside—an overwhelming urge to run to her and hold her—to rekindle whatever it was they had in Rio and make it last.
But Megan smiled sadly, dropped her eyes, and shook her head.
Wolfgang Returns in…
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That Time in Tokyo
A Wolfgang Pierce Novella
February, 2012
Winter descended on Buffalo like a grey blanket, blocking out the sun and flooding the streets with snowdrifts so high they reminded Wolfgang of Moscow three months prior. The streets crunched under his feet, littered with salt particles and chunks of ice—a constant nuisance from the fluctuating temperatures and endless precipitation—and the wind penetrated his peacoat as if it were a T-shirt.
Wolfgang stood outside the Jordan Fletcher Home for Children and watched a particular window on the third floor. Through it he could see the bright pink walls of a child’s bedroom decorated with flowers and fairy dust. One of the nurses who worked at the home informed Wolfgang via email that Collins had a special affinity for fairies, and he’d paid for a local artist to surprise her with custom designs.
He hoped his little sister liked them. He hoped she found some comfort in the decorations and stuffed animals and that they helped her assuage the loss of a normal childhood. At her age, Collins should’ve been enjoying elementary school and dance recitals and sleepovers with her girlfriends. She should’ve been talking about ponies and what she was learning in school and harassing her parents to take her to Disney World.
Instead, she lay alone in a hospital bed, her fragile body ravaged by an especially severe case of a disease every doctor in America was familiar with and none knew how to cure. She lay alone, her only friends the other children of the home, her only parents the in-house teachers and nurses.
Jordan Fletcher was an exclusive facility founded by some millionaire with a heart for kids and now funded by the generosity of other millionaires, as well as the hefty monthly costs of housing a child there. Collins was one of Jordan Fletcher’s full-time residents, spending her entire life at the facility save for occasional trips to the zoo or the local ice cream shop. Wolfgang paid for all of it, anonymously dropping envelopes stuffed with cash at the donation box next to the door and never going inside. Even though he was listed as Collins’s legal guardian, Wolfgang had assigned full control of her daily life to Jordan Fletcher, trusting them more than he trusted himself where parenting was concerned.
Premier service such as that carried an additional price tag, of course. Wolfgang didn’t care. Whatever she needed, he would provide it. Whatever could bring her happiness, he would make it happen. The only thing he didn’t do—something he couldn’t do—was face his sister. He never went inside the facility or did more than call her a few times a year. Every time he approached the door, every time he almost forced himself up the elevator, searing memories ripped through him. Shadows of years gone by when little Collins lay crying on a dirty couch, lost and alone, while her mother bled out on the floor next to her.
And Wolfgang cowered in the corner like a dog.
Wolfgang stood on the sidewalk, a box wrapped in pink paper clamped under one arm. The wind stung his face, turning the tears that slipped past his guard into ice in mere seconds, but he didn’t care. He pictured Collins lying in that bed, only three years old but looking far younger, her frail body ravaged by illness. Alone. Abandoned.
He forced himself across the street, ducking through the glass doors and wiping his nose with the back of one hand. It was warm in the lobby, and he kicked ice and mud
off his shoes before walking to the reception area.
The woman sitting behind the desk looked up and smiled like the sun, a genuine expression that made him feel better about this place. It wasn’t like a lonely nursing home for kids. It was clean and bright and operated by people who cared.
It was a good place for Collins. He could feel good about leaving her here.
Right?
“May I help you, sir?”
Wolfgang cleared his throat. “I’m here to see Collins Ward, please.”
She smiled again, then tapped something into her computer. The smile widened—he wasn’t sure how that was possible—and she motioned to the box.
“You must be here for her birthday! Collins will be so happy.”
Wolfgang shoved his free hand into his pocket and looked at his feet.
“Okay, sir. I’ll just need to see your ID to verify that you’re on her approved guest list.”
Guest list. What a joke. Only one name is written on that list. Only one person outside of these walls knows or cares that Collins exists.
He fumbled for his wallet, then hesitated, imagining he could smell the dominating odor of spilled whiskey on the dirty linoleum floor of the trailer. He heard his father stumbling outside, slamming into things at random, and cursing. He saw Collins standing up on the couch and crying, gasping for breath between every few sobs.
And he saw himself huddled in the corner, frozen in fear.
Wolfgang swallowed. His mind reproduced the moment as though it were yesterday or just hours ago.
“Sir?”
Wolfgang shoved the wallet back into his pocket and set the box on the counter.
“Actually, I have to go. Would you take this to her? You can open it first if you need to.”
The woman continued to smile, but her brow wrinkled in confusion. It was a strange facial contortion, and it made Wolfgang even more uneasy.
“I don’t understand . . .”
“Just give it to her, please. Tell her…tell her it’s from Ricky.”
Without another word, Wolfgang rushed out of the building, back into the bitter blast of the Buffalo winter. He sniffed back a runny nose and buried the memories beneath enough virtual cement to choke out the smells. The feelings. The sounds.
The bite of the wind stung his face again, and he turned back toward his parked rental car, sliding in and slamming the door. His cell phone sat in the cup holder, and he looked down to see a text message lighting up the screen.
He didn’t need to read the message. The contact was enough, simply labeled as “E.”
Wolfgang started the car and turned back onto the street, navigating to the airport. An hour later, he cleared security and boarded a non-stop flight to Saint Louis.
Wolfgang reached the Bank of America Plaza in downtown Saint Louis early the next morning and right on schedule. The sun had yet to rise over the Gateway Arch, and the city was still dark and clogged with snow, much like Buffalo. But the Plaza was warm inside, and he grabbed a cup of coffee on his way to the fourteenth floor—the operational headquarters of Charlie Team, an elite group of espionage operatives that Wolfgang was a member of.
Wolfgang joined Charlie Team—a branch of the private espionage provider, SPIRE—the previous summer, working under his long-time boss and personal friend, Edric. Together with the other three members of the team, Wolfgang and Edric completed missions in Paris, Cairo, and Moscow before attempting a rescue operation in Rio de Janeiro the previous November. That mission had almost gone down in flames, nearly killing them all.
Wolfgang exited the elevator at the fourteenth floor and dusted snow off his shoulders before approaching Charlie Team’s private suite. It was unlabeled, as unassuming and nondescript as everything else Charlie Team used. The art of this business was to remain under radar, and nobody was better at it than SPIRE.
The conference room on the other side of the door was small, equipped with a table, a selection of mismatched chairs, and a minibar. Edric’s favorite marker board was pinned against the far wall, and the sun shone in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Everybody was present. Edric, next to the marker board, tapped on an iPad while Kevin—Charlie Team’s muscle man—sipped a glass of whiskey next to the bar, and Lyle—Charlie Team’s tech wizard—sat behind a laptop.
And then there was Megan.
When Wolfgang saw her he forgot about Buffalo. She stood next to the window with her back turned to the group, watching the sun rise over Illinois and spill through the Gateway Arch. Golden light framed her petite body, and Wolfgang couldn’t help but stare as memories of Rio rushed in. But not just memories. Feelings, also. The feeling of her lips on his, and the way his body came to life when their fingers touched.
Those remnants of passion were shrouded by memories of Megan inexplicably turning cold as soon as the mission was complete. Without explanation or excuse, she simply went dark and refused to answer his calls or even return a text.
Somehow, the unexplained distance hit him harder than the boots of the drug gang that almost killed them both.
“Wolfgang!” Edric said. “Glad you made it.”
Wolfgang tore his gaze away from Megan and made a show of checking his watch. “I thought I was early . . .”
“You are,” Edric said, walking to the minibar. “I guess we’re all a little restless. Sprite?”
Wolfgang held out a hand, and Edric tossed him the beverage. He cracked it open and took a sip, then returned Kevin’s expressionless nod.
Kevin was a dark, brooding sort, with an attitude only a millisecond away from erupting into an outburst. Wolfgang had only recently learned of Kevin’s background in the Army, which had concluded with some kind of mission gone bad in Afghanistan. Wolfgang wasn’t aware of the specifics, but knowing about it gave him patience for Kevin’s moods.
“Gather up,” Edric said. Wolfgang took a seat and didn’t look up as Megan pulled back a chair at the end of the table. He wondered if she felt the tension between them or if it was all in his head. He wondered if everything in Rio had been a dream.
“Everybody feeling good?” Edric asked. He spoke with a bit too much pep, and for some reason, it annoyed Wolfgang.
Nobody answered, and Edric groaned. “You guys need some caffeine.”
“We need somewhere to go,” Kevin said.
Edric walked to the marker board, uncapped a blue pen, then wrote a single word.
He turned back to the group. “How about Tokyo?”
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About the Author
Logan Ryles is the author of the action-thriller Reed Montgomery series, and the Wolfgang Pierce series. Originally from Alabama, he now lives with his wife in Tennessee. You can learn more about Logan’s books, sign up for email updates, and connect with him directly by visiting LoganRyles.com.
Also by Logan Ryles
The Wolfgang Pierce Novella Series
Prequel: That Time in Appalachia (coming soon)
Book 1: That Time in Paris
Book 2: That Time in Cairo
Book 3: That Time in Moscow
Book 4: That Time in Rio
Book 5: That Time in Tokyo (coming June 4)
Book 6: That Time in Sydney (coming June 18)
The Reed Montgomery Thriller Series
Prequel: Sandbox, a short story (read for free at LoganRyles.com)
Book 1: Overwatch
Book 2: Hunt to Kill
Book 3: Total War
Book 4: Smoke & Mirrors
Book 5: Survivor
Book 6: Death Cycle (coming soon)
Book 7: Sundown (coming soon)
Visit LoganRyles.com to receive a free copy of Sandbox.
LoganRyles.com
