WHOMP! ALL TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTYpounds of him hit the mat with a gratifying thud.
I needed that sound, needed the challenge, the outlet. I needed to kick ass again. My life, such as it is, merely consists of minutes and hours, rolling into days and weeks. The dojo is the only place I feel any sense of balance or control.
“Damn, Stiles.” Maxwell Dunne rolls up to sit, catching his breath. “What’d they give you over at Chicago Gen, a bionic arm?”
“As if I’d need one to take you down.”
“Ha!” he laughs. “Thinking you’re the Six-Million-Dollar Man is easier on my ego. You are in rare form today.”
“Got to get back in shape.” That’s not the sole reason, but it’s all I’m willing to admit. “Another round?” I ask, my outstretched hand tugging him to his feet. At full height, we match eye-to-eye and almost pound-for-pound.
“Count me out. Got some things to do before the poker game tonight. Sure you don’t want to come? Beer, chicken wings, and smack talk about our conquests.”
“Maybe next time,” I repeat my standard response and wipe the towel over my lying face. It’s not that I have anything against poker or Max. He’s an ex-cop, my first hire, and my right-hand man. I just don’t do the whole social scene.
I stick around another two hours, pushing myself to the limit on the pull-up bars, ropes, and free weights. But it isn’t enough. Only the sharp pain in my recovering shoulder causes me to stop. After a long stretch, I grab a shower and step out into the midday sun. It ricochets off the glass windows in stabbing yellow rays. I pause to retrieve the Road Hogs from my bag and slide them on. The smoky, polarized lens immediately block out the glare. I reach my Adventure in the front lot, kick a leg over the seat, rev up the engine, and speed away from the dojo.
Just twelve weeks ago, I’d taken a bullet that shattered several bones in my shoulder, and I’d killed a man. It had been in the line of duty, protecting my clients, Dee and Mick Peters. That was the job. When faced with gunfire—shield and shoot. In the days after, as the media camped outside the hospital, the cops had ruled it self-defense. The press and my clients hailed me as a hero. But they don’t know me.
I roll the throttle, pull out from behind the minivan dragging in the fast lane, and pass on his right. Heedless of the danger, I whip around the sharp bend and hug tight to the road. I haven’t always been like this. I used to like my life. I’d had some trouble in my teens. A shit homelife fueled my rebellion—fighting in school, underage drinking, truancy, and hot-wiring cars. Nothing big, but enough to be on a fast track to juvie. My parents were too absorbed in their own drama to give a damn about me. My grandfather stepped in with tough love and later suggested I join the army.
I was all for it. I wanted combat and adventure. I wanted to serve my country and follow in my grandfather’s footsteps. I enlisted right out of high school, and to my surprise, the experience offered me so much more than I’d expected. I learned how to channel all my wayward anger and aggression into a worthwhile purpose.
During my twelve-year career, I earned a black belt in Krav Maga and a degree in strategic intelligence. I specialized in weaponry and fought on the front lines. I was driven and diligent, taking every opportunity to hone my skills and advance through the ranks as one of the youngest black sergeants in the Special Forces unit. That made my grandfather proud. My assignments were covert operations, hostage rescue, and high-value manhunts.
I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. The job wasn’t just a part of me; it was me—an army man forever.
UntilThat Night—when life as I knew it, was destroyed beyond all recognition.
I left the army and moved from a small town in Colorado to the big city of Chicago. Trying to put the man I was behind me, I legally changed my name from Jasper (Jay) Dane Bailey to J.D. Stiles, going only by Stiles, and started up a security firm.
Four years later, the new name hadn’t changed a damned thing for me. But I have a team of security experts and a solid roster of clients. I don’t mind it, mostly. Some of the clients are wealthy, powerful, high-maintenance dipshits, but the others are okay. I like Dee and Mick Peters. They’re good people. Although they often try to cross the professional line into friendship, I won’t let them. They don’t owe me anything for doing my job. A job that pays the bills and keeps me busy. But never busy enough to forget, even for a second.
I park my bike and take my gym bag into the house. Grabbing an apple out of the bowl, I rub it on my T-shirt and push open the back door, where I find my grandfather sitting just beyond the shade on the patio.
“Junior!” His face, which boasts a dozen comfortable wrinkles, lights up in greeting. “I got a good one for ya.”
“Aw’right, lay it on me.”
“What do you call a police officer in bed?”
“What?”
“Undercover.” He cracks up hard. I don’t laugh anymore, but his good humor makes the corner of my mouth twitch in response.
Last year, when Pops’ condition got too bad for him to continue living alone, I ditched my condo and moved in. I outfitted his house with the necessary ramps, rails, and a safe path to his prized garden, where the grass blades stood straight as soldiers saluting the vibrant array of flowers. It chafed his pride that he couldn’t do the planting and pruning anymore. I’d hired a service to do that, but I’d made sure he could roll himself out and enjoy the view.
It’s the least I could give him. Colonel Jasper Dane had always been there for me. He taught this surly, foul-mouthed, eye-rolling smart-ass how to shut up and listen. How to fish, sail, and carve wood. He taught me patience and the meaning of integrity. “A man is only as good as his word, Junior. Don’t you ever forget it.”
But I had.
“How about you come inside out of the sun, Pops?” I say, noting the sweat beading through the thinning white fuzz on his scalp.
“Boy,” he warns, twisting his gnarled fingers on the joystick to shift his wheelchair to face me. Medicine and physical therapy could only do so much. At seventy-six, advanced osteoarthritis had damaged the cartilage in his hips, knees, and hands, but it hadn’t diminished his sharp mind or will. “Don’t start your mothering. I’m a grown-ass man. I know when I’ve had too much sun.”
“Just looking out for you, Pops.”
“You need to be looking out for yo’self. It’s not healthy to spend all your time working and taking care of an old man.”
