He stopped mid-reach, body going still the way it did when instinct took over. He pulled the phone out, glanced at the screen, then answered.
“Hello?”
“We have some chatter,” another man said on the other end.
The woodpile blurred at the edges as his focus narrowed. His green-hazel eyes sharpened, alert. “What kind of chatter?”
“The kind you asked me to listen for,” the voice replied.
His grip tightened on the phone. “Status and target?”
“St. Augustine,” the man said. “A couple of days.”
Silence pressed in. The axe handle felt heavier in his other hand.
“What do you want me to do?” the voice asked.
The man’s jaw clenched. When he spoke, his voice held steel. “What we discussed.”
“Understood,” the other man said.
The line went dead.
He stood there for several seconds, the phone still pressed to his ear, the cold air biting at his lungs. Then he lowered it slowly and slid it back into his pocket.
His other hand moved to the inside pocket of his flannel shirt. He pulled out an old photograph, the corners worn soft from being handled too many times.
A beautiful woman smiled at the camera. Beside her, a small child looked serious, chin lifted, eyes bright.
He stared at the picture until the world narrowed to those two faces.
“It looks like what we feared has finally happened,” he said, voice low, as if the photograph could answer him.
3
NOLAN
The Christmas Inn looked better in person than it had in the photos online.
Nolan pulled the rental sedan into the parking area and cut the engine, taking a moment to study the building through the windshield. Two stories, pale paint that looked fresh, shutters in good repair. Garlands draped the porch railings. White lights traced the windows even in daylight. A wreath hung on the front door with pine branches thick enough to catch the ocean breeze.
The kind of place that made good magazine copy.
He grabbed his camera bag from the passenger seat and his duffel from the trunk, slinging both over his shoulder before heading toward the entrance. The air smelled like salt and pine, clean in a way most big cities never managed. He could already picture the opening shot for the spread: golden hour light hitting the Inn’s facade, the ocean visible in the background, maybe a couple walking the beach.
The lobby felt warm when he stepped inside. Wood floors stretched toward a staircase on the left. A front desk sat straightahead with a wreath hung above it. To the right, a dining room opened up, tables set with care, cloth napkins folded into neat triangles. Somewhere deeper in the building, he heard voices and the faint clatter of dishes being stacked.
A man in his fifties looked up from behind the desk, his smile easy and genuine. “Welcome to the Christmas Inn. I’m Jack Christmas.”
Nolan crossed the floor and set his bag down. “Thanks. I have a reservation under Pierce. Nolan Pierce.”
Jack’s fingers moved across a keyboard, eyes scanning the screen. “Got it. You’re here for two weeks?”
“That’s the plan,” Nolan said. “I’m doing a photo spread on the New Year celebrations in St. Augustine and Anastasia Island. Figured I’d stay somewhere with character instead of a chain hotel.”
Jack grinned. “You picked the right place. My mother, Julie, and I run the Inn with my family. If you need anything while you’re here, just ask.”
Nolan took the keys Jack slid across the counter. “Thanks, will do.”
