“For good?” I press.
“Temporary,” she says. Tammy stammered as she spoke, and she’s such a bad liar that I feel sorry I’ve cornered her the way a lion might corner a kitten. I back off, though not completely. I just give her some space in the hallway so she’s more comfortable telling more lies.
Chin up, she walks into the bathroom and slams the door. “Stay away from me, Reed MacLoyd.”
She said my name. Ha!
She must’ve seen it on the credit card I ran with her friend, or someone from the motel or, hell, a small-town news bulletin told her. Still, hurrah, motherfucker, she’s got my name. And that’s gonna be the end of her.
She’s mine, because my name from her lips sounds like she said she wants my dick, so I snort and get back to the shitty motel room I share with three other grown men so I can plan.
Tactical action must be immediate and massive so the target doesn’t know what hit her until she’s under me. By that time, the threat of rejection will be neutralized.
3
Action Item One. “Check out Tammy’s past twenty years,” I order Senator, my man, best data geek in the country, and definitely someone who hates when I hover over him while he works. And I’m hovering over his shoulder, practically sitting on his lap.
He turns his face toward me, lips on my cheek. “You wanna make out?”
I can’t look at him or I’ll kiss him, so I give him the side-eye until he moves the chair to the right, a bored look on his face.
“Fine.” I sit back on my bed, then shift positions because I can’t see the screen past his broad shoulders or the spiky hair he gels like some rock-star renegade. He’s wearing rings too, got tattoos of some chick on a bike holding a smoking skull. Don’t ask. My men are turning into bikers and rock stars. Apparently, I’m turning into a stalker, so I sit and don’t comment on their transformations.
“Anything?” I ask.
“It’s twenty years, Cap. Gonna take time.”
“Just find the birth certificate.”
He turns. “That’s more like thirty-five years.”
“Not for her. The kid.”
“She has a kid?” Dawson and Senator ask in unison.
“Yeah.”
Senator purses his lips, then sighs, resolved to just do what I asked him because he knows better than to try to talk me out of the mission. Once I lock on a target, I’m not letting go. Perseverance is my middle name. Stalker too, but hey, perseverance sounds better.
I tap my knee while Senator searches the database. We have unauthorized access to shit. What can I say? Paranoid is also somewhere among my middle names, and frankly, boredom takes a toll.
There’s only so much a war veteran can do out here in the Wild West of normal life before he needs a mission or goes crazy. We’ve done mercenary work but didn’t like it much since it involved lots of lawbreaking for the wrong reasons, so now we’re sort of retired. Shit. “It has just occurred to me we’re retired.”
“Please don’t use that word,” Dawson says, then slurps his vanilla milk shake.
“Got something, Cap,” Senator says.
I jump off the bed and hover again. On the screen is Tammy’s social media page showing two identical girls. I smile. “Girls.” I’ve always wanted girls. A pang of regret that I never had a normal adult life hits my chest, and I rub it, then sit back down. “What are their names?”
“Melany and Reagan.”
I like those names. The regret in my chest grows into a hollow place. Oh man, the things I gave up for my country. I sigh, thinking something had to give, and I made choices when I was young, choices I can’t say I entirely regret, just a little when presented with possibilities and only a bit. But it’s never too late, you know. Even for an asshole like me.
“How old are they?” I ask.
“Seven. And I’m going back as far as four years when she opened the account.”
“Yeah?” I know what he’s looking for. The same thing I’m looking for. A daddy to target and shoot. Okay, so I do have a slight problem with the way I think of competition for Tammy and the twin girls, and I’ll address that later. Or never. We’ll see.
