“Not interested.”
Simon laughed. “No, I wasn’t hittin’ on you. Sorry, man. Just makin’ polite conversation.”
“Sure you are.”
Simon looked to Holt, hoping to catch his friend’s attention. He needed a little help here.
“Just yankin’ your chain, dude,” the guy said, nodding toward the bar stool beside him. “Name’s Slade.”
Not wanting to be rude, Simon took a seat.
“What brings you to town?”
“A story.”
Slade stared at him, his brown eyes bloodshot. “I don’t know what that means.”
Since it required effort to explain what he did for a living, Simon didn’t bother. He was sure Slade wouldn’t remember anything come morning. The guy was three sheets to the wind, easy, and Simon wasn’t sure that was a good thing.
“You write that fictional shit like him?” Slade asked, nodding in Holt’s direction.
“No.”
“What then?”
Since it was obvious Slade was curious and Simon knew better than to deflect—it always resulted in more questions—he tried to simplify it. “I’m a podcaster.”
He’d learned long ago that using that term didn’t set people off the wayinvestigative journalistdid.
“Ah.” Slade nodded, but then he began shaking his head. “Nope. Still don’t know what that means.”
Simon was fairly certain Slade was merely too drunk to comprehend, so he decided not to elaborate. Instead, he flipped the conversation. “What do you do?”
“Bounty hunter,” Slade muttered before tossing back what was left in his glass.
“That’s an interesting gig.”
“It was. I don’t do it anymore.”
“Oh.”
“I used to,” Slade drawled. “Now I work for the task force.”
“The one Governor Greenwood put together?” Simon had heard about it from Holt, so he’d done some digging to get more information. The Off the Books Task Force was created shortly after Brantley Walker and Reese Tavoularis performed a successful rescue of a little girl. While they had significant success, the governor shut it down shortly after its inception. Although the great state of Texas no longer paid for the team, it was now a part of Sniper 1 Security, still assigned to find missing people, as it was initially designed to do.
“Yup.” Slade tapped the bar to get Holt’s attention.
“One more,” Holt told him. “Then I’m cuttin’ you off.”
“I ain’t drivin’,” Slade grumbled.
Holt flashed a grin. “You’re right. You’re not.”
Simon watched as Holt poured another whiskey, adding far more water than good stuff.
“On the house,” Holt told Slade. “Then you’re headin’ home.”
Slade nodded, smiled. “You’re a good man, Holt Calalahan.”
