Surviving Ice
Page 11

“Steve will get you one.”
“No GPS, no traceable plates, nondescript.”
“You know that I run one of the biggest private security companies in the world, right?”
I can’t help the smirk. “And yet you need me.” Committing Ivy Lee’s important details to memory and my phone camera screen—I definitely won’t need a picture to identify her on the street—I make my way over to the fireplace. Opening the grille, I take a moment to light my Bolivar, and then I hold the flame to the corner of the folder, until it ignites.
I watch evidence turn to ash as I savor the cigar’s mild blend of spicy fruitcake and chocolate, wondering if she’s an innocent associate or a guilty accomplice.
“Why did you bring me to your home for this?”
“I figured you missed me.” Bentley laughs when I shoot him a questioning look. “Honestly . . . What you do is invaluable to this country and its millions of people, and I know that you give it a hundred and fifty percent. You could have just as easily slipped away into oblivion after discharge.”
I smirk. “Haven’t I, though?” There are no medals or commendations for a successful assignment. No words of encouragement or pats on the shoulder. What I’m doing, no one will ever know about it. No one will ever talk about it. In many ways, I am a ghost.
“My point is that this life can’t be easy. I wanted to see how you were doing, Sebastian.”
He wants to see if my head is still screwed on straight. If my self-imposed isolation has taken its toll yet. The funny thing is, I don’t mind it. Because the alternative—a life without meaningful purpose, living day to day with disgrace still hanging over me—is not one I ever want to live. I can’t tell Bentley that my life is a dream because that would be a lie, but I can say that I’m still grateful that he’s given it to me. “Thank you for continuing to trust me.”
“It’s not hard. You’ve proven yourself over and over again.” He pauses. “Do you plan on seeing your parents while you’re here?”
My parents. I still think about them on occasion, and I get the odd update from Bentley, because I asked him to keep an eye on them for me. They still live in the same small bungalow that I grew up in. I’m sure my father still flies the same American flag over the porch, a symbol of the country and his own illustrious career in the navy, although his had such a different outcome from his son’s. “No. Not likely.”
Bentley frowns. I guess that’s not the answer he wanted. “Every time I reach out to you, you’re in a different place.” He puffs on his cigar. “Have you thought of settling in one location, finding yourself a woman to give you some stability?”
“So I can lie to her every day?”
“She doesn’t need to know every detail. There is plenty that Tuuli is happy not to know about.”
I flick the last of the papers into the hearth. “I find women when I need them.”
“I’m not talking about whores. I’m talking about making a real life for yourself, with a wife. Maybe even some kids.”
“You itching for grandkids?” It was a running joke while we served together, that Bentley spoke and treated me more like a son than my own father did. In a way, he’s filled that role after my father all but abandoned it.
“I’m serious, Sebastian.” And his voice says as much.
A wife and kids. I stopped picturing myself with a wife seven years ago, when my fiancée, Sharon, stood me up at the altar. Turns out it was a smart move on her part, because we never would have lasted. I’m not husband material, not anymore, anyway. And kids?
I’ve never felt the urge to procreate, and after all the violence that I’ve seen and committed, I’m even less inclined to bring an innocent child into this world and its problems.
“If the right woman turns up, maybe I will.” I don’t even try to sound convincing.
Bentley sighs and I sense that he’s given up on that conversation. “Just move fast on this assignment. That tape is out there somewhere, and it needs to be found now. Today. Yesterday, in fact. If it comes to it, keep it quiet and clean. But make it fast.” His deep frown tells me this video is worrying him. Royce must have accused these other guys of using some highly unpleasant interrogation methods. Things that are divulged by a Medal of Honor recipient will hold sway in the court of public opinion, even if they’re not true. The media will release it and the American people will grab pitchforks and light flames.
And burn everything Bentley has worked so hard to accomplish.
I nod, hearing the directive loud and clear, checking the safety on the gun before tucking it into my boot. “I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”
FIVE
IVY
I glare at the last rusted bolt, my face damp with sweat, the socket wrench dangling from my aching hand. Black Rabbit has been open for thirty years and this leather chair has seen every last sinful day of it, stationed in the center of the worn wood floor like some sort of monument. I bugged Ned endlessly to replace it with a more modern design, but he refused.
Now I know why.
Because it is stuck to the fucking floor and is never going to move.
Ian left this morning, on a plane for Dublin via New York City, leaving me with some cash for a painter and the freedom to do whatever I want with this place. He’s already lost almost a week’s worth of business with the Fine Needle being closed and, while he’s not driven by money, he needs to pay his bills. Plus he has also missed a week of the political science doctoral program he just started.
I understand why he left and I made sure to offer him a wave when the cab pulled out of the driveway, even though inside my head I was screaming at him to stay.
Not to leave me here to deal with this alone.
We called a real estate agent yesterday afternoon, for both the shop and the house. The woman’s name is Becca. She sounds like she knows what she’s doing. We also contacted a lawyer, to get the ball rolling on the estate settlement. I think Ian’s secretly hoping that I’ll change my mind and decide to stay in San Francisco to run Black Rabbit. That emptying the shop of Ned and giving it a fresh look will suddenly inspire me to make it my own. I don’t see that happening. I’ve already got a place to stay in New York lined up with friends, if I want. Or maybe I’ll head to Seattle.
But what is going to happen before I leave is this chair is going into a goddamn Dumpster so no one ever sits in it again. Whoever buys this shop will just have to get a new one.
I look down at myself, at my tight, torn—on purpose—jeans and my Ruckus Apparel T-shirt, smeared with dust and God knows what else, and chastise myself for not dressing more appropriately. Not that my clothing choice is going to give me the rusted-bolt-twisting superpowers that I need right now anyway.
I drop to my knees, the wood grain rough against my exposed skin, and I grit my teeth as I throw my full weight—which isn’t nearly enough—against the wrench’s handle. It doesn’t move, not a fraction of an inch.
It hasn’t my last five tries either. This time, though, I actually lose my balance and tumble over flat on my back. “Fuck!” I yell, whipping the wrench across the floor to clatter noisily in a corner. I pull myself up and lean back against the chair and close my eyes, tears of frustration threatening to spill.