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Zeke
The bell tinkled over the door at the front of the shop.
Zeke looked up at the old-fashioned analog clock hanging on the wall and cursed. It was well past closing time, which meant Betsy or Becky or whatever the fuck her name was must have forgotten to lock the door. Again.
She was cute, but she wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box. She also wasn’t going to last the week.
With a sigh, he put down his pencil and turned away from the backpiece he had been designing. It was a custom image, one that would never make it onto anyone’s skin because it had been created for one woman, a woman he would never see again.
It had been weeks since he’d walked away. Not an hour went by without him thinking of her. The most he managed was a few minutes here and there.
He kept telling himself that it was for the best. That there was no future with a woman who had more secrets than he did, a woman who didn’t trust him enough to share anything with him.
She shared her body with you, a little voice said.
It hadn’t been enough. He wanted more.
Zeke stepped out of the back and looked around, ready to tell whoever it was that they were closed and to come back another time. But there was no one there.
He shrugged, locked the door, and headed to the tiny room in the back, the one where he’d been crashing the past week.
The tingle of warning came too late. A sharp jab in the side of his neck was followed immediately by a black hood being pulled over his head. His struggles were in vain. He got his hand briefly around one thick neck but was out before he hit the ground.
* * *
When Zeke came to, it was to find himself strapped in a helicopter. The black hood was still over his head, but he could hear the muffled sound of the rotors through the earphones that had been placed around his ears and feel the synchronous pulsing vibrations through the seat.
He tested his hands—bound. His feet—also bound.
He didn’t know who had him or why, only that he was going to cause them a world of hurt when he found out.
They remained airborne for about an hour, according to his internal clock. As he regained more of his faculties, he had vague, hazy recollections of being moved from a vehicle, onto a plane, and now, a chopper. Whoever it was, they were going to a lot of effort to get him somewhere.
Within moments of landing, his earphones were removed, as was his hood, and Zeke found himself glaring into the blurry face of Sean Callaghan.
“Oh, he doesn’t look happy,” said another voice cheerily.
Zeke blinked, certain he was seeing double because there were now two Sean Callaghans peering at him.
“What the actual fuck is going on?” he managed. His mouth was dry, his tongue thick.
“You wanted answers. You’re going to get them.” Sean One slid a Bowie knife smoothly from the sheath. He sliced through the bindings with two quick swipes, freeing Zeke’s hands and feet.
Zeke fumbled with the harness—his fingers weren’t cooperating fully—and attempted to lunge out of the chopper. He fell promptly on his face. Apparently, his legs weren’t fully cooperating yet either.
“Jesus. How much did you give him?” said Sean Two, sidestepping out of Zeke’s reach in an easy glide.
“Enough to get him here. Grab his arm and help me get him inside.”
They half-dragged, half-carried Zeke toward a cabin. The sun was just coming over the horizon, and Zeke tried to get his bearings, but there was nothing remotely recognizable. They appeared to be in the middle of nowhere.
Zeke was taken inside and strong-armed into a seated position on a sofa.
“Here, drink this. It’ll help.”
“Nix,” he said, recognizing the face of the woman holding out a tumbler.
She smirked. “Aw, you remember. Seriously, drink this. Mick’s hangover cure will do wonders for that headache you must be feeling, and you’re going to want a clear head for this.”
Zeke’s hands flexed. Sean One and Sean Two watched him carefully. Sean One shook his head ever so slightly in warning. In his current state, he couldn’t fight off a little old lady with a walker, let alone the Seans and Nix, who was probably the most dangerous of the three.
“For what?” Zeke ground out.
“Why did you walk away from Robin?”
“None of your fucking business.”
“I thought so. You’re spooked, right? She trusted you enough to give you a glimpse into her life, and it scared the shit out of you.” Nix tilted her head thoughtfully. “I expected more from you, Raguel.”
“She doesn’t trust me. She didn’t tell me anything.”
Nix’s eyes flashed. “No, she didn’t, because she’d rather die than betray us. But she does trust you. Otherwise, she never would have brought you with her to meet us. She would have ditched your ass, gotten the information, then met up with you again outside of Parryville. She could have done it, you know. Easily.”
He blinked. Nix took a swig from the tumbler, presumably to demonstrate that it wasn’t drugged, and then held it out to him again. This time, he took it. Within minutes, his headache disappeared, and clarity returned.
“It was a test?” he guessed.
“She had to know if you could handle it.”
“Handle what exactly?”
“Her life. No doubt you’ve put enough pieces together to figure out she’s no ordinary woman.”
Yeah, he’d figured that out pretty quick.
“Listen, what we do, it’s important. It requires trust and faith and absolute secrecy. I don’t think you understand the risk Robin took in bringing you with her. She wouldn’t have taken the risk if she didn’t believe in you.”
Sean Two handed him an envelope.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.”
He did. Inside were satellite photos. Financial records that showed huge transfers of money into offshore bank accounts. Shipment records of highly classified weapons that had been re-routed. Satellite surveillance images of a man meeting with rebel leaders, a man Zeke knew all too well.
It was proof. Proof that he hadn’t done what they’d said he did. Proof that his team’s commanding officer, Shelton MacNamarra, had.
“How did you get this?”
Sean’s lips curled. “It’s what we do. Except for the financial stuff. That was all Robin. She followed the money trail and gave us the names we needed to get everything else.”
“Robin did,” Zeke echoed, his throat drying up again.
“Yeah, man. Try to keep up, will you? Who do you think asked us to look into this? MacNamarra’s just the tip of a very dirty iceberg. It’s a work in progress, but you’ve been cleared of all wrongdoing.”
His head was swimming, and it wasn’t because of whatever they’d shot into his neck. If what they were saying was true ...
“Oh, and you might be interested in this, too.” Nix handed him another envelope, then watched intently as he removed the contents. Confirmation that the mortgage on his mother’s house had been paid off. A notice that his mother had been accepted into a new treatment program and was responding well. Pictures of his sisters on a college campus.
“I need to talk to her.”
“Yes, you do,” agreed Nix, “but that might be a problem.”
“Why?”
“Because no one knows where she is. She disappeared right after she asked us to look into that,” Nix said, waving toward the file.
“I’ll find her.”
“No, you won’t,” Nix said with a laugh. “But she’ll resurface again eventually, and if you’re even half as smart as I think you are, you’ll be waiting for her when she does.”