Beer doesn’t grow on trees. If it did, I wouldn’t have any need to go to the store.
I put-putted my Armor Marine boat from my little hideaway on Dismal Key over to Marco Island. The west coast of Florida is normally lovely early in the morning, but storm clouds gathered in the distance. Thunder, lightning, and rain would soon be beating at my door. My goal was to be back home by then, rather than get tossed around by the Gulf in my 32-footer. The humidity had already glued my t-shirt to my back.
I made it a point to head to town every Monday morning around nine to restock supplies for my camp. Though it was hardly a camp anymore. I’d spent the Florida winter building up my hovel-away-from-civilization, and now had a small house on my little island. Solar wouldn’t be recharging my batteries today, but I should get hella juice from my wind turbines shortly.
I docked at the Caxambas Marina and strolled up to my beat-up Ford F-100 parked there. I’d worked out a deal with the lady who managed the place, Sierena. In exchange for her letting the marina be my gateway to the world, I paid her a Benjamin every month, plus a 12-pack of Bud Light. She valued the beer more than the money, but I insisted on giving her something for her troubles.
She’d been the guard dog for my old truck for the last year, and had been patient with me as I spent hours loading construction materials onto my boat to take to my island. Most of the time these trips were small, but early on, I needed lots of plywood, drywall, and concrete, and I hogged the lone boat slip. The septic tank had been the biggest bitch to transport. Still, since shit backing up in my house wasn’t one of my life goals, I spent most of a day figuring out how to properly move it. She even helped me carry the monster. Native Florida women like her are sturdy folk.
I carefully checked the truck for any signs of tampering, more out of habit than real worry. Still, as an assassin who had made enemies all over the world, occasionally I got surprises. The truck was fine and started on the first turn of the key.
My first stop would be the post office, followed by a visit to the hardware store for some small stuff, then finally over to Publix for groceries. Some Heineken for me, and the beer tax for Sierena. But today I might mix it up and do lunch at the Hideout restaurant, depending on the weather. It’d been a while since I had a meal that didn’t come from a box or a can.
I pulled away from the marina and drove into town. My post office was inside a bookstore. The owners of Sunshine Books ran a contract postal unit in the back. The people living on the south side of the island liked traffic as much as I did, so this stop was more convenient than a trip to the main office across town. I timed my arrival for when they opened at ten so I could get in and out before they got busy. It was still tourist season, though warmer weather meant the snowbirds would fly north soon enough.
I entered the store and greeted the owner, Vivian. She was incapable of any expression other than a smile. As she went to the back to retrieve my mail, I browsed the latest books by Cornwell and Patterson, determining which book had the more dyslexia-friendly font. My book stack was thinning, and I decided to pick a new one up.
The door opened again, and out of habit I glanced up at the new guest. She didn’t belong here.
Her silver hair was cut in something close to a bob, giving her late-fifties appearance a youthful energy. She wore a plain red blouse, black skirt, and subdued shoes. She wasn’t wearing her glasses, though I figured they’d be in her oversized black purse. Nothing about her appearance indicated she didn’t fit in.
But I knew Diana Locke lived in Washington D.C. And if she was in this bookstore, she was here to see me.
“Hello, Woulfe,” she said, her voice almost a coo now that she found me. “How nice to bump into you.”
“Good morning, Diana. I don’t suppose you’re in town on vacation?”
“Business and pleasure,” she said, walking over to a gift section of the store and admiring a picture frame made of seashells.
“Let me guess which part this visit is,” I said.
“Both, actually. It is always good to see you. But you’re right, this moment is more business than pleasure, I’m afraid.”
Vivian returned with my mail. I scanned through the pile, kept one letter, and tore the rest of the junk mail in half before tossing the pieces into the trash. As I did, I gave thought to the reason for Diana being here.
Diana worked for the DIA, the Defense Intelligence Agency. Her responsibilities varied over the decades, but this frumpy-looking woman was charged with keeping America safe in one way or another, sometimes by clandestine means. I was one of those clandestine means.
For years, I was part of a team under a secret operation called “Dead Manifold,” started by her brother, Mason Locke. None of us on the team liked the official name, so we repurposed the D.M. acronym to mean “Discarded Misfits.” We were all operatives ejected by Uncle Sam during the “Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell” era, back before the government discovered some sense and sensibility. Diana had served as our primary liaison to the powers-that-be in the federal government, but her more important role was that of denmother. She was the heart of the program. The program ended over a decade ago due to budget cuts, but I still considered myself a Misfit at heart.
If Diana was here, she needed my services for a mission.
“Do we need to go somewhere private to talk?” I asked, giving a small glance to Vivian, who was busy shelving biographies.
“Let’s step outside,” she decided. “I want to soak up as much warmth as I can before heading back to the District later tonight.”
I thanked Vivian once again, both verbally and by purchasing the Cornwell novel. Then we exited the small shop and stood outside the doorway. She faced one direction and I faced the other. Each of us kept watch for eavesdroppers.
“How’s your shoulder?” she asked.
“Better,” I said, rotating my arm and rubbing at the spot where a Russian diplomat had stabbed me with a sword months ago. “No lasting damage. The scar is wicked cool though. It should bring out the men if I go to IML later this year.”
“That’s International Mister Leather, right? I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself. And I’m glad you’re finally moving on.”
I sighed, but faced the comment with courage. “Tyler will always be a deep part of me. And nobody is going to replace him, I know that. But you were right when we spoke last year. I’m too young to grieve forever.”
She put her hand on my other, unwounded shoulder, and squeezed gently.
“I’m always here if you need to talk,” she said. Then she put her business face on.
“Nina says you owe her a favor,” Diana said. “She’s calling it in.”
Nina Nystrom, the cyber-crimes bulldog from Interpol. She’d chased me all over Europe last year when I hunted for Noah Turner, an innocent kid stuck in the middle of a problem. The mission was partly successful, but I’d left collateral damage in three different cities. She slapped cuffs on me for the chaos I caused, only letting me go in exchange for a future favor. A favor she was now calling in.
“Fine,” I said, mentally abandoning all plans for home improvements for the next month or so. “What does she need?”
“She didn’t say. She just asked that you meet with her three days from now, outside the Interpol Singapore local office.”
“Calling the Singapore IGCI a local Interpol office doesn’t really do it justice, Diana. That building is their Asian fortress.”
“Her words, not mine,” Diana said, though she nodded in agreement. “If you catch a flight out of Tampa tomorrow, you should be able to meet her around noon. Shall I tell her you’re coming?”
“I’ll be there. My passports may be an issue though. None of them are squeaky clean right now.”
“She said she’d take care of that detail. I’ll let her know you’re using the Canadian one.”
“I hope Singapore isn’t where she wants my services,” I said. “That part of the world is a bitch for an operative like me.”
Diana shrugged. “I have no details about the mission. I’m just the messenger, since I knew how to find you. You really should consider checking your voicemail at least weekly.”
I gave her a grin. “No promises. It’s been nice being off-the-grid. By the way, have you heard anything more about Brian?”
Brian was an American, local to Amsterdam, who got wrapped up in my European vacation trouble. A Russian thug gave the man a beating with a baseball bat. I was fond of the kid and his grit. Diana arranged for him to receive care in a German hospital, and I heard that he’d eventually recover.
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
Her gaze drifted behind me, toward the parking lot of the 7-Eleven next door. I turned to see my old friend exiting the store. He walked with a single crutch under his right arm, his left hand holding a Slurpee. He saw me and closed the distance. His crutch scraped sidewalk and asphalt, more a balance helper than a mobility requirement.
His eyes made him look older. When I’d first met him, he was a kid squatting in an artist community, broken-hearted because he lost his girl. Now, even though his face was the same, he had a hint of gravitas, like his brush with death had cured him in a dark salt. His new goatee helped.
I met the man halfway and gave him a hug, careful of the crutch. Diana followed behind.
“It’s good to see you, man,” I said. “I knew you were faking those broken bones.”
“Guess I’m a good actor,” he said ruefully. “Lost the Oscar to you, though. You saved the day after getting stabbed, shot, and irradiated.”
I grinned. “I’m all better now.”
That was mostly true. But the first two months after Europe had been a bitch.
I turned back to Diana. “That was a gift, Diana. I’m glad you brought him to visit.”
“You’re welcome. But he’s not here for a visit.”
“I don’t follow,” I said.
“He needs training, Woulfe. And—”
“No. Absolutely not! He almost died in Istanbul. And whatever shit Nina has planned won’t be a walk-in-the-park. And he can barely walk in a park.”
“The crutch is mostly a precaution now. The doctors released him and told him to rebuild his strength. Now’s as good a time as any.”
“He can’t go to Singapore like that! I’m not putting him in danger again.”
I said more variations of the same argument. She listened and nodded, but her mind was made up. She waited until I got it all out of my system before she smiled and spoke again.
“You said it yourself. He’d make a good operative. He wants to be one. And we need some allies, right?”
I had told her that, using pretty much those same words, back in January when she and I debriefed.
“He needs serious training, though. Fitness, marksmanship, endurance…”
“All things I know you’ll find an elegant solution to,” she said, patting me gently on the cheek. “Now, I need to be in Orlando in a couple hours.” She turned to Brian. “Let’s grab your bag, Mr. Larue.”
Brian had kept silent while we talked, but worry dropped away from his face and he broke into a grin. He hobbled behind Diana to her white SUV rental, parked right next to my truck, and took out a black leather bag by the strap. He pivoted on his crutch and began shuffling his way back to me.
Diana drove off with a friendly wave.
I’d just become a foster dad.