One
October
Faint electronica music pulsed in the air, but the music was shit, much like his mood. His body stood rigid, not moving with the rhythm, his head not bobbing in time with the distant thumps of the backbeat, his face giving off no hint that he derived any pleasure from the repetitious melody.
He did not want to be here. He wanted to be home. More than life itself, he wanted to be home. But he was trying to be a man of principle, a man of honor; he was trying to be a man.
He had made his bed, and he would damn well lie in it.
He wanted a drink. But he’d made a promise to stay sober, and he was determined to keep it.
Three months. Pay bills. Get gone.
That was all that mattered.
The EDM music throbbed in his brain, unrelenting, like the ever-present disquiet in his soul.
He stood at the open top-floor window of the Cabacum Beach Residence, ignoring the cold air blowing in as he gazed down to the swimming pool below that flashed its underwater disco lights, not jarringly out of step with the unceasing music. The crisp autumn evening had brought out hundreds of late-night revelers driving up and down Boyan Bachvarov, thetwisty four-lane road beyond the pool: crowds heading to the various bars, restaurants, and nightclubs here in the Chayka district of Varna, Bulgaria.
And Charlie just stood there, a man apart from his surroundings.
Charlie Coyle was not yet twenty-five years old, and handsome, neatly dressed in a blue sharkskin suit only a little wrinkled and just slightly askew on his fit frame, evidence of a long day. He wore a five-o’clock shadow on his chin and upper lip, his skin was fair, and his strawberry-blond hair was curly and only partially tamed with chemicals.
He’d cracked the window here in the suite so that the cold would invigorate him, but as he stood there, continuing his solitary vigil, he found the lively mood at ground level depressing. A party raged all around the hotel and condo complex, and all this revelry stood in contrast to Charlie’s dark disposition and his brooding demeanor.
He glanced at his watch, an old Hamilton with a canvas strap, a reminder of his military service days gone by. It was 12:17 a.m. now; a hurried room service attendant had brought him a club sandwich with soggy fries and two bottles of Coke around ten p.m., but otherwise he’d been alone up here since he’d arrived at eight.
The music from below was suddenly drowned out by a voice in his right ear. With a strong Bulgarian accent, the man spoke in English. “Coyle, it is Videv. Boss makes meeting with man in bar, then we come up to safe room.”
Charlie furrowed his brow. He knew of no meetings scheduled for tonight. But then again, he didn’t really have much of a clue what was going on. He didn’t speak Bulgarian, after all, so he might have missed something.
This job is bollocks,he thought for maybe the fiftieth time in the past thirty-six hours.
He reached with his left hand to his beltline inside his coat, his fingers dragging over the spare pistol magazine in a carrier on his belt, kept there should he ever need to reload the Walther PDP pistol he wore on his right hip.
His hand continued on until it found the small radio next to the magazine, and he pressed a button on the top of the device, opening the line to the microphone in his earpiece.
“Copy,” he said, his Northern Irish accent toned down so he could beunderstood by the non-native English speaker, and then he turned away from the window and moved over to a laptop on a table inside the plush suite, taking off his jacket as he did so.
He draped the coat over the chair and sat down, blowing out a long, defeated sigh.
Charlie pressed a couple of buttons on the laptop and then waited while a connection was made. His face hung impassive, a hint of pain around the eyes, but then he shook the expression away, brushed his hair back, sat up straighter, and hurriedly adjusted his tie.
Soon a window on the monitor opened, the screen changed, and so, too, did his visage.
He flashed a wide grin now, his pale green eyes sparkling as a towheaded baby looked back at him from the computer, drool glistening his lower lip, a onesie with a row of little camels stitched on it, well-splattered with baby food.
Hands under the baby’s underarms steadied him in front of the camera.
And with that, Charlie Coyle’s immediate predicament was forgotten. In spirit, at least, he was home.
With a bright and powerful voice, along with his now thick natural accent, he said, “There’s my big man! Bein’ a good lad for your ma, are ya?”
The baby did not respond—he was six months old, after all—but Charlie detected a slight narrowing of his green eyes and the hint of a wet smile, and this was all the proof he needed that his son recognized him.
And all was right with the world.
A beautiful redheaded woman in her early twenties appeared from the right, scooting into view in front of the camera as she put the child on her knee.
