Page 18 of Wintering with George

“Got it,” he said, serious.

“And any homework that’s supposed to be done.”

He groaned as he left my room, and I was smirking after him as I laid his brother down on the bed and called my buddy, Chris Mancuso, who’d been in the Army once upon a time but was now a contract killer—I didn’t like to use that word, but that’s what he was. And he had intel on everyone. I could have called one of the guys in my unit, but then I’d have to explain everything, and I just wasn’t up for that. I needed help without background. So I turned to Chris, the guy who’d been my mentor and basically made me far more lethal than I would have been without him. He picked up on the second ring.

“Family time, Hunt,” he explained, and I could hear excited shrieking in the background. He had three daughters, and his wife, Jill, was both brilliant—she was an attorney—and stunning. How and why she fell for Chris was a mystery.

“I know, Chris. Where are you?”

“It’s Christmas,” he grumbled. “I’m in Barcelona.”

Of course he was.

Now, I know people say crime doesn’t pay, and I get that depending on the illegal activities one partakes in, death could happen before you even get to reap the rewards of your illicit endeavors. All the guys I knew, though, who had retired from the Army, were happy and well off and got that way doing highly nefarious and terrible things. Did they all have moral codes they stuck to? Yes. Were their actions still against the law and would get them either executed or put in a cell for the rest of their lives? Another resounding yes. And were many of them, like Chris, protected by the US government? Again, yeah. So whenever people said to me that crime doesn’t pay, I took that with a grain of salt.

Chris, in particular, had served his country with distinction and then taken his unique skill set on the road. These days, he killed people only when he was paid to do so, but he also did his own research to determine if the person asking needed killing instead of the person he was hired to put a bullet in. I could never do that. I would not be taking my skills, once I left the Army, and become a contract anything. I liked working security at Sutter. My boss, Miguel Romero, had basically told me to sit tight because the top spot was mine once he retired. I had told him on a number of occasions that I wasn’t gunning for his job. I liked my life just as it was now. No need to speed up his retirement plans. He had been looking at brochures for cruises lately, and I didn’t like the look of that.

“What do you want?” Chris growled, reminding me why I’d called him. I really was tired. “Do you have some sixth sense about when I’m about to be happy and call to ruin it?”

“First, that’s mean. And second, no, I do not. I’m just out of pocket, so there’s no way I can get the information I need in the time frame I need it in.”

“The hell does that mean?” Heavy sigh, and I could imagine him shaking his shaggy head. He looked like an older Jim Morrison. His hair hit his shoulders, there was a beard and mustache too, along with a year-round golden tan. His deep-set brown eyes missed absolutely nothing. Ever.

“I just got back from an op, and I’m beat to shit, and I need help.”

He grunted.

“Is that a yes?”

“You know that’s a yes, asshole.”

Charming. “I need you to run a name for me.”

“Who?” he asked, sounding annoyed.

“Brad Carr. He’s my partner’s brother-in-law, and I think something bad may be going down with him.”

“Why?”

I told him all about earlier in the day.

“Where were you?”

“Minsk.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Getting the reporter out?”

“Yeah.”

He coughed softly. “I heard you guys had to go to ground for a week because there was no exit strategy when your intel went to shit.”

“Correct.”

“When did you get back?”

“Today.”

“Today?”