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I tore through the house but didn’t find anything other than a suitcase full of the clothes I’d bought her.
What had I expected? That she’d leave a note? “Sorry, Smoke, but I remembered I hate you. Have a fucked life.”
I called the nurse placement agency, but they hadn’t heard from Maureen. Given I’d paid the nurse directly rather than through them, they couldn’t say when they might hear from her again. “She may or may not list with us again,” the woman explained.
“If she does, would you please let her know that Broderick Torcher is trying to reach her?”
“Of course.”
After that call ended, I rang Decker.
“What can I do for ya, Smoke?”
“Can you continue searching for the nurse? Maureen O’Sullivan.”
“You got it.”
I walked throughout the house without having any idea what I was looking for, just knowing there had to be something. After an hour, I gave up. Either there wasn’t anything, or I couldn’t find it.
* * *
I drove to the Charlotte airport rather than trying to catch a flight out of Asheville. From there, I flew to Dulles and bought a ticket to Dublin.
I listened as they announced the final boarding call for my flight and then as they announced my name specifically, asking passenger Broderick Torcher to report to the gate for departure.
What the fuck was I doing? Was I really going to follow Siren to Ireland? And then what?
There was a litany of truths I knew. First, Siren and I had hated each other from the moment we first met. Second, it didn’t matter that my feelings had changed; hers hadn’t. Third, even if, by some miracle, hers had too, the bottom line was, I was thirteen years older than Siren. To her, I was an old man. What kind of life could I offer her? One where the two of us would continue following our jobs around the world, each of us in harm’s way day in, day out?
The only other option was both of us retiring. I laughed out loud at that idea. No way in hell would Siren give up her job. She was one of the best agents in the business—even at her age—and she had years and years of work ahead of her.
My days were numbered, as much as I didn’t want to admit it. I kept my body strong, my mind alert, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop myself from aging. Getting older was as certain as death.
I tossed the cup of coffee I’d been drinking into the trash and walked out of the airport. I had no idea where I was going, but it sure as hell wasn’t to Ireland.
* * *
I’d spent two days drunk off my ass, holed up in one of the hotels near the airport. When I woke up the third day, I placed a couple of calls.
By the end of the second one, I was headed out, bag in hand, back to the airport and on my way to California. It had been a long time since I’d worked with Kade “Doc” Butler and his crew.
I needed a break from the Invincibles, mainly because any job I took on for them would be a reminder of Siren and our last mission. As far as I knew, she’d never worked with or for K19 Security Solutions, and I wasn’t about to confirm it one way or another.
* * *
After flying into the Santa Barbara airport, I met Doc and his wife, Merrigan, at their place in Montecito. As much as I loved my house in the Smokies, I liked Doc’s better.
The exterior of the Spanish Colonial Revival house was white stucco with dark brown shutters and a red tile roof, and balconies with wrought-iron railings extended from every upstairs room. Massive palm trees, which looked old enough to have been planted before the house was built, stretched high above the roofline, and bright pink bougainvillea grew up the sidewalls of the five-car garage. The circular driveway was made of Mexican pavers, and large pots full of trailing flowers and vines sat on the edge of the drive and along the walkway.
“Smoke,” said Doc, greeting me at the front door. “Welcome. Merrigan will be down shortly.”
The inside of Doc’s house was no less spectacular than the outside. The main room, just off the foyer, had massive dark wood beams on the ceiling and a fireplace matching the color of the home’s exterior at the opposite end of the room.
Dark leather chairs and sofas sat on the tile floors and Mexican rugs. Doc led me into the kitchen, through an informal dining area, and out to an outdoor patio bigger than the first floor of the house itself.
Even though it was overcast, I could see the spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean.
“There she is,” murmured Doc when Merrigan came outside with two small children. “This is Laird,” he said, pointing to a little boy. “And that is Rielle, who is about to turn two.”
