“And betray my best friend?” Darcy asks, shaking her head. “No honey, me and Jeff, we got ourselves an understanding. He don't ask about what I do besides put together custom computers for people, and I've backed off my online stuff for the most part. He helps me sometimes too though, when our purposes align.”
I chuckle. “Backed off? Since Henry's been born, I barely see you on the boards anymore. Let alone see your traces around the systems.”
Darcy smirks and shrugs. “Ah, it's all good. I keep up-to-date, and besides, I make more money building kits for Tulane kids than I ever did trying to change the world one server at a time. And you know, if you really need my help, well, BlakDhal1A can always make a comeback.”
“You still worry about me though,” I say with a smile. “Why?”
“You know why, Kat. I already buried my family one time, when Katrina came through. I don't wanna bury you, too.”
“If by setting one’s heart right every morning and evening, one is able to live as though his body were already dead, he gains freedom in the Way,” I quote to Darcy, smiling softly. “The Hagakure.”
“I hate that fucking book,” she counters, then sighs. “All right Kitty-Kat, you my sister. You wanna run headlong to your doom... I'll be there to make sure you at least get a proper funeral. We'll have jazz and everything.”
I stand up, and Darcy follows. We hug at the door, and I give Darcy a bit of a smile. “Don't sweat it, Darce. Give my regards to Jeff and Henry. Someday I'd like to meet them in person.”
“I'd like that, too. Good night, Kat.”
“Goodnight, Darcy.”
Chapter 4
Jackson
I find Nathan in his workshop, where he's patiently cleaning each spring and screw of his Colt. While the military may have shifted to the Beretta 9mm, Nathan's old school, and shoots American, using the Colt 1911 as his preferred carry piece. Until today, I was able to lie enough to myself that the chromed cannon was used only for practice and defense. Dangling from the coat rack next to his workbench is a single hanger that has both his suit jacket and dress shirt. There's not a single wrinkle or crease in the whole works, and I can also make out that his tie has been draped around the hanger with equal care. He's sitting on a barstool in front of a drafting table in just his suit pants and a wife beater undershirt, intensely focused on his weaponry.
“Hello, Nathan.” His workshop is an odd comparison in contrasts. Along one wall is his gun cabinet—containing not only pistols, but larger guns and weapons. No surprise there, since you'd expect that from someone who works in private security. But across the room is a wooden rack that's devoted entirely to tea. The rack is five feet wide by two feet tall, and the entire thing is filled with canisters of loose leaf teas plus an electric hot water dispenser. I didn't even know they made that many different types of tea, and he's got them all organized by type, flavor, and country of origin. In the corner next to the tea area is his fish tank, which contains a dozen different tropical fish all swimming peacefully. I guess it's great he has hobbies beyond being a scary motherfucker, but it's just... weird, I guess.
“Hello, Mr. Jackson. Is there something I can do for you?” Nathan takes a small toothbrush from a cleaning kit and begins scrubbing the trigger area of the pistol. Periodically he pauses to dip the brush into a small bowl with some nastyass smelling solvent before resuming brushing away.
“I came to talk with you about the errand Pops is sending you on. I trust we can keep this conversation between us?”
It's a risk, but one I have to take. Nathan's always been loyal to Pops, and I know that even approaching the man I could be risking a lot of anger. But this is Katrina... I can't sit back this time.
Nathan, however, scrubs at his trigger assembly a little bit longer, saying nothing before setting the whole thing down. “What did you hear?” he says coolly.
“That he wants Katrina Grammercy... dealt with. And something about ten years ago. What the hell does that mean?”
Nathan shakes his head, refusing to answer. Instead, he picks up the barrel of his pistol and something that looks like a round, giant Q-tip. I think it's called a bore swab? Anyway, he starts using it to wipe out the barrel a few times before he responds. “He did ask me to deal with Katrina. Do you have an issue with that?”
I blink in surprise. I wasn't expecting him to answer me, let alone admit to anything. “You're goddamned right I have an issue with it, Nathan! I mean, I've assumed for a while you had... skills, but to use them just because someone made me look like an ass?”
“Actually, she made you look like a dick,” Nathan jokes softly, and I stop. I've known Nathan for most of my life, and I think this is the first time I've ever heard him make a joke. I didn't know the man even had a sense of humor. I just assumed it had been shot off in the same war where he'd gotten that wicked-looking scar.
“I... Damn, Nathan, I didn't know you could make jokes. Not a bad one at that,” I say with a small laugh. “But seriously, though, it's just some pictures on the Internet. That's no reason to have a young woman... oh fuck it, let's talk like men. It's no reason to have someone killed!”
Nathan goes still for a moment, and I worry that I've crossed a line or something. He pulls the bore swab out of the barrel of the gun, setting everything aside before turning to face me. “And what would you know about good reasons to kill someone, hmm? Before I started working for Peter DeLaCoeur, I was in the Special Forces. I've killed people for a lot less,” he says softly.
“That was in the military. It's different.”
“Is it? Jackson, when I was at Campbell, we were sent to Somalia right after the end of the first Gulf War. This would have been right around the time you were getting your first teeth. It's not on the official list of deployments, but we were sent up to try and pacify a country that was embroiled in a civil war that's still going on today. The 75th Rangers might get the glory and the blame for that Charlie Foxtrot, but we were there, too.” He pauses, and shakes his head before continuing.
“The problem was that we couldn't find anyone worth turning the country over to. Each warlord was just as depraved and morally bankrupt as the next. It wasn't even a matter of having to choose between the lesser of two evils, it was more like deciding by randomly tossing a dart at a list of names. I saw things... I did things that made human life very, very cheap. I saw plenty of people killed, and for a lot less than some embarrassing photos.”
“It still isn't right, Nathan. Whatever happened twenty years ago... that was then, this is now. And what the hell's this about Katrina's parents?”
Nathan starts reassembling his pistol, slowly making sure each piece is perfectly aligned before he makes tiny adjustments with a miniature screwdriver set. “Samuel and Theresa Grammercy were killed when their car exploded in a parking garage near the Fair Grounds ten years ago. Katrina survived because she was fifty feet away, partially shielded by a concrete pillar that protected her from the worst of the bomb blast.”
“A bomb ordered by my father,” I say bluntly. “You can say it; I want the truth.”