“I don’t fucking know, Adam. Maybe it’s the timing. I should be with Candace, not here, right now.” I hesitate, lips pressed together with another memory poking at my mind. “Or maybe I’m reliving the past, remembering the wrong moment in time.”
“Meaning what?”
I turn away from him, scrubbing a hand through my hair, thinking back in time again. “Max and I had joined Tag’s team, but we both thought he was an extension of the Army,” I say, sitting down on the concrete wall lining a plant bed.
“A shift of funds,” he supplies.
“Exactly. Same job, different title. Our first job, we saved a woman held captive by a foreign government. We’d killed that day, we killed a lot of people, but nothing there changed. We did the dirty work.”
“Something changed or you wouldn’t be telling me this story.”
“Yeah, we got paid. That was our first payday. Max and I walked off the plane in South Carolina where we’d been stationed at that time, only to be handed envelopes loaded with cash. Max took one look inside and said, ‘Fuck, man. I’ll kill about anyone for this kind of cash.’”
“Fuck, Savage.”
“I know. At the time, I laughed it off as talk, but there were a few moments, just a few, when I felt Max risked anything, including innocent lives, to finish his mission.”
“And score his payday.”
“Yeah. But there were plenty of other jobs that told a different story.” I push off the wall and say, “I need to eat. Let’s eat.”
Adam catches my arm. “Don’t blow off a gut feeling. I’ve seen how money can change a man.”
“He saved my life,” I remind him.
“Would you recommend him for Walker?”
I don’t have to think. I answer immediately. “No, but you did me because you expect certain things from me. And I’m here because for the first time in years, thanks to you and Candace, I see myself as worthy of being here. I owe Max, Adam, and a debt is not always convenient. A friend in need doesn’t choose when to have that need or he wouldn’t be in need. I will pay my debt properly, the way Walker, and my woman would expect me to. And then I’m going home worthy of the woman I love. After which Candace will be in a tiny bikini on a sandy beach reminding me how fucking lucky I am to be alive and call her my wife.”
He studies me a moment. “Yes, you will,” he vows and releases me.
Together we head back inside and eat our damn food, brothers in all things.
I’m just not sure I can say the same of Max.
CHAPTER NINE
Savage
Candace is on my mind as Adam drives the rental toward Gatlinburg, Tennessee, while he yaks about its beauty. “I was here years back,” he says, as if he hasn’t told us this already. “It’s a hidden gem of beauty,” he continues, “a town of four thousand people, who live surrounded by green mountain tops, towering peaks, and views so glorious they draw tourists year-round.”
“But does it have hotdogs on sticks and cotton candy?” I ask from the passenger seat. “Because if it does, I’ll bring Candace back, take her sightseeing, and then wrap her in cotton candy, and lick it off.”
Adam eyes me and says, “That sounds really messy.”
“And fun,” I say, eyeing the mountainous terrain beginning to take over the scenery and wishing like hell I was here with Candace and not on a mission.
Ten minutes later, the Gatlinburg city limits sign comes into view, and my gut clenches with the anticipation of what will follow, which is the unknown. I don’t like the unknown.
Almost immediately, we're right in the center of a typical small-town downtown, lined with little shops and restaurants, as well as people milling about. But we don’t see much of it. Adam cuts us right and heads down a country road and then another, which leads up and up some more.
Another ten minutes later, Adam parks the sedan in a cluster of trees about a mile from our pick-up destination. The three of us, armed and ready for trouble, mic up and split up, looking for an ambush. I get up close and personal with the windows of a cabin, confirming there is no one home. I take a moment to admire the hillbilly dream shack, complete with puke orange and yellow furniture, with plaid thrown in for style.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re on the outskirts of the cabin, with an all-clear agreed on between us, staring at the shit-hole of a cabin that is our destination. It would be an insult to the stunning beauty of the Gatlinburg mountain terrain if it wasn’t hidden away off a country road.
Asher is leaning against a tree in a squat position with his MacBook on ready and Adam and I join him before I punch in the redial for Max on speakerphone. He answers on the first ring. “Holy fuck,” he says. “You really came through. You’re in Tennessee.”
“What am I?” I ask. “A snake-eyed liar? Of course, I’m in Tennessee. Clear my path.”
“You know it, man. How far out are you?”
As planned, I play like I’ve just hit the runway. “I’m starving. An hour and a half. I need food before I play like your superhero.”
“You really are my damn hero for this, man.” There’s a rasp in his voice, sincerity to the words, and yet they ring hollow. “You're headed to a small cabin in the woods,” he says. “Call me when you get there. The hiding place is tricky. I need to walk you through finding it.”
“I thought I was picking up from the guy who owns the cabin? Explain this to me like I’m a two-year-old. What the fuck am I doing?”
“A pick-up with no contact,” he says. “The cabin is owned by the godfather of a guy I served with in the army. I visited with him years back with that buddy. He has no idea I left something behind.”
In other words, if this is a legit threat, he made the enemy hunting him a long fucking time ago. And yet, I never heard about any such threat. “Where’s that buddy and how does he fit into this?”
“Dead. Long dead. And don’t ask a name. You don’t need it. He’s not a part of this.”
I don’t like his secrecy and I exchange a look with Adam as I ask, “Then why is he dead?”
“Iraq war.”
“Then this problem is not a new problem,” I say, circling back to my prior assumption.
“No,” he confirms, “but it was a problem I thought long dead.”
“All right,” I say, aware he’s not giving me details on the phone or probably ever. “How are you going to get rid of the godfather?” I ask.
“He works for the tramway there in town. If I call in a fire sighting on the cable, he’ll rush to work and be tied up for hours.”
It’s a good answer. As good as it gets, considering how wrong this feels. “I’ll call you when I get there,” I say, and hang up and slide my phone back into my pocket.
“I’m dialing into the tramway,” Asher informs us. “I’ll know if there’s a fire alert.”