Lucky purred and kept rubbing against my ankle. I reached down and scratched him behind his ears. His back arched, his eyes shut, and his tail twitched.

  “Someone shot Killian,” I said. “So that means that the killer plays nasty.”

  He purred and continued to enjoy my fingers working behind his ears. I stopped and it took a moment for him to realize it. He opened his eyes and looked up at me.

  “Watch yourself, pal.” I got up, secured the boat, and headed to the island.

  FIVE

  The apartment complex consisted of twin two-story brick buildings situated in an L-shape six blocks in from the beach. In back was a fenced off area with a playground and a spot containing a rusting charcoal grill. An overweight woman in stretch pants and a shirt that kept failing to cover her expansive midriff watched a little girl playing on the swings.

  I’d circled the area three times looking for any remnants of Ross’ detectives. I didn’t want to go barging in there and have to explain myself to a cop who happened to be canvassing the neighborhood. Across the street was a small shopping center with a grocery store. I parked my car amid the others and sauntered across the street. I went to the far building and took the outside stairs to the second floor. Allen Lee’s apartment was at the end.

  Still looking for anyone interested in me, I put my ear to the door and listened. Nothing. I inserted my lock picks and, in a moment, heard the satisfactory click of the tumblers. I went in quickly, but cautiously.

  It was so ordinary it was disappointing. The place could belong to the average person anywhere in America. From the small flat screen TV to the slightly worn sofa, the place looked like many others. Yet it wasn’t.

  I’ve stood in a lot of apartments and homes. From the slums of Rio to villas on the Riviera, all homes have one thing in common. They have signs that someone lives here all the time. Whether it’s leftovers in the fridge to a messy closet, to dirty laundry on the floor, or folded clothes on the couch, there is always something here that says someone lives here.

  Here, there were no pictures. The walls were bare, the counters and tables devoid of any photos, posters, artwork—anything that most people have around. I went into the kitchen and checked the cupboards and refrigerator. There was food here—even leftover Thai food. I went into the bedroom. Everything was neat and orderly but the closet was telling. No Armani, no expensive boots. Everything was in Killian’s size but it was low to mid level stuff. Retail store quality. Millions of guys wore this stuff.

  With apologies to my friend, I started rifling through drawers and found a box of 9mm ammo in the top dresser drawer and an H&K .45 under the pillow. In the nightstand I found a small photo album. I sat on the bed and took a deep breath before opening it up.

  There was a photo of a young Killian in his basic training picture.

  I signed up when I was seventeen. Mom signed the papers for me. I remembered Killian saying.

  Another picture showed Killian with a group of guys taken somewhere overseas. All soldiers. Blackened faces and camo uniforms but they were smiling. I couldn’t tell from the background exactly where the location was. I’d look at it closer later. There were six names written on the back with STARHAWK in small print at the bottom.

  There was only one photo left and it was the one that really caught my eye.

  Killian and another man stood in a jungle. The man was older but had his arm affectionately around Killian. The man was Dale Travis. I slipped the album inside my jacket pocket and sat on the bed for a moment thinking things over. I had some theories that made a lot of sense but nothing to confirm it.

  I got up to go search for more clues. I made it as far as the bedroom door when a foot connected with my chest, knocking me back into the room.

  * * * *

  I staggered backward and hadn’t even fallen onto the bed before my attacker came at me in a blur of motion. I glimpsed the glint of a knife in his hand. He held it underhand, thumb along the top edge, like a pro, and he thrust at me twice before I managed to trap the wrist, twisted it. He yelled and used his freehand to punch me in the face. I twisted harder and the knife fell silently to the carpet. He hit me again and I punched him back—two hard rights into his face. I still had hold of the arm so I judo flipped him. He landed on the bed and bounced off onto the other side.

  He came up with a silenced automatic in his hand.

  There was a clock on the dresser; I threw it at him, sending it sailing into his face. The pistol went up and he fired two shots into the ceiling. I leaped across the bed and smashed an elbow into his face. He got a foot up into my chest and pushed me off of him. I staggered into the closet where he charged me like a pissed rhino and I waited until the last minute before I pivoted aside and grabbed him, used his momentum to slam his head into the wall. He came up and we went at it, each blow blocked and countered with a precision of a Hollywood scene, only this wasn’t choreographed by a stunt director. And I felt each punch, every block. Unlike Bond, I’d be bruised tomorrow.

  He got inside my guard, grabbed me by the front of my shirt, and threw me onto the bed. I rolled off the other side in time to see him make a try for the pistol on the other side of the bed. I managed to grab his arm and pull him onto the bed with me. I smashed a forearm into his face and he caught me with an elbow that made my head swim. He flipped over onto his feet and ran. I heard the front door slam. I wanted to give chase but my body thought better of it. I was breathing hard and my hands hurt; my face felt on fire and I tasted blood in my mouth. I leaned on the dresser, gulping air. I got my cell and called Ross.

  “Let me guess,” he said. “You broke into Allen Lee’s apartment and killed somebody.”

  “Just get over here.” I hung up and went to the bathroom, washed the blood off me. I stared into the mirror. Oh, wow, and I thought that I looked bad....

  * * * *

  “No serial number on the gun. Definitely a pro.”

  “Run ballistics on the gun.”

  “Gee, you give me so many ideas. Hopefully they’ll match those that were dug out of Killian.” Ross glanced over at me. “You look like hell.”

  “Thanks.”

  A crime scene crew worked around us. A couple of them paid me little notice. I’d seen them before at other places working to document the messes I’d made.

  Ross glanced around. “Doesn’t seem like much.”

  “Off the rack clothes in the closet. Killian lived here a little bit but this wasn’t home.”

  “Anything else?”

  I debated in that second of time whether to tell Ross or not. Looking back, I guess I did because I felt a little guilty for coming here and nearly adding one more body to the county morgue. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the album. I showed Ross the last photo, the one with Killian and Travis. One of the crime lab people gave me a towel for my face and I daubed blood.

  “This was the guy you were asking me to check on. Saw his photo in the Army records.”

  I nodded. “I was doing it for Killian. He’d ask me to do a check on him. He wouldn’t tell me why or who he was.”

  “Now we know. Killian served with him.”

  “I think it’s more than that. Let’s walk.”

  Ross followed me out of the apartment into view of half a dozen other residents who watched the proceedings intently. We went down to the parking lot and stood beside Ross’ car.

  “I have a theory,” I said. “Remember it’s just that and I have nothing concrete to give you. But it’s a thought.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  I tapped the photo. “See that? Travis is a Captain. Killian is a Sergeant. E-5. The lowest NCO rank. See how Travis has his arm around him?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “I have a photo like that. Taken in the jungles of Panama. Me and Bill Rochelle standing there. Bill has his arm around me. He was a Colonel then; I was a First Lieutenant.”

  “So?”

  “Stuff like that between high ranking officers and lower ones don’t happen just because. Travis and Killian were close.”

  Ross was thinking. The cop was no dummy. “You think maybe that Travis was to Killian kinda like what Bill was to you? Mentor, friend?”

  “Father figure,” I said.

  “And then out of the blue, Killian wants you to try to find out where he is.” Ross wiped the edges of his mouth with thumb and middle finger, a habit when he was thinking. He nodded back at the apartment. “Maybe Travis is in trouble.”

  I tapped the photo of Killian and the other men. “Maybe.”

  Ross said, “I think we’ll see your attacker again.”

  I thought so too.

  SIX

  Nothing had changed since I’d been here last. Killian lay motionless in the bed, the monitors beeped and my gut was as tight as when I had first seen him. I didn’t know what to do so I simply stood and touched his arm.

  “It’s me, bro. You’ve left me quite a mess to clean up, you know. It would help if you could talk to me.”

  He said nothing, never moved. I watched him for a moment, trying to somehow will him to respond.

  Here we were, two old soldiers with our best years behind us trying to forget our past sins and make new paths but it seemed our old lives kept haunting us. Mine certainly had recently and now it seemed Killian’s had caught up with him, too.

  “You’ve never talked about yourself a lot,” I said softly. “I know you have your reasons—painful ones, Teri thinks. I’ve never pushed you to answer the dozens of questions I’ve always carried because I respect you. But now, buddy, I’m going to have to dig to find out what’s going on. Maybe I’m going to find out more than what you want me too. But don’t worry. No matter what, it won’t change anything between us, Kil. Whatever it is.”

  I sat there in the room, nursing my aching face and hands, suffering silently. My best friend was hurting worse than I right now. I sat there until the sun slipped to the western half and went low on the horizon. The nurses came and went and many of them glanced at my battered face. Teri came in a little before dinnertime.

  “What happened to you?”

  “I visited Allen Lee’s apartment. A hit man interrupted my search.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “Ran off but not before he tried to kill me.”

  She bent over to look at my face. “He was a pro?”

  “Silenced compact nine mil, fought hand to hand with me...yeah, he was a pro.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Could he be the shooter?”

  “Ross is running ballistics on the gun.”

  She kissed me on the cheek. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “Me too. How goes it with the client?”

  “Very productive,” Teri said. She went around to the side of the bed. “No change?”

  “Nurse told me he was upgraded to serious but stable. That’s a good thing.”

  “He’s strong, he’ll make it.”

  “You bet.” I blew out a breath. “I don’t know him, T. Twenty plus years, saving each other’s life, spilling blood together, and I know nothing about him.”

  “No one does.”

  “Question is why? I mean I’ve always wondered. He knows everything about me and I know virtually nothing of his personal life.”

  “What did you find in the apartment?”

  “Killian was using it as a cover mostly. I did find this—” I pulled out the photos. “This is the guy Killian had me look into for him.”

  “They served together.”

  “Yeah. And I think they were close. This Travis guy could have been a mentor to Killian. A father figure. Like Bill was to me.”

  “So Killian was looking for him, gets shot, and you think the two are connected.”

  “I do.”

  “So why would he look up his old superior?” Teri asked me.

  “To warn him of trouble, to seek advice, maybe to have a beer....”

  Teri was looking at the group photo.

  “Turn it over.”

  She did and read the names. “Are the names these guys in the photo?”

  “Nice guess.”

  “And what’s a Starhawk?”

  “Don’t know yet,” I said. “But it had something to do with that picture of them, I’d bet.”

  “Almost sounds like a code name,” Teri said.

  “Maybe the name of the mission.”

  She looked back down at the bed. “I’ve never seen him so frail.”

  “I know.”

  “We have to make this right, John. We have to get to the bottom of this.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “What do we do next?”

  “Two things: We need to find Travis, and I’d like to find those guys in the photo. Maybe they can help.”

  “They won’t talk to a stranger about a black ops mission.”

  “Maybe not. But if means saving a buddy’s life, a soldier will do a lot of things.”

  “So how do we find them?”

  “That’s where you come in,” I said.

  Teri thought for a moment. “I might have a couple of friends I can call in D.C.”

  “I’m not well liked there nowadays.”

  “I know,” she patted my arm. “I’ll take care of this. You try and find Travis.”

  We stayed for a few minutes longer. We finally left, neither of us wanting to, but knowing we had work to do.

  * * * *

  I went to the place where it happened.

  Forty-Eighth Street intersected Devon in an area that was far from the middle-class area where the apartment belonging to Allen Lee had been. Storefronts with bars over the windows and others that had long closed and covered with plywood. I got out of my car and looked around. There was little here. A gas station on the far corner. It was doing some business but the building looked as though it might fall in. Several teenagers in saggy jeans and oversized T-shirts stood near the corner of the station, eyeing me and making no pretense about it. They were all wearing the same colors—even their bandanas were alike. Gang bangers. They looked around and began strolling over to me. My hand confirmed the Glock in the small of my back.

  Three Latino faces tried to look menacing as they approached. Their leader was a slightly chunky fellow. “Ay, man, what’s up?”

  “Just looking around, fellas.”

  “Well...” he glanced at his friends. “You want to look around here, it costs you, see.”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t see.”

  “Well, this is our territory, so you gotta pay to be here.”

  “Oh, I see,” I said. “And I suppose you’ll threaten me with violence if I refuse to pay?”

  He reached behind his back and pulled a knife. “You learn fast. Now pay up.”

  Maybe he was used to frightening people with it. Welfare moms and old ladies with their pensions. Vets who were too arthritic and worn out to resist.

  “Try your act somewhere else, amigo. I’m not scared.” I looked at the three of them. “You spend your days preying on those weaker than you. I’ve spent twenty years in the military learning how to kill people. I don’t think you’re up to this. Walk away and leave me alone.”

  They were actually surprised.

  The leader couldn’t lose face. Not in front of his boys. He knew it and I knew it. “It looks like someone already worked you over some, eh?”

  “We had a scuffle.”

  One of his pals chimed in. “Looks like he won.”

  That brought laughter from the other and they high fived.

  I said, “He ran. Now move along.” Meanwhile I got ready. I eased back, put myself directly in front of their leader. I had slowed my breathing, calmed my nerves, and felt the beginning rush of adrenaline. God, it felt good.

  He was looking me in the eye, fear, frustration, and anger mixed together in his gaze. “I gonna take you apart.”

  “No,” I said. “You’re not.”

  He made enough of a move and I grabbed the wrist holding the knife. Twisted it until there was a snap and the leader cried out. I smashed my foot into the side of his knee. There was a sharp crack and he went down and I kept moving forward. Now I was facing the other two. I punched the one to the right in the face, spun and delivered a back kick into the gut of the third. The second had recovered and took a step and I kicked him in the groin, a hard blow that made him spin ninety degrees and start puking. The third was still bent over holding his stomach and I slammed my knee into his face. He went onto his back with a groan.

  I went back to the leader. He was curled up beside my car, his good arm alternating between holding his shattered wrist and his busted knee. He looked up at me as I stood over him.

  “Told you.” I grabbed his shirtfront and hauled him to his feet, slammed him against the car. “Now, tough guy. Some questions. A fellow was shot here the other night.”

  “Man, you broke my knee, man—”

  “I’m ready to break the other one and you can threaten little old ladies from a wheelchair,” I said. “Keep pushing me and you’ll spend the rest of your life breathing through a plastic tube.”

  “I don’t know nothin’—”

  “First of all, it’s ‘I don’t know anything’ and second this is your turf, Manuel. You know everything that goes on here, right?”

  “My name’s not Manuel, giay.”

  “I don’t care what your name is, dumbass. The guy who was shot, what do you know?”

  “I don’t know anything. Some dude was down here, got shot the other night. We weren’t here, we were—-how you say—acostarse con rosemaria, eh?”

  I spun him around so we were face to face. Both his buddies were still down but they were moving. “The man shot was my brother. I find out you’re holding out on me, I’m coming back. And I’ll kill you.”

  “Si, man, we don’t know anything...” The third guy moaned. His nose was crooked and bleeding.

  I kept focused on the leader but I was aware of the others. “There any homeless people around here?”

  “Yeah, man, lots of ‘em.”

  “Where do they hang out?”

 

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