Quick & Dangerous, page 24
Barnes waited.
Three …
Two …
One …
“Thank you for your service, sir,” the man said, suddenly standing a little straighter.
Barnes grunted and nodded.
“My father served as well. We appreciate everything you’ve done to keep our country safe.”
Nodding at the man, Barnes accepted back his passport. If only this thirtysomething guy with the wedding band and baby spit-up on his collar knew the kinds of things Barnes had done to keep him and his family safe.
It would give the average person nightmares.
Fuck, from time to time it still gave Barnes nightmares.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” the other man said, standing back up.
Barnes grunted, then continued on to gather his stuff.
He was almost home.
One more flight, Chicago to Portland, and then he could hunker down until the new year.
With his dog tags securely back in place, he finished putting on his belt and shoes, slung his rucksack over his back and headed toward his gate.
His sister had suggested that he spend Christmas with her family in Maine. His nieces and nephew were dying to see their uncle Barney, but he just didn’t have it in him to do the big family Christmas thing.
He wasn’t ready to go back to Maine.
Not yet.
The memories were still too raw. Too painful.
Right now, all he wanted to do was sit home alone in his small beachfront cottage in Seaside, Oregon. Drink beer, listen to the waves crash and not see a soul for at least two weeks.
When was the last time he’d been home?
The last time he’d slept in his own goddamn bed?
He’d been on the hunt for nearly four months now, so at least four months.
Hired by the billionaire McAllister family to track down another long-lost sibling—yes, another one, meaning they’d had a long-lost sister they found a few years ago. But now they sought one more sibling—and he’d been hitting nothing but dead ends trying to find them. He didn’t even have a first name for this person. Or know if they were a man or woman. And if he or she or they didn’t know that their father was the late millionaire deadbeat Randall McAllister, chances are they weren’t even going by McAllister. Because so far, every McAllister he’d tracked down had been the wrong one.
He wasn’t giving up, but he sure as shit wasn’t happy that it was taking him this long to find the person.
He’d done enough jet-setting in his lifetime to write a whole slew of memoirs. Now what he wanted to do was just stay in one place, build the kitchen storage armoire he’d been working on for the last three years, and fucking relax.
Having located his gate, he was just about to sit down when his phone started to buzz in his pocket.
He knew before even looking at the caller ID who it was going to be.
One of the McAllister brothers. Tate, the oldest.
“Another lead?” he asked immediately. There was no need for time-wasting pleasantries. He was too fucking tired for them. They were almost as painful as small talk.
“Yeah,” Tate said.
“Where?” Barnes ran his hands through his more salt than pepper hair and sat down in his seat with a huff.
“Germany.”
Germany.
He’d just been in Scotland.
Why the hell hadn’t they called him and told him about the new lead BEFORE he hopped continents?
Fuck.
“Send me the details.”
He couldn’t say no. As badly as he wanted to, he couldn’t say no.
What they were paying him would set him up for a few years once he found the missing heir or heiress, introduced them to the family and collected his fee.
As it was, the McAllisters were funding his travel, hotel and meal expenses. And his per diem was very plush.
“Already done,” Tate said. “We’re really hopeful about this one.”
Barnes grunted, put his Bluetooth earbuds into his ears and brought up his email to start reading the details on the latest lead. “We also really wish you’d let us fly you on our private jet. You don’t have to fly commercial.”
“Waste of fuel flying one person around the world. The planet is on fire, in case you haven’t noticed. Your kids won’t have enough fossil fuel left to drive themselves to the grocery store if we keep consuming the way we do,” Barnes murmured. “First-class commercial is fine.” That drew a grin out of him and a chuckle from Tate on the other end.
“Fair enough. But know that if you do want to avoid the airports and layovers, you just need to say the word. Besides, I think by the time my kids are old enough, everything will be electric and self-driving.”
Barnes grunted, not in the mood to disagree. “Noted.”
Tate let out a heavy sigh. Barnes could tell that it frustrated Tate that Barnes wouldn’t use their company jet.
Well, too bad. The world was going to hell in a flaming handbasket, and a large contributor to that was greenhouse gas emissions and unnecessary consumerism.
People were gluttons nowadays. They took more than they needed. Used more than was necessary. Overbought. Overspent. Overate.
If he could help even just a little bit by flying commercial rather than burning a fuck-ton of fuel just for his ass to be flown around the world, then he would.
“We’re all heading to Whistler tomorrow for the holidays. It would be really great if you found her and convinced her to come meet us for Christmas.”
Her.
So this lead was a woman.
The last four dead-ends had been men.
Tate was still prattling on. “We’ve got adjoining chalets so tons of room. For our sibling and you, of course.”
Barnes rolled his eyes.
He was avoiding his own family at Christmas. No freaking way was he going to spend the holidays with a loud, crazy family that wasn’t even his own.
“I’ve already had my assistant cancel your flight to Portland and book you another one to Hanover from where you are in Chicago. Leaves in three hours,” Tate said. “Hotel is booked. We’ve procured you a rental car. All the details are in the email.”
They always were.
He started scanning the email.
Name: Dr. Brier Aoife Scofield
Age: 39
Born: Dublin, Ireland
Mother: Ciara Scofield nee O’Leary (deceased)
Father: Unknown (presumed to be Randall McAllister)
Stepfather: Gerald Scofield (deceased)
Occupation: Research biologist for a division of the Cancer Institute of Germany
And that was it.
No address. No phone number.
He shrugged and closed the email. He’d been given less and found his target. This wouldn’t take long at all.
“I’ll call you when I’ve made contact,” he said to Tate at the same time he spied the bar across the way. The amber bottles called to him like a siren on a pinnacle in the middle of a stormy sea.
He got up and made his way over to the bar and mouthed “whiskey” to the preppy-looking guy in suspenders who lifted a brow at him.
“We’re counting on you, Barnes,” Tate said. “If our dad had another child, not only is that child entitled to her inheritance, but she deserves to know she has family out there. Brothers and a sister. Nieces and nephews. We’re creating our own legacy, and she deserves to know she is welcome to be part of it.”
Tate had said some version of this exact thing on numerous occasions, so Barnes was really only half-listening. He grunted into the phone and thanked the bartender for his drink. Putting the crystal to his lips, he sipped the liquor and held it on his tongue for a moment before letting the rich, caramel notes slide down his throat.
“I’ll do my best,” he said after swallowing.
“I know you will,” Tate replied. “Look forward to hearing from you.”
Barnes grunted, and the call ended.
He left his earbuds in and brought up a music app on his phone.
In his youth, he liked classic rock and even a bit of punk. In his military days, he got into country music because that was what a lot of his fellow recruits were listening to. Now he preferred the classics. Vivaldi, Mozart, Beethoven, Bach.
After all his time in the trenches, taking out bad guys and protecting the innocent, the only way to drown out the memories, to drown out the sounds of gunfire and screaming that was like tinnitus in his ears, was to play classical music.
It calmed and soothed him. Helped him function like a normal human being.
Closing his eyes for a moment, he reached for the lowball glass and brought it to his lips.
The malty, grainy scent wafted up through his nostrils, and when it hit that memory node in his brain, he smiled.
The first time he’d ever tried whiskey, he’d been fourteen and his dad had taken him out on a three-day hike into the woods back home in Maine. They brought very few rations, slept under the stars and fished for their dinner. They sat around the campfire listening to the embers crackle, and his dad told him stories of when he was in the Navy.
It was those stories that prompted Barnes to enlist in the Navy when he was eighteen. He wanted to be just like his dad.
A man who took care of people. A man who made the world safer. A protector.
They’d been sitting around the fire on their first night. The crickets sang and wolves howled far off in the distance, then his dad passed him a worn metal flask.
Barnes knew that flask. He’d seen his dad with it for years.
Faint initials were engraved into the center. But after years of hands holding the flask, the letters were barely visible anymore.
Barnes knew what they were though.
They didn’t belong to his father.
His dad’s name was Michael Remington Wark, and these letters were F.D.W.
His father must have read his mind.
“Foster Dalrymple Wark.”
Barnes scrunched up his nose and glanced at his dad.
“That was my grandfather. Your great-grandfather.”
Barnes’s eyes went wide.
“My father gave me this flask when I turned eighteen and enlisted. Just like his father had given him the flask when he turned eighteen and enlisted.”
“So if I enlist, I’ll get it at eighteen, too?”
His father’s smile was small, and he didn’t look at Barnes. He just stared into the flames. “You’ll get it either way. I’m not like them. I’m not going to force you to do something. I was told from early on that it was my duty to family and country to enlist. But I’m not going to do that to you. There are other ways you can make an impact on the world, son. Other ways you can do good and protect your country. You don’t have to enlist if you don’t want to.” He glanced up at Barnes. “And I will not love you any less if you decide not to. Know that, Barnes. Know that if you choose a safer life, a safer career, that I will not love you or respect you any less.”
Barnes sniffed the inside of the flask. It smelled like cereal. “But what if I want to enlist? What if I want to join the Navy like you?”
His dad shrugged and prodded at the fire with a stick. “Then you enlist. It’s your choice.” His gray eyes tipped up, and he hit Barnes with a look that Barnes felt all the way to his toes. “But always know that it is your choice.” He jerked his chin at the bottle. “Have you tried whiskey before?”
Barnes shook his head. “Smells like Cheerios.”
His dad chuckled. “Made with grain, so I get that. Go slow. Take a small sip and hold it on your tongue, then gently let it slide down your throat. If you drink it too fast you’ll end up coughing.”
Barnes nodded, hesitated for a moment, then put the open flask to his mouth. The liquid poured across his lips and over his tongue.
It was sharp and had a flavor that he would later learn was called peaty. But at fourteen, he thought it tasted foul. However, no way in hell was he going to spit it out in front of his dad. He tossed on a manly blank face, let the disgusting liquid sit on his tongue, probably burning a hole through it, then he slowly swallowed it.
As hard as he tried not to, he coughed, and his eyes stung as the whiskey hit his stomach.
He sniffed and shook his head, clearing his throat a few times as he handed the flask back to his dad.
His father was laughing. “You handled that first sip a lot better than I handled mine. I spat it out, ran to the river and licked rocks until the flavor was out of my mouth.”
Barnes’s eyes went wide, and his bottom lip dropped open.
His dad offered him back the flask, but he shook his head and reached for his canteen full of fresh glacier water. He took a healthy sip.
When he set the canteen back down next to the log he was sitting on, he lifted his head to find his dad watching Barnes through the flames. The gray became silver as the flames danced inside his irises, and the look on his face was one Barnes hadn’t seen before.
Unease wormed through him.
A small smile tugged at one corner of his dad’s mouth. “I’m really proud of the man you’re turning into, son. You’re going to do a lot of good in the world, no matter what you choose to do.”
Barnes blinked as he stared at his father. The sting behind his eyes was overwhelming, and the cords in his throat felt as tight as a guitar string. He couldn’t swallow even if he tried.
With an old-man grunt, his father stood up from his log and patted Barnes on the shoulder. “You’ll put out the fire before you go to sleep? And hang up the food so we don’t wake up to bears?”
All Barnes could do was nod.
“Good boy. Fish will be up for their breakfast with the birds, so we better be too. Don’t stay up too much later.”
Barnes fought down the lump in his throat and finally swallowed. He shook his head and croaked out, “I won’t.”
“That’s a good lad.” Then his father wandered off into the darkness to go and use the bathroom and retire to bed in his hammock.
At home a week later, Barnes found his father’s body after he died of a heart attack while mowing the lawn.
Now, thirty-four years later, Barnes stared at the last sip of whiskey in his glass. It was a peaty and fruity one. His father’s favorite kind.
He tipped the glass up to his mouth and drained it, then reached into his duffle bag and pulled out an old, worn flask. The letters F.D.W. weren’t visible at all anymore. But Barnes still felt them as he ran the rough pad of his thumb over where they’d once been. Whether it was his mind playing tricks on him and manifesting the feeling of the letters there or not, he didn’t know, but he did feel them all the same.
He unscrewed the cap and set it on the bar.
“You can’t bring your own alcohol in here, sir,” the bartender said, his expression remorseful.
With Vivaldi in his ears, Barnes nodded and tapped the flask. He cleared his throat and bit down hard on the inside of his cheek for a moment to regain his composure before removing one earbud and speaking. “I know. It’s empty. Could you fill it up for me and also pour me another glass?”
The bartender nodded. “That I can do.” He unscrewed the whiskey, reached for a small plastic funnel and started pouring into the flask. “This thing seems ancient. I bet there’s a story behind it.”
Barnes nodded. “There is, but I never got the chance to hear it.”
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