Page 63 of Fire for Effect

“I’ll buy her some socks, then!” I purposely missed his point because I was that much of a petty bitch.

I stormed out, got into my car, and sat in a rage; my hands fisted on the steering wheel.

I looked at where the tracker was going - down to Middlebrook. She was either going to the bar, or she was going to Goose’s house. I fired up the Maybach, and set out on the road, looking up to see Top and Charlotte on the front porch, looking at me with quizzical expressions.

I raised my hand in greeting, and apology, for an abrupt exit, but I knew they’d understand.

I reframed my mind from one of confrontation, to surveillance. Instead of thrusting myself on her, I’d just watch, and observe. And while I was at it, I’d look into the local bail bondsman, and figure out what the fuck was going on with that.

The good thing about just observing was I’d be able to multitask.

Chapter 16

SEALS and their Podcasts

Taz

There was only one association of mine that did not involve Kai Griffith.

That was my employer, Noam Braun, owner of Braun Bails.

He was a silver-haired old man that hit the gym with far more regularity than men forty years his junior. He was a former 19th Group guy, with a bushy beard, crew cut, and broad frame that still screamed “Military”.

As soon as I walked in, he looked up from his papers, closed a yellow folder, and bellowed, “What can I do you for?”

I walked through his empty office, to his large desk with the Army memorabilia strewn about.

“Got anything coming down the pipe?” I asked, hoping that there was someone I could hunt the way I was being hunted.

I glared through the large storefront window and crossed my arms.

Kai had parked the Maybach in the street parking that was supposed to make downtown shopping easier. He’d backed into the space, so that the front faced me, and he was making no secret about watching us through the glass.

“Feeling a little itchy?” Noam leaned back in his leather seat and creaked under his weight. “Or you need money to buy yourself something pretty?”

“Need the distraction.”

Noam followed my eye line, to the fancy car that was a few paygrades too high for the likes of Mourningkill and let out a low whistle. “Boyfriend?”

“Nope.” I popped the p, and looked away, deciding to pull up a chair and talk to Noam.

He pulled out a drawer, grabbing a box that had the Afghan flag and the words “Tali-banned Cigar Club” with a camel smoking a stogie with a Clark Gable smile.

He handed me a Cohiba, and placed his feet on his table, his muddy boots hanging off the corner of the desk. I matched his energy, as he threw a zippo my way, and we both lit up.

“Good job with that Kyle Lowell guy,” he chuckled, as he puffed out ringlets. “He give you trouble?”

“No more than usual.”

Of the bonds Noam had given me, he never gave the easy ones. One of my colleagues, Ronan Neff, always got the easy shit. White collar scaredy-cats who wouldn’t put up a fight, the random college DUI who thought that he could just ignore his court date, and things like that. People who would go quietly. Boring shit. Blah-blah-blah.

Noam gave me the fun jobs.

“So, you got anything for me, or have I wasted a trip?” I asked, putting my feet up on his desk as the two of us basked in the glory of the tiny plastic fan that lazily turned back and forth in the small office space.

Smoking rooms should come back into fashion. There was something about smoking indoors that felt verboten and decadent. Like I was in Mad Men.

“You think that coming to visit Uncle Noam is a waste?” he said, in that slow, Midwestern drawl, almost sounding offended.

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