Page 6 of Silk and Steel

I know when I’m getting close to where I parked my jeep, because my cell service restores and my phone goes off with alerts and notifications. I stop at the edge of the tree line and dig it out of my pocket.

Scrolling through my messages, I delete those not worth my time. No, I don't need new gutters on my house. I never entered a sweepstakes for a ship cruise, so no way did I win a free one…

A message from Jax, my boss at Platinum Security, is the last one I open.

Got a job for you. Come into the office asap.

Well, shit. Looks like I’ve got work.

Jax used to be a cop, but now he runs the security firm. Every single member of the team is a former military man or law enforcement specialist. The best of the best.

Part of me still can’t believe I work for a security firm. I mean, it’s not quite as cliche for a former Navy SEAL as being a mercenary or mob hitman, but still. On the other hand, Jax pays his employees very well.

I’m not all about the money though. I like being able to look at myself in the mirror at the end of the day. Mercenary work means you’re loyal to the dollar. I can trust Jax not to put me in a position that compromises my integrity.

Not to mention the fringe benefits, not the least of which is a pool table in the office, and awesome parties at Jax’s wife’s grand mansion in Beverly Hills.

Jax is lucky. Platinum Security might not even exist if it weren’t for movie star Easton Ross. I guess she’s lucky too, since he saved her life.

I shoot off a text to Jax.

OMW.

My hike ends at the gravel parking lot where I left my truck. Gleaming black, with shiny chrome, and–unfortunately–some bird spots on the windshield, it’s a thing of beauty. Jake and I used to go round and round about who makes the best truck. I’m a Dodge man, through and through, but Jake, he liked his Chevies.

Both of us agreed that Ford was an acronym for Fucked Over Rebuilt Dodge.

I can almost picture his crooked smile now. He wore that smile right before we descended into the Red Sea. Every time we went down, we knew it might be the last. That didn’t make it any easier when only one of us came back up.

The ride to LA takes a couple hours. Gives me too much time to think. I don’t know why I keep dwelling on Jake. That’s an old failure, even if it still burns.

Cranking up the tunes helps. Judas Priest has a new album, and it’s a banger. I turn the volume way, way up and just drive, and jam. It’s therapy, of a sort.

When I see the LA skyline, it breaks me out of my fugue. Traffic’s a real bitch. I thump the heel of my hand on the steering wheel in time with the music on the radio.

The broadcaster breaks in, hawking the latest tour by one of those boy bands. Funny, I thought one of them died. Or maybe it was just rehab. I didn’t care enough to pay all that much attention.

Stuck in traffic, my frustration with the failed hunt and traffic threaten to boil over. I remember the trick my SCUBA trainer taught me, and put it to use. Picturing a flame in my head, I feed it all of my frustration, anger, pain, even positive emotions, until nothing remains but perfect, placid calm.

Blood stops pumping like mad through my body, slowing to an easy crawl. Breathing returns to normal. I feed everything to the flame.

When I arrive at Platinum Security, the calm has spread all over my body. I nearly run into the boss’ brother, Sebastian, as he steps out onto the sidewalk, shutting the door behind him.

“Hey,” he says.

“What’s up?”

“A direction.”

He waits, but I don’t laugh. Then he wanders off muttering about me being a sourpuss. I’m not sour. I don’t feel anything at all. I fed all of that to the fire.

I open the door and step inside the office lobby.

Something flashes in the air, moving in a blur. Almost like I’m watching myself in slow motion, I reach out and pluck the object out of the air. When I look at what’s in my hand, it turns out to be a paper airplane. A paper airplane now crumpled and ruined.

“Sorry, Cole.”

Jax, my boss, stands there in all of his beefy glory. I stare at the paper airplane, and then at him.

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