Page 20 of The Shield
Charlie leaned against the rail, petting Flapjack’s nose with an easy touch, the horse leaning into it like they were old friends. "He’s a character. Make yourself at home, Ethan. Stables, yard, whatever. We’ve got gear, if you need it." He straightened, that grin flashing again, carrying a glint that suggested he saw more than he let on. "Catch you later."
He swung the bag over his shoulder and walked off, his stride loose and unhurried, as if the world adjusted itself to fit his pace.
I watched him go, feeling a touch unsettled. Atlas carried a weight like stone, commanding without effort. Charlie, though—outgoing, with that teasing lilt in his voice, like he could charm a snake or mend a wound without a second thought—held something beneath it, the same as Atlas. A taste I couldn’t quite place, like bourbon aged too long, smooth yet cutting deep. These Dominion Hall men—brothers, he’d said—carried it quietly, just under the surface. It left a man wondering what lay simmering there.
Flapjack nudged me harder, his nose bumping my ribs with insistence, pulling me back from my thoughts.
"All right, big man," I murmured, reaching for the halter hanging on the hook. "Let’s move."
The attendant nodded toward the side. "Yard’s open."
I tacked him up carefully—saddle settling smooth under my hands, girth adjusted snug but gentle, bridle easing over his poll with familiarity. Flapjack shifted with a step of eagerness, and we headed out.
The side yard stretched wide, at first appearing too neat—grass clipped evenly, borders edged with precision, like a golf green awaiting a professional touch. But as we drew closer, it revealed its resilience: a Bermuda blend, roots sunk deep and stubborn, the kind that could withstand the thud of hooves and recover quickly in the humid Charleston air. Fences stood solid with post-and-rail construction, freshly painted, an arena faintly marked in the dirt corners for lunging if needed. Simple, yet built to endure.
We began slowly, a walk to loosen his stride, my weight finding its familiar place in the saddle. Then a trot, his gait rolling smoothly, covering the ground with ease. A lope followed, circles widening gradually, our rhythm syncing—breaths aligning, sweat beginning to form as the sun climbed higher. The next two hours passed in a gentle blur: figures traced at a jog, serpentines to keep him supple, a few low jumps over rails the hands had set, nothing elaborate but enough to stretch his legs. Flapjack moved with power, his ears flicking, that big heart beating steadily beneath me.
By the end, we were both lathered—his coat darkened with sweat, mine trickling down my back, shirt clinging to the damp. Yet we felt loose, worked out, the kind of tiredness that settled deep and carried a quiet satisfaction.
Back in the barn—still a stretch to call it that without a faint smile—I led him to the wash stall, the water cool and steady from the nozzle, likely temperature-controlled to match the care of the place. Flapjack sighed into it, his eyes half-closing with gratitude as the spray eased the heat from his skin. I worked quickly, rinsing thoroughly, toweling off the worst of themoisture, then left him to graze on a fresh flake while I brushed the tangles from his mane.
A glance at my watch showed two-forty, a sudden twist in my gut reminding me I was running late. The "date"—walk, research, whatever term she’d used to keep it safe—loomed close.
I scratched Flapjack’s forehead one last time, his nose already buried in the fresh grain the attendant had pitched. "Be good, buddy. Back soon."
With my truck keys in hand, I hurried to the drive, clouds rolling thicker overhead, the air growing heavy with the unmistakable tang of wet earth and ozone, hinting at an impending downpour. The wipers moved lazily as I pulled onto the main road, traffic thickening with people hurrying as if they sensed the change. The Rise wasn’t far, nestled on a side street off East Bay, a place that seemed unassuming yet drew you in with its inviting aroma.
I parked a block away, rain spitting fitfully against the windshield now, and walked quickly with my collar turned up against the first drops. There she was, visible through the window—Natalie, seated at a corner table on the covered patio, her phone in hand, thumb moving slowly across the screen.
She was the most striking thing I’d ever laid eyes on, no doubt about it.
She’d swapped her field gear for something softer—a light blue sundress, sleeveless, clinging gently to her shoulders and dipping just enough at the neckline to catch the eye. Her hair fell loose now, golden waves cascading past her collar, catching the light in a way that seemed almost deliberate. Her legs were crossed beneath the table, one ankle resting casually, the tan of her skin glowing against the wood of the chair.
She glanced up once, scanning the door, her lips pressed together in thought, that full lower lip briefly caught between herteeth. It struck me low and deep, a pull I hadn’t felt in years—not since before the scars accumulated and the world grew harder.
It made me want to approach slowly, to ease into the seat across from her, to see her eyes brighten at my arrival. It pushed aside the rain, the stables, the subtle unease this place stirred. Just her. Stunning, yes, but more than that—the way she carried herself, relaxed yet vibrant, as if she held both storms and sunlight in equal measure.
I was far enough away that she hadn’t noticed me yet, leaning against a lamppost across the street, rain beading on my shirt.
Then it happened. A man in a hoodie, scruffy and unkempt, passed her table like any other pedestrian. In mid-stride, he turned sharply, snatching her purse—a leather tote slung casually over the chair back—and took off, his legs moving awkwardly down the sidewalk.
I didn’t pause to think. I just ran.
Though I was a big man, I could move fast when it mattered—my stride covering ground quickly, steps striking the wet pavement with purpose. People scattered, heads turning, a woman with a stroller letting out a startled sound as I passed.
"Hey!" a voice called out, but I kept my focus, my eyes fixed on the thief’s back, the hoodie flapping loosely, the purse gripped under his arm like a prize.
He veered left, darting into a narrow alley, trash bins clattering as he knocked one aside. I cleared it with ease, knees lifting high, the rain-slick ground offering little resistance. He jumped a low fence into a side yard, the chain-link rattling behind him, and I followed—fingers catching the top, pulling myself over in a smooth motion, landing quietly.
People watched from windows, some pulling out phones, their murmurs blending with the rising rain.
"Call the cops!" a man shouted from a porch, but I waved it off with a quick gesture, my breathing steady, attention narrowed.
He wove through back lots, dodging around parked cars in a half-full lot, tires squealing as a driver braked suddenly. I closed the distance, ten yards shrinking to eight, my breath remaining even, legs burning with a clean effort.
Another fence appeared, wood this time, its slats splintering under his clumsy scramble. I cleared it cleanly, the landing echoing with a soft thud. The alley opened into a quiet side street, the rain now a steady sheet, blurring the world around us. He risked a glance back—eyes wide with panic—and that’s when I lunged, my arm hooking his collar, whipping him around to face me.
The purse skidded free across the wet ground. He steadied himself, cursing under his breath, and fumbled at his waistband—a cheap nine-millimeter gun emerging in a wild motion.
