Page 58 of The Shield
I did. I dreamed a porch swing and knees knocking under a table and a council meeting where a plumber taught us something about patience. I dreamed a city that learned to remember. I dreamed a man crossing a dark room toward me like a tide knows its mark.
When the monitors sighed, I sighed back. The night held. Tomorrows would come and bring the kind of work that didn’t trend. I was ready for it.
26
ETHAN
For three days, I vanished into the city’s underbelly, hiding in holes—abandoned warehouses with rusted beams, cramped alleys choked with garbage, the shadowed recesses of rooftops where the rain masked my presence.
The storm hovered like a guardian, its thunder drowning out my footsteps, its deluge blurring the lines between hunter and hunted. I moved with the precision of a ghost, using every trick I’d ever learned. I paid for eyes—street kids with sharp gazes and sharper tongues, slipping them crumpled bills for whispers of a man in a gray suit. I scouted streets at dusk, blending with the wet shadows, mapping the flow of traffic and the flicker of faces. I canvassed on foot, boots silent on slick pavement, then climbed to rooftops, the wind whipping at my jacket as I surveyed the city from above, noting patterns in the chaos. I slipped into vacant apartments, their hollow rooms echoing with the storm, peering through cracked blinds to watch the streets below, piecing together the puzzle with each observation.
By the third day, the storm had thickened into a stew of gray, the air heavy with moisture, the city a sodden maze under a sky that refused to relent.
I knew.
The certainty settled into my bones, a quiet conviction that I’d tracked my prey to its lair. My first act that morning was to ride to Dominion Hall, the rain a steady companion as I approached the stables. I saddled Flapjack, his dark coat gleaming under the wet, his eyes bright with recognition. No one stopped me. No stable hand questioned my purpose, no brother emerged to challenge my intent. It was as if they knew, as if the bond forming among us—the Montana and Charleston Danes—had solidified in their silence, a tacit understanding of the act I was about to commit. That trust fueled me, a quiet strength as I mounted and rode out, the horse’s hooves splashing through the puddles and pools.
Everyone has patterns. Even those who think they don’t. People fall into rhythms—ten meals rotated on repeat, the same commute etched into muscle memory, calls to the same circle of friends and family on a predictable cadence. But the man in the gray suit was different, his habits buried deep, a challenge I’d relished unraveling. Over those three days, I’d noticed the subtlest clue, a habit so obscure no one would suspect it—not even him. It led me to a two-story townhome on a quiet street, its lower apartment marked for rent, the downstairs his lair.
At 9:00 AM on the nose, I rode Flapjack straight to the front door, the rain a curtain around us. I slid off, my boots hitting the wet stoop, and with a sharp command, Flapjack kicked the door in, the wood splintering with a crack that the storm swallowed. I flew inside, gun raised, the .45 steady in my grip, my instincts fully engaged.
The man in the gray suit sat on the sofa, a cup of coffee steaming in his hands, his posture relaxed, unsurprised. Helooked up, his face bland but his eyes sharp, and greeted me with a calm, “Good morning, Mr. Dane. Care for a seat? Coffee?”
I didn’t answer. My blood surged as I yanked him up by his collar, the fabric bunching under my fist, and checked the apartment—bedroom with a made up bed, small kitchen with a sparkling sink, living area with a sofa and a single chair. No threats, no traps.
I deposited him back on the sofa and closed the front door, knowing Flapjack would stand guard, his massive frame a deterrent outside. The man adjusted his suit, unruffled, and asked, “How’d you find me?”
I met his gaze, my voice low. “You like a clean shave.”
Every city has eyes. And this city knew habits even when they bled from barber to barber. One man’s vanity is another man’s clue.
He raised an eyebrow, impressed, and took a long sip of his coffee. “Clever. I’ll give you that.” He set the mug down, his tone shifting. “I’m sure you have questions, but I’m sorry I’ll have to disappoint.”
My patience snapped. I swung, my fist cracking against his jaw, the impact flinging him to the other end of the sofa. He didn’t look like much—average height, unremarkable features, the gray suit a bland shell—but in my experience, a hit that hard should’ve dazed any ordinary man.
Yet he shook his head, sat back up, and rubbed his jaw, a faint wince the only sign of pain.
I couldn’t believe it. My blood ran cold. This wasn’t some lackey afraid of a fight. This was a cold-blooded, trained operative, used to pain, his composure a mask for a lethality I now recognized.
I looked at him with fresh eyes, past the suit, past the bored facade. That’s when it clicked. Most people picture operators like me or Atlas—broad, imposing, visibly hardened. But the best,the ones tapped for Delta or high-level CIA roles, are the ones who look like nothing—unassuming, forgettable, yet tougher than steel.
“Who are you?” I demanded, my voice a growl.
He smiled, wincing slightly at the ache in his jaw. “You know I can’t tell you that. And I can’t tell you what we want.”
“We?” I pressed, the word sparking a new tension.
He cocked his head, a flicker of enjoyment lighting his eyes, like a child marveling at a new toy. “It’s almost sad to see you and the other Danes so clueless, so off the mark.” He paused, then asked, “Mind if I finish my coffee?”
“Sure,” I said, my grip tightening on the gun, watching him closely.
He winced as he took the last dregs, setting the mug down with a clink. “I love Charleston coffee.” He exhaled. “It’s no use, you know. We’re going to win.” I rose, ready to deliver another blow, but he raised a hand—not in surrender, but to pause me. Then, with a warrior’s gravity, he added, “From one soldier to another, maybe it’s best to disappear. Though, it’s no guarantee we won’t find you.”
“Who iswe?” I pressed again, my voice hard.
He smiled, leaning back, hands clasped in his lap. “Maybe you should ask your father.”
The words hit like a shockwave, my mind reeling as I tried to process them. Before I could respond, the man opened his mouth wide, chomping down hard. I thought it a strange quirk, but then foam spewed from his lips, his eyes rolling back, red and wild. His body convulsed in death spasms, limbs twisting into grotesque angles, his face shriveling like a prune. Cyanide, or something like it—something you don’t check for in this day and age. I backed away, the gun still raised, as the spasms ceased, leaving a contorted corpse on the sofa.
