Page 55 of Wandering Souls

In the open bay of the second hangar, Ryan Anderson hosed down his Cessna to ready it for the day’s flights. In his mid-thirties, Ryan operated the sightseeing company started by his grandfather and passed on by his father. Damien liked his style.

At the third hangar, a small crowd of tourists gathered. Two men in uniform were loading mountain bikes onto a specially designed trailer hooked up to the rear of a twenty-two-seater bus. The brothers Flynn were all smiles, all energy, all of the time, yet they never appeared exhausted. They loved their adventure and were the go-to men in the depths of winter.

Damien smiled, pleased by their success and impressed at their adaptability. They’d opened to cater to the ski bunnies and had since expanded to serve adventurers of all kinds, making their business financially viable year-round and employing a small team of skilled adventure guides. Today, it seemed, they were looking after the mountain-bikers.

Damien drove on to the fourth hangar, parking his mammoth SUV at the side entrance. Leaving the vehicle, he unlocked the door and entered. Cold, still air saturated with the smell of grease and dust greeted him.

Hello, old girl.

He gazed up at his beloved cargo plane. Her scrapes and dings were testament that she’d seen better days, but like the old saying went, never judge a book by its cover. Her engine was in schmick condition—thanks to his soldier-turned-mechanic Magnus—and her interior could house royals in comfort. She’d spent the better part of a decade carting him around the world, though he’d forced her into semi-retirement when he’d given up chasing down the bounty hunters and assassins.

Striding across the concrete floor, he entered the small office. The answering machine light blinked but he didn’t want to think how many messages waited for him. How long had it been since he’d come here last? A month? Maybe longer. He missed the freedom his old life held, and strangely, he missed the danger it often delivered, but would he give up his wife or his daughter to have it back?

Never.

His quiet chuckle echoed through the office.

Damien stood behind the desk and pulled open the top drawer. He brushed off the fine layer of dust his little black book had accumulated and lifted it from the drawer. Easing into the swivel chair, he thumbed through the well-worn pages that represented a time before mobile phones, and longlongbefore the devices turned smart. Sure, he’d transferred some of the numbers into his phone, but the only ones found here were those that couldn’t fall into the wrong hands should he or his phone be commandeered.

Flipping through the pages, he stopped at the letter T and stared at a name he never thought he’d need again. In the silence of the hangar, he could think and plan, he could play out strategy and tactics in his mind and follow the dots to the best outcome. Today, it all lead to one man.

Tobias Thompson.

A retired pilot, the former Army Ranger had turned into a salesman, of sorts. Damien narrowed his eyes at the number, half expecting it to be disconnected. He hadn’t needed to contact Toby in over a decade. Was the man still alive?

He’d been old when Damien first enlisted, which would effectively make him ancient, now. But if anyone could fulfil his request, it was Toby, and he didn’t know who else to call if it turned out the old man was unreachable.

There’s only one way to find out...

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and punched in the numbers. Surprisingly, it rang. He put the call on speaker and waited, knowing this was a long shot.

“Yeah?”

Relieved at the sound of the familiar voice, Damien smiled. “You still going, old man?”

There was quiet on the other end, giving Damien a moment to try and calculate exactly how old Toby was. “Well, fuck me if it isn’t Damien McCafferty. I heard you were dead.”

Damien laughed out loud, the sound ringing off the steel rafters. “You, of all people, should know you can’t believe everything you hear.”

A throaty laughter rumbled through the phone’s speaker. “Tell me you’re not in trouble.”

“No, sir, quite the opposite. Say, you still trading in those flying machines?”

“Damien. I’m eighty-four years old.”

“Age is just a number.” He smiled as he quoted the man on the other end of the call. “You’re only as old as you feel.”

More laughter answered him. “Oh, I’m feeling it. Two knees replaced, a quadruple by-pass not so long ago, and hip surgery scheduled for January. But to answer your question, yes, I am.”

The news could’ve knocked him off his chair. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“You looking for a replacement?”

“Not exactly.” His thoughts drifted to Abigail. “I’m after a chopper this time and I’m on a bit of a tight deadline.”

Toby let out a gruff sigh. “You don’t call, you don’t write, and when you do, you want it now.”

Damien chuckled. “Well, Christmas isn’t too far away. Tell me you can hook me up before then?”

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