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Prologue

J. Fitzgerald Morgan

“Well, career number three? Or is it four? You’re a useless son of a bitch, you know that?” I was shaking the safety razor toward my reflection in the mirror, flipping water spots everywhere. I reached for the towel around my neck to wipe them off because it was rude to leave it for the housekeeper to clean.

It was a decent economy hotel about eight miles from the Vegas Strip. Jesse Sparks had suggested it because it wasn’t far from the strip mall where Sparks Bail Bonds was located.

My job interview was that morning, and I was having a hard time keeping the negative thoughts at bay, which wasn’t an ideal mindset to have when sitting with an employer to explain to them why I was the best man for the job. Hell, I had a hard time believing it with a straight face.

I braced my hands on the sink and allowed my thoughts to rewind to the day I’d enlisted in the Navy, fresh out of high school and looking for adventure. I thought I’d chosen my career path where I’d work until I wasn’t able to lift my dick to piss. Unfortunately, I got bored with the job and wanted something more out of life.

Starting at the bottom like all good seamen, my desire for challenges earned me several promotions over my twenty years of military service. I achieved the rank of Master Chief Petty Officer in the US Navy’s Special Warfare Division, training frogmen—combat divers, swimmers, and underwater demolitions experts—many of whom went on to become Navy SEALs.

I was good at my job, but I was topped out at thirty-eight because I hadn’t gone to Officer Candidate School when my CO suggested it years ago. At the time, it seemed like a lot of unnecessary work, plus I liked what I was doing.

Everything had changed when one of my frogmen candidates committed suicide because he couldn’t endure the training. The young sailor’s claustrophobia wasn’t shared with me before he began training, because someone higher up my chain of command decided the kid should face his fears, so he didn’t disappoint his family.

Had I known the young man couldn’t tolerate tight spaces or having anything over his face like a diving mask, I’d have suggested he choose another job family. After I learned the reason why he’d killed himself, I chose to leave the Navy. I retired with a spotless service record and a broken heart for a young man who died under my watch.

From there, I moved on to a career with the U.S. Marshals Service, transporting prisoners and protectees all over the world for twelve years. I’d had my fair share of confrontations with bad guys trying to keep someone from testifying against them, but when one of my protectees was killed because someone in my chain of command didn’t keep track of the guy who put a price on the protectee’s head, I called it quits.

Before I left the Marshals, I crossed paths with one of my former frogmen trainees who went on to become a SEAL, Raleigh “Nemo” Wallis. I was escorting a protected witness to a safe house after he was released from prison for testifying against a sadistic asshole who was running a black-market ring in prison.

Nemo suggested I’d enjoy a career transition into the private sector, which hadn’t sounded bad, but I had one more assignment to complete and would keep his offer in mind for the future. My last assignment with the Marshal Service was the one that pushed me to retire, so I contacted Nemo again to accept his offer. It was the second time someone under my supervision died, but this time was worse.

Without much thought, I moved my ass to New York and became a licensed protection professional, which wasn’t that far from what I was doing in the Marshals Service. Guarding football players in the off-season sounded a hell of a lot more interesting than escorting someone into witness protection in hopes of keeping them alive—which didn’t always happen.

I lasted on that career path for about fifteen minutes. We were sent to Las Vegas to try to find Gabe Torrente’s aunt and uncle, who had been kidnapped by a fucking biker gang acting on behalf of an enemy of the Torrente family. Those bikers had no idea they were dealing with a lot of former military types who missed the action, but they learned it soon enough.

Getting Gabe’s parents back safely had reminded me of my former position with the Marshals, and I was ready to ditch that job before I got started. Besides, New York and I didn’t gel from the start. I liked wide-open spaces and felt uncomfortable in the skyscraper forest Brooklyn offered. It wasn’t the life I wanted at all.

I sighed after the sad trip down memory lane and washed my face before smoothing on some moisturizing sunscreen. Vegas was bone-fucking-dry, and my body felt like a sponge. I had enough creases on my face to qualify me as an old man. I didn’t need more.

After I finished my beauty routine, I went to the closet to grab the suit and dress shirt I planned to wear to the interview. The nerves in my gut had me wondering what I was so worried about. Being a bond recovery agent should be the least worrisome thing I’d ever done.

As I pulled on my pants, my self-reflection turned away from my career choices and landed smack-dab in the middle of my fucking love life—or lack thereof—causing me to sit my ass down on the side of the bed when the shitty coffee I’d drunk earlier wanted to reappear.

The idea of dying alone had settled into my bones, and I’d given up fighting it when I left New York. Sadly, it didn’t seem like love was in the cards for me, and I’d accepted it… hadn’t I?

No more looking for Mr. Right around every corner. Some people weren’t meant to find love, and I believed myself to be one of them.

How sad was that at fifty?