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KEVIN DOYLE SAT at a table by himself in a little coffee shop on Staten Island. He was reading the two-page intelligence report on his next target. He wished he’d had this kind of detailed intelligence when he was in the service or on some of his other jobs. He figured he’d do some surveillance of the apartment after he finished his coffee and croissant.

Roger Dzoriack had retired from the NYPD nine years ago. Since then, he had not gone to a single function, funeral, reunion, or even a lunch connected to the NYPD. His mini dossier said he lived alone and had virtually no visitors. This all seemed too good to be true.

Doyle intended to follow his usual protocols to make sure there was no way anyone could connect him to the murder. Just as Doyle considered how to do the surveillance, a man came through the coffee shop’s front door.

He was probably about fifty and a little overweight. What caught Doyle’s attention was the jacket he wore, with patches from the 10th Mountain Division at Fort Drum in upstate New York. The man had a pretty good sway to his walk, like he’d suffered a serious leg injury in the past. His long graying hair hung limply around his shoulders and his beard fanned out in every direction.

The man made a beeline for the rear of the coffee shop, where the restrooms were located. Before he was halfway across the nearly empty shop, one of the baristas shouted, “No, no, no! I told you the bathrooms are just for paying customers.” The guy, whose name tag said TONY , came from behind the counter and motioned to someone in the back to also come out.

“Dwight, help me toss this bum out,” Tony said to the guy who stepped out of the kitchen. Tony was taller, but Dwight was twice as muscular.

Dwight smiled at the idea.

Before they could reach the man, Doyle said in a loud and clear voice, “He’s with me. I’m buying his breakfast. That makes him a paying customer.”

The man did a double take and then squinted at Doyle like he was trying to figure out if they knew each other.

Doyle motioned him over. He pushed a chair out for his guest. “Where’d you get the jacket?”

“Kept it when I was discharged.”

Doyle smiled and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Clint. Clint Fortune, technical sergeant, 10th Mountain Di-vision.”

“Order anything you want, Sergeant.”

Clint shot a look over at the barista and his friend. Doyle followed it up with a scowl to make sure there was no more foolishness from Tony and Dwight. This man was a veteran. He deserved respect. He had earned it. Not like these two assholes, who’d probably never spent a minute of their lives trying to help someone else.

Doyle and Clint talked for a few minutes. Clint had been living rough, sleeping outdoors. He’d fallen on hard times after he left the service. Doyle sometimes wondered if he had fallen on hard times too but it just wasn’t as obvious.

“What unit were you with?” asked Clint.

“Special forces out of Fort Bragg.”

“Green Beret. No shit. I can never talk bad about you guys again.”

Doyle grinned. This was turning out to be a pretty good breakfast.