Page 19

REN

Beaufort, South Carolina

T he band was in full swing when Ren arrived at their local pub.

It was a dingy joint with a bar along the left and high-top tables scattered throughout.

A small stage with a cramped dance floor was in the back.

Twitch and Nathan Bishop’s wife, Emily, had done their best to dress it up for the occasion.

A banner across the ceiling read: We’ll Miss You Chat!

!! His teammates, Cam Canto and Miller “Tox” Buchanan, joined the wait staff, passing out trays of shooters.

As if his week couldn’t get any worse, Ren’s best friend, Andrew “Chat” Dunlap, was moving to New York to help run the team’s new Manhattan office.

Ren knew it was coming; Harlem was home for his friend, and he had been away for too long.

So, Chat hadn’t hesitated when the opportunity arose to do the job he loved in the city he loved.

Chat would be working with Tox’s twin brother, Miles Buchanan, running Bishop Security, New York.

Ren was happy for his friend and feeling sorry for himself.

As if reading his mind—which Ren and their former SEAL squad were convinced Chat could do—his friend pulled him into a hug.

Ren said, “Sorry, I’m late. I had to walk the pooch.”

Chat laughed. “I heard about your new roommate.”

“It’s temporary,” Ren insisted.

“If you say so. Glad you made it.”

“I wouldn’t miss the big send-off.” Ren gestured to the festivities. “When do you head to New York?”

“Not for a few weeks. Herc’s already there. Got a text from him last night from some club in the Meat Packing District.” Chat shook his head like an exasperated parent.

“I heard you poached our sniper.”

“I wouldn’t say poached. Herc’s a kid. He needs to get out of this small town,” Chat said.

“Well, your absence will be felt.” Ren slapped his best friend on the arm.

“Don’t look so busted up. I’m not going to Jordan.” Chat took a seat at a high-top table, and Ren joined him.

“You know that’s not it.”

Chat grinned, “If I weren’t moving a couple of hours away, I’d be offended.”

“This whole thing with Sofria has thrown me.”

Chat nodded. “I’m guessing it’s not entirely because she was spying on you. You’re mourning your lack of what? Connection? Love?”

“I don’t know.”

Chat accepted two mugs from the waitress and passed one to Ren. “Not every oyster has a pearl, my friend. And let’s face it. You haven’t shucked much.”

“I’ve shucked.”

“I said much .”

Ren drank half his beer.

“Look,” Chat went on. “You know your childhood wasn’t exactly conducive to healthy adult relationships. Your mother’s actions crossed a line.”

“Crossed a line? That’s one way of putting it.” Ren covered his eyes with his hand. “Another way is I was a glorified lab rat.”

“And you’re moving past it. It’s a journey, man. Maybe Sofria Kirk was just a stop along the way.”

“Yeah.”

Chat leaned closer. “Trust me. Sofria Kirk was not the one for you.”

“What makes you say that?”

Chat just shrugged, but Ren didn’t miss the smug gleam in his eyes. Changing the subject, Chat turned his chair to Ren and said, “Guy at the end of the bar. One o’clock with the piercings. Know him?”

In the dim light, Ren glanced past Chat and locked eyes with a twenty-something guy who quickly looked away.

His head was shaved, and he had piercings in his eyebrow, nose, upper lip, and several in his ears.

He looked at Ren again and reached into his front pocket for cash to pay his tab. “Never seen him before.”

“Well, he either wants to date you or talk to you.”

“Let’s see what he has to say for himself.” Ren stood.

“You want a wingman?” Chat asked.

“Nah, stay with your adoring fans. I’ll talk to him.”

Ren followed his admirer out of the bar as the man rounded the front toward the sand parking lot at the side of the building. He jerked his head for Ren to follow and continued around back to the dumpster.

The air smelled of seawater and garbage. The sounds of the band’s rendition of “Mustang Sally” swirled around them.

Ren was an interrogator. He could get answers out of the most determined insurgent.

His most effective tools weren’t drugs or weapons; it was his mind.

He remained silent as “piercings” shifted from one foot to the other.

It was impossible to see his face in the shadows, but Ren sensed the man was older than he initially thought; his posture was hunched, and his shaved head showed the beginnings of a receding hairline.

A hint of ink peeked out at his wrist between a long-sleeved T-shirt and leather half-gloves.

When the silence continued, Ren turned to leave.

“Ever heard of Hyperion?”

Ren blew out a frustrated breath. “So, you’re a conspiracy theorist.”

“It’s not a theory. I work for them.”

“For the mythical all-powerful cadre that secretly runs the country.”

“Yeah. Except for the mythical part.”

“Okay, Buddy. Have a good night.”

The man called him back. “Dr. Jameson, I’m risking my life coming here.”

“I’m sure you are.” Ren turned to leave.

“Your girlfriend is a member.”

That stopped Ren’s movement. “My girlfriend?”

“The woman you know as Sofria Kirk.”

“You’re saying she’s a government spy? That her desk job at the CIA is a cover?”

“Correct. And she sure as hell isn’t at some embassy job in Amman, Jordan.”

Ren shook his head in denial. “And what am I? Window dressing to make her cover look good?”

The man gave a disbelieving laugh. “You’re the target. You’ve been under surveillance for years.”

The Rubix Cube in his mind twisted and rotated—the wireless adapter he discovered, his questions about Sofria. The man’s next words proved he was legitimate.

“Project Bloodhound has been compromised.”

Ren paled. “What did you say?”

“The DNA-capture drone technology—that research is priceless. Someone is stealing the research for their own purposes. I don’t know who, and I don’t want to know.

Your colleague, Abernathy? He called Sofria Kirk and told her a friend had sent him a video Abernathy wanted her to see.

The next day, he’s dead, and there’s no trace of any video.

So, you tell me, is it coincidence, paranoia, or containment? ”

“This is insane.” Ren’s words were halfhearted as he considered the situation. His own suspicions about Milton’s death resurfaced.

The guy looked over his shoulder and stepped closer.

“Your intention in developing the tech is to find missing people—MIA soldiers, trafficking victims. It also has the potential to be the most effective assassination tool on the planet. Imagine having the ability to quickly and effortlessly find and eliminate any world leader, any dissident, any political candidate who doesn’t align with your philosophy. ”

The very idea of it was madness, and Ren said as much.

“I know it’s fucking crazy. But it’s true. Follow the breadcrumbs. Start with S.K.”

“S.K.?”

“Your girlfriend is not who she pretends to be. I gotta go.”

Ren grabbed the man’s arm. “Wait. Why tell me?”

“Two reasons. One: they track me. I have family in the next town, so it’s not weird that I would be here. Two: you’re the only person with the resources and the brains to take them down. Hell, half of these scientists wear loafers because they can’t tie their shoes.”

He hurried to an old Chevy, started it on the third attempt, and drove away.

Ren walked to the parking lot. His boots crunched the seashells and gravel as he forced his racing thoughts to calm.

He had heard every conspiracy out there in dive bars and White House briefing rooms, on social media, and in grocery store lines.

Facts rarely mattered when a person decided to believe something.

In this instance, however, Ren had no information.

He could neither confirm nor deny the claims the pierced man had alleged.

“Who’s your friend? He’s got more jewelry in his face than Very owns.” Steady had come up on him silently despite the noisy gravel. Jonah “Steady” Lockhart was a joker and a shit-disturber, but he was a damn fine operator.

“I don’t know what to make of him,” Ren said.

“Care to share while you buy me a drink?”

“Lead the way.” Ren and Steady walked side-by-side as Ren explained the strange encounter while the pierced man’s words rang in his ears: “Start with S.K.”

THE PRIEST

T en miles outside Beaufort, The Priest pulled the old Chevy into a rest stop.

After removing the fake piercings and dropping them in the footwell, he exited the car, tipped over the open gas can in the back seat, and ignited a balled-up fast food wrapper with his trusty Zippo.

As the sedan burst into flame, he walked calmly to the waiting white Ford F150.

After retrieving the new burner phone from the glove box, he sent a text.

The Priest: It’s done

TS: He bought it?

The Priest: Hook, line, and sinker