My Protector (Once a SEAL, Always a SEAL Book 5) Read online

  Now, I’m selective about my jobs. Like any skill, mine shouldn’t be abused to help the wrong sort of people. I won’t pull cover-ups for kidnappers, but of course, they’ll never tell you they’re kidnappers. You have to learn how to read your mark and decide what kind of person he is. This guy was fidgety and nervous, with none of the swagger and confidence of someone who thought he was getting away with something. I didn’t get that dirty vibe off him that I can sometimes pick up from people involved in violent crime. I decided to reserve judgment and asked for his story.

  It was one I’d heard many times before—the guy had gotten in over his head gambling and had borrowed money from a mobster loan shark. Now he suspected they were planning to come for him. Unfortunately for him, he was right, although at the time neither of us knew it. I was convinced, though. You don’t want to be in debt to the mob for long. That’s not a story that ever ends well.

  The gas station owner pleaded with me. He had borrowed the money for a good cause, he insisted. He wasn’t gambling for sport or for pleasure. He needed a big score to keep his humble business afloat. The gas station was on its last legs, and he felt it was his only chance. He was probably right. The place was a small full-service stop with four pumps and no convenience store attached. Not the kind of place modern Bostonians choose for their fuel needs. I felt bad for the guy. In the end, I agreed to help him out.

  So I set him up with a new identity. It’s hard work. I had to produce all kinds of documents for him—state ID card, birth certificate, social security card—to prove that he was who he said he was. Even though he really wasn’t. In real life, people spend decades accumulating all that evidence. It’s not hard to prove you’re someone you really are. But when your identity has been falsified, you have to get all that information together quickly.

  I have a few tricks, old standbys I like to use to make sure my disappearances are extra secure. I always change my mark’s birthday, setting it back at least one year. I also change the date, but I keep the month the same. Suspicious people interrogating you about your ID like to ask about zodiac signs, and it helps if marks can give the same answer to that question they’ve given all their lives.

  I also insist that they cut ties with everyone. That’s a hard thing to agree to, I understand that. But it’s not as hard as being dead. I disconnect their phones so they can’t be traced. I do give them a burner phone, but that’s in case they need to contact me, or maybe the fire department. They’re definitely not supposed to reach out to their mother.

  I get it. It’s hard to be told you can never call your mother again. I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t call mine. Maybe I’d break the rules and try to get a hold of her too. But my feeling is, if these people come to me asking for my help, the least they can do is follow my rules. That’s just common courtesy, right?

  Knowing that doesn’t make what happened hurt any less.

  I don’t know what the call was about. Maybe the guy wanted to check in on his beloved gas station. Maybe he wanted to give his family instructions regarding what to do with his assets. Hell, maybe he just missed his mama and wanted to hear her voice. Or let her know that despite having fallen completely off the map, he wasn’t dead. I don’t know what they talked about. What I do know is that he called her, and it was a terrible idea because the mob was watching his mother’s house. Tapping her phone lines.

  Twenty-four hours later, she was dead, and so was he.

  My job was to make him disappear. To take him off the radar, to keep him safe. And I failed. I know it wasn’t entirely my fault—if he had done what I told him to do, he’d be alive and well right now. Still, whenever I drive past this place, I’m filled with regret. It represents one of my greatest failures and strengthens my resolve never to let something like that happen again.

  I park my SUV outside Shadow’s walk-up and scan the parking lot. I don’t like to be seen visiting a cop’s apartment with as much regularity as I do, even though there’s nothing illegal about it. A police officer is a high-profile figure, after all. And Shadow’s even more high profile than most, considering he used to be Justin Campbell, Navy SEAL. With me. Those days seem like a long time ago now. But I guess Shadow just traded one uniform for another. Anyway, I don’t want his neighbors to start remembering me as the guy who always visits the cop—my job kind of depends on my ability to keep a low profile.

  I pop on a pair of sunglasses and a worn-in baseball cap, then get out of the car and cross the street to Shadow’s building. He lives on the fifth floor, a tiring climb, and not for the first time I wish he would just meet me in his office. I suppose it makes sense that we can’t meet there—I’m not sure how much of the help he gives me is legal. I should be grateful he helps at all. SEAL bonds aren’t easily broken, I suppose. I know I’d do just about anything for him, too.

  Shadow lets me inside and waves me into the kitchen. “Drink?” he asks.

  “Whiskey sour.” I shrug off my jacket and remove my shades and cap, tossing them on the table. Shadow’s apartment looks like it belongs to a working cop, with files strewn across every surface and news clippings stuck to the refrigerator. “What are you working on?” I ask him.

  “Missing person.” He sets a drink in front of me and sits down across the table with one of his own. “Hannah Larkin. She one of yours?”

  “Nope.” I’m telling the truth. I’ve never even heard the name before. But if I had heard, I don’t think I’d be able to admit it to Shadow. It would compromise any security I might have put her under. Fortunately, Shadow and I have never yet faced that particular conflict. Lying to him would be brutal. “Who is she?”

  “Nineteen-year-old female. College student. Good grades, good relationship with the parents, lots of friends.” Shadow sighs heavily. “Not my favorite kind of profile.”

  I know what he means. When a pretty young girl goes missing, especially one who seems happy with her family, friends, and life in general, it usually means one thing, and that thing isn’t good. Shadow and his colleagues probably won’t bring home anything more than a body on this one. I’m glad I decided against the life of a cop after my decommissioning. A lot of the guys who left the SEALs at the same time as Shadow and I are in law enforcement now, but that never felt right to me. I think it was just that I couldn’t imagine a whole life of following orders. At least in my current line of work, I’m my own boss.

  “So, Fred Shears,” Shadow says, breaking the silence.

  I nod. “You familiar?”

  “I’ve got a little bit,” Shadow says. “Not much. Retired accountant.” He fishes a file out of a stack and slides it across the table to me. “Lives alone. No criminal record. Are you sure this is the guy?”

  I look at the photograph clipped to the thin stack of papers. The man is white, unshaven, a mop of thick gray hair atop his head. He’s smiling. “This is him,” I say. “What’s this picture from?”

  “His accounting firm,” Shadow says. “He won employee of the year three times. Look, I know I’m not supposed to ask questions, Joel—”

  “No, you aren’t,” I say. “I can’t answer them. You know I can’t. It compromises my clients’ safety.”

  “But I mean…this guy?” Shadow scrubs a hand over his face. “What could he possibly have to hide from? I can imagine a dirty accountant, but according to all the evidence, this guy is clean as a whistle. He wasn’t fudging any numbers to steal money from the firm, or they wouldn’t have given him this award.”

  “You know I wouldn’t be helping him anyway if it was like that.” My voice is sharp. “I don’t help people steal. That’s not my game.”

  “I know. I know you don’t,” Shadow says, clearly trying to pacify me. “I’m sorry. I just…I’ve gotten into the habit of making guesses when it comes to your targets.”

  “You’ve never asked me about one of them before,” I say.

  “Well, they’ve all been easier to guess,” Shadow says. “But this guy… Why would anyone like t
hat even want to disappear?”

  “Well, he does,” I say, gathering up the file. I don’t like the way Shadow’s pursuing this line of questioning. He knows better, knows I can’t talk about these things. We’re supposed to exchange information, not ask questions. He’s making this harder than it needs to be.

  I get to my feet, and Shadow follows. “Thanks,” I say, pulling on my jacket and tucking the file into the inside pocket. “Thanks for getting this to me. It’ll be a big help.”

  “Are you heading out to work on this right now?” Shadow asks.

  I tug on my cap. “Why so many questions today?”

  “I work for the Boston PD,” Shadow says. “The only excitement I ever see is when something terrible happens. Working with you is actually the coolest part of my day.”

  I extend my hand for a handshake and then pull him in for a hug, slapping him firmly on the shoulder. “Thanks for the help, man. Couldn’t do it without you.”

  “One of these days you’ll bring me along!” he says.

  I’m already out the door and down the steps, making my way quickly to the car before anyone notices I was here.

  Chapter 3

  Joel

  We don’t meet up at my usual bar. I’ve been going there too often lately. Often enough to be a familiar face. Often enough that last time I took a seat at a secluded table in the back, the bartender came by and asked if I’d like “the usual.” I don’t want to have a usual. I don’t want to be recognized.

  It’s funny, the career of a disappearer. Part of what makes me so good at helping other people drop off the map is the fact that I live so close to its edges myself.

  I live under my real name, of course, and the ID in my pocket is really mine. I pay my taxes. I don’t wear disguises—at least, nothing more complex than the hat and sunglasses I wore on my way into Shadow’s apartment. But all my behavior is designed to fade me into the background. I monitor trends and make sure I’m always a few steps behind the latest fashion. Most people in Boston are, so if you’re too trendy, you stick out. My clothes are always neutral. Dark tones, but never all-black, because people notice that. And I don’t have any friends. Having friends creates patterns that are easy to follow. There’s Shadow, of course, but we only see each other for work these days. The easy friendship we had when we were SEALs together is gone.

  While I wait, I pull out the file Shadow gave me and flip it open on the table. Fred Shears is a congenial-looking man in his fifties. The grin on his face seems to say that he is delighted to be winning Employee of the Year. I have to wonder if that was the most exciting thing to have happened in his life so far. He has a daughter, so she must be important to him too, right? I wouldn’t know. I don’t have children. A disappearer definitely doesn’t have time to start a family.

  I tuck the file away and look up just as Fred Shears himself walks in the door. He looks distinctly out of place in a bulky, too-clean tan coat that probably came from a trendy store at the mall. He moves awkwardly, and I get the sense he’s never been in a bar before, much less one as run-down as this. I don’t flag him, because I don’t want to attract the notice of the bartenders or the other patrons. I sit back and wait for him to notice me. Eventually, he does and makes his way over.

  “Thanks for meeting with me,” he says, pulling a chair out from under the table and collapsing into it. He looks exhausted, as though he hasn’t slept for days. It’s possible he hasn’t. A mark on the run is usually high strung by the time they meet with me. I want to tell him not to worry, that he’ll be safe soon enough, but I happen to believe that a bit of worry is healthy. It’ll keep him in line, remind him not to violate the terms I’m about to set out for him. And the truth is, he’ll only be safe as long as he lives by my rules.

  “Now, you hand over everything, like we discussed,” I say. I can see the surprise on Shears’ face at the fact that I’m getting right down to business, completely skipping the pleasantries one might observe on an occasion like this. I’ve found, in my years of work, that chit-chat makes things feel more casual. But it’s absolutely vital that he takes this seriously. “Keys, phone, wallet.”

  Shears rummages in his pockets and pulls out a key ring with way too many keys on it. “Do you need all of them?” he asks.

  “You don’t need any of them,” I say. “What are they?”

  He points out certain keys as he talks. “My daughter’s apartment. My house. My car. This one is for my PO box, and this one is from work before I retired—”

  “All right, all right,” I interrupt. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to go break into your daughter’s apartment. These will be kept somewhere safe.”

  He hesitates.

  “This doesn’t work if you don’t trust me,” I say.

  Shears swallows, nods, and relinquishes the keys.

  I open his wallet. Driver’s license, credit cards, insurance cards, social security card, I take them all. I also take the photo tucked into the little picture protector, which shows Shears and a young girl. He makes a move as if to reach out and take that back but restrains himself with some effort. The wallet contains thirty-six dollars in cash, which I count and replace before pushing it back across the table to him. “You keep that,” I say.

  He nods and tucks the considerably lightened wallet back into his pocket.

  I pry open his phone, remove the SIM card, and snap it in half. Shears jumps in his seat. It always seems to surprise people how easily that part of the process is handled. They seem to think I’m going to throw their phone to the bottom of the ocean or something. Then there are the more naive, who think simply turning the device off will be enough to keep them safe. Shears, to his credit, seems to take it in stride once he’s past the initial shock of my breaking things at the bar table. He watches as I add the now powerless phone casing and broken SIM card to the growing pile of his things in front of me.

  From my own pocket, I pull a burner phone, a prepaid unit I acquired at a convenience store. I push it across the table to Shears. “This is for emergencies,” I say. “If something happens, you call 911, or you call me. You do not call your family. You do not call your friends. You do not order a pizza. Am I clear?”

  “Yes,” Shears says.

  I want to tell him the story of the man I lost that way, the man who decided calling his mother was more important than protecting his identity, but something stops me. I told him what he needed to do. Scaring him with horror stories isn’t going to help. He’s a smart man. He’ll do the right things.

  I fish out a manila envelope and hand it to him. “New identification documents. Birth certificate. Driver’s license. Passport. Social security card. Study them. Learn your identity. It must be as familiar to you as your old one was. When someone asks you what your name is, the answer should come naturally.”

  Shears nods. He’s wringing his hands, and I can tell the nerves of the situation are getting to him. I want to tell him to calm down, but I know well enough that that almost never helps. He’s not going to relax because I tell him it’s important. Instead, I try to relax my own demeanor, leading by example. “Use cash to buy an older, nondescript car. There’s a safe house set up for you,” I say, passing over a slip of paper with the address written down. “You should be able to find it easily enough. No GPS, though. Paper maps only and burn them once you arrive.”

  “Why?” Shears asks. “Surely it’s fine if the maps are with me.”

  “You can’t be too careful,” I say. “I can’t tell you how many people have slipped up and left something behind when they thought they had it. You don’t want to mark something on a map that might indicate your course and then accidentally drop it somewhere for someone to find. It’s a slim risk, but no risk at all is better.”

  Shears nods slowly. “I see.”

  “You should be perfectly safe,” I tell him. “I’ve done this dozens of times, and I’ve almost never had any problems. The people who follow the rules I set out for them are the ones who su
cceed.”

  “So you don’t think Boetsch will be able to trace my whereabouts?” He lowers his voice when he says the man’s name. Carl Boetsch has become a specter looming over Shears’ life in the past few weeks. I’ve seen it before. Hell, I’ve seen it with Boetsch before. Shears isn’t the first client of mine to run afoul of him. Carl Boetsch is a loan shark, a fact I’ve known for a long time—certainly longer than Fred Shears, who just learned of Boetsch’s dealings recently when performing an audit of the man’s finances. I know, though no one else does, the real reason Shears went into retirement—it was a display to Boetsch that he wouldn’t turn him in. Unfortunately for Shears, it doesn’t seem to have been good enough.

  I’m not really surprised. Boetsch is a scary guy. A violent guy. If I were Shears, I’d probably go into hiding too.

  “He won’t be able to find you,” I promise Shears. “Don’t worry. I’m very good at my job.”

  “Well, I appreciate everything you’re doing.” Shears looks pale. I push my glass of water across the table, and he takes a long drink. “Will I ever be able to come out of hiding?”

  “We’ll see what happens.”

  No is the overwhelmingly likely answer to that question, but people understandably have a much harder time following my mandates if they really understand that it’s forever. Let him have his scraps of hope.

  Shears nods and flattens the palms of his hands on the tabletop. He’s bracing himself, I know, for this new phase of his life, clinging to his last moments as the man he’s always been. I’ve seen my clients do this many times. They assign special significance in their minds to a particular moment. When I get up from this table, Shears seems to be thinking, I will leave Fred Shears behind. I want to tell him that it’s never that simple, that it would be easier if he could truly shed his past and step cleanly into a new personality. But there will be gray areas. The hardest part will be living with the ghost of Fred Shears always following him around.