Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Sterling had learned a long time ago that beer tasted different depending on the company.
With Buddy, beer tasted like a debrief—though not in a bad way. With Doyle, it tasted like a bad decision waiting to happen.
With both of them at the same table on Juniper’s front patio, under strings of yellow bulbs and a sky so purple it looked bruised, the beer tasted like it belonged with a last supper.
For a Thursday, Juniper’s Pub was packed.
It had turned into one of those nights where half the town claimed they were only stopping by for one drink and then ordered appetizers and then decided that wasn't enough and the special looked more than good, it looked like a must. Music drifted out through the speakers, something country and cheerful, with too much fiddle for Sterling’s current mood.
He sat with his back to the wall, and Buddy took the position across from him, one ankle propped on his opposite knee, a beer in one hand and a basket of smoked fish dip between them.
Doyle sat beside Buddy, angled toward the parking lot, his posture easy, his smile easier. He had a plate of conch fritters in front of him, and he'd picked at them like he'd only ordered them to be polite.
Sterling didn't like that, especially since Doyle had insisted on taking the meeting over food and drink.
“I appreciate you taking the time." Doyle ripped off a chunk of one the fritters and dipped it into the remoulade. “I've been giving you space to think about it, so I'm glad you finally called.”
Buddy picked up a chip and dragged it through the fish dip. “It's rare we take a case with another agency without me and/or my boss looking it over, so Sterling needed to wait for me to return from my vacation.”
Doyle wiped his fingers on his napkin. “I respect that.”
“I've read through the file.” Buddy took slow pull from his beer. “But it's not enough. We need more information.”
"It's pretty straight forward," Doyle said.
Nothing about this case was simple, and all three men sitting at this table knew that.
Sterling glanced through the window. Juniper stood behind the bar with her hair pinned up in her usual messy pony and a towel tucked into the back pocket of her jeans. She was talking to Tara, who kept glancing in this direction.
Interesting.
Though it wouldn't be if Tara had been scheduled to work this evening, which she wasn't. And for some reason, it bothered Sterling that since Doyle sat down, he hadn't glanced in Tara’s direction once. For a man who'd been having such a great time with Tara, he seemed totally uninterested.
Juniper caught Sterling’s gaze, and for half a second, the noise settled. Her mouth curved into a quick smile before she turned her attention back to Tara.
Sterling had spent a lot of years teaching himself to want very little.
Wanting made a man sloppy. Wanting made him predictable.
Yet, that was the most unpredictable thing he'd ever done in his life.
He'd never looked at a woman the way he just looked at Juniper—especially not while trying to extract information from… whatever Doyle was to this mission.
Not to mention, Juniper was now part of it all.
“Walk me through this job, again," Buddy said. "Like I'm a toddler, and I don't know how to tie my shoes.”
"Sterling warned me you were a detail guy about as bad as he is.
" Doyle plopped another half of a fritter in his mouth and washed it down with half of his beer.
“Granger Frost has been a client of Meridian Tactical for a couple of years. He’s the chairman of Ashbourne Holdings which is located in Charleston, South Carolina.
Old family money layered over freight financing money.
We've accumulated indicators consistent with pre-operational targeting.
A probe on their security system. Vehicle patterns.
Possible near miss that doesn't read like an accident on our end.
Frost believes surviving players from the old Colombia-Panama-Miami corridor are hunting him because they think he turned over information after the corridor collapsed.
Only, he's not one of the people who did. His company is just one of the ones our government helped.”
Buddy tapped his fingers against his glass. “The mission from Bogotá. The one you were on with Nick Colter, right?”
“That's correct,” Sterling said.
"You know Nick?" Doyle asked.
"Not personally." Buddy shifted. "But one of my team members does. You're sure your client wasn't part of the illegal side of the things?"
"I gave you everything on my client. He's clean," Doyle said. “His company moved legal freight through illegal choke points. Paid to survive. The way more than half those companies did.”
Buddy leaned back in his chair. “Ink on paper with your company logo doesn't make something true. It just makes it a narrative.” Buddy raised his hand. "I'm not saying it's not true. All I'm saying is that there are a few red flags."
“Sometimes, to keep legal product moving through a corrupt route, companies have to pay the price, on both sides, or die. It’s not right. But it is reality.”
“That sounds rehearsed," Buddy said.
“It is. I’ve had to explain it to myself a few times.” Doyle picked up his beer. “I’m not here to sell Frost as a saint. I’m telling you Meridian vetted him hard before we took the contract. Rutgers hates surprises."
Buddy rested his forearms on the table. “Here’s my issue.
Executive protection is one thing. Threat verification is another.
Aegis can do both. My people are good. Hell, if it’s logistics and shipping, I’d put Mia on the digital side, Dove on pattern work, Cullen on ground reads, and Sterling on oversight.
But your brief names Sterling and only Sterling. That's a problem.”
Doyle lifted his chin. “It's not a problem for us.”
“Why?” Buddy asked.
Doyle glanced at Sterling, then back to Buddy. “Because Frost doesn’t need digital, pattern, or grounds. He needs someone who can look at what’s happening around him and tell him whether it’s corridor residue or a completely new threat wearing old clothes.”
“You helped shut down that corridor. Why can't you do it?” Buddy asked.
Sterling knew the answer. So did Buddy. But it should be interesting to see how Doyle answered it.
Doyle turned his beer bottle on the table.
“There were names in that corridor that never made paper,” Doyle said.
“Cutouts. Brokers. Freight coordinators.
Customs ghosts. Men who showed up once, used one route, and vanished.
The official files have pieces, but there are things only Sterling remembers, even if he doesn't know he remembers.”
“That's a dangerous game,” Sterling said. "You're asking me to extract information the government doesn't want me to. Not unless they come knocking."
“And it sounds like you're asking for names,” Buddy said.
The texture of the mission had also changed slightly, if Sterling understood the situation correctly.
"We're asking you to run counter-intelligence and surveillance with me and another one of my team members, and assess intent and proximity of a threat. All we need are the names of people who are actually coming after our client. Ones from that corridor. That's why I suggested you to Rutgers."
Out of the corner of his eye, Sterling watched as Juniper approached with another round of beers and a basket of fries.
“You boys looked like you could use a fresh round." She set down the drinks and basket and cleared the empties.
"Thanks." Sterling smiled. "You're the best."
"And don't you forget it." She glanced at Doyle. “Tara says to remind you that the movie starts in forty-five minutes.”
Doyle laughed “You can tell her as long as these guys let me go, I'll be ready in a half hour.”
"He'll be ready," Sterling said.
"I'll let her know." Juniper squeezed Sterling's shoulder, turned on her heels, and stopped by another table.
“Back to Frost and the mission.” Sterling reached for a French fry.
"Has your boss considered Shrike at all?
Have you?" Sterling studied Doyle's face for a reaction and got nothing. Which wasn’t a surprise.
Doyle was a master at blending and hiding.
“Because I've been thinking a lot about it since you showed up. "
“I suppose I don't blame you,” Doyle said. “But I've never really thought much about that organization. Or that word, really. I think it's right up there with conspiracy theories. I mean, do you really think there's some puppet master manipulating our missions and pocketing money in the process.”
“Stranger things have happened."
“Seriously, I just need you for this job,” Doyle said. "You're the best one for it. And you don't have to give me names, unless they’re actually coming for my client. And then it's teamwork. We take them down together. We turn them over to the authorities, together."
Somehow, Sterling didn't believe that.
"Hey. You see that." Buddy jerked his chin.
A man strolled into the bar. He was average build, medium height, and had his hands stuffed into his sweatshirt, which was odd because it was eighty out.
He also wore a dark ball cap.
The same one from the sketch.
“Is something wrong?” Doyle asked.
“I'm not sure.” Sterling narrowed his stare, taking in every detail. Blue eyes. Sandy brown hair. Freckles. There weren't any freckles in the sketch, but that didn't mean anything.
Sterling set down bottle, pulled his phone from his pocket, and texted Dawson the details.
Dawson replied immediately, stating he was four minutes away.
"Dawson's on his way," Sterling whispered.
"Okay, what's going on?" Doyle said.
"Just reporting something to Dawson that he's been following."
Sterling slid the phone face down.
Buddy glanced over his shoulder. “He looks nervous.”
“You think anyone I call the cops on looks nervous,” Sterling said. "But why don't we focus on our conversation, and Dawson will deal with his situation when he gets here." Sterling didn't really mean that, but he didn't want to clue Doyle in on anything.