4. Henry
Henry
“Damn that boy all to hell,” I growl, gulping down the last of my beer. “Another.”
The bartender nods and before I know it, a fresh bottle of beer is presented to me. But here’s the thing. I know I can’t relax and enjoy the beer like I should. Every instinct inside my body and mind is telling me that Bodie needs my help…
The boy is stubborn, proud, cocky…
But he’s young and na?ve too.
You shouldn’t have taken no for an answer.
“Don’t tell me, boy trouble,” the bartender says as he walks past to deal with another customer.
“ Pfft . Something like that,” I reply. “More trouble than it’s worth.”
But despite my show of bravado to the bartender, I know that I’m only delaying the inevitable here. There’s no way that I’m not going to follow Bodie and keep an eye out for him.
For tonight at least…
If the boy decides to split and haul his butt out of town tomorrow, that’s on him. But in the here and now, it’s my duty to make sure that he’s safe.
I might get paid a handsome sum to be a Night Ops man, but it’s a job of honor too.
The money we receive in exchange for risking our lives is all well and good, but it’s not the main motivator—our desire to protect, serve, and put ourselves in the most dangerous situations imaginable is what drives us on, keeps us fighting when almost any other man would quit.
“Here, have this on me,” I say, turning to my left and sliding my untouched new beer over toward the old timer who looks like he could do with some good luck.
I leave some money on the bar and turn and walk outside.
It’s time to track the boy down and keep an eye on him.
This might be Sunny Ferns, but that doesn’t mean it’s not dangerous from time to time.
I’ve seen some things go down here that wouldn’t look out of place in an old Western movie, real outlaw shit.
And if Bodie is connected to any of that, then I’m betting that this might be an uncomfortable night for him.
But the only question is where the hell is he planning on staying?
As I step inside my dusty old truck, my Guard brain begins to kick into gear…
Surfer boy.
Van.
Enough room for a bed in the back...
Beach.
I’m thinking that he’s headed to the coastal strip. That’s where all the surfers and drifters go when they want to sleep in their vans and cars without having to shell out for a motel or one of the bougie bed and breakfast places in town.
And assuming that I’m right about that, then I’m thinking that the boy will want to be somewhere where he’s low profile, not surrounded by people asking questions and potentially reporting back to whoever it is that is so blatantly causing all this crap.
Which leaves one little cove, close to the edge of town.
It’s quiet, secluded, and not one that the tourists and casual travelers even know about.
But something tells me that it’ll be right up the boy’s street.
He might be a pain in the ass, but I can tell that he’s smart too—maybe too smart for his own good, and that’s why he’s in this mess to begin with?
But that’s a question for another time.
Right now I need to put the truck into gear and get driving…
The jazz flows smooth from my truck’s old radio, Miles Davis’s trumpet cutting through the night like a blade wrapped in velvet.
I keep the volume low, just enough to fill the cab without drowning out my thoughts. I still need to be able to think, stay alert, and generally have my wits about me.
Sunny Ferns’s coastal road winds ahead, the ocean a dark shimmer under the moon. My hands rest easy on the wheel, but my mind’s already working, piecing together where surfer boy might hole up…
He’s got that wild, stubborn streak, but he’s scared, and scared people don’t think as clear as they think they do. Bodie’s strong-willed, smart, but he’s impulsive and nervous too—it’s an interesting but potentially dangerous combination for him right now.
I let the music pull me back, just for a moment, to a lighter memory...
Me and Cole, crammed in a beat-up Jeep, hauling ass across the Mexican border after a job in Tijuana.
Twenty hours, no sleep, just us, a crate of warm soda, and my jazz playlist blaring. Cole, big as a damn mountain, kept griping, “Man, this horn shit’s gonna make me crash. Put on some Metallica or I’m tossing your phone out the damn window.”
I laughed, cranked the volume, and told him to broaden his horizons. Cole’s a great guy, one of the best, but when it comes to cultural stuff he really was pretty basic when we first met—and didn’t change much after years together either.
But on this occasion, by hour ten, he was humming along to Coltrane, too stubborn to admit he liked it. We ribbed each other the whole way, but that’s what brothers do—push, pull, keep each other sharp…
Cole’s more than a brother, though.
The Night Ops Guard is a brotherhood forged in blood and bullets, and he’s one of the best I’ll ever meet.
I think about Cole now, settled down with his Forever Boy, a Little who lights up his world. Guard code says we keep personal shit locked down, no oversharing, but you can’t hide happiness, not like this.
I saw it in Cole’s eyes last time we debriefed in Miami—he’s in all the way. Cole and his boy had their own pretty dramatic story, but I can see now that he’s even deeper in love than he could have ever dreamed of.
A Daddy with his perfect Little, building a life most of us only dream about.
Cole’s still a Guard, still lethal, but he’s got an anchor now, someone to come home to.
Me? I don’t know if that’s in the cards.
I’m a Daddy, always have been, craving that control, that bond with a Little who needs my rules, my protection. But my life’s a minefield—missions that could end me, secrets I can’t share.
Most Littles I’ve met couldn’t handle the waiting, the not knowing if I’d come back. They’d say they were cool with it, all fire and promises, but when the phone didn’t ring for weeks, they’d bolt. Can’t blame ‘em.
Still, driving through the dark, jazz enveloping me, I feel that ache.
It’d be damn nice to have someone, to be his safe place, his Daddy.
But maybe I’m built for shadows, not forever.
“Get a grip, man,” I say, half-chuckling to myself as I realize that I’m in danger of wallowing.
The road curves, and I shake off the longing, focusing on the task.
That boy’s in trouble, and my gut says it’s bigger than he’s letting on.
His beat up van screams drifter, and drifters don’t stick to motels.
They park where the waves are close, where they can blend into the night.
I know the spot—a secluded cove, tucked past the main beach, where surfers and loners crash without drawing eyes…
It’s where I’d go if I were him, and he’s sharp enough to pick it.
I ease the truck into the parking lot, killing the radio as I scan the area. The cove’s quiet, just dunes and a flickering streetlamp.
And as expected, there’s the van, parked near the edge, its faded paint catching the moonlight.
Gotcha, boy.
But then my eyes snag on something else—a black truck, idling on the far side of the lot, no headlights, just the low growl of its engine. A figure is inside, barely visible, but I clock the tilt of a cap, the bulk of a guy who’s not here for the view.
My skin prickles, Guard instincts kicking into overdrive.
This ain’t a coincidence.
Someone’s watching him. And whether it’s connected to his troubles or not, I’m not leaving anything to chance.
I park at the lot’s edge, far enough to stay low-key, and cut the engine.
My hand brushes the Glock tucked under my seat, but I leave it. No need for hardware yet—just need to spook this guy, see what he’s about.
I slip out of the truck, boots silent on the gravel, and move toward the black truck, keeping to the shadows.
The ocean’s murmur masks my steps, but before I’m halfway there, the truck’s engine revs, loud and deliberate.
“Hey, over here!” I shout, hoping to at least draw a glance from the man inside the truck. Any kind of positive ID on the driver could be helpful further down the line. “Hey!”
Sadly, the man appears to turn and duck his head, avoiding my line of sight as he does it.
Tires spin, kicking up dust, and the truck peels out, taillights vanishing down the road.
I curse under my breath. That’s no innocent bystander. And I don’t think it’s some weirdo either. He knew to look away, to not make eye contact with me.
The way he bolted confirms it—someone’s got eyes on Bodie, and they’re not playing games.
My mind races, connecting dots.
His panic in the bar, that message that shook him. Whoever’s after him, they’re organized, bold enough to tail him to a backwater like Sunny Ferns.
Cartel? Smugglers?
Is this my Night Ops background going into overdrive? I’m not willing to leave it to chance. I’ve seen enough. For all I know, he’ll be returning in minutes and be bringing backup with him. Either way, he’s a threat, and I’m going to find out who he was too.
But right now, I’ve got more immediate matters to resolve.
What matters is Bodie’s a sitting duck in that van...
I turn toward the van, ready to check on Bodie, when the side door flies open.
Bodie storms out, his sneakers slamming the gravel, eyes blazing. He’s all fire, hands balled into fists, his oversized jacket flapping as he stomps toward me.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Bodie snaps, voice sharp enough to cut. “I told you not to follow me!”
I cross my arms, patience wearing thin.
“Not stalking, boy. Protecting,” I bark. “You see that truck that just peeled out? That wasn’t some tourist doing some late night stargazing.”
Bodie’s eyes widen, just for a second, before he masks it with a scowl.
“You’re full of it,” Bodie says, stomping his foot on the ground. “You don’t know anything about me or what’s going on.”
“I know you’re scared shitless,” I shoot back, stepping closer, towering over his slender frame. “I know you got a message in that bar that made you look like you saw a ghost. And I know that truck was watching you , not me. You wanna keep pretending you’ve got this, or you wanna stay alive?”
He flinches, but his chin lifts, defiant.
“I don’t need you playing hero, Henry,” Bodie says, his eyes averting my gaze. “I can handle myself.”
“Handle yourself?” I scoff, my voice low, edged with frustration. “You’re parked in the middle of nowhere with no plan, no backup, and someone circling you like a shark. You’re not handling jack.”
Bodie’s lips part, like he’s got a comeback, but nothing comes out.
He shifts, one hand on his hip, pouting like a kid caught breaking rules.
I look behind and see his van door swinging wide open, that walrus stuffy is on the bed, a mess of colorful blankets and old pillows.
I can’t help myself.
My Daddy side stirs, wanting to pull him close, set boundaries, make him feel safe. But Bodie’s fighting me every step, and I’m about done with his attitude…
“Let me check your van,” I say, keeping my tone even, though my patience is fraying. “If someone’s tracking you, they might’ve bugged it. Takes two minutes, and it could save your ass.”
Bodie’s eyes narrow, searching mine, that pout deepening.
“You think I’m just gonna let you poke around my van?” Bodie shouts. “What, so you can plant something yourself? Steal my briefs? Or worse? Jeez . You must think I was born yesterday.”
I clench my jaw, temper flaring.
“You’re paranoid, and it’s gonna get you hurt,” I say, doing my best not to lose my cool. I’ve worked with difficult clients in the past, but this is something else. “I’m trying to help, but if you keep pushing, I’ll walk away and let you deal with whoever’s out there.”
Bodie freezes, his bravado cracking, just for a moment.
The ocean hums behind us, the streetlamp buzzing, and I see it—the fear he’s trying so hard to hide.
The boy is tough, but he’s in over his head, and he knows it.
Bodie’s hand stays on his hip, his pout stubborn, but his eyes flicker to the van, then back to me, weighing his options.
What’s it gonna be, Bodie?
Trust a stranger, or roll the dice with the shadows?