Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
The dock was worse than Ronan had thought.
Three boards had rotted through completely, and two of the support posts were soft enough that he could push his thumb into the wood.
Sid Hoffman stood knee-deep in the inlet water, examining the underside of the structure with the kind of focused attention that reminded Ronan of men checking vehicles for IEDs.
"You bought a money pit," Sid said, straightening. Water dripped from his forearms. "You know that, right?"
"The real estate agent mentioned something about deferred maintenance."
"Deferred maintenance." Sid laughed—a short, sharp sound.
"That's one way to put it. This dock hasn't been maintained since the Eisenhower administration.
" He waded back to shore and grabbed the towel he'd left on the grass.
"We're looking at new posts, new decking, probably new hardware too.
Three weekends minimum, if the weather holds. "
"I've got time."
Sid paused in the middle of drying his hands, studying Ronan with the same assessing look he'd given the dock. "Yeah. I guess you do now."
Six weeks since the arrests. Six weeks since Ronan had walked away from twelve years of covert operations to buy a cottage on Lake Road with a view of the inlet and a dock that was trying to return to nature.
The paperwork was still processing—restructuring his role within Shadow Ops wasn’t as simple as filing a form—but Caleb had called yesterday to say the transition was approved.
No more fieldwork. No more covers. He’d moved into something Caleb called ‘operational coordination,’ which was a polished way of saying he’d be the man behind the desk instead of the man behind the gun.
"Hand me that pry bar," Sid said. "Let's see how bad the frame is."
They worked in silence for a while, pulling up rotted boards and stacking them in a pile for disposal.
The September heat was brutal, even this early in the morning, and Ronan's shirt was soaked through within an hour.
But there was something satisfying about the work—the simple physics of leverage and force, the visible progress of boards removed and damage assessed.
"Quinn says you were in the Army," Sid said, not looking up from the board he was prying loose. "Didn't say which branch."
"Army. Ranger."
"How long?"
"Ten years active. Then I moved to... other work."
"The kind of other work you don't talk about."
"Yeah."
Sid nodded, unsurprised. He'd done twenty-four years in the Army—enough time to know that some jobs didn't come with business cards.
"I did three tours in Iraq," he said. "Came back different every time. Grace—my wife—says I finally stopped flinching at loud noises about two years ago." He tossed a rotted board onto the pile. "Some things take longer to leave than others."
"How'd you end up here? Blossom Springs isn't exactly on the beaten path."
"Quinn talked me into it. We served together, way back.
He's from here, started his construction company, and kept telling me I needed to get out of Minnesota.
After my mom died, I didn't have much reason to stay.
" Sid wiped sweat from his forehead. "Bought the garage, met Grace, figured out how to be a person again. Took a while."
"And now?"
"Now I fix cars and boats, have dinner with my wife, try not to think too hard about the things I can't change." He looked at Ronan directly. "The question is whether you can do the same."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning you've got the look. The one that says you're waiting for the other shoe to drop.
" Sid set down his pry bar. "You bought a house.
You're learning to fix a dock. But part of you is still scanning the perimeter, still running threat assessments, still expecting someone to come through that tree line with bad intentions. "
Ronan didn't answer. Couldn't, because Sid was right.
"That syndicate Caldwell was running," Sid continued. "It didn't start and end in Blossom Springs. You know that better than anyone. There are people out there who lost money, lost power, lost freedom because of what you and Lila did. Some of them are going to be angry about it."
"You think they'll come looking."
"I think if I were them, I'd want to know who brought down my operation. And I'd want to make sure it didn't happen again." Sid picked up his pry bar again and went back to work on the next board. "The question is what you're going to do about it."
"I'm not going to run."
"Didn't think you would. But running isn't the only option." The board came loose with a groan of old nails. "You could spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder. Jumping at shadows. Treating every stranger like a potential threat. That's one way to live."
"What's the other way?"
"Accept that you can't control everything.
Do what you can—stay alert, stay prepared, take reasonable precautions.
But don't let the fear run your life." Sid tossed the board aside.
"I spent two years after I got back sleeping with a gun under my pillow.
Checking the locks six times before bed.
Driving different routes to work every day. You know what it got me?"
"What?"
"Exhausted. Paranoid. Alone." He straightened up, stretching his back. "Grace is the one who finally got through to me. She said, 'Sid, you survived the war. Don't let it kill you now.'"
The words hung in the humid air. Ronan looked out at the inlet, where a heron was picking its way through the shallows with prehistoric patience.
"I don't know how to do this," he said. "Be normal. Have a life that isn't about the next mission."
"Nobody does, at first. You learn." Sid handed him a pry bar. "Start with the dock. Work your way up from there."
They broke for lunch around noon.
Grace had sent Sid with sandwiches and a cooler of sweet tea, and they sat on the grass in the shade of the live oak, looking out at their morning's work. Half the dock was stripped down to the frame now, the rotted wood piled high enough to require a trailer for disposal.
"Lila's testifying at the trial," Ronan said. "January."
"I heard. The whole town's heard." Sid unwrapped his sandwich. "How's she handling it?"
"Better than I expected. She's been meeting with the prosecutors, going over her father's files, preparing her testimony." He paused. "She's stronger than she thinks she is."
"Most people are, when they have to be." Sid took a bite, chewed thoughtfully. "She's got good people around her now. That helps."
"She's got this town. That's what really matters to her."
"Yeah, well." Sid gestured vaguely at the inlet, the trees, the cottage behind them. "This town has a way of growing on you. I came here thinking I'd stay a year, get my head straight, and move on. That was three years ago."
"What changed?"
"Grace. The garage. Realizing I didn't have to keep running from something that was already over.
" He set down his sandwich. "The war ended, Ronan.
Not the real one—that's still going on, always will be.
But my war. The one I was fighting inside my own head.
At some point, I had to decide it was finished. "
"And if it's not? If something comes back?"
"Then you deal with it. You've got skills. Training. People who'll stand with you." Sid met his eyes. "But you don't put your life on hold waiting for a threat that might never come. That's not living. That's just a slower way of dying."
Ronan thought about the cottage behind him. The woman who'd started keeping her things in his drawers. The dock they were rebuilding, one rotted board at a time.
"Quinn mentioned you might be looking for work," Sid said, changing the subject. "Once you're settled."
"Did he?"
"Said he could use someone with your background. Construction security, site management, that kind of thing. Nothing classified. Just honest work."
"I'll think about it."
"Don't think too long. Man needs something to do with his days besides fix docks." Sid grinned. "Trust me on that one."
Lila arrived around three, while they were measuring for new lumber.
She parked in the gravel drive and walked down to the water's edge, picking her way around the piles of rotted wood. She was still in her work clothes—a light blouse, dark slacks—but she'd kicked off her shoes somewhere along the way.
"It looks worse than it did this morning," she said, surveying the stripped-down dock.
"It's going to look worse before it looks better." Ronan set down his tape measure. "How was your meeting?"
"Long. The forensic accountants found another account tied to Coastal Property Services. This one had transactions going back fifteen years." She rubbed her eyes. "Every time we think we've found the bottom, there's another layer."
"There usually is."
Sid started packing up his tools. "I should head out. Grace wants me home for dinner, and I've got to shower off about three pounds of swamp water first."
"Thank you for this," Ronan said. "I'd still be staring at the dock, wondering where to start."
"That's what neighbors are for." Sid hoisted his toolbox. "Same time next Saturday?"
"I'll be here."
Sid nodded to Lila as he passed, and she watched him go with a thoughtful expression.
"He's good for you," she said when his truck had disappeared down Lake Road. "Having someone who understands."
"He thinks I'm still waiting for something bad to happen."
"Aren't you?"
Ronan looked at her. She stood barefoot on the grass, the late afternoon light catching the gold in her hair, and he thought about all the ways he'd learned to guard himself. All the walls he'd built. All the exits he'd always kept in sight.
"I'm trying not to," he said. "It's harder than I expected."
"I know." She moved closer, took his hand. Her fingers were cool despite the heat. "I spent five years waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for someone to figure out what I knew, what I was doing. It becomes a habit."
"How do you break it?"