5. Hendricks
HENDRICKS
Taking a sip of cold coffee, I pull out my phone and check my texts. Most are routine—confirmation codes, encrypted coordinates, payment receipts. Then I see the one from Luke Bennett.
Riot
Haven’t heard from you since we got back. You still alive?
Are you alphabetizing canned soup again?
I roll my eyes and delete it. Bennett thinks he's funny. He's not. If he knew I’d bought a property in Iron Ridge two months ago out of convenience when I started outsourcing work to the Blackthorn boys, he’d be camped out on my doorstep.
Note: they aren’t boys. They aren’t even my team.
The rest of the world sees a ranch, retired ex-soldiers, and three men playing cowboy.
It’s a good cover.
Jake Callahan, Mason Rivera, and Luke Bennett are former Delta Force—the elite of the elite. We crossed paths years ago in the theater, and again a few months ago because our objectives were aligned. Since then, I’ve brought them in to help me on a number of commissions.
Jake leads without ego. Mason is the best sniper I’ve ever met. Luke laughs too easily for a man who can clear a room in thirty seconds.
Different skill sets, same instinct: protect the people behind them.
It’s an expensive way to live, but I respect it. I also don’t hesitate to call on them when I need extra hands. There aren’t many people I trust, but those men are three of them.
Trust is one thing. Unsolicited visitors are another.
Opening my laptop, I navigate to my encrypted email. Two days away means a stack of new messages from my answering service. I work through them. A skip trace in Denver. Background check for a custody case. Asset recovery in Seattle. Standard work. Nothing that requires immediate attention.
Then I get to the fourth message.
Subject: Referral – Whitaker, Crowley & Pierce LLP
I pause. WCP is the kind of law firm that represents governors, billionaires, and people who make problems disappear before they become public. They don't refer small jobs. If they're sending work my way, it means someone with serious money has a serious problem.
I open the message.
Client requests immediate contact. Recovery of a missing person. Referral vetted through Montana AG's office. Fee structure attached.
I open the attachment, and the fee structure makes me pause. A quarter million for a recovery. Double if it goes complicated. Triple if it requires international extraction.
No job pays that well unless it's dirty or dangerous—or both.
Curiosity has me pulling up the provided contact number and dialing.
"Crowley," the voice on the other end says.
"This is Hendricks. I was contacted regarding a missing person."
"Mr. Hendricks, I've been expecting your call." The attorney's voice carries the practiced calm of someone who bills by the hour. "A client of mine has a matter of importance that requires discretion."
I pull a notepad closer and pick up a pen in case I need to make notes. "Who's your client?"
"I'll provide all that after the NDA is signed and you've agreed to take this contract."
"I'm going to need more information than that before I agree to take a case," I say dryly.
"Fair enough," Crowley says. "The missing person is a woman. She was last seen in Billings three days ago."
“And your clients wants her found.”
“Immediately.”
Experience has taught me that wealthy clients have one timetable: theirs. "Local PD involved? The FBI?"
"My client would prefer to keep the matter quiet."
Translation: he doesn't want law enforcement asking questions. That's not unusual in my line of work. My clients call me when the problem is too sensitive, too expensive, or too illegal to survive official attention.
I wonder which one this fell under. “Am I recovering a cooperative subject or should I anticipate resistance?”
“My client would prefer she accompany you voluntarily.”
Don’t they all. “And if she doesn’t?”
“My client authorizes you to exercise your professional judgment.”
That’s lawyer for bring her back by whatever means necessary. Convenient. If things go sideways, the attorney hasn’t instructed me to use force. He merely left it in my hands.
I set the pen down. I've done work for the law firm before, but not for Crowley directly, so I’m going to make the rules clear.
“Professional judgment doesn’t include abducting people.
I don't tolerate games, and I work alone.
No chain of command. No committees. No one looking over my shoulder. I find the person, I extract her."
"That's why I contacted you," Crowley says.
"To be clear, I deliver her willingly to a location of your choosing."
"Understood," he says, no hesitation. "The client accepts your terms."
"Fee is nonnegotiable. Half up front, half on delivery. If she's already dead, you pay the full amount anyway."
"She's not dead."
There's something in his tone that I don't like. I frown. Something's off, and I can't put my finger on it.
Crowley must sense it because he says, "The client specifically requested you. He was told you're the best at what you do. As soon as you sign the NDA, I can provide his name."
"Signing the NDA doesn't mean I'll take the commission if I don't like what I see," I warn him.
"You won't have cause to turn this down," he replies confidently. "Once you've reviewed the agreement and decide to accept the contract, we'll wire half the fee to you. You'll receive the rest when the assignment is completed and you've delivered the woman."
I hear the ping of an incoming email. "I'll review the NDA and contract and be in touch within the hour," I say, and I end the call.
Opening the documents, I go through them, making changes to language I don't like. All in all, it's a standard job: recovery.
I sign the NDA and send it back.
Three minutes later, another email arrives. Large file—encrypted—with a note that says, Time is critical. The client requires the woman found within seven days.
Seven days is more than enough time to find a person. Most people don’t know how to disappear. They know how to leave. Those two aren’t the same thing. Give me seven days and I could find the lost Ark.
I open the file. The decryption takes thirty seconds, then the case summary loads.
Client name: Thomas Ashford.
I sit back in my chair, staring at the screen.
Thomas Ashford is one of the richest men in the country—old money, political connections that span generations, the kind of power that doesn't need to advertise itself.
He owns half the eastern seaboard and has his fingers in energy, tech, and defense contracts.
Men like Ashford don't hire independent contractors for missing persons cases.
They have entire security firms on retainer.
Which means this isn't a standard recovery.
I scroll down.
Missing person: Mandy Reed. Age 34. Last seen Billings, MT.
I don't move.
The photo loads next, removing any doubt that it's someone with the same name. The angle of her jaw. That strand of hair that doesn’t seem to stay where it’s supposed to. Those eyes that look like they’re daring the world to come closer at its peril.
Ashford's paying me six figures to find her, and from what I know of Mandy, it’s not because she’s in danger—it’s because she poses one.
“What did you do?” I murmur, going through the file. It lacks information. Basic surveillance photos, a few known addresses, nothing substantial and all of it raising more questions than they answer.
What the hell was she doing in Billings?
A quick, simple search online tells me exactly what she was doing: Richard Pemberton, private equity executive.
The man was found dead in his home this morning.
Another quick search and I pull up a picture of Ashford and Pemberton at a charity function in Los Angeles together.
“What have you stirred up, Mandy?” I murmur as I save the photo to her file.
Yes, I already have an in-depth file on her.
I know she has a sister, Lily Carter, a veterinarian in Iron Ridge, partner to Mason Rivera of the Blackthorn Ranch.
I know her known associate: Gabriel Reyes, enforcer for the Reyes family.
I know she’s involved in tactical operations against trafficking networks.
Five weeks ago, she assisted on a mission the Blackthorn boys called me in on.
Pemberton must have been involved in the trade. The question: is Thomas Ashford, head of an affluent family that rivals the Rockefellers, involved in trafficking too? Or is he protecting someone who is?
I sit back in my chair and stretch my arms over my head. I should turn this down—email Crowley and tell him I’m not interested.
Except if I turn it down, they’ll take it to the next bounty hunter on their list, one who won’t mind exercising his professional judgment.
"Fuck." I pick up the phone. I don’t take the commission to find Mandy Reed. I take the job to find out why Thomas Ashford wants her.