blinked back the emotion brimming on her lashes. No. Dammit. He was wrong. She was not looking for a miracle. She didn’t need a miracle. All she needed was a man cunning enough and fearless enough to get the job done.
Chicago, Illinois Same Day
JAMES COLBY, Jr., Jim to the handful of people close to him, waited several minutes before he entered the bar.
It had been a long time since he’d gone into an establishment like this. Maybe not long enough, he mused as he took a long look around. Places like this represented his old life…a life that, thankfully, no longer existed.
The room was dimly lit, the cigarette smoke thick in the air despite the current regulations on smoking in public places. A scattering of tables stood between him and the bar that snaked its way around the length and width of two walls. Few of the stools were occupied and even fewer of the tables. Then again, at 6:15 p.m. it was still fairly early. The crowd, if there was to be one, likely crawled out of the woodwork later in the night.
But Jim wasn’t looking for a crowd. Actually, the fewer patrons the better for his purposes. He seriously doubted that the man he’d come to see would hang around once the place got busy. All the more reason to stop wasting time and to get this done.
Spencer Anders sat on the stool farthest from the entrance, his back to the wall. He’d watched Jim enter the bar. He watched now as he approached.
Some three yards from his position was an emergency exit. Jim supposed Anders could use that egress for a hasty retreat if he wasn’t in the mood for company. But he didn’t. He sat there and continued to observe the man closing in on his position.
Jim strode across the room and took a seat a couple of stools this side of the other man. No need to crowd him.
“Spencer Anders?”
Anders downed the last swallow of his bourbon. “That’s right.”
“My name is Jim Colby. I have a proposition for you.”
“Well, Jim Colby—” Anders placed his empty glass on the bar “—you’ve been misinformed as to my status.” He stood and tossed a couple of bills on the bar to cover his tab. “I’m not looking for any propositions.”
Jim kept his smile to himself. He didn’t want to tick the guy off, but neither did he want to let him get away. “I heard you were looking for steady employment.”
“Really? Who’re you?” Anders challenged, “an employment service representative?”
Chicago’s population amounted to about four million people. Finding one former army major who didn’t want to be found would have taken some time and initiative under normal circumstances. Since tracking Anders to this place, his regular hangout since arriving in Chicago three months prior, hadn’t been that difficult, Jim had to assume he wanted to be found despite his get-lost attitude. Anders had taken a room in a nearby motel that served more as a halfway house than anything one might find in a travel guide. He accepted temporary jobs that required only hard labor and no real sense of purpose. He never stayed on long enough to make friends. So far as Jim could see, he spent most of his time making enemies.
“A mutual friend mentioned you were in town seeking a new career direction.”
This got ex-Major Anders’s attention. For the past two years his MO appeared to include moving on once he’d worn out his welcome. Whether he actually tried to pull his life together after settling in each new location was unknown, but the end result was always the same.
“You must have me confused with someone else, Mr. Colby.” He allowed his gaze to zero in fully on Jim’s so that there was no misunderstanding as to the finality of his words. “I don’t have any friends.”
Spencer Anders would have walked away then and there with no further discussion, Jim decided, if he hadn’t played the ace up his sleeve.
“Lucas Camp tells me you’re the best in covert and low-visibility operations.”
Anders hesitated. For three beats Jim wasn’t sure if he would turn around or if he would just walk on out. But then he executed an about-face and moved back to the stool he’d vacated.
When Anders’s gaze rested on Jim’s once more, he said, “I’ve never worked directly for or with Mr. Camp. I’m surprised he even knows my name. The way I heard it he’s retired now.”
That was true.
“What’s your connection to him?” Anders wanted to know.
Jim had expected that one.
“He married Victoria Colby, my mother.”
Anders’s eyes narrowed, but not with suspicion. “You’re from the Colby Agency?” The name appeared to connect fully for him then.
Jim wasn’t surprised that the man recognized his mother’s name or that of her agency. The Colby Agency was one of the top private investigations agencies in the country. A man with a background like Anders would consider P.I. firms when searching for employment. In his case, however, that same background prevented him from applying to most.
“I’m not here representing the Colby Agency.”
The anticipation that had tapered Anders’s focus vanished. “I’m certain you’re a busy man, Mr. Colby. Why don’t we cut through all the crap and get straight to the point?”
Jim liked this guy already. “I’ve recently opened my own firm, Mr. Anders. You have the training I’m looking for as well as extensive experience in the Middle East. Considering current events and the Middle East’s ongoing status as a hot spot politically as well as economically, I need that kind of experience on my team. I have a vacancy and I’d like you to fill it.”
Anders motioned for the bartender to refill his empty tumbler. “You drinking anything?” he said to Jim.
Jim shook his head. That he wasn’t even momentarily tempted gave him great satisfaction. That Anders would offer suggested interest in his proposition.
The bartender sidled over and splashed a couple of fingers of bourbon into the other man’s empty glass. When he’d moved out of earshot to take care of the next customer, Anders said, “Why open another P.I. firm? You have a problem working for your mother?”
Jim got those questions often, especially from the investigators at the Colby Agency. He would have been welcome there by all on staff. Victoria Colby-Camp had expected Jim to take over one day. But he had other plans. No…not plans…needs. He needed to do this. And that need had nothing to do with any inability to work with or for his mother.
“What I have in mind doesn’t fit the mold, Mr. Anders. I’m afraid my mother would be startled at some of the methods I might choose to utilize.”
Still visibly skeptical, Anders sipped his drink before suggesting, “Perhaps Mr. Camp didn’t completely fill you in on my less-than-desirable work history.”
Jim resisted the impulse to argue that if he wanted to compare histories he would gladly give him a run for his money on who had the ugliest past. But he would save that for another time.
“I’m
