Chapter 3: Jack

After leaving Ruth's this evening, I drove half an hour south to Estes Park, just for something to do. While there, I stopped at a convenience store to fill my gas tank and buy some microwavable food and a few more cheap phones. Can't have too many burner phones. I went through a fast-food drive-thru to grab some late night grub and ate sitting in my car in the parking lot.

After killing time, I head to my motel, taking the long way back to make sure no one is tailing me. So far I haven't seen any sign of Yevgeny's men here in Colorado, but I figure it's only a matter of time until they show up.

On the drive back to the motel, I pass by the tavern. It's closed, and the lights are out. I'm sure Ruth has gone home. I wonder, not for the first time, where she lives. Does she have a place here in town? Is there someone waiting for her at home? It's hard to imagine a woman like her not having someone.

I continue on to the motel and park in the spot farthest from my unit. Forty bucks a night for a decent mattress, a clean shower with good water pressure, a microwave, a mini fridge, an outdated TV, and Internet is a steal. It's not bad, actually, considering the price. I've had worse. And it sure as hell beats sleeping in my car in parking lots and rest areas.

Before exiting my car, I scan the parking lot, looking for suspicious vehicles. When I don't see any, I grab my purchases and head for my room. I'm glad to see the sliver of clear tape I stuck to the doorjamb is undisturbed, meaning it's likely no one broke into my room while I was out.

After letting myself in, I put the beer in the fridge and pull out one of the burner phones. It's time for my semiweekly check-in. Fortunately, Mike is a night owl, too.

Mike Roman answers my call. "This better be who I think it is."

I chuckle. "It is."

"I guess this means you're still alive."

"Last time I checked."

Mike and I served together in the Teams. He's family. A year after I left the Navy to go work for a private covert organization, he followed. The work was easy, and the pay was excellent.

"Where are you?" he asks. "Alaska? Mexico? Puerto Rico?"

I chuckle. "Try Colorado."

"Still? Are you crazy?"

"It would seem so." I hesitate, knowing he's going to rip me a new one. "I like it here."

He's quiet for a moment. "You've been there for what—a week now? Damn it, Merch! You know better. Do I have to come out there and beat some sense into you?"

"It means a lot that you care."

"Fuck you," he says without heat. "You know better than to stay in one place for too long. Move on, buddy. I mean it."

He's right, of course. "I will."

"When? Every day you delay—"

"Soon," I say, knowing I'm being an idiot.

"Look, the guys are concerned. We can—"

"No! You stay the hell away. I mean it. If I get a whiff of any of you near me, I'll shoot you myself."

Now it's Mike's turn to laugh. "Sorry, Merch, but you're no longer our team leader. You can't tell us what to do." He sighs. "Just don't get yourself killed, okay?"

"That's the plan."

The line goes quiet for a moment. And then he says, "It's not the same without you here."

My chest tightens. "Yeah, I know. Me, too." I glance at my watch. "Time's up. Later, Mike." I end the call.

With a growl, I throw the phone against my motel room wall and watch it break apart. Then I pick up the SIM card and snap it in two. Mike and I talk on a secured line, but based on how quickly Yevgeny's men catch up to me, we're starting to doubt it's all that secure. Somebody is leaking information.

After taking a piss in the bathroom, I wash my hands and brush my teeth. The last thing I do before hitting the sack is glance outside at the parking lot to check once more for any suspect vehicles. I install my improvised door jamb lock, make sure my mini surveillance camera out front is functioning, and then fall into bed.

I try watching TV for a while in an effort to decompress, to wind down. I'm having trouble getting a certain dark-haired woman out of my head.

What I wouldn't give to be a regular guy, one who could walk right up to her and ask her out.

Unfortunately, I can't be that guy. I've pissed off some real nasty assholes, and that means I can't afford a personal life. If I got involved with her, I'd be putting a target on her head.

I should have passed right on through town, but like a dimwit, I've been hunkered down in this motel room way longer than I should. At this point, I'm lucky to still be breathing. If the Russians don't manage to take me out, my buddies will come do it just on principle.

I made my bed, and now I have to lie in it. Alone.

* * *

The next morning, I head into town for some breakfast at the diner. My desire for information is superseding my common sense. I park in front of the restaurant, shut off my engine, and survey the street on the lookout for folks who look like they don't belong.

It's eight-thirty on a Saturday morning, and naturally the diner is busy. This place is probably a magnet for the locals. Next door, the bar is closed, of course, as it doesn't open until three.

As I walk into the diner, I'm immediately hit with the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee and the sweet smell of pancakes. It's a classic 1950s diner, with a black-and-white checkerboard linoleum floor, red glitter Formica tabletops, and red vinyl chairs. A hallway on the left leads to the bathrooms, and there's a jukebox on the far right wall. The walls are decorated with posters advertising combo meals and ice cream sundaes, and local flyers announce church bake sales and school fundraisers.

I quickly scan the place, making note of the points of egress as well as checking for out-of-town mobsters. The coast looks clear.

I head for the counter, where Jenny, the owner, is cutting up a pie and transferring the slices to dessert plates. She's a pretty Latina with shoulder-length dark hair, soft round cheeks, and dimples. I'd put her in her late twenties. I've seen her hanging out at the bar a few times with Ruth's other girlfriends.

When she spots me, her eyes widen in surprise. "What can I get you, handsome?" she asks when I take a seat at the counter.

"Black coffee and the breakfast special, please."

She smiles. "Sure thing, Jack."

Ruth must have told her my name. So much for keeping a low profile.

"How do you want your eggs?" she asks.

"Over easy, please."

"Bacon or sausage?"

"Bacon. Crispy," I add before she can ask.

"Toast or English muffin?"

"Toast, thanks."

"Comin' right up, hun." With a wink, she walks away.

Jenny returns a moment later with a coffee pot. She turns the empty coffee cup sitting on the counter in front of me upright and fills it.

"Thanks." I reach for a discarded newspaper lying on the counter next to me. "Do you mind?"

"Help yourself," she says. "They're free to customers. Your food will be right out."

I skim the newspaper, catching an article about an upcoming fundraiser for the high school football team. Another article talks about the local search and rescue team locating a missing eight-year-old girl who'd wandered away from her family while on a hike. There's an article about a bake sale at a local church. This is small-town America. The kind of place where someone could put down roots, build a business, start a family.

"Here you go, hun," Jenny says as she sets a plate of food in front of me. "Let me know if you need anything else."

"Thanks, Jenny." She smiles in surprise when I say her name. I can't claim to be psychic, though. She's wearing a name tag.

I skim more of the paper as I eat. A hot, delicious breakfast sure beats the daylights out of eating stale pastries from a motel vending machine. Besides, it can't hurt for me to get to know Ruth's friends.

When Jenny stops by a little later to top off my coffee, I say, "You're one of Ruth's friends." I nod toward the bar next door.

"I sure am." She gazes at me expectantly, waiting for me to say more.

"She's got a nice place." That was lame.

"She sure does. Years ago, way before my time, mind you, it was called Hank's Tavern. Her granddaddy opened it in the '60s. He left it to her when he passed, and she changed the name to Ruth's."

Fascinating, but not exactly what I want to know. "Is she—" I'm about to ask if she's single, but right then the bell rings as the door opens, and Jenny looks past me to see who just walked in. I automatically look, too.

"Micah!" Smiling, she waves him over.

"Hey, Jenny," Ruth's brother says as he takes the stool next to me. "Coffee, please. And the special. Scrambled, bacon, and toast."

"Sure thing, sweetie." Jenny grabs the coffee pot and fills a mug for him. "Funny you should walk in now." She nods to me. "Jack and I were just talking about Ruth. You two have met, right?"

I meet a pair of obsidian eyes that are staring back hard. "Not officially, no." I hold out my hand. "Jack."

"Micah," he says as we shake hands. His gaze sharpens. "And what, exactly, do you want to know about my sister?"

"Nothing." I've never officially met the guy, but I recognize him from the bar. He's Ruth's younger brother. The resemblance is kind of hard to miss. "I just mentioned she has a nice place, that's all. The tavern, I mean."

Micah nods as he picks up his coffee and takes a sip. "I've seen you around. Are you in town for much longer?"

"No. I'll be leaving soon."

He nods. "Well, okay then. Safe travels."

"Thanks." I stand, pull out my wallet, and lay cash on the counter. "Here you go, Jenny," I call to the woman who's now standing at the kitchen window to pick up an order.

"See you, Jack!" she calls back, waving as I head for the door.

With nothing else to do, I head back to my motel room to kill some time.

Tonight, I pay my final visit to Ruth's bar. And then it's back on the road.