Herb believed he was still in Mexico. His captors spoke Spanish. His meals were beans, rice, tortillas. The heat was smothering.

  But this wasn’t a hospital. And it wasn’t a traditional prison. His requests for a lawyer were met with dead stares. He never saw any police. Never was taken to court.

  Herb didn’t know where he was, but he knew two things. First, keeping him here wasn’t legal. Second, escape was impossible.

  He was shackled to the cot by the ankle, and the cot was bolted to the floor. There were no windows. Just cinder block walls. A bucket for the bathroom. The only light, a few low watt bulbs hanging from the ceiling from a spiderweb of old extension cords.

  The cuisine was about the same quality as the accommodations. Small portions of beans and rice, twice a day. Every so often an egg, or some gamey goat meat, or a few chilis. The water they were given to drink was tepid, brownish, and smelled like sulfur.

  They kept eight men imprisoned in this hole, all injured, rotating them out as they healed. Sometimes the smell of body odor and bodily functions became so raw, it made Herb’s eyes burn. More than once, Herb lost hope. Hope of recovery. Hope of release. The pain of his injuries and illnesses paled next to his longing for his wife.

  Only one thing stopped him from letting despair consume him.

  Tequila.

  Not the liquor. Booze was yet another indulgence absent in captivity. The Tequila that kept Herb rooted in reality was Tequila Abernathy, a former mob enforcer Herb had met many years ago. He’d been on the mission in Baja, and like Herb, he’d been left for dead and picked up by the same group that was nursing them back to health.

  Herb’s injuries were like a paper cut compared to Tequila’s. That guy had more holes in him than a golf course. Internal injuries. Broken bones. Blind in one eye. For a while, it was touch and go, and Herb was sure his friend was a goner. But the diminutive, muscular man had pulled through.

  “Traffickers,” Tequila had said, weeks ago as they watched another man taken from his cell, never to return.

  Herb was familiar with the sex slave trade. But they were old, broken men, and he didn’t think they had much value.

  “I was hoping we were being held for ransom.” Kidnapping gringos was common south of the border.

  Tequila shook his head. “It’s been too long for that. I think this is a slave labor operation. They bring in the nearly dead, wait to see if they recover, then sell them.”

  “For what?”

  Tequila shrugged. “Labor. If we’re lucky.”

  “It’s the twenty-first century.”

  “As long as there are human beings, there will be slave labor.”

  Terrible as that sounded, Herb almost wished it were true. Working a mine, or a farm, would be better than rotting in this dark hole.

  “You said if we’re lucky. What if we aren’t lucky?”

  “They could be holding us to compete in gladiator games, like in Baja. Or worse.”

  “What’s worse than that?”

  “Snuff films.”

  Herb shook his head. “Those are urban legends. Videos do exist where people die. Those ISIS beheading movies. Serial killers with video cameras. But there is no such thing as a retail market for snuff movies. You can’t manufacture, distribute, and sell evidence of a murder, without it eventually getting back to you. If someone was producing snuff films for money, they’d be caught.”

  “Did you ever hear of Usher House?”

  It had a slightly familiar ring, but Herb couldn’t place it so he said no.

  “How about Silk Road?”

  Herb nodded. Tequila was referring to the illegal trade that occurred on the uncatalogued parts of the Internet, commonly known as darknet. “Feebies shut it down.”

  “You can’t shut down an idea. One black market gets closed, another opens in its place. With VPN and bitcoin, you can buy and sell anything you want to, and no one knows who the buyers or sellers are. Especially when no physical object changes hands. You can exchange a cryptocurrency for an encrypted media file, and there is no way either party can be caught.”

  “And this is a thing?”

  “Selling illegal goods has always been a thing. Darknet just made it easier.”

  “Just when I thought my opinion of human nature couldn’t get any lower.”

  “You say this while chained to a cot.”

  “Good point. So you think we’re being nursed back to health so a bunch of rich cybergeeks can pay to watch us die?”

  Tequila offered a rare smile. “Fingers crossed for slave labor.”

  Herb didn’t smile back.

  PRESENT

  JACK

  My husband appeared dubious. And rightfully so.

  “A one-week Alaskan cruise. With your mother.”

  I tried to look flustered. Which was pretty easy, because I was flustered. “Her date broke a hip. And it’s too late to get a refund.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “And you’re leaving right now.”

  “I don’t even have time to fully pack. I’ll probably have to pick up some things on the ship.”

  “And, on this cruise, are you taking your gun?”

  “What? No. Of course not. It’s a cruise.”

  Sam came wandering into the bedroom. “What’s wrong, Mommy? You look upset.”

  “Mommy is upset because she’s telling Daddy a lie,” Phin told our daughter.

  My little angel tugged on my shirt and looked up at me. “Why are you lying to Daddy?”

  “Because she’s doing something that would make Daddy angry,” Phin said. “Something with Uncle Harry.”

  “Uncle Harry smells like feet and cheese,” Sam stated. And she was correct.

  “You saw his RV?” I asked.

  “He left a message for you on the machine. He’s here? Now? Did he park up the street?”

  “When Uncle Harry farts, it smells like salami,” Sam said.

  “He needs my help with a case. And it isn’t a dangerous one. I was telling the truth about leaving my gun.”

  “The guns are in the safe,” Sam said.

  “Yes, they are, honey.” I squatted to her level. “Why don’t you see what Duffy is doing?”

  “He’s chasing Mr. Friskers. They’re fighting, like you and Daddy.”

  “Daddy and I aren’t fighting. Why don’t you and Duffy play catch?”

  Sam’s face became heartbreakingly serious. “That’s why they’re fighting. Mr. Friskers took Duffy’s tennis ball. That cat is a real asshole.”

  “You’re right, sugar pop,” Phin said, scooping Sam up. “Mommy and I are fighting. And Mr. Friskers is a real asshole.” He looked at me when he said asshole. “Let’s go see what they’re up to.”

  Phin walked out of the bedroom. Which is what I wanted, for him to let me do my own thing. So I wasn’t sure why it pissed me off.

  “That’s it?” I followed them into the hall. “You’re walking away?”

  “There’s nothing more to say.”

  Duffy began to bark. It sounded like he was in the living room. Phin led the way.

  “I lied to you,” I reminded him. “And I’m not telling you where I’m going.”

  “Obviously it’s important to you. And obviously you lied because you knew I’d disapprove.”

  Duffy had Mr. Friskers cornered, and the cat was hanging, upside-down, from the top of the window shade. All of his hair was standing on end. Like he’d stuck his little kitty tongue into a lightbulb socket.

  “And you’re okay with this?”

  Phin shrugged. “You can’t train a cat. They do whatever they want to. And they don’t care whether you approve or not.”

  “I meant with us.”

  “Does it matter? Go and do whatever you need to do.”

  That was about the most hurtful thing he could have said. And I almost spilled the whole story, right there. But if I explained, he’d insist on coming along.

  Phin wasn’t healthy enough to come along.

  Mr. Friskers dropped from his perch, landing directly on Duffy’s back, which freaked the dog out, and delighted our daughter. Duffy began to buck like a bronco, and the cat rode him, cowboy style, as he galloped out of the room. Sam followed, squealing with laughter.

  “Phin…”

  “I know. Samantha needs at least one parent.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “This is stupid, Jack. If anything happens to you, you know that I’m going to go after whoever did it. Don’t we have better odds doing this together?”

  “You’re making too much out of this.”

  “I went through this same process. When I went after Luther Kite. I lied to you, and you couldn’t have stopped me even if you tried.”

  “This isn’t like that.” I attempted to sound soothing.

  “I know,” Phin said. “I went after Luther for you and Sam. So we wouldn’t have to keep looking over our shoulders for the rest of our lives. But you’re not doing this because of me and Sam. You’re doing this in spite of me and Sam. I wanted to keep you out of danger, to make sure some whackjob from your past didn’t come calling. You’re actually looking for danger. Why not just hold up a target in front of your body and dare the bad guys to shoot you?”

  “Phin…”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “If you care about us, you’ll stay. That’s why we’re in Florida, living this life. That’s why you faked your own death. Remember? Jill?”

  Ouch.

  “I’ll be back in a week.” I’d already lost the argument. The only decent thing to do was make an exit before one of us said something unforgiveable.

  “Sure you will.”

  We stared at each other. I broke the stare first, and walked away.

  As I packed, I considered taking my gun. Phin already knew I was full of shit. It’s not like I’d be fooling him.

  But I didn’t bring it along. He’d know it was missing. And he’d worry about me even more. At least, with it here, he might think there was some truth to me insisting this wasn’t a dangerous case.

  Sam toddled in, her eyes wide as she watched me shove jeans into a duffle bag.

  “Where are you going, Mommy?”

  “Uncle Harry needs my help.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Soon.”

  “Soon isn’t a time, Mommy.”

  I’d mentioned that offhandedly a few weeks ago, and it had stuck. Be careful what you teach your kids, because they use it against you.

  I squatted down to Sam-level and brushed bangs out of her eyes. “I should be back in a week. You and Daddy watch the dog and cat for me, okay?”

  She nodded, then wrapped her little arms around my neck. My daughter smelled like Florida sunshine, peanut butter and jelly, and baby shampoo. I wished I could bottle the scent and keep it in my pocket.

  Hell, I wished I could keep her in my pocket.

  I hugged Sam, tight, until she got wiggly and pushed free.

  “I have to go number two,” she said.

  “Need help?”

  Sam made a face. “No. Do you need help when you go?”

  I smiled. “Everyone needs help sometimes.”

  “So why won’t you let Daddy help you and Uncle Harry?”

  I gave her a tap on the nose. “You’re too smart, you know that?”

  Sam nodded. “Grandma says I’m a lot smarter than you were.”

  “She does?”

  “And cuter. And better at drawing. But that you’re a damn good shot. When will you teach me to shoot guns, Mommy?”

  “When you’re older.”

  “That’s not a number.”

  “Grandma’s right. You are smarter than I was.”

  Sam gave me a quick peck on the cheek, then ran off to the bathroom. She passed Phin in the doorway.

  My smile disappeared and I went back to packing, making a show of ignoring him.

  “I can’t believe you’re leaving her,” he said.

  “You think laying on guilt will work?”

  “Not guilt. Reality.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t expect you to understand. But I can’t say no to this one.”

  “That’s the thing, Jack. There will always be one you can’t say no to.”

  I wanted to tell him, so badly. I was doing this for old friends who had done the same for me. But I couldn’t say more because then Phin would come with. I couldn’t stand losing him. And, if things went really bad, I couldn’t allow Sam to grow up an orphan.

  “I’m sorry, Phin. I really, really am.”

  “I’m sorry, too. I was wrong. To go after Kite. I was worried trouble would come looking for you. That was a goddamn waste of time.” He clenched his teeth. “Because as soon as you get the chance, you go looking for trouble.”

  I closed my eyes. “We’re going in circles. And I don’t want to leave with us fighting.”

  “Then don’t leave.”

  I thought of my family. Of what I was potentially giving up.

  Then I thought of Herb. He was family, too.

  We had some money saved. Maybe Harry and I didn’t have to do this by ourselves. We could hire someone to search for Herb and Tequila.

  “What if I just packed up and left with Harry,” Phin said. “What would you do?”

  “Be pissed. Follow you.”

  Phin turned up his palms and shrugged.

  “If you follow me, I’ll kick your ass.”

  “Really? You think threatening your spouse with physical violence is a sign of a healthy relationship?”

  Why couldn’t he just trust me on this?

  “Phin, I know this is messed up. But I’m asking you, I’m begging you, to let me do this.”

  “And I’m begging you to tell me what’s going on, and let me come along.”

  I made sure Sam wasn’t around, and I walked up to Phin.

  “Put your fists up,” I said.

  “Seriously?”

  I held up my palms. “Block me and you can come with.”

  “That’s what this is about? You think I’m not healed yet.”

  “I know you’re not healed yet. Block me.”

  Phin raised his fists.

  I slapped him, lightly, across the face.

  “I wasn’t ready,” he said, adopting a fighting stance. “Again.”

  I tagged his chin, his left kidney, and pulled a punch that would have shot his balls up into his throat.

  Phin was worse than I thought. He missed some easy blocks, and even more troubling, he flinched when I tapped him.

  Flinching was the fear reflex taking over. Not only was his body still recovering, but he was showing classic PTSD symptoms. There was even sweat beading on his forehead.

  And he knew it. And he knew that I knew. And the pain on his face made me feel like the worst human being to ever live.

  “I don’t need my fists to cover you,” he said.

  But this wasn’t about letting him keep his dignity and feel like a man. This was about stopping him from following me. I went to my top drawer, and took out a laser pointer I used when teaching. I turned it on and shined the red dot at the far wall. In a quick, precise motion, I traced the outline of a painting hanging a few meters away. Straight lines. Ninety-degree corners. Quick and smooth and damn near perfect.

  Next, I pointed it through the doorway, into the hall, at a framed modern masterpiece; a turkey Sam drew on construction paper by tracing the outline of her hand. I used the laser to follow the crayon lines of her small fingers, and did it precisely.

  Then I handed the pointer to Phin.

  His rectangle was jerky, his hands shaking, like he was tracing a jagged trapezoid rather than a painting.

  He didn’t even bother with Sam’s turkey.

  “So this is how you persuade me.” he said softly, holding out the pointer. “Making me feel worthless.”

  “You’re still healing.”

  “I can still watch your back.”

  “Role reversal. Would you let me come with you if I couldn’t even block a face slap?”

  Phin didn’t answer. I went for the knockout blow, softening my voice, laying it on thick.

  “Honey, how am I supposed to do my job if I’m worried about you?”

  He seemed to deflate, the fight going out of his eyes. Phin despised pity. But he wasn’t ready to quit yet. “This isn’t your job.”

  “You have to believe me. It is.”

  “Don’t go.”

  “I’ll check in twice a day. Seven pm, seven am. I’ve got tracking on my cell. If you don’t hear from me, come find me.”

  After a few seconds of silence, he nodded.

  Looking at him, it felt like a cinder block had dropped on my chest.

  “I love you,” I said.

  He nodded again. But he didn’t return the sentiment. Instead, he walked out of the bedroom, leaving me to wonder if I was making the absolute biggest mistake of my life.

  NEBRASKA

  THE COWBOY

  Without mask or black uniform, wearing a brown, felt cowboy hat and brown boots, the Cowboy parks the pick-up truck on dirt, in the middle of nowhere; an uncomplicated task because just about everywhere in Nebraska is the middle of nowhere.

  Stepping out of the cab, the Cowboy straps on the black holster with the blued Ruger Bisley Vaquero nestled in its leather sheath. The revolver is chambered for .357, which means it can also shoot the lighter .38 rounds; perfect for target practice.

  The air is cool and dry, a five mile an hour wind coming in from the west. Staring out over the vast plains, the world feels both enormous and tiny all at once.

  Time to shoot some stuff.

  Cinching on the belt, the Cowboy runs a finger over the hand cut notches along the top.

  Thirty-five of them. For thirty-five lives, going all the way back to the Cowboy’s youth.

  Over half are executions. No sport in it. A blind, drunken child can’t miss at point blank, and though the Cowboy dutifully marked them, there was no pride in those killings.

  Pleasure, maybe. But not pride.

  Nineteen of the thirty-five required skill. Eleven are for tracker jobs; hunting down strays. And eight notches are for fights against armed men.