Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(59)

Paul had hit on me a few times. Always in the southern way—with such careful politeness, I had to think twice to make sure I knew what was happening. I’d turned him down with a lot less polish. You can take the girl out of Royer . . .

“Well, look who’s here.” Paul smiled and came out from behind the bar to give me a hug and silently appraise my wounded face. Then he dropped down to rub Clyde behind the ears.

Clyde nosed Paul and closed his eyes with pleasure.

Paul got back to his feet.

“How you been?” I asked.

“You hear my knees pop? Pain in the ass getting older. But I deal. Sit yourself down, and I’ll pour you something. Got an outstanding batch of green chili on in the back, too.”

“Chili and a drink sounds great. But would you mind if I hide out in your office?”

“Fighting with your old man?”

“Who says old man anymore?”

“He is older than you.”

“So are you, Paul. Case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Sucker punch to the ego, Sydney.”

“You can handle it. But it’s nothing like that. Cohen’s out of town. I need to get some work done, and I don’t feel like keeping my own company. Clyde’s a true friend, but when we’re home he mostly sleeps and snores. Farts a bit.”

Clyde glanced up at me as if wondering what was wrong with sleeping and snoring. And the occasional gas.

“Mi casa es tu casa,” Paul said. “Help yourself. You need internet?”

“Depends. How secure is your router?”

“Hey.” He thumped his chest. “You forget who you’re talking to? I got the best money can buy.”

“What I forget is that you’re paranoid.”

“What I am is smart. You see this crowd?”

I glanced around. “There’s no one here under seventy.”

“The old guys are the worst. They practically rioted when I bumped happy-hour drafts to a dollar. If I don’t watch them, they find their way online and buy all their tighty-whities at Walmart.com, then figure out how to charge them to the tavern and ship them here.”

“Underwear in bulk in one easy click. Wait until they discover Amazon.”

“Stop.”

“So I can hop on your network for a while?”

“Not a problem.” He grabbed a piece of paper from a stack at the end of the bar and wrote down a long string of numbers, letters, and assorted characters. “Just don’t share.”

I took the paper. “Should I eat this when I’m done?”

He handed me a bottle of a local brew. “I’d stick with the chili. Shredder is under the desk.”

Paul’s office was located at the end of the hall that also held the bathrooms, a janitor’s closet, a storage room, and a door to the outside where Paul went to smoke when he wanted something other than the occasional illicit cigarette. While I settled at the desk with my personal laptop, Clyde sniffed around the ten-by-twenty office. When he was sure we were safe, he found a place to his liking beneath the window.

“You doing okay, boy?”

He rested his head on his paws and sighed. I was sure he missed Cohen. More exercise, better food, and some decent outdoor time. I checked my phone to see if I’d missed a call from Cohen, then shoved away the pain that thinking about him brought.

“Sorry, boy. You’re stuck with me.”

He yawned.

“Very subtle. If you’re not sure I got the message, you could go to sleep.”

He closed his eyes.

“Okay, boy,” I murmured, feeling guilty. “Point made.”

I opened my duffel and pulled out a sealed bag with one of the dental bones I’d gotten from Clyde’s trainer. The things looked like real bones and—frankly—also stank the way I imagined fresh caribou must. But Clyde scrabbled to his feet, tail wagging. He waited until I offered the treat, then took it neatly from my hand and resumed his place under the window with a contented huff.

No doubt the bone made him feel like he was one with the wolves again. And we could all use a little taste of the wild.

While Clyde gnawed happily, I shook out the contents of Sherri’s envelope onto the desk—these were the items Kane had gathered as part of his background research before his interview.

On top were two brochures, one for Valor Industries and another for its subsidiary, Vigilant Resources.

The brochures promised potential recruits an exciting career with companies working at the leading edge of weapons and intelligence operations. Headquartered in Dallas, but with offices all around the globe, Valor had been founded by Sheldon Osborne after WWII, and was still owned and run by his descendants. They specialized in precision weapons, mainly missiles and torpedoes.

Vigilant, with its clever open-eye logo, had opened its doors in 2005. It didn’t overtly state what it specialized in.

Standard marketing—all fluff and no stuff.

I unfolded the rest of the papers. Based on what Kane had told his wife, I was expecting printouts from internet searches. But these looked like downloads from a digital camera, printed on regular paper so that the quality was only so-so.

The first was a daylight exterior shot of a strip joint.

The place was abandoned. My first clue was the word on the marquee below a stylized drawing of a nude woman: Closed. And not just for the day. Weeds choked the parking lot, and a sheet of plywood had been nailed over the front door.