Love's Cruel Redemption (The Ghost Bird #12)(89)

That was what Mr. Hendricks seemed to do. He got other people to do the dirty work, to line them up as the fall people so he could get away. Mr. McCoy and his awkward behavior. Possibly Mr. Morris with monitoring students and teachers. Anyone in his path, he used.

Mr. Blackbourne had become his next target.





The Contractor




Nathan

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Victor, Silas and Nathan loaded into Silas’s car. Nathan was in the back seat. A contact Victor had called said to meet him downtown. They were on the way. The hour was late. While passing dark patches where he could see nothing, there were the occasional street lights or buildings lit up behind a thin wall of trees that separated I-26 from the city on either side of them.

It was forty minutes before they were downtown. They’d gone in silence, with Victor doing things on his phone, typing or looking at something else. Silas focused on driving, keeping to the limit for the most part.

Nathan was glad they were distracted. He wasn’t in the mood for talking about anything other than what they were going after.

Eventually, Silas pulled off of the Interstate and they passed Market Street. Tourist season was well over, but there was still activity at bars they passed. As it was Monday, most restaurants closed early, and it was uncomfortably quiet.

Silas parked along a side street in a lane of houses not too far from the tourist streets. Nathan scrubbed at his own face as he readied himself for this. Once the engine was off, the air inside started to chill immediately. It was a cold night. He’d picked up a hoodie on the way out the door, but he wondered if he shouldn’t have grabbed a coat.

They were sitting in front of one of a three-story home, the colonial style much like the others on the street. It was hard to tell in the dark the exact color, but it was pale, with fancy columns on the porch. The house was narrow, like many homes in downtown Charleston, extending to the back. Old. Worth a bundle. Not as big as Victor’s parents’ house, but a good size.

Victor kept his messenger bag with him and stepped out. Silas and Nathan got out as well and stood on the sidewalk together. Victor checked his phone and then noted the brass numbers nailed to a garden wall.

“This is the place,” Victor said. He tucked his phone into his back pocket and hiked the messenger bag strap onto his shoulder.

“Who is this guy?” Silas asked.

“Outside contact,” Victor said. “An Academy contractor. So we can’t give him too many details, but he should know not to ask too many questions.”

Nathan peered up at the old home, trying not to feel intimidated by the location or who this person was.

Contractors were rare within the Academy. People they trusted to know the Academy existed, but couldn’t be part of the Academy itself. Informants, sometimes. People in high places who respected the Academy enough to feed them information or set up what they asked. They earned favors, only they didn’t know. Someone in the Academy kept count for them, and when they needed anything, the Academy did what they could. The Academy always paid back debts.

Contractors were rare, because it was rare anyone wouldn’t try to take advantage of them for their own personal gain. It took time to be sure they could be reliable.

It didn’t mean contractors could be totally trusted. They were the last resort in cases when what you needed was beyond the Academy’s reach. Things involving the police, usually.

Victor took the sidewalk and opened the garden’s low gate. He held it, waiting for Silas and Nathan to follow.

They hurried to the front step. Standing together, Nathan kept his hands in his hoodie pockets while Victor rang the bell. Realizing he probably looked shady as hell, Nathan reached up and threw back his hood to reveal his face just as the door was opening.

A tall man stood inside, peering out at them. He was maybe in his early thirties, and wore a black T-shirt and dark blue jeans and boots. Hispanic features. He cocked an eyebrow and waited. “Who are you?”

“My name is Victor Morgan,” Victor said. He motioned to the others. “This is Silas Korba and Nathan Griffin. We’re from the Academy. We wanted to ask for your help.”

The man analyzed the guys on the porch, not speaking.

“You are Mr. Ramirez, aren’t you?” Victor asked. “The private investigator?”

“It gets a little weird when they send teenagers to my door,” he said as he opened the door further. “Diego Ramirez. You’ve got the right place. Come on in, I guess.”

They stepped in, crowding the entryway. There was a set of closed doors to the right, and to the left, open doors into some type of parlor with fancy couches. There were vases on top of tiny tables that lined the hallway, and a set of stairs twisting up to the second story.

Mr. Ramirez closed the door behind them and walked around the group. He put his hands on his hips and spoke in low tones. “What’s this about? Why didn’t you just call?”

“We can’t,” Victor said. “It’s more for you than us.”

He cocked an eyebrow again, tilting his head. “Just how much trouble are you in?”

“Do you have somewhere secure to talk?” Victor asked. “I can set up something if you need.”

Mr. Ramirez waved him off and motioned for them to follow. They trailed him, bypassing the stairs. He opened a door to the right, an office.