CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Savage
With a field bag at my hip, I walk into the hospital to find my father waiting on me at the door. I wait for the moment, when memories crash over me, and I want to beat him again. It doesn’t come. He just doesn’t seem worth it anymore. “You really came,” he says and there’s a light in his eyes, a sense of achievement like he has me. Like he owns me.
“Not for the reasons you think,” I say. “I need something and you owe me.”
His eyes narrow. “I owe you? Really? I haven’t see you in eight years. What do I owe you for?”
“It amuses me that he really doesn’t get how quickly I could snap his neck and he’d be over.
“You’re still alive. You owe me for letting that happen.”
He smirks, and it’s sad to see such a brilliant man, fades into this kind of stupidity. “You want something from me. What do I get in return?”
“The part where I said you owed me? You don’t understand that? Or you don’t care?”
“Boy, I brought you into this world,” he says. “You want something from me, you give me something. You and me at an operating table. That’s what you said you were coming here to give me. I get what I want. You get what you want.”
“You really think you and me and a cadaver is a good reunion?”
“I’ve heard stories of your skill,” he says. “An old man wants to see his boy in action.”
“I assure you, pops, you do not want a demonstration of my skills. I told you. I’m not here for you.” I step around him and start walking. “Let’s go,” I order over my shoulder.
He falls into step beside me. “I’ll bite. Why are you here? What do you want?”
“To see my father,” I say. “And if you ever want me to give you that match-up over the operating table, that’s your story.”
“On one condition.”
I give him a side eye. “I thought we just set the condition.”
“One more.”
“Of course,” I bite out, cutting my stare. “What condition?”
“You have coffee with me.”
I stop at an elevator and he scans his badge before I punch the call button and ask, “Why would I do that, old man?”
“It buys you my silence.”
He wants something. That’s why he came to the house today. Not to see me but because he wants something. “When?”
The doors to the elevator open and we both step inside. He punches the button to his floor. “Tonight,” he says.
“Not tonight.”
“Tomorrow, then,” he counters.
“Fine. Tomorrow. I suggest a public place. It’s in your best interest.”
“I do believe that you’ve taught me that lesson well. Beat it into me in fact.” There’s bitterness in those words, that warn of where his head is right now. He wants something alright—revenge.
Whatever, fucktard, I think, and when the car opens, I exit and start walking. He falls into step beside me, a brilliant surgeon who’s a lousy man. At least he puts those brains to use by following my lead and keeping his mouth shut.
Twenty minutes later, we’ve taken a long path to another building without human encounter, and he’s opened the general’s door for me. I step inside and he says, “See you tomorrow.” He then shuts me inside and disappears.
I don’t know or care what he wants. Not right now. I scan the office. “What do you have on Gabriel, General? Get your office talking to me before you end up dead.” I walk around the desk and sit down, and when the drawers won’t open, I reach into my pocket, pull out a tool I keep handy, and I quickly pop the lock. I start taking photos, lots of fucking photos, the likes of which could be considered criminal since they’re of U.S. government property. But I’ve killed for our government. They can share some photos. The problem is none of any of this feels relevant, but coding and hidden messages happen. Often.
I do another scan of the room and this time my gaze lands on a bookshelf. I lock the desk back up and head in that direction, surveying books, looking for something that might hold a secret I need. Nothing feels right. I sit down on the couch and reach underneath, and bingo, I hit something. I grab what turns out to be a familiar military training manual. I flip it open, shutting it again when it appears uneventful, before sliding it back where I found it. I’m about to move on when something hits me, something I’ve seen once before.
Pulling the book back out, I open it again. Midway through, the binding is cut and inside there appears to be documents that aren’t coming out without destroying the book. That’s enough for me. Too much time has passed for comfort. I shut the book, shove it into my field bag, along with a few other suspect items, and it’s time to get the hell out of Dodge before I get caught.