Rare Vigilance (Whitethorn Agency)

Chapter One

“Can you look less pissed off?” Greasy Ferret, Jr. muttered at Atlas, even as he pasted on a fake smile and waved to his adoring fans. All four of them.

Atlas did his best to relax his eyes and jaw. It was a struggle, especially with the afternoon sun beating down on them at their little booth at the county fair. His sunglasses had helped with the worst of the glare, but had done little to slow the intensity of his growing migraine. Combine the light with the heavy scent of fried foods, the cloying perfumes of overworked deodorants worn by sweating fairgoers, and Greasy Ferret, Jr.’s obnoxious cologne—Five hundred dollars a bottle, he’d bragged to Atlas without prompting—and he knew today’s job would leave him wrung out. He was glad he’d taken a half dose of his migraine meds before starting the shift; he’d take the other half when he got home, and hopefully it would be enough to keep him from getting knocked down for days. At least this job would be over soon. Greasy Ferret, Jr.’s contract was very clear on Atlas’s hours, as well as his purpose.

A glorified guard dog, dressed in a spiked collar, on display before the masses. A status symbol rented for a few hours to make Greasy Ferret, Jr. appear more important than he actually was. And the man was playing it up as much as he could.

Atlas sighed when one of the adoring fans screwed up enough courage to step forward with a DVD case in hand. Atlas knew what was coming. Ferret waved him forward. Atlas, who’d been standing angled toward him, held up a hand to keep the eager fan from coming closer. The man obeyed, and Ferret quivered in delight from the power play. The thick pomade spread through his hair glinted in the sunlight as he gestured Atlas forward again. Atlas wondered for the fourteenth time that day how the grease hadn’t melted down Ferret’s collar yet. A single look confirmed the stranger was definitely not a threat. Atlas took the proffered DVD case, and handed it over to his temporary employer.

Ferret tried to look excited to see the film inside, scrawling a signature over the disc with abandon. Atlas wouldn’t have signed his name to that movie; he would have burned every copy he could get his hands on. But he wasn’t Greasy Ferret, Jr., and he didn’t make his money by wringing out every ounce of dubious fame he’d gained from an atrocious ’80s sitcom.

His life was shitty, but he still had some of his pride, thank you very much.

“Always nice to see a fan,” Greasy Ferret, Jr. gushed as he handed the DVD back to Atlas, who returned it to its original owner.

“I’m so glad you could make it this year,” the fan said, holding tight to his keepsake. “I was worried you’d cancel again. I know the last few years have been hard. But I loved Flashbang! All those people who complained didn’t understand your message in it.” He glanced at Atlas. “Don’t you think so too?”

Atlas bit the inside of his cheek and managed to keep from snorting in derision. He took a second to gather himself before stating calmly, “Haven’t seen it yet.”

“Haven’t seen it yet?” the fan asked, horrified. “They just released the limited edition tin! How could you forget a movie like that?”

Oh, there was no way Atlas could ever have forgotten it. It came out five years ago, the same year he’d been sent home from his tour. He’d been unable to escape the endless trailers constantly playing on TV. Touted by some as an “inspirational” look at the challenges faced by service members returning home after being in conflict zones, the movie saw Greasy Ferret, Jr.—its director, producer, and lead actor—run around town with a brick of a mobile phone, following a gruesome scavenger hunt of clues to rescue one of his former Army buddies, only to discover he’d imagined the whole thing in a massive PTSD breakdown.

It was grossly out of tune with any kind of reality facing returned service members, so much so that it had won a place as one of the most infamous B films in recent memory. It swept the Razzies, even in categories it hadn’t been officially nominated for. It had horrible practical and special effects that were used as for the love of God, don’t do this filmmaking tutorials on social media. It was so badly written it had become an entire series of memes. And that was all before Greasy Ferret, Jr. tried to defend it to the media, where he was ripped to shreds as he deserved.

Mentioning that movie was the worst possible thing the poor guy could have done, even though he was trying to be supportive. He had no idea who Atlas was, or what teams he’d served on during his time in the Marines. Atlas was the real thing, complete with actual PTSD and physical damage from his service. Ferret was a skid mark in Hollywood’s tighty-whities by comparison, and he knew it.

His smile stretched so thin Atlas suspected it would pop like a soap bubble at the slightest disturbance.

“I appreciate your support,” Ferret told the fan before looking obviously toward the empty space behind the man’s shoulder.

God, Atlas hated working for assholes like this. But a paycheck was a paycheck, and he wasn’t in a place to turn down some of the miserable jobs that crossed Bea’s desk at Whitethorn.

He cleared his throat and offered the effusive fan a low, “If we could please keep the line moving.”

The confused fan glanced over his shoulder at the nonexistent line, looked back at Atlas and his migraine-induced scowl, and slunk away. Great. Now Atlas felt like a douchebag.

“A lot of people liked that movie,” Ferret said to Atlas, as if Atlas had insulted the film. “A lot of people said it would have been better received if Hollywood wasn’t full of liberal hacks who gatekeep true talent.”

Atlas did his best to tune out Ferret’s further rantings and watched the crowd passing instead. Very few of them even looked Greasy Ferret, Jr.’s way. Most were focused on their food, or examining items for sale in stalls, or counting tickets to see what midway games they could play. Every now and then, someone’s attention would drift to him. Some of it was curiosity. He expected that, since there was no real reason to see a formally dressed security agent at a local fair. Some of it was more invasive. Every lingering, hungry glance sent his way made him want to reach up and check his shirt collar to confirm it still hid his scars. Worse still were the moments when someone would slow as they passed him, subtly trying to catch his eye. He didn’t know how to respond to those interactions. He’d had a few no-

strings trysts since his release from the hospital, but they were usually about quick, mutual satisfaction that didn’t require him to take his clothes off and bare his scars. He didn’t like being on display, and liked it even less when Greasy Ferret, Jr. noticed the interest from the occasional passersby and started in on tales about his own sexual conquests in a bizarre attempt to save face.