Forever Mine: Callaghan Brothers, Book 9 (26 page)

“Aye,” he promised.

Traffic was light in the pre-dawn hours, and made the trip quicker than anticipated. He used the extra time to mentally prepare himself. The diner, located just off the interstate, was busy with activity. Hard-working truckers filled at least half the booths, while harried-looking waitresses bustled about with big, welcoming smiles and even bigger carafes of hot, black coffee.

Jack found a table in the back corner, one with a good view of the main entrance and the parking lot.

The plump, older server came by and filled his cup, leaving the copper-colored carafe on the table along with a handful of half-and-half creamers. Her nametag read “Mona”.

“You want the special, handsome?” she asked, peering down at him over a pair of half-moon bifocals, pad and paper in hand.

“Just coffee for now, thanks, Mona.”

She nodded and was gone, stopping to check on other tables before disappearing into the kitchen. It left Jack to study his surroundings more closely.

As meeting places went, it was a good one. Off the beaten path, but just barely. Public, yet crowded with those who knew how to mind their own business.

He wasn’t sure exactly what to expect, but it sure as hell wasn’t Charlie Malone. His old friend scanned the place, his gaze knowingly going right to the back corner. A big smile lit his face as he made his way over.

“Well I’ll be damned.”

“Yeah, probably,” Charlie grinned in ready agreement.

Jack stood and greeted his old friend. They’d gone through training together, but Jack hadn’t seen him since those first few months of deployment. Charlie looked older than he had then, though his eyes still glittered with the same mischief.

“I was expecting Sammy.”

“Yeah, well, when Sammy told me you called, I pulled rank.”

Jack suspected all along that Sammy wasn’t the brains behind the operation. The guy was a damn fine demolitions man, but he lacked vision and had a short fuse. Finding out that it was Charlie pulling the strings put an entirely different spin on things. While Jack’s gut had never completely trusted Sammy, Charlie was another story entirely. He wondered vaguely if Brian knew, and if so, why he hadn’t mentioned it.

“No,” Charlie said, answering Jack’s unspoken question (and further increasing Jack’s confidence in the process). “I prefer to remain in the shadows. I only emerge when the situation requires it. Or, as in this case, when I want to.”

Mona appeared out of nowhere with another mug, took Charlie’s order (he ordered a special for himself and Jack), then disappeared again before Jack could protest.

“So what the hell brings you to this neck of the woods?” Jack said. “I thought you were a Midwestern boy.”

“I am,” Charlie agreed. “But I like the mountains around here. Thinking of buying some land, building a remote cabin away from the rest of the world for when I retire. Or maybe go underground. I have some ideas for a fully functional, self-contained shelter when shit inevitably hits the fan someday. And it will.” He tapped his temple with his index finger.

“Good plan,” Jack said. He’d often dreamed of doing the same thing himself. His father used to bring him hunting around here when he was a kid, first week of deer season, without fail. A lot of the forested land was state game lands, but there were always parcels available if you knew the right people and had enough cash.

“Business must be good, then,” Jack said, lifting the mug to his lips.

“Aye, it is at that,” Charlie said. “So what are you doing with yourself these days, Jack?”

“Is that really what you want to talk about?”

“I never discuss business on an empty stomach. And neither should you. A man cannot concentrate properly when bacon is involved.”

Mona arrived with two heaping plates. Eggs, sausage, home fries, and thick slices of slab bacon sat atop a mountain of buttermilk pancakes. Jack’s appetite re-emerged; his stomach rumbled in welcome. Maybe Charlie had a point.

“I own a pub,” Jack told him in between delicious, grease-laden forkfuls.

“A pub, huh?” Charlie laughed. “Wasn’t that supposed to be my dream?”

It was. Jack suddenly remembered pulling guard duty with a then nineteen-year old Charlie passing the time by telling him about the old-fashioned Irish tavern he would own someday.

“So you don’t own a pub?”

“Didn’t say that, did I? I’ve got several, but there’s only one I’m really fond of. Old place with real spirit to it, if you know what I mean. I’ve been fixing her up in my spare time.”

Jack told him about his place, and they commiserated about the amount of time and effort that went into a quality renovation. Both agreed it was well worth it.

“Are you married?” Jack asked.

“Nah. Never met the right one, I guess. What about you? Did you marry that Irish lass you were always mooning over?”

“Aye.”

“Kids?”

“Seven sons.”

Charlie whistled. “Seven! You’ve been a right rutting bastard, haven’t you? All black-haired, blue-eyed, big lads like their father, I suppose?”

Jack grinned, the proud answer evident in his features.

“Eight Callaghans. I’m not sure the world is quite ready for that. You’ll be able to start your own team someday.”

Jack wasn’t sure how he felt about that, so he said nothing. From the moment Kane was born, he’d often wondered how he’d feel if his boys wanted to follow in his footsteps. Proud, certainly, but worried, too. The world was an ugly place, run by greedy, power hungry men. All he’d wanted to do when he got out was forget all that. To return to his sleepy little hometown and live whatever time he had left with Kathleen in an isolated bubble of his own making. For more than twelve years, that was exactly what he’d done.

Now here was that outside world again, looking for a way to poke holes in that bubble and demand his attention. He didn’t like it.

They talked more about land and bars and family. Once the plates had been cleared away, Charlie’s expression turned serious.

“Before I begin, I have to ask. Are you in?”

Knowing Charlie was involved made the decision easier. Charlie was a hell of a planner. He left nothing to chance. If shite went sideways, it would not be for lack of preparation on Charlie’s part.

Jack nodded. He saw both relief and approval in the other man’s face.

“It’s a hell of a thing, Jack,” Charlie said, his voice automatically lowering as he leaned forward to be heard over the din of the busy diner. “A human trafficking operation.”

“Tell me.”

“We’ve been after these guys for years. They’re smart. Too smart to be your run of the mill smuggler. We’ve identified a few as former immigration agents, agents who have chosen to leave the government pension behind in exchange for a spot on the payrolls of some very powerful family organizations.” He looked pointedly at Jack. “Family organizations based in Chicago and Vegas, but also with a strong presence on the east coast.”

Jack nodded in acknowledgement, hearing the words Charlie didn’t say.

“They operate under the guise of a completely legal, professional escort service. We’re not talking your run of the mill flesh peddlers here. The clients are billionaire businessmen and foreign dignitaries. And it goes beyond the public appearances and a couple of nights in the penthouse suite. These guys are leasing with the option to buy, if you know what I mean.”

“It’s a custom order type of job, too. These bastards, they fill out a fucking profile—– gender, age, height, weight, hair color, build—– then pay mega bucks to have those orders filled, packaged, and delivered right to their doorstep.” Charlie shook his head. “We’re not talking just runaways, either. They snatch girls with deep roots, then threaten to harm their family and loved ones unless they comply.”

Disgust permeated Charlie’s words as he laid it out, and Jack felt pretty much the same.

“But surely if these girls have family, someone is noticing they’ve gone missing.”

“Seen a milk carton lately?” Charlie grunted. “Every one of them is sporting the picture of a missing child. Like I said, these guys are smart and they’ve got money. It’s easy enough to fake a death or rig an accident. One burned corpse looks much like another, especially when you’ve got medical examiners in your pocket. And consider this:  a grieving family doesn’t keep looking, not when they believe they know exactly where their kid is, sitting six feet below a slab of marble.”

It was horrifying, and yet Jack knew that every word Charlie spoke was true.

“They’re networked all over the US, ensuring no one area draws undo attention, but they tend to concentrate around colleges and universities, especially the private and Ivy League schools. Blue bloods want blue bloods, not street rats. Brian was working with a known cell around Princeton when he dropped off the radar.”

“Jesus.”

Charlie sat back and poured them each another cup of coffee. “Not what you thought, huh?”

“No.” That was an understatement. When Brian said he was taking on covert ops, he was picturing something a hell of a lot more... self-serving. He said as much to Charlie.

“To be honest, there is some of that,” Charlie admitted. “Which is exactly why Sammy and I will be parting ways as soon as this is resolved. He’s taking it upon himself to branch out into areas in which I refuse to tread.”

J
ack followed Charlie to a gun range just over the Pennsylvania/New York border. The place was privately owned and operated by a Marine named Ryan Duffy. Charlie told him Duffy was a “good friend”, but Jack quickly learned that “good friend” was a euphemism for a highly-useful, contributing member of Charlie’s network.

The place was unimpressive on the outside, a large, squat, square building that looked as if it might have been a warehouse at one time. It sat alone on a couple of cleared acres, surrounded beyond that with forested land. Jack didn’t fail to notice the security cameras mounted along the long driveway to the asphalt lot in the back, swiveling to follow their progress. Clearly, Duffy liked to see his customers coming. Smart man.

They parked and walked up to the wide, reinforced steel doors. A small white sign bearing the name “Duffy’s” stenciled in black was the only adornment.

“Look up,” Charlie commanded quietly.

Jack did, right into the lens of yet another security camera. “This guy takes his security seriously, doesn’t he?” he muttered under his breath.

Charlie chuckled as a slight buzzing noise was followed by the snick of the door unlocking. They walked into was what obviously the public section. The small room was done in dark paneling, and was decorated with framed pictures of service men from all branches. Behind the simple counter, an American flag.

“Charlie, good to see you.”

“Duffy,” Charlie nodded. “This is my good friend, Jack Callaghan.”

Duffy was a few inches shorter than Jack, but what he lacked in height he made up for in breadth; the guy was roughly the size of a small tank. He shook Jack’s hand with a vise-like grip, leveling him with an assessing, if curious, gaze.

“Jack Callaghan,” Duffy grunted in a rough, broken-glass kind of voice. “Heard a lot about you. I hope you’re half as good as Charlie says you are.”

Unsure of exactly how “good” Charlie said he was, Jack returned the strong handshake with a firm squeeze of his own and said nothing.

“I like him,” the big Marine commented to Charlie. “Knows when to keep his mouth shut and his eyes open.”

Duffy swiped his card in the reader mounted beside an inner door. “Members only,” he said by way of explanation.

This took them into another room, this one far more spacious. To the right, an impressive display of firearms and ammunitions. To the left, a dozen or so soundproofed firing alleys, half of which were occupied.

“Nice setup,” Jack commented.

The human tank grinned. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Duffy walked briskly down the center to another door. This time, in addition to swiping his card, he stabbed out a series of numbers onto the keypad with beefy fingers.

“Good friends only,” Charlie explained with the ghost of a smile.

Another room, another door, then they were single-filing it down a narrow set of steps. The final door required a thumbprint scan. Jack held his breath, sensing that whatever was behind that one, was big.

He was right. He entered into another cavernous room, easily as big as the one on the floor above, if not bigger. Another series of firing alleys on the left. And a weapons specialist’s wet dream everywhere else.

Air burst grenade launchers. M24 sniper rifles. Glocks.

“What the hell is that?” Jack asked, pointing to a small, rectangular black device that looked positively innocent among the high-grade arsenal.

“He has good taste,” quipped Duffy. “That, my friend, is the latest in FMGs—– folding machine guns.” Duffy picked it up, gave it a flip, and it went from non-threatening to badass. “A selective-fire weapon, less than five pounds. Fires at the rate of nearly one thousand rounds per minute.” With another simple hand movement, it folded back up.

“Got some chemical based stuff, too, but you won’t need it for this. Come on, let’s get you suited up.”

A familiar energy hummed through Jack’s veins as he prepared. He’d forgotten what it felt like. The rush of adrenaline. The bite of excitement. The knowledge, deep in your soul, that you were doing something
good
. Something that was going to make the world a better place.

In mission mode, the sequence felt almost comforting as he stripped down the lightweight, waterproof sniper rifle and tested the telescopic sights along with gear specifically made for night ops. He made an appreciative sound as he fired off a few rounds, testing both the single-shot and automatic burst capabilities.

Charlie’s high-tech weaponry was a far cry from the standard-issue crap he’d been given all those years ago. As were the superlight black cargo pants, bullet-resistant black long sleeve shirt, and flak jacket.

Jack carefully packed up the plastic C4 packs, timers, and other demolition gear, along with a few old-fashioned grenades, and strapped them strategically around his body.