Devil's Run by Frank Hughes

“have you put on weight?”
    She laughed. Our lead
waiter returned, stirring a plastic pitcher of iced sangria with a wooden
spoon. He poured us each a glass and set the pitcher down on the table.
    “Thank you,” I said to
him. “I know what I’m having. Karen?”
    “Oh, hell, just get me
the same thing I had last time we were here, if they still have it.”
    To the waiter I said,
“We’ll have two Mariscada Fornos, please.”
    He collected the menus
and left. I looked at Karen. She was toying with her glass, looking into it.
    “What's going on over
there?”
    “There were rumors about
you,” she said.
    “What sort of rumors?”
    “Nothing substantial.
When you suddenly resigned from Customs and disappeared, some people did some
checking.”
    “That's not exactly
kosher.”
    She smiled
half-heartedly. “So we found out. One agent ended up in Omaha.”
    “Ah, the dark side of
the moon.”
    “There were some
whispers, talk of a special unit being formed, but after the push back, no one
speculated anymore. We assumed you went undercover.”
    “You know what happens
when you assume, Karen.”
    She looked at me
intently. “Where have you been, Nick?”
    I sipped my drink. “If I
told you, you wouldn't believe me.”
    “Try me.”
    “Well, for the past few
years, I've been caddying.”
    That stopped her. She looked
as if she had swallowed something funny. “Say what?”
    “Caddying. You know,
carrying golf bags for wealthy people and helping them improve their game.”
    “How? You’re a lousy
golfer.”
    “Why does everyone enjoy
telling me that?”
    “Sorry. Okay, where?”
    “Florida in the winter,
and up here in the spring and summer, mostly at Trump out in Bedminster.”
    “And you survived at
that?”
    “Hey, you'd be surprised
what some people will pay for a good caddy. I can read a green like nobody's
business. I was in demand, baby.”
    She sat back, shaking
her head in amazement. “Is that how you met Raviv Peled?”
    “I've caddied for him,”
I said, hoping she didn’t notice I hadn't exactly answered her question.
    “And now you are a PI?”
    “Kind of. Raviv requires
all his operatives to have the license. Something to do with bonding and
liability.” I sipped a little sangria. “Lower than caddy, you think?”
    She laughed. “You should
come back, Nick.”
    “The government?”
    “Yes.”
    “No way. Too much
politics, not enough crime fighting.” I was ready to change the subject.
“What's going on with you? You’ve got that ‘I’m off to somewhere’ look.”
    She gave me a rueful
glance. “Am I that easy to read?”
    “I used to get that look
myself sometimes.”
    “I know.” She leaned in
and lowered her voice a little. “Detached duty overseas. Can't say where.”
    “Doing what?”
    “Interrogator. Seems the
jihadist bad guys are a little intimidated by women that don’t wear burkas or
take any shit. Keeps them off balance.”
    “And ya smell nice, too.
How’s Tom feel about you trespassing on his turf?” Tom was her husband, also a
special agent, but focused on external threats.
    “He’s mainly concerned
about getting reacquainted with his right hand while I am away.” She shook her
head at the thought of the male animal and his needs. “The War on Terror
inconveniences us all.” Abruptly, her face changed. “Oh God, Nick. I’m sorry, I
wasn’t thinking.”
    I smiled, reaching
across the table to pat her hand.
    “Come on, Karen. I know
what you meant.”
    “It’s just that we were
all so worried, Nick, the way you just disappeared. All those years, no one
knew whether you were dead or alive.”
    “I was working some
stuff out.”
    She shook her head,
looked down at her glass. “I miss her so much. I can only imagine how it is for
you.”
    “Enough,” I said, as gently
as I could. I took a big swig of sangria. A waiter appeared and refilled my
glass. I grinned at Karen. “See why I like this place?”
    Karen took the hint.
“It'll do,”