Dead Drop by Ian Loome

Author:Ian Loome [Loome, Ian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Inkubator Books
Published: 2024-01-21T00:00:00+00:00

19

The wood framing was complex, an entire side of a house laid out and connected while lying on the grass. Now, the team of twenty men stood behind it, a trail of ropes leading over it and back to them.

A foreman held up his hand. “Ready? On three, gentlemen: one, two… three!” The men all heaved on the ropes together and walked backwards, the massive frame lifting off the ground, pulled upright until it sat precariously balanced against the rest of the would-be home’s bare bones.

Another team moved in quickly and began to fasten it in place.

Earl Monroe let go of his end of the rope and brushed his work gloves against one another, dust and fiber particles flying. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a beefy forearm, the T-shirt under his overalls drenched through.

“Good work today, Earl, good work,” the foreman said. “That’s going to be one grateful family when this is all done.”

The home was the third the volunteer crew had put up in a week. In an earlier life, Monroe had worked in construction, and it felt satisfying, warm, to have contributed so much effort to something, to see hard work go towards someone who deserved it.

“Good working with you, Larry,” he told the foreman.

His phone rang, and he retrieved it from his overalls. The number was unlisted.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve sent you something.” The call ended.

He put the phone back in his pocket and began to walk back to the parking lot. The volunteer agency liked everyone to report their comings and goings, but his stint with them was over.

He was going back to work.

“Earl? You’re good for this afternoon, right?” he heard the foreman say. “Earl?”

He ignored the man. Once operational, everything else was secondary. That was how it had been in the SEALs, and that was how he conducted business now that he operated alone.

At his truck, he pulled a metal strongbox out from under the front bench and opened it, using a five-number combination tumbler.

He withdrew the phone from within. It was encrypted; any texts or messages sent by it purged from memory within a second of delivery.

He hit the green dial button, and it automatically speed-dialed a phone in Arlington, Virginia.

“Monroe.”

“Mr. Monroe, it’s been a while.”

“Stone, what’s up?”

“We have a situation in Memphis. The target we were tracking — the subject of the open contract we sent out last month — has resurfaced.”

“And?”

“He’s mixed up with some sort of gang business. I don’t know the hows or whys. But he was spotted last night. He’s driving a purple Ford Focus, rust on the doors and wheel wells. You have a pen or something to tap a note? Here’s the plate number.” Stone read it out. “We have some help on the surveillance side. And we know he’s working some sort of case involving a Russian gangster named Victor Malyuchenko. Stick near the Russian and Bob is bound to make an appearance.”

“Okay,” Monroe said. “You know my fee has gone up, correct?”

“Two hundred thousand wired to your preferred account.

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