“Toward the end of my years in that outfit, I came across evidence of severely irregular activity being conducted by certain cells within the organization. When I reported this activity to the chain of command I was told to drop the matter entirely. When I pursued it I was threatened with retaliation if I didn’t shut up. Being a hardhead, I ignored the warning, brought the matter to the attention of our senior commander—a three-star general—and for my efforts, was promptly accused of disloyalty, excommunicated from the command, and discharged for the good of the service. Within months of my departure, the wrongdoing I had spoken up about hit the news like a clap of thunder.”

I looked over at Patricia and saw that she was listening intently.

“Prisoner torture,” she breathed. “Were you the one who broke it to the news services?”

I shook my head. “To my discredit, no. I should have, but I knew it would come out eventually, and I also knew that it would be covered up. The military did what it always does—find the lowest-ranking people you can and dump the blame all on them. A few privates and sergeants go to Leavenworth, the higher-ups are cleared, and everything is back to normal again.”

Patricia stared at me. “Jesus,” she said. “And afterward?”

“After I got out I hung out my shingle as a freelance operative. Bodyguard, private security, military training, asset recovery, anything I could to make a living. Then I found a niche that suited me. After a while, I decided to come back to the States to take care of a few things I needed to address and then move on again. But I wound up here, liked it, and thought I’d stay around for a while. And here we are,” I concluded.

“So what is it that you do now, Kennesaw? What is that niche you found?” Patricia asked.

I looked over. “I help people, Patricia. I find things and people—things and people who, for one reason or another, have gone missing. And when I find them, I charge a hefty fee for their safe return. I am discreet, and thorough, and my clients are happy with the results.”

“And this recent absence of yours?”

“Was a job for a client,” I replied.

“Successful?” she asked.

I thought about it for a few seconds before responding, “Ultimately, yes. It was.”

We were at the turnoff to Lazaretto Island. I slowed down, then pulled off the pavement and onto the sand road that led the short distance down to the few buildings at the water’s edge. I parked in an oyster shell lot next to Patricia’s car and switched off the engine. Turning in my seat, I faced the woman who was eyeing me with such solemnity.

“Clear up some of your questions?” I asked.

She nodded her head and a smile appeared on her face.