The old man with the magnificent culinary skills looked at his son. “Yes, I can understand that. I watch her from the kitchen window when she’s eating. You’re vulnerable when you eat because you relax. I think I like her myself.”

Pappy looked at his father, wondering if he’d done the right thing by bringing the old man to the mountain. At the time the government had turned his back on him, he’d had to decide whether to bring his father with him or put him in the Witness Protection Program. Once his father understood what was going on, he’d gladly agreed to join him. Still, he must get lonely from time to time even though he played chess on a regular basis with some of the other employees. He rode every day, and, in nice weather, he’d swim his laps in the pool. Television, thanks to their satellite dish, was another good old friend. He was a movie buff and could recite the dialogue from Zorba the Greek verbatim.

“You lonely up here, Pop?”

“Sometimes. Not often, Kollar. I’m content. Your mother would have loved this mountain, and she’d never want to leave it. Are you nervous about having guests?”

“No, not really. Something’s going on, but until they arrive, I don’t have a clue. That’s always the way it is, you know that.” The guests his father was referring to were the five members of the consortium Pappy worked for. Something was brewing somewhere, something they wanted taken care of; otherwise, they wouldn’t be coming.

His father stopped long enough to sip at his ouzo, something he refused to give up. Pappy made sure there was a never-ending supply. It was the least he could do for his father.

This man who he loved more than life was getting old, seventy-four. Still, he had a full head of hair that was half-gray, half-black, and he liked to brag that he had all his teeth except for one. He was stocky and barrel-chested, with arms like tree trunks and hands so big they seemed to dwarf his arms. Those strong arms and hands had taken care of Kollar from the time he was a baby. Gentle arms and hands. Still, they could sting on one’s bottom as Pappy had found out on more than one occasion when he was growing up.

Kyros Havapopulas had been in law enforcement during his early and middle years. When he retired, he opened a Greek restaurant and would still be in San Francisco running it if his son hadn’t whisked him away in the dead of night.

“Should we make a wager on the paintball game tomorrow?” the old man asked.

“You know the staff is going to win, Pop. What’s the point of betting?”