“Sitting down with an old friend is considered a form of espionage?” the man asked.

“It is when you sneak up on me in the middle of nowhere.” Walt laughed. “James fucking Oliver. What the hell are you doing in Jamaica?”

“I’ve been looking for you for some time, and a little bird told me where you’ve been hiding.”

So far this afternoon, Walt had barely sipped two ounces of rum. His mind was clear, not yet clouded the way it had been for the last few days since leaving New York. He was thinking lucidly, and the sight of his old FBI boss caused the neurons of his mind to fire like they used to when he was active in the Bureau. An eighteen-year veteran, Walt’s reaction to, and analysis of, all circumstances was shaped by Oliver’s training and experience. Three years removed from the Bureau, those old senses had dulled a bit. The sight of his old supervisor, however, brought Walt’s training and instincts flooding back to him. He had been careful over the last couple of years not to tell people where he was staying. Only his parents and siblings knew he was renting a house in Jamaica with no plans of returning to the States. And not even his family knew that Walt’s original visa had been parlayed into dual citizenship. He had been especially careful to avoid telling any of his old FBI buddies where he was hiding. There were many reasons for his recluse nature, but mostly it was because in the wake of the shooting, and the scandal that broke afterward, Walt had become unwelcomed within the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He had hoped time would solve that issue, but three years hadn’t put a dent into restoring his reputation in the eyes of his former colleagues.

As Walt stared at his old Bureau boss now, two things occurred to him. First, Scott Sherwood—his old station chief from when Walt was a young detective in New York State, and whom Walt had accidentally run into at the survivors meeting—was the one who ratted out his location. It was suddenly obvious why Scott had insisted so strongly on exchanging contact information. Second, if James Oliver had gone to the trouble of planting Scott Sherwood at the survivors meeting to pin down Walt’s whereabouts, he sure as shit wanted something. And if the Bureau wanted something from him three years after they forced his retirement, it was nothing good.

“Let me guess,” Walt said. “That little bird was a shithead named Scott Sherwood.”

“You always were the sharpest agent I had. I see nothing’s changed.”

“A lot’s changed, Jim.”

Jim Oliver looked around Rick’s Café. “That’s for damn sure.” He pointed at Walt’s glass of rum. “But some things have stayed the same.”

“Old habits die hard. Can I get you one?”

Oliver shrugged. “When in Rome.”