Break

You’ve heard the saying: a smart man knows what to say and a wise man knows when to say it.

I say those people have never been punched in the mouth mid-sentence.

I’m neither of those men. The only time anyone’s ever called me smart or wise, it was followed immediately by the word “ass.”

I could spend the rest of the day trying to figure out what Ted’s up to. Wouldn’t matter if I cracked the code. Wouldn’t matter if I guessed right. I’d still have to do the job.

That’s the part people don’t understand about my line of work. Choice is mostly an illusion. You can dress it up, pretend you’ve got options, but at the end of the day, you do what you’re told or you don’t get to have another day.

And there’s more to think about than just me.

I’m not a runner. Never have been. I don’t back down, either. Probably a pride thing. Right up until the last second, I’ll believe there’s a way out. I’ve talked my way out of worse. I’ve got charm. Personality.

I know. You’re smitten.

Problem is, charm don’t mean much when the man holding your leash can have you put down.

Now, a man can’t work on an empty stomach, and watching Ted inhale enough food to feed a small nation got me thinking about my own needs. So I head over to my favorite spot in town—Trashy’s.

As far as I know, it’s one of the few places Ted doesn’t own. That alone makes it a sanctuary.

Trashy’s is a little drive-thru shack that only serves French fries. That’s it. Fries. But what they do with those fries? That’s art. You can pile just about anything on top of them.

My go-to is the Trashy Supreme—crispy fries buried under chili, melted cheese, sour cream, lettuce, peppers, and grilled chicken.

Ted isn’t the only one who knows how to eat.

There are hundreds of combinations on the menu, but I’ve never tried them. When I find something I like, I stick with it. No need to go chasing avocado dreams.

Who actually likes avocado, anyway?

Today’s got a weird feel to it. Like the air’s a little off. Hutch picks up on that. Guy’s got a sixth sense for bad days. He swaps my grilled chicken for sliced hot dogs without asking.

He knows me too well.

Hot dogs and fries—that’s my desert island meal. If I’m stranded somewhere, that’s what I want. That and maybe fried chicken and waffles if I’m feeling fancy.

My arteries don’t stand a chance.

I thank Hutch and take my basket over to a shaded picnic table. Place is empty—too late for lunch, too early for dinner. Just the way I like it.

I load up my fries with the holy trinity: honey mustard, barbecue, and ranch. I consider adding sriracha, but between the chili and peppers, I don’t need to breathe fire later.

Once I saw a guy dump soy sauce and pickle juice on his. Thought real hard about following him home and blowing up his house. Some things just shouldn’t exist together.

I’m nothing if not principled.

I eat with a fork. One, because I’m civilized. Two, because I don’t like touching food. Texture thing. Fries on my tongue? Fantastic. Fries on my fingers? No thank you.

Across the lot, the side of the building’s been tagged again. Big letters this time: Advent Groove.

No idea what that means. Band? Gang? Cult that really loves music? Looks like nonsense to me.

Hutch used to have a mural there. Little French fry town, sun smiling down, the whole deal. People kept throwing milkshakes at it, trying to hit the sun. He got tired of cleaning spoiled dairy off the wall, so now we get graffiti instead.

Some people have no respect for art.

Now I’m staring at a faded yellow wall with words that don’t mean anything.

There’s probably a metaphor in there somewhere, but I’m too busy eating to find it.

Halfway through my basket, I see Hal Sadley crossing the lot.

That’s not his real name. His real name’s Taylor. I checked. Had to. Thought maybe he was a cop working some long con. Turns out, he’s just a guy who lost everything.

Used to be a teacher. Loved baseball. Loved his wife more. Cancer took her, and that was that. He drifted, ended up out here, and somewhere along the line people started calling him Hal Sadley.

Even the homeless have cliques.

I nod to Hutch. He’s already putting together Hal’s usual—plain fries with ketchup. No extras. No upgrades. Just enough to keep going.

Hal nods his thanks to Hutch, then makes his way over to me.

“Thanks,” he says.

“My pleasure, brother.”

We bump fists. I go back to eating. He doesn’t move.

I glance up. “Something the matter, Hal?”

He studies me like he’s trying to remember something important.

“You’ll be okay,” he says. “Doesn’t mean it won’t hurt like hell. But you’ll be okay.”

That gets my attention.

“Okay?” I set my fork down. “What are you talking about?”

“Your life’s about to change.” He nods, like he’s confirming it to himself. “You won’t like it. But you’ll live with it.”

I lean forward, forearms on the table. “What kind of fortune cookie nonsense is this?”

“She wanted you to know.”

“Who’s she?”

But he’s already turning away.

He shuffles off, holding his fries steady like they’re the most important thing in the world. Not a single one drops.

I watch him go, waiting for him to look back.

He doesn’t.

“She wanted you to know.”

I’ve got a lot of women in my life. None of them would use Hal Sadley as a messenger. If they’ve got something to say, they say it. Usually loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear.

I shake it off and go back to my food, but it doesn’t taste the same.

I don’t like surprises. I like my life exactly how it is—simple, predictable, explosive when necessary.

Whatever Hal just dropped in my lap? That wasn’t simple.

Hutch comes over with a handful of napkins. “Figured you could use these.”

“Muchas gracias.”

He jerks a thumb toward the building. “You got a call.”

Of course I do.

I wipe my mouth and head around back. Hutch calls it an office. It’s really just a storage room with a table and a phone, but I respect the effort.

I pick up the receiver. “Yeah.”

“There once was a man from Nantucket,” the voice says.

I sigh. “His dick was so long he could suck it.”

Pause.

“36-24-36”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “That’s a full-bodied woman you got there.”

Heavy exhale on the other end.

I hate this spy movie nonsense. But it works. Means the call is real. Means they think I’m clean. And now I know where I’m going.

36-24-36

That’s not a small job. That’s not even a medium job.

That’s a problem.

“Does the rooster crow when the sun comes up?” the voice asks, already annoyed.

“Only after he spends the night in the hen house.”

“Be serious.”

I hang up.

I’ve got no patience for wannabe secret agents. Somewhere in Ted’s organization, one of his geniuses decided codes were a good idea, and now we’re all stuck playing along.

Still, the number sticks in my head.

36-24-36

That means moving parts. That means planning. That means something big enough to go wrong in a lot of different ways.

I give Hutch a salute on my way out and fire up the bike.

No music—learned that lesson the hard way. Turns out Bluetooth is great for playlists and terrible for not getting tracked.

I roll out onto the street, checking my mirrors out of habit.

That’s when I see it.

Faded blue Subaru Outback. Same rolling commune of bumper stickers. Coming in hot.

Same Lady.

No way.

Light turns red. I stop.

Subaru doesn’t.

I panic and start paddling backward with my feet like a kid on a tricycle. Smart move would’ve been to gun it. Instead, I’m doing the Flintstone shuffle trying not to get turned into roadkill.

She swerves at the last second, clips the back end of my bike, and barrels through the intersection.

I’m not the only one she’s inconvenienced. Horns explode. Tires screech. People lose their minds.

She’s still yelling into her phone, waving one hand like she’s conducting an orchestra of bad decisions.

“Buy a Bluetooth!” I shout after her.

She doesn’t hear me. Or doesn’t care.

Probably both.

I muscle the bike over to the curb and check it like a nervous parent.

My baby.

Custom-built FXR. Black as midnight, chrome shining like it’s got something to prove. Wide rear tire to carry my not-so-delicate frame. Skull and crossbones on the tank.

Some people call it overcompensation.

I call it style.

Everything looks okay, but when I roll forward, I feel it—a slight wobble. Could be real. Could be in my head.

Either way, I stick to surface streets.

No sense risking the highway if my back tire decides it wants a life of its own.

The town thins out behind me. Buildings give way to fields. Traffic fades.

Shingle Point Road isn’t far now.

That’s where Ted’s sending me.

Farmhouse. Old place. Been there before, but not lately. Ted bought it after the last occupants got into some legal trouble. Barn burned down. Heard some kids got hurt. Something messy.

Not my line of work.

So, not my business.

I’m not a news-channel kind of guy.

The road curves, trees closing in like they’re trying to keep secrets.

Then I see it.

The farmhouse sits back from the road, quiet as a held breath.

And the barn—

The new barn. Fresh wood. Clean lines. Not a mark on it. First thing Ted had done when he bought it.

He probably had the Amish rebuild it. Wonder if they owed him a job too. Thing went up fast from what I heard.

Okay, I’m not a news guy, but I do love the gossip. I also love the good luck charm he put out in front of the barn. It’s how I knew I was being sent to the farm.

Ted’s good-luck charm was a big plaster statue of a woman built to what he claimed were Marilyn Monroe’s measurements. He won it in Vegas on one of his weekend jaunts. Ms. Ted said the thing was “tasteless” and wouldn’t let him keep it at the house. So it ended up here.

Before Ted won her, she’d sat outside the casino long enough for tourists to rub her down to a shine in all the predictable places.

Couldn’t say I blamed them.

I slow the bike, engine rumbling low.

Something about the place makes my gut tighten.

Too quiet. Too still. Like it’s waiting.

I tell myself it’s nothing. Big job. Big expectations.

But that voice in the back of my head—the one that’s gotten me into trouble and out of it more times than I can count—won’t shut up.

This isn’t just another job.

I kill the engine and sit there a second longer than I need to.

Whatever’s waiting for me out here—

I’m not ready for it.