Safe house, Apache Dance, Az…

Jake Slaughter walked out onto the cabin’s deck for a few minutes of solitude after the long flight back from Quito.

He had already put the death of de Alvarez in Ecuador behind and it was time to move on. This was his stand-down, a momentary liberty from his covert black ops Delta team and the operational control of the Joint Special Operations Command.

He breathed deeply the cool night air and drew hard on a Sam Adams longneck.

Wine-red alpenglow washed the crenelated peaks of the Tucson Mountains and the vast Saguaro forests of the Sonoran Desert. The renowned Desert Museum was visible from the house perched high up Golden Gate Mountain, south of Gates Pass Overlook.

“Aphrodisiac for the senses,” he muttered, his husky voice the upshot of an arid climate and one too many rum-soaked cigars. “Surely the Almighty scooped out this place on one of his better days.”

He scanned the open vista, the stands of desert scrub, Saguaro and Cholla cacti crowded into the valley below as he listened to the melodic hum of nectar-feeding bats, the din of Hawk moth and other foraging insects. In the distance a Javelina or Coyote ran down an evening meal, as myriad bird species burrowed into the safety of their nests for the night. His eyes crinkled above a smile and he finished off his beer. 

His personal phone slapped him out of a sound sleep at seven the next morning. He sat up, his cracking knees a bitter reminder that he was aging by the minute, the pounding in his head an indicator that he was getting a bit long in the tooth to down a half-dozen longnecks and still function at peak proficiency the following day.

“Hello.”

“Jake? It’s Michael in New York, did I wake you?”

 “You’re nothing if not consistent, Mikey.”

“Hell, it’s ten o’clock here in the real world, been at it for three hours already.”

“Right.” Michael Franks was Jake’s long-time book editor at Simon and Schuster in New York. “What’s up?”

“Got your message about heading off to Beaufort. I received your photographs and sent them off to be scanned, but can you get the final written draft of the book to me before you go?”

In his precious spare time, Jake made photographs, dozens of them over the past couple of decades. The book in question was the third in a series of six, all showcasing intimate landscapes of the western desert and the southeast Atlantic coast.

The books both entertained and informed, qualities his readers especially liked. He normally tripled his advance, a quality his publisher relished.

“I’ll have it on your desk by the end of the week, Mikey, will that make you happy?”

“Wish all my clients were like you, Jake.”

“No, you don’t. You put up with me because I make you a crapload of money.”

“I thought I just said that.”

Jake chuckled. “Goodbye Michael.”

“Look Jake, I have to ask one more time. Have you given any further thought to the book signing tour? It’s been a long time since your east coast fans got a peek at your mug.”

Jake rubbed a fingertip along the scar on his stomach. “I don’t handle crowds very well, you know that.”

“Understood, but do me a favor and at least think about it, okay.”

“All right, Mikey, so long.” 

What the hell, he was going to head home for a few weeks to check out the new family digs, first time is some years, so maybe a tour wasn’t a bad idea.

Outside he heard a car pull up and its doors open. He looked down and waited. The envelope slid under the door and the car sped off moments later. “Damn,” he muttered. The envelope would contain an encoded and encrypted flash card detailing his next assignment.

He poured a cup of coffee and walked out the back door, the early morning air redolent of musk, sandalwood and honey. He pulled the invitation he’d received out of his jeans pocket:

It’s time, Beaufort High’s class reunion, June 7-9 at Lancaster Hall, downtown Beaufort!

Regrets only, please!

“Regrets? Hell yeah, I’ve got a few.”