As he buckled them back into the truck, a black sedan drove past the gates exiting the property. It slowed as it passed Ethan. The window rolled down. A man in a sharp gray suit looked out, not with disgust but with curiosity. He had silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He looked at Ethan, then at the house, and nodded once before rolling the window up and driving away.
Ethan did not think much of it. He had to survive.
He put the truck in gear and drove away from the wealth, the warmth, and the family that had just signed their own warrant.
3 weeks later, the glamour of the adventure had worn off.
Ethan and the twins were living in the SeaTac Motel 6, Room 114. It smelled of stale cigarettes and lemon cleaner. Ethan had sold his tactical gear, his scopes, his plates, even his beloved SIG Sauer, to pay for the room and food.
He was working day labor at a construction site in downtown Seattle. It was brutal, backbreaking work, hauling concrete, demolition, rebar. The foreman, a man named Henderson, was a tyrant who liked to underpay the undocumented workers and scream at the veterans. Ethan took it. He kept his head down, did the work of 3 men, and collected his cash at the end of the day.
Every night he would come back to the motel, wash the concrete dust off in the tiny sink so he would not clog the shower drain, and cook SpaghettiOs on a hot plate for the kids.
“Read to us, Daddy?” Mia asked 1 Tuesday night, holding up a tattered copy of The Hobbit that had belonged to Sarah.
Ethan sat on the edge of the bed, his back screaming in protest. He began to read, doing the voices just as Sarah used to. For an hour, the dingy motel room disappeared, replaced by Middle-earth. When the kids were finally asleep, Ethan sat by the window, staring out at the neon sign flickering in the parking lot.
He opened his laptop, an old battered Toughbook. He had 1 email in his inbox. It was a rejection from a private security firm.
Overqualified. Psychological profile risk.
They thought he was broken. Maybe he was.
A knock at the door made him jump. It was 10:30 p.m.
Ethan moved silently to the door, checking the peephole. It was not the motel manager. It was the man from the black sedan, the one who had seen him at the Harrington estate 3 weeks earlier.
Ethan opened the door a crack, his foot braced against it. “Can I help you?”
The man held up a leather briefcase. “Mr. Caldwell. My name is Silas Sterling. I’m an attorney with Sterling Holloway and Associates. I apologize for the hour, but I’ve had a hell of a time tracking you down.”
“I don’t have money for a lawyer,” Ethan said, ready to close the door.
“I’m not here to take your money, Ethan,” Silas said. He used Ethan’s first name with a strange familiarity. “I’m here to give you yours.”
Ethan paused. “What are you talking about?”
“May I come in? It’s about your grandfather.”
“My grandfather died in 1995. He was a coal miner in West Virginia.”
SAY “YES” IF YOU WANT TO ENJOY THE FULL STORY. THANK YOU.