—Chapter 1—

—Stalkers—

Alex Kellan wasn’t the type of person who stalkers typically targeted. He carried a loaded .45 handgun in his shoulder holster and regularly bench pressed two hundred pounds. Most thugs could do the math—he wasn’t worth the inevitable hospital bill.

Yet, for some unknown reason, a pair of men had been following Kellan wherever he went. For the last seven days, his stalkers had watched his every movement from the safety of distant shadows. But each day they grew a little bolder. Each day they moved a little closer.

At first, Kellan had found it amusing. But tonight, it had to end.

He took a swig of beer, content, for the moment, with the seedy bar atmosphere. Nino’s Place was a rinky-dink location stuck between a Japanese restaurant and a UPS store, both of which had been closed for years.

Despite the grit and grime, there were four others seated around the establishment. One man, heavy set and bearded, sat with a trucker’s posture. Another man, his hair silver and his naked ring finger permanently indented, likely drank to escape the memories that lingered.

Two others sat in the corner booth, hidden by the shadows of a burnt-out light, as silent as the broken jukebox.

There they were. Kellan’s stalkers.

He decided he’d wait them out. Perhaps once he stepped outside, he could catch them off guard.

A bartender walked over and offered Kellan a quizzical lift of her eyebrow. All the hair on her head had been dyed dark purple—a flashy statement that didn’t match with the woman’s plain black shirt and unassuming jeans.

“It’s Christmas Eve, ya know,” she said.

“Seriously?” Kellan replied. He finished his beer with one last swig. “Huh. That explains the holiday music on the radio.”

Obviously unimpressed by the sarcasm, the bartender frowned. “Don’t get cute. Shouldn’t you be with family? What’s someone like you doing in Nino’s Place?”

“Clearly, I’m here for the company,” Kellan quipped.

The trucker belched.

Kellan forced himself to smile. He pushed his empty glass toward the bartender. “Pour me another.”

“You on leave or something, military man?” the purple-haired woman asked as she filled the glass with needless showmanship, twirling it once and spinning it afterward.

He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but a veteran could always spot fellow military.

The faint shrapnel scars on the woman’s arms told Kellan she had once served.

“Like I said, the company.” This time, Kellan met the woman’s eyes straight on.

A smirk came to the corner of the bartender’s lips. She walked with a slight limp, a detail Kellan had taken quick note of when he had first entered the bar, but the other puzzles pieces of her appearance were what caught Kellan’s interest. Despite her dyed hair, the freckles on her forearms and shoulders gave away her Irish lineage.

“You’re here for the company?” she asked as she slid over his beer. “You haven’t even asked for my name.”

Kellan shrugged. “I don’t need to.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

With no hurry, he sipped his beer. The quiet in the bar wasn’t comforting. Any car that drove by could be heard through the thin walls.

But before the bartender grew irritated with Kellan’s silent treatment, the trucker at the far booth scooted his mug to the edge of his tiny table. “Mavis, can I get another?”

“Your name is Mavis,” Kellan said, lifting his glass in a toast.

She rolled her eyes as she ambled over to the trucker’s table.

For years, Kellan had gone through special training for observation and analysis. Figuring out someone’s identity without speaking to them wasn’t particularly difficult, but it always impressed civilians. Mavis was a veteran, though. The cute trick would probably win him a few points, if he was lucky.

Once Mavis had finished with the other patron, Kellan had finished his drink. Mavis rested her weight on the bar and gave him another questioning eyebrow.

“I’m on mandatory leave,” Kellan said before she could ask again. “Trust me. I’d rather be working, but I guess Santa has a different gift for me in mind.”

She whistled. “You get in trouble with the MP?”

“Let’s just say it was a psychologist’s orders.” Kellan toyed with his empty glass.

“Got cold feet? Or you another one with PTSD?”

“No, but I’m going to have traumatic flashbacks about frequenting this bar,” Kellan said as a cockroach scuttled across the countertop.

Mavis grabbed a towel, but before she could shoo the insect away, Kellan slammed his glass down on the roach, breaking the quiet atmosphere with a clack. The trucker and the widower both glanced up, but they quickly returned to their own drinks when nothing else happened.

But the two men in the dark corner…

They neither flinched at the racket nor altered their behaviors.

Kellan couldn’t help but scratch at an itch on the back of his neck when he glanced in their direction. Something wasn’t right about his stalkers. They didn’t act like normal men who were undercover. They didn’t act like normal men, period.

“Sorry about that,” Mavis said, flushed in the face as she wiped down the bar. She took his glass and thoroughly scrubbed the roach guts from the counter. “We don’t usually have a problem with bugs.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll leave it out of my Yelp review.”

Mavis chuckled.

She grabbed a new glass, filled it to the brim, and slid it to Kellan. Although he had intended to drown his evening in booze, the uncomfortable feeling Kellan got from the two in the corner put a halt to his plans. His perceptions were dulled, but only slightly. Instead of drinking more, he’d keep his wits about him.

Kellan leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Hey, do you know those two over there?” He motioned with his eyes to the dark corner occupied by the two suspicious men.

“Nope,” Mavis said. “But I can do a quick walk around.”

Making good on her word, Mavis walked out from behind the bar and approached each customer with a smile and small chat. The two regulars chatted it up with easy topics and a jovial Merry Christmas.

“Do you need anything else to drink?” she asked the widower. “Sorry about the lack of music. Apparently, there are only so many times one man can listen to Jingle Bells.”

“I don’t need anything,” the man replied. “I hate Christmas music as much as any other sane man.”

Kellan gritted his teeth. The two in the corner watched his every move.

He had gotten used to having background checks run on every new acquaintance he made, as well as having his phone watched and his conversations recorded. It was for his safety as much as his unit’s—there were some who would do Kellan harm simply for his position, and others who wanted to dismantle the US Special Forces from within. But there was little reason to have physical eyes on his location. Unless his supervisors thought Kellan was in contact with enemy operators.

But they would have done a better job than this, Kellan reasoned to himself as he watched the corner of the room through a mirror mounted behind the bar. A small piece of him considered just confronting his stalkers. Maybe this is a test. I wouldn’t put it past them to do something like this. If they want me to call this in, that’s what they’ll get.

Mavis returned to her post behind the bar, rubbing her bad leg and grimacing. Clinking bottles together in a faux attempt to straighten up, she whispered, “Those two in the corner aren’t very talkative. Just a pair of weirdos ordering a single beer each and never touching it.”

“Huh.”

“You’re a little paranoid, is that it?” Mavis asked, giving him the once over. “I can see why they put you on mandatory leave.”

“You got me,” Kellan intoned. “Kellan the Paranoid. That’s me.”

Mavis stopped fiddling with the glasses. “Your name is Kellan, huh? Well, I don’t like this serious version of yourself, Kellan. You have an intense expression when you’re quiet.”

“Oh, I was just thinking about what I was going to write on that Yelp review. Maybe something along the lines of; great drinks, but they pale in comparison to the beauty behind the counter. Ten out of ten, would visit again.”

Mavis grew red and silent. "That was cheesy," she said.

He shrugged. "I'm not the smoothest. You'll get sick of me."

She took a moment to gather her thoughts. “The bar closes at two,” she said, her ears still a shade of pink. “We can grab a coffee afterward. I know a place.”

“I have a strict schedule I need to keep. Two is past my bedtime. You understand.”

Mavis nodded and turned away. “You’re right. I forgot you’re still active. Never mind.”

“You have any days off?” Kellan quickly asked. “I’m still on leave, after all. We could get a bite to eat and then grab a coffee. That is, if you haven’t gotten sick of me.” He gave her a playful smile.

Mavis shook her head and chuckled. “I definitely should’ve gotten you talkin’ earlier. Are you free Sunday? I have the whole day off then.”

She pulled an index card from the cash register and wrote out her phone number. Then she tucked it into the front pocket of Kellan’s jacket.

“You better call me,” she said.

“Of course.” He tossed another twenty on the counter—plenty for a tip—and gave her one last nod. Mavis returned the gesture.

“I’ll see you then.”

In reality, Kellan could have stayed longer, but the two in the corner booth had started gathering their things to leave. He wanted to get a good look at them before the night ended. What were they planning?

As Kellan walked by, he slowed his pace and looked them over. It wasn’t a crime to take in an eyeful at a public bar—he could stare as much as he damn well pleased—and Kellan knew they had been doing the same with him all night. His open observation gave him next to no information, however. Both men wore gray hooded sweaters, dark blue jeans, and white T-shirts. Plain. Nondescript. Lacking all personal flair.

Unusual.

Their muddy brown hair, and short haircuts also did little in the way of distinguishing them. No tattoos. No scars.

Kellan exited out onto the sidewalk and turned toward the parking lot two blocks down. He heard the door behind him, aware of the trailing stalkers.

The cold night air blanketed Fayetteville in icy fog. Closing signs hung on doors and security gates secured windows along the barren street. Black clouds blotted out the moon and flickered with the hints of a storm. If there was Christmas spirit to be felt, it wasn’t in the dank alleys behind Nino’s Place.

Kellan approached his vehicle, taking time with his keys to allow his pursuers to catch up.

When footsteps echoed between the buildings that lined the parking lot, Kellan smiled to himself.

“Finally got the stones to say something to me?” he asked.

Let’s see what these punks have got.