Jack Beale 00 - Dangerous Shoals

finish up here?”
    “Sure.”
    As he stepped out onto the loading dock the wind cut through him, like a sharp knife, despite his armor of beer and food. The constant roar of the ocean was driven by the east wind as it crashed against the shore. It created a strong bass line that was punctuated by a higher pitched whine as the wind whipped through the bare trees around Ben’s. The few remaining leaves on nearby bushes added the last percussive element. The total effect was chilling.
    Shivering, Jack lifted the dumpster cover. The wind immediately pulled it from his hand and flipped it open. “Shit,” he mumbled as he dropped the trash in the container. Then he climbed off the loading dock to flip the cover back into place. Beyond the bubble of light that enveloped the loading dock, all was black. Jack paused and looked out into the void. Whether it was a sound, a movement, or just a feeling, he wasn’t sure, but something made him pause and stare. His eyes and ears strained to penetrate the darkness, and he cocked his head in an attempt to hear through nature’s din. Nothing. He stood there for a few moments. Finally, he decided that he was just being foolish, and went back in.
    * * *
    As the door closed behind Jack, a man dressed all in black stepped out from behind a tree across the street. Close-set, piercing, dark eyes stared out from under the black watch cap that covered his short, cropped hair. In an effort to ward off the cold east wind, he had pulled up the collar of a well-worn pea coat as high as possible. The shadows, made by the collar, hid all facial features but his aquiline nose and an old scar on his weathered cheek.
    The stranger wore black leather gloves, so thin that they fit his hands like a second skin. Not made for warmth, they were perfect in his line of work. He reached into the left- side pocket of his jacket and felt the handle of his knife. He smiled to himself, reassured that it was there. It was a custom made, double action, front-opening knife as the literature described it. A switchblade. Carbon fiber and titanium made it exceptionally light. The case was matt black, as was the 3.5 inch double-edged blade, which was as sharp as a razor. It was certainly not made for peeling apples, although it could.
    He reached into the right-side pocket of his coat and took out a nearly empty package of cigarettes. He shook the packet until its only cigarette appeared. He removed it with his lips and crumpled the pack, which he slid back into his pocket. While fishing through his other pockets for matches, he scanned the area to make sure no one was around. He found the matches, and satisfied that he was alone, lit the cigarette, carefully shielding the flame from the wind and anyone’s sight. It was a trick he had learned many years ago in another life, where survival was dependent on being invisible. Holding it so that the red, glowing tip remained invisible, he took a long drag, held it in to maximize the effect, and then exhaled. “Fuck,” he murmured to himself. Tonight the smell of the smoke didn’t concern him because the wind was strong and blowing away from any potential threats. It was cold and he needed it. He wished that he could just do his job and be done with it, but his employer wouldn’t let him, at least not yet. He could only watch.

CHAPTER 2
    THE SUN HAD BEEN up for maybe an hour and Max was still sleeping. Since first light Jack had been wide awake, lying there, next to her, perfectly still, listening to her sleep and thinking about the day. Finally, he decided to get up and start the day. Coffee first. He carefully slid out from under the covers, being careful not to disturb her. His body reacted to the one-two punch of the cool air hitting his skin and the even colder floor shocking his feet. He shivered and broke out in goose bumps. He looked down at Max. Her red hair was spread across the pillow, and her skin was as soft and smooth as the finest velvet. The barest hint of a smile on her lips had replaced all of the stresses and worries of the previous day, and to Jack she looked like a sleeping angel. While one arm remained under the covers, the other lay raised above her head on the pillow, which allowed the flannel sheets to slip down far enough to expose her bare shoulders. He studied the soft curves of her body, which were further softened by the flannel sheets. He was tempted to crawl back into bed until Cat nixed that idea by rubbing against his leg and