Obsidian Heat

Chapter One

Jonah Merrick scarfed down a greasy beef taco and mindlessly grabbed corn chips doused with little packets of mild as fuck salsa as he stared out the window of his red 2017 Ford Explorer. He wiped sauce off his face with the back of his hand and kept up the watch. Mike Forrester was nothing if not regular. According to Jonah's intel, he would show up at this vacation home with new girlfriend in tow any minute now.

It would almost be a pleasant evening, a calm breeze off the shore brushing his unruly hair that hadn't been washed in five days, except for creeping on cheating husbands.

Wolfing down the rest of his meager meal, Jonah choked back a belch and turned on the radio. Waiting them out was always the hardest part. He should be used to it by now but the boredom got to him. He listened to NPR for awhile, keeping the sound low enough that no one would notice, finding the over-enunciated voice of the news reporters soothing to his frayed nerves. It was going on three hours now. Mr. Forrester was due at least an hour ago. He checked the time again.

Then he called his assistant, Bevi Hendricks. "Are we sure we've got this right?" he said.

"Good evening to you too," she murmured. "I was just going to bed."

"Sorry," he mumbled. "It's just... something isn't right here. I can tell."

"Your omega senses tingling or something?"

He frowned. Very few people out there knew his true identity; he'd let Bevi in on it because they'd worked together so long and his secret could put her at risk, too. Hiding from everyone else had become second nature, if a lonely life. No one could get too close. No one could know the truth. Or all this, his one shot at a normal life, at living his own life on his own terms, could be snatched away in an instant. His chin dropped to his chest as he struggled to keep his eyes open. He knew that from the war. He knew that better than anyone.

"It doesn't work like that, Bevi," he said. "I just have a gut feeling that something's wrong. I'll try to wait longer, though, then scope out the house."

"Just be careful," she hissed. "I don't want to have to break you out of jail again tomorrow morning, okay?"

"Scout's honor," he said. "I'm always careful."

She snorted. "I'm going to bed now, Jonah. Nail that bastard to the wall."

"Roger that."

He hung up, stuffing the phone in his pocket, then waited another hour, almost drowsing off to the gentle sound of the local reporter. He jerked awake when he heard glass shattering in the distance. Pulse stammering, he reached for his binoculars in the passenger seat and trained his eyes on the house. Some kids, three 19-year-olds in leather jackets and stonewashed jeans, had broken glass in the patio doors, only spent minutes inside, and rushed out of there with panicked looks and the speed of hyenas. A shrill alarm began trilling.

Jonah frowned. The police would be here soon for a wellness check. Or maybe not. He should call it a wasted night. But he couldn't do that.

He felt his hip for his holstered gun and grabbed his backpack, shutting the car door quietly and locking up. It was just a used truck but he kept it in immaculate condition, better than his hair, anyway; the paint never chipped and scuffed, washed and vacuumed twice a week at a car wash. He spent more time in that damn car than his own cramped studio apartment.

Walking quickly across the empty suburban street, he scanned the perimeter. It was a nice vacation home in a wealthy neighborhood in San Diego. Sizable square footage. Architecture in the Southwestern Adobe style, out of place with the more modern, West Coast designs on the block. The landscaping was careful, too, xeriscaping with native plants, intended to conserve water. The lone house in a string of them without a lawn. Jonah checked the perimeter. Nothing except the glass shattered in those patio doors. A dog barked in the back lawn and he felt bad until he realized it was a neighbor's dog.