The Ties That Bind. Cliff Ryder

the trigger, the Glock spoke twice more, and the boy dropped the gun and began to scream in earnest. His knees were gone and he writhed on the floor, crying and bleeding.

      “Jesus,” Miller said.

      “He doesn’t have much to do with this kind of thing,” Jason replied. “Lend me your belt.”

      “What?”

      “Your belt,” he snapped. “Unless you want that boy to bleed to death.”

      Miller whipped his belt off and handed it over.

      Jason kicked the shotgun away and knelt down by the wounded boy, using Miller’s belt and his own to make tourniquets on each leg. “Shut up,” he snapped as the boy continued to scream and moan. “You could be dead.”

      “You fucker,” the kid said. “You shot us both. You killed Grinch and my legs are all messed up. I’ll never walk again. You said you’d kill me.”

      “I lied about that, too,” Jason said. “Besides, walking is a privilege, you know. By the time you get out of prison, who knows what kind of shape you’ll be in.”

      “Prison?” the kid said.

      Jason stood up quickly, then turned to Miller. “You carry the Glock 17 model?” he asked.

      “Sure,” he said. “Why?”

      “Get me one,” Jason said. “With a loaded clip. Be quick.”

      Miller was moving on automatic pilot, but he did as Jason told him. Jason took the weapon and jogged back to the range door, firing the weapon three times. Then he brought it back to the shop owner.

      “Take this,” he said, handing it to him. He glanced around. “Do you have video surveillance of any kind here?”

      The man shook his head, still stunned. “No,” he said. “Never figured on anyone trying to rob me.”

      “I don’t suppose,” Jason said. “Listen, Jim, I’ve got to get out of here and fast. As soon as I’m out the door, you call the cops and tell them what happened…but leave me out of it. Don’t mention my name or my involvement.” He leaned forward, his eyes boring into the other man. “I was never here. They came in, tried to rob you and you defended yourself, got it?”

      “I…I got it,” he whispered, looking at the carnage. “Who…who are you?”

      “I’m nobody,” Jason said. “I’m a ghost.”

      “A ghost,” Miller said. “You’re pretty good in a fight for a ghost.”

      Jason laughed quietly. “That wasn’t a fight,” he said. “That was just practice.”

      “Jesus,” Miller said again. Then he added, “The boy will talk.”

      “Probably,” Jason said. “But he’s loaded on drugs—crack or meth probably—and they’ll never believe him. Just stick to your story and give them the Glock, okay?”

      “Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”

      Jason turned and moved for the door.

      “Hey!” Miller called.

      Jason stopped but didn’t turn around.

      “Thank you,” he said. “Thanks for saving my life.” He sighed. “They got my son hooked on meth and it killed him. I couldn’t get him to stop, couldn’t save him no matter how hard I tried.”

      “That happens sometimes,” Jason said. “You can’t save everyone.”

      “Well, you saved me, so thank you. My son is dead, but I still…I want to live.”

      “You’re welcome,” Jason said as he stepped out into the night.

      The parking lot had only a few vehicles left in it and was poorly lit, but Jason found his own brown Volvo without any problems. He moved quickly, knowing the police could arrive any moment. He hit the remote unlock button on his key tab before he got to the car, skipping his usual quick walk around to ensure that no one had managed to get inside. It was always unlikely, but he never took chances with his safety. Now was the time to get moving.

      He lived an orderly kind of life. His car was the safest one on the market—even safer after he’d added some additional aftermarket accessories. His apartment was sparsely furnished, meticulously neat and held no real clues as to who he was or what he did for a living.

      He climbed into the Volvo, started the engine and headed for his apartment. In the distance, he could hear the telltale sound of police sirens. Clean action had felt good, despite breaking an operative rule. Of late, he’d felt strangely conflicted. When he’d worked for the CIA, he had very little downtime. Room 59 operatives had mandated time off between missions. He’d been surprised by the intensity of the training period, including his first posttraining assignment—a final exam, of sorts—that involved him assassinating a target. It had been a simple assignment, really. More the kind of thing assigned to a rookie than an old hand like himself.

      In the darkness of the car, Jason laughed to himself. Home was just a place to sleep between jobs. He wondered if any agents had a wife and kids in this line of work. He shook his head. It didn’t make sense to have a family. Not for people like him.

      And yet…family was on his mind more and more lately. Despite his son’s death, Jim Miller had wanted to live. He probably had a wife, maybe other kids—people he counted on and who counted on him. When he’d left the orphanage, Jason had no idea who his real family was or even if they were alive. All he had was his last name, which was on his birth certificate. He’d tried to find out more a couple of times, but other than learning that his mother had been an Inuit from somewhere in Alaska and his father was unknown, there’d been precious little information. After a time, he’d given up on the idea and, considering his profession, it was probably the wisest course of action. Being responsible for his own life, taking his own risks was one thing, but adding a wife or a child or some other family member to the mix, putting them at risk, seemed the very height of irresponsibility.

      Still, he was alone and, he admitted to himself, lonely. It would be good to have someone he could count on. Someone to come home to.

      He turned the corner close to his apartment complex and pulled into the parking lot. He shut down the Volvo, locked it and headed inside. He’d grab a quick bite to eat and then rack out for the night. His mandatory downtime was over, and he expected that an assignment would be heading his way soon enough.

      Once he was inside, his thoughts turned again to the idea of trying to find his mother, his family. Why had she left him at the orphanage in Seattle? Why didn’t she want him? Did he have other family members—a brother, a sister, someone? The questions plagued him even as he heated a bowl of soup and cut a few slices of bread.

      He knew he couldn’t live the life he did forever. Sooner or later, he’d get older, slip up and get killed or have to find something he could do that didn’t involve fieldwork. Would he be able to have a family then, or would it just be more of the same? What kind of woman would ask about his day and accept the only answer he could give—“I can’t tell you or I’d have to kill you.”

      Sitting at the kitchen table, Jason pondered the questions and wondered why they were coming up again now, so soon after starting a new job, but his mind didn’t have very long to linger on them. Halfway through his soup, the pager on his belt began to vibrate.

      He pulled it free and looked at the display.

      His first assignment, Jason realized, was right on time to distract him from these notions.

      2

      The next morning found Jason up before his alarm clock sounded. It was a few minutes before six. He went through his usual routine—a five-mile run, a quick shower, a breakfast of oatmeal and eggs, with grapefruit juice and a cup of coffee.

      He took the time to scan the morning paper