F³ Wet Work

            I was bored, waiting. I had made Reilly and Natalie leave, and sent Kate to get some takeout. The guy, whose name they didn’t actually know, they simply kept calling him Moron, was still out of it. I hadn’t seen any signs of violence, but I knew the storm riders could pack a heck of a shock from their fingertips, so I didn’t rule out that they had knocked him out.

            My plan had been to let him sleep and wake on his own, but I knew that Kate and the others were not patient. At all. So I dumped water on his face, and he woke up sputtering.

            His eyes were wild as they searched around, presumably for his tormentors.

            “Easy, easy. You’re okay,” I soothed.

            “Who are you? Where am I?”

            “My name’s Matt. You’re in Belport, in my office.”

            There’s no telling just what state this guy was from.

            “Where?”

            “Doesn’t really matter. I’m here to help.”

            “Help how? Are you—are you one of them?” He looked caged, now.

            “No, now I’m not. I’m a private detective.”

            “What the fuck? I have no idea what’s going on.”

            “Right, I get it. Listen, how about a drink?”

            They weren’t kidding. He’s kind of high-strung.

            He nodded, and I pulled a bottle of 10-year-old Laphroaig from my drawer. I had been saving it for a special occasion, but I had the feeling I needed to get this guy on the bottle before he’d bother listening.