Chapter 13: THE FRIEND
The phone that sent the text is dead. Number disconnected. Purchased two weeks ago from a convenience store in Harrisburg—forty minutes away. Cash transaction. No surveillance footage retained.
Professional tradecraft.
I sit in my patrol car outside the phone store, staring at the receipt the clerk photocopied for me. Someone drove to Harrisburg specifically to buy an untraceable phone. Used it once. Threw it away.
That level of operational security suggests military, intelligence, or organized crime. Not local criminals. Not amateurs.
My Criminal Instinct has been screaming since I woke up. Danger everywhere. Threats closing in. But no clear direction. Just generalized warning.
Lucas is at the station, nursing coffee and shame. I left him there after confirming he was functional enough to handle desk duty. His hangover is punishment enough without my judgment added.
The question circles: who sent the text?
Not Siobhan—she's direct. Would confront, not play games.
Not Proctor—he's patient. Would build leverage quietly.
Not Carrie—she wants invisibility, not engagement.
Someone else. Someone watching. Someone testing.
I drive back to Banshee. Park at The Forge. It's noon—lunch crowd filling the bar. Sugar works the counter, pouring beer and exchanging cash with practiced efficiency.
He sees me. Nods toward a back booth.
I order coffee. Sit where he indicated. Wait.
Sugar finishes serving customers. Approaches with a pot of fresh coffee.
"You look like hell," he observes.
"Long night."
"Lucas too. He came in this morning. Three aspirin and a prayer." Sugar refills my cup. "He's hurting."
"He'll survive."
"Will he?" Sugar's eyes are sharp. "Man that broken makes mistakes. Gets careless. You planning to carry him or cut him loose?"
The question is direct. Surgical.
"Haven't decided," I admit.
"Decide fast. This town doesn't forgive mistakes." Sugar glances around—nobody's listening. "You need help?"
"What kind of help?"
"The kind that doesn't ask questions." He leans slightly closer. "Lucas has resources. People who owe him. People who can do things law enforcement can't."
"Like what?"
"Technical. Intelligence. Problem-solving." Sugar's tone is careful. "There's a man. Friend of Lucas's from before. Handles complicated situations. Paranoid, brilliant, loyal—pick two."
I process this. "Lucas never mentioned a friend."
"Lucas doesn't mention a lot of things. Survival habit." Sugar straightens. "If you need someone who can find information others can't, I can make an introduction. But understand—this man doesn't trust easy. He'll test you. See if you're worth the risk."
"And if I'm not?"
"Then he disappears. You never see him again." Sugar's expression is neutral. "Interested?"
I think about the untraceable phone. The professional surveillance. The text that knew too much.
"Yeah. I'm interested."
"Give me an hour. Be behind the bar at two." Sugar returns to the counter.
I drink my coffee slowly. Criminal Instinct pulses—opportunity here. Danger too. But opportunity.
At 1:55, I exit through The Forge's back door. The alley is empty except for dumpsters and recycling bins. Loading area. Delivery entrance.
I wait.
At exactly 2:00, a man appears. Didn't see where he came from. Just suddenly there.
He's maybe forty. Lean build. Sharp features. Expensive clothes that somehow don't look expensive—perfectly tailored but understated. His eyes scan everything. Me, the alley, the exits, the windows overlooking us.
Professional awareness. Like looking in a mirror.
"Deputy Webb." His voice carries an accent I can't place. Educated. Cultured. "Or should I say Marcus? Or perhaps whoever you really are?"
"And you are?"
"Job." He pronounces it Yob. "Lucas's friend. His fixer. His conscience when he had one." He circles me slowly. Assessing. "You're the one he can't figure out. The mystery deputy. The man who heals too fast and fights too well."
I don't react. Don't confirm.
Job smiles. "Smart. Silence is usually safest. But I already know what you are. The question is whether you know what I am."
"A hacker. Tech specialist. Someone Lucas trusts."
"All true. Also incomplete." He stops circling. Faces me directly. "I sent the text."
The admission lands like a punch. I process. Re-evaluate. Assess threat level.
"Why?"
"To see how you'd react." Job's eyes are bright. Intelligent. Amused. "If you ran, I'd know you were a coward. If you panicked, I'd know you were unstable. If you came hunting..." He gestures at me. "Well. Here you are. That tells me something useful."
"Which is?"
"That you're dangerous. That you don't scare easy. That you solve problems by confronting them." Job pulls out a phone—different from the burner. "Those qualities are valuable. Especially when paired with someone like Lucas who tends toward emotional decision-making."
"You're testing me."
"I'm evaluating you. Lucas trusts you. That's worth something. But Lucas's judgment is compromised." Job's expression sobers. "I've known him twenty years. Pulled jobs together. Kept each other alive. I trust him with my life. But not with his own. Not when she's involved."
Carrie. Of course.
"And you think I can keep him stable?"
"I think you're already trying. The question is whether you'll succeed." Job pockets his phone. "I can help. Provide resources. Intelligence. Technical support. But only if you're worth the investment."
"What's the test?"
"Already passed it. You didn't run. You hunted." He extends his hand. "Welcome to the team, Deputy."
I shake. His grip is firm. No hesitation.
"One more thing," Job says. "The text I sent was a test. But the photo you received? That wasn't me."
My stomach tightens. "You know about the photo?"
"Sugar mentioned someone was watching you. I have... sources." He tilts his head. "If someone's conducting surveillance, I want to know who. Competition makes me uncomfortable. May I see it?"
I pull out the photo. Hand it over.
Job examines it carefully. Professional assessment. "Good equipment. Professional angle. Telephoto lens, probably 300mm minimum. Shot from approximately 150 meters." He turns it over. Checks the paper. "Standard photo stock. Could be printed anywhere."
"Can you trace it?"
"Possibly. Give me a day." He pockets the photo. "If someone's building a file on you, I'll find out who and why."
"What do you want in return?"
Job smiles. "Lucas's safety. He's family. You keep him functional, I provide services. Simple transaction."
"Nothing's simple."
"True. But some things are straightforward. You need intelligence. I need Lucas to survive his own stupidity. Our interests align." He checks his watch—expensive, subtle. "I should go. People who stay in one place too long get noticed."
"One question," I say. "The clothes."
He looks down at himself. "What about them?"
"Sugar said you were paranoid and brilliant. Didn't mention fashionable."
Job laughs—genuine amusement. "Deputy, if you're going to impersonate law enforcement, at least have some style. Polyester?" He gestures at my uniform. "Really? There are crimes against humanity less offensive."
Despite everything, I almost laugh. It's the first time this whole situation has felt absurd in a good way.
"I'll work on that."
"Please do. I have standards." Job heads for the alley exit. Pauses. "One more thing. Lucas is my friend. Hurt him, betray him, put him in unnecessary danger—and I become your worst nightmare. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Good. I'll be in touch about the photo." He disappears around the corner.
I stand in the alley, processing. Job. Lucas's tech support. Former criminal partner. Current... what? Ally? Asset?
Whatever he is, he's useful. And he's offered help freely.
My phone buzzes. Text from an unknown number: This one's secure. Use it. —J
Fast work.
I save the contact. Return to my patrol car. The surveillance photo is with Job now. If anyone can trace it, he can.
The pieces are shifting. Job in the mix. Proctor watching. Carrie unstable. Lucas broken.
I should feel overwhelmed.
Instead, I feel focused. The wolf has found another hunter. Not prey—partner. The pack is forming.
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