Page 88 of In the Shadows
Three boards had rotted through completely, and two of the support posts were soft enough that he could push his thumb into the wood. Sid Hoffman stood knee-deep in the inlet water, examining the underside of the structure with the kind of focused attention that reminded Ronan of men checking vehicles for IEDs.
"You bought a money pit," Sid said, straightening. Water dripped from his forearms. "You know that, right?"
"The real estate agent mentioned something about deferred maintenance."
"Deferred maintenance." Sid laughed—a short, sharp sound. "That's one way to put it. This dock hasn't been maintained since the Eisenhower administration." He waded back to shore and grabbed the towel he'd left on the grass. "We're looking at new posts, new decking, probably new hardware too. Three weekends minimum, if the weather holds."
"I've got time."
Sid paused in the middle of drying his hands, studying Ronan with the same assessing look he'd given the dock. "Yeah. I guess you do now."
Six weeks since the arrests. Six weeks since Ronan had walked away from twelve years of covert operations to buy a cottage on Lake Road with a view of the inlet and a dock that was trying to return to nature. The paperwork was still processing—restructuring his role within Shadow Ops wasn’t as simple as filing a form—but Caleb had called yesterday to say the transition was approved. No more fieldwork. No more covers. He’d moved into something Caleb called ‘operational coordination,’ which was a polished way of saying he’d be the man behind the desk instead of the man behind the gun.
"Hand me that pry bar," Sid said. "Let's see how bad the frame is."
They worked in silence for a while, pulling up rotted boards and stacking them in a pile for disposal. The September heat was brutal, even this early in the morning, and Ronan's shirt was soaked through within an hour. But there was something satisfying about the work—the simple physics of leverage and force, the visible progress of boards removed and damage assessed.
"Quinn says you were in the Army," Sid said, not looking up from the board he was prying loose. "Didn't say which branch."
"Army. Ranger."
"How long?"
"Ten years active. Then I moved to... other work."
"The kind of other work you don't talk about."
"Yeah."
Sid nodded, unsurprised. He'd done twenty-four years in the Army—enough time to know that some jobs didn't come with business cards.
"I did three tours in Iraq," he said. "Came back different every time. Grace—my wife—says I finally stopped flinching at loud noises about two years ago." He tossed a rotted board onto the pile. "Some things take longer to leave than others."
"How'd you end up here? Blossom Springs isn't exactly on the beaten path."
"Quinn talked me into it. We served together, way back. He's from here, started his construction company, and kept telling me I needed to get out of Minnesota. After my mom died, I didn't have much reason to stay." Sid wiped sweat from his forehead. "Bought the garage, met Grace, figured out how to be a person again. Took a while."
"And now?"
"Now I fix cars and boats, have dinner with my wife, try not to think too hard about the things I can't change." He looked at Ronan directly. "The question is whether you can do the same."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning you've got the look. The one that says you're waiting for the other shoe to drop." Sid set down his pry bar. "You bought a house. You're learning to fix a dock. But part of you is still scanning the perimeter, still running threat assessments, still expecting someone to come through that tree line with bad intentions."
Ronan didn't answer. Couldn't, because Sid was right.
"That syndicate Caldwell was running," Sid continued. "It didn't start and end in Blossom Springs. You know that better than anyone. There are people out there who lost money, lost power, lost freedom because of what you and Lila did. Some of them are going to be angry about it."
"You think they'll come looking."
"I think if I were them, I'd want to know who brought down my operation. And I'd want to make sure it didn't happen again." Sid picked up his pry bar again and went back to work on the next board. "The question is what you're going to do about it."
"I'm not going to run."
"Didn't think you would. But running isn't the only option." The board came loose with a groan of old nails. "You could spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder. Jumping at shadows. Treating every stranger like a potential threat. That's one way to live."
"What's the other way?"
