Discovery

This story was written for NoraFares. She asked me to write in the "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover" writing event. For personal reasons, I am unable to write in the actual event, but this story can be a preview. I wrote it because she asked.

Thanks to my team. Harddaysknight is my mentor and gives me critical feedback. SBrooks103x also gives me a pre-post read. My editors are Norafares, Hale1, Girlinthemoon and GeorgeAnderson. I thank you all.

The warehouse was quiet and empty. That's the way I wanted it. When you're planning your getaway after ripping off a money launderer on the east coast, you don't want a lot of witnesses. I had nothing against money launderers, in general. They perform a valuable service to people who don't want to explain how they got the money they want cleaned. On other occasions, I'd used them to my advantage. I often did things for money, enough money that I didn't want to be bothered with explanations, either. Cash has a way of attracting the attention of people you don't want, like the IRS, DEA and a host of other alphabet agencies. If this worked, I was gone without a trace and no one the wiser. There were arrangements to make and this seemed like a good place to make them.

At 2:00 PM, precisely, I heard a car pull up outside and the sound of two doors closing. Mr. Black came in, followed closely by his associate. He looked around and noticed me sitting on the steps. He was carrying a briefcase, and I was very interested in the contents.

He was all business. He nodded toward the briefcase on the floor beside me. "Is that the money?" he asked.

"Let's take a look at yours, first." I grinned at him. "I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours." His associate gave a low growl and stepped toward me in a move I'm sure was supposed to be threatening. Mr. Black held up his hand and the muscle backed away.

"You're a real funny guy," he said. "I know you're tough; you don't have to keep proving it, okay? Just take a look."

He handed me the briefcase. It was all in there; birth certificate, passport, driver's license, social security card, three credit cards, just like I'd asked for. "These are all legit?" I asked. "I use the card or flash my ID at the police, am I going to be arrested?"

"They're good," he said. "You have a ten-thousand-dollar limit on all three cards, just like you requested. You now have the identity of a man who disappeared in South America 15 years ago. He has no living relatives and for all intents and purposes, you're him. Now, you've seen mine, let's see yours."

"Mine's bigger." I grinned at him and handed him the briefcase. He thumbed through the stacks of hundreds and flashed a quick light over a couple. He nodded and turned on his heel, walking out without a word. "Nice doing business with you," I called after him. He gave me the finger and he was gone. Well, that was the easy part.

I walked out and got in my car. I parked six blocks from my apartment and walked home from there. I felt like I was being watched the whole way. Better to be safe than sorry. Just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean they're not out to get you.

The Fretona brothers brought their dirty-money shipments in by boat. They were nice boats, so as not to attract attention, and they parked them in a brick structure down on the waterfront. The old access tunnel they didn't know about had been walled off years before. I had been working on that wall for three weeks, whenever there wasn't a shipment in there. There would be three guards, and with any luck, I wouldn't have to kill any of them.

I had a very nice taser gun and I was hoping to get them one at a time. If not, there was the .40 S&W with the Tundra suppressor, as backup. I would just have to see how things went. I had my own waterfront warehouse all ready and waiting, five miles up the coast. I had a copy of the boat key, and I was just biding my time. I knew the shipment dates and exactly how much they would have. It was a touch over 40-million.

Now, as an exercise, I had figured how big a stack that would be. A million-dollar brick of 100's is about 18 inches square. Just multiply by 40, and it's a pretty big stack. These were big boats. With what I'd managed to accumulate over the years, I'd be set for life. This was "fuck you" money, and I was going to disappear and never come back.

Well, everything didn't go according to plan, of course, and the second guy got off a strangled yell before he went nighty-night. That got the third guy either badly hurt, or dead. I didn't wait around to check. I fired up the boat, opened the doors, and boat and money disappeared. Three days later, it was in a shipping container on a freighter bound for Grand Bahama. I took delivery and five banks were happy to get my business. I took a little vacation, and in two weeks, I was back in Miami, ready to wrap things up and vanish from the ken of mortal man.

I was sitting on O'Brian's pub, just enjoying myself with my second bock beer, and I had the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching me. I looked around the bar, but aside from the hooker down at the end of the bar who was trying to pick up the only other patron, I was alone. I thought I saw movement outside the window, but it was just some girl passing by. I wasn't being paranoid. In this case, they really were out to get me.

The Fretonas knew they had been hit, and it was just a matter of time before they found out who did the deed. They had connections the FBI couldn't touch, and I needed to get the hell out of Dodge.

I rented an apartment in the front of my building and there was an apartment in the back, in the basement. That's where I really lived. The one in the back was officially empty, and I officially lived in the front one. Like I said, paranoid. When I turned the corner, I heard a movement and something round and heavy came whistling at my head. I got my arm up, barely in time. I'd been training. The round heavy thing deflected on my forearm. It hurt like hell. I reached out, grabbed the person swinging the aluminum baseball bat by the arm and spun them into me. My chest was pressed against their back and my arm went around their neck. I locked in the chokehold and they bucked and scratched and tried to kick me. She fought like a wildcat. Yes, it was a she. I could feel boobs and a little round butt. There was long red hair in my face and I choked her out.

I got her quiet and dragged her into the apartment. I was merciful and didn't kill her. I put her in a kitchen chair and taped her down with duct tape. Damn, she was gorgeous. She looked familiar, but I knew I'd never seen her before. I would have remembered. I got a warm washcloth and washed her face. She stirred a little and I gave her a drink out of a water bottle. She sputtered a little and her eyes opened. They were amazing. They were grey with little flecks of green in them. They focused and saw my face. The green flared in them and they became aquamarine. She spit in my face. I used the washcloth and cleaned it off. She did it again.

"Well, I get it that you don't like me," I said while I cleaned it off again. "What I don't get is why?"

"You're a fucking bastard, that's why," she spat.

"I know," I admitted, "but I've never been a bastard to you, I don't even know you."

"No, that's why I hope you get some terrible disease and die. You don't have AIDS or something, do you?"

"Sorry, no, I don't. Maybe you could arrange something," I told her. "I know, why don't you beat my brains in with a baseball bat?"

"I tried that." She actually grinned at me. "You're too good for me. Turn me loose and I'll try again."

I pulled out my knife and snapped open the blade. She flinched, but she didn't cringe or give an inch. This was quite a girl. She was a girl, probably 16 or so. I cut the tape and let her go. She sat there and rubbed her wrists for a minute, staring at me. I think she was trying to figure out what I was thinking.

"You're letting me go?" she asked.

"Yep."

"Why?"

"I'm a nice guy, for a fucking bastard," I told her. "I'm hoping you'll tell me who you are and why you're so mad at me."

"You don't know who I am, do you?" she asked.

"You look familiar," I admitted. "I don't know you, though."

"Look at me," she said. "Boston, fifteen years ago?"

"Jesus Christ," I said. "You're Trina's kid. What are you doing here? What's your name?"

"My name is Tyndal," she said. "I'm your daughter. Trina was my mother."

"What the hell makes you think you're my daughter?" I asked her. "Trina wasn't pregnant. I don't think she was."

"My birth certificate is in my backpack," she said. "How do you know she wasn't pregnant?"

"Where's your backpack?" I asked. "She may have been pregnant, but not by me. She was... no, let's not go there."

"My backpack is outside the door," she said. "I know what happened. She was drugged and gang banged. You left and never spoke to her again. She told me before... before... oh, God," she broke down and began to sob. She was so little and cute and sad I wanted to do something. I thought I should give her a hug. I moved toward her and she snatched up the knife I had put on the table.

"Don't you dare!" she yelled. "Don't you dare touch me!"

I held up my hands. "Okay, I won't touch you. Let's go get your backpack. You can show me that birth certificate. You can keep the knife."

She sniffed and we walked to the door. She went out and picked up her backpack. She looked at me, threw me the finger, darted off down the alley and she was gone. Why was everyone making rude gestures at me? I went back inside and ordered pizza. In about thirty minutes, the doorbell rang and I opened it. Tyndal was standing there holding a pizza. I opened the door and let her in.

"You owe me 17 dollars," she said.

I counted it off my roll and handed it to her. "You want something to drink?"

"What you got?" she asked.

"Beer, wine, Mountain Dew, Dr. Pepper, coffee or tea," I said.

She giggled. "I'll have a beer."

It was the cutest giggle I'd ever heard. She was the cutest girl I'd ever seen. She was just a tiny little thing, maybe five-four like her mom. I was sure she didn't weigh a hundred pounds. She had all that flame-colored hair like her mom, too. It was very long and curly and it framed an angel's face. There was a little sprinkle of freckles across her nose and her skin wasn't fair like I expected. It was a kind of golden honey color. I couldn't stop looking at her.

"Okay, beer it is," I said. "I have pale ale, dark lager, or cream ale."

"Really, you'll let me drink beer?" she asked.

"Sure, why not?"

"I'm not old enough," she said. "I want one of those pale ones, though."

I got her a Saint Germain Page 24 Black Edition and a glass. She figured out how to open it, and I watched. She poured it and took a sip. She shivered and I laughed. "First beer?"

"Yes, I kind of like it, though."

I got a lager and paper plates. We opened the pizza and I gave her two slices, some dipping butter and a pepper. We ate in silence for a minute.

"I'm glad you decided to come back," I told her.

"I'm not sure why I did." She looked at me and I noticed that the green was gone in her eyes and there was a lot of blue in there.

"Why did you?"

"You weren't what I expected," she said. "I thought I should talk to you. I know almost nothing about you. I know your name is Gerard Hamilton. That's my last name, too. I know you do something with computers and that you were married to Mom. She cheated on you and you disappeared. You never divorced her. Why not?"

"Tyndal, I hate to tell you this. You're just going to think I'm a worse fucking bastard. I just couldn't be bothered. I wouldn't have objected if she had divorced me, but I didn't care. Seeing her like that just killed any interest I had in her. Am I divorced?"

"No, you're widowed." She started to cry again. Great wracking sobs shook her slight body and it was breaking my heart.

"Tyndal, can I touch you?"

She nodded her head, choking back sobs. I picked her up out of her chair and carried her to the sofa. I held her and she wept brokenly into my chest. I just held her and stroked her hair. She quieted after maybe five minutes and snuggled down beside me.

"What happened?" I asked.

She got up, went and got her food and her beer, and mine, too. She looked at me and at my hands. They were folded in my lap. "Move your hands," she said.

She sat down on the sofa with her legs draped over me and sipped her ale.

"She didn't take care of herself," she said. "She never got over losing you. She knew it was her fault, but she loved you. She was a weak person. You know she was a diabetic. I nearly killed her when I was born. When I got older and could kind of take care of myself, she was drunk all the time. She didn't watch her diet and she started going blind. She just got worse and worse until her kidneys failed. She had no will to live. She just gave up. Why did you just leave her like that? I know she cheated, but they gave her drugs. It wasn't her fault. I know it was bad, but should cheating one time deserve the death penalty? Why did you just abandon her and me?"

"I didn't," I told her. "It was the third time, Tyndal. She'd tell me she was going out with the girls from work. She'd get drunk and go home with some man. I forgave her the first time. I knew she had a drinking problem and we were going to counseling. After the second time we were just going through the motions. She got in a gangbang and just stayed there for two days. After the third time I was done. What should I have done? What did you want me to do?"

"I don't know. It wasn't fair to me for you to just disappear. She had no way to contact you to tell you about me. It took me a year to find you. I didn't know about the first two times. She never told me that. I hated you. You wouldn't forgive her and I thought you might as well have killed her yourself. You just did a 'sneak out the back' and you were gone?"

I had to chuckle a little, though it was a serious moment. "'Sneak out the back,' Jack? It wasn't easy, Tyndal, but I didn't know about you. Are you sure you're mine?" I asked.

That set her off again. "No, I'm not sure," she wept. "You're listed as my father on my birth certificate. Why would she do that if you're not? I guess I could belong to anyone. I kind of have your eyes and your skin though. Maybe my father was one of the gangbang guys. You're dark like me and I have Mom's hair. Do you want me to get tested?"

"No, not unless you want to," I told her. "Your father wasn't one of them. They were black. Were you just going to kill me?"

"Maybe," she said. "I never really thought about it. I was going to beat the hell out of you, tie you up and make you talk. I'm sorry, I thought... I thought..." she couldn't go on.

I got her calmed down again. "Where are you staying?" I asked her.

"At a church," she said. "They let me stay there and I clean the place. I don't have very much money. I ran away from child services."

"Would you like to stay with me?" I asked her.

"Really? I didn't think you'd want me. Damn it, I've got to stop crying," she wiped her eyes and finished her pizza and ale. "Can I try one of those?" she tapped my beer with one little finger.

"Do you want to get drunk with me?" I asked her.

"I think I do," she giggled. "I've never been drunk before, but I feel like this would be the time. You won't let anything bad happen to me, will you?"

"No, we'll just get silly and I'll put you to bed," I told her. "There's another apartment, you know."

"Yeah, I know," she said. "I've been watching you, waiting for a chance to get you."

"You nearly did." I showed her the bruise on my arm.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"It's okay," I told her. "I really am a fucking bastard. I probably deserved it." She threw back her head and laughed. I liked that. I would have to work on my comedy.

She went and got us another beer and we had four apiece. She was as cute drunk as she was sober. She got happy drunk and told me all about herself. She wanted to be a doctor; she loved dogs, big ones, music and books. She didn't like raisins, cold weather or dresses. She got good grades in school when she went, she wanted to learn to dance and she loved me.

That last statement shocked both of us. After a minute she laughed. "Well, I love what I know. I love the idea of you. I love the idea of having a father. I think you're very cool and very good-looking. I can't imagine why Mom cheated on you. Her boss she banged after you left was going bald and he was an asshole. I don't know what to think about the gangbangs."

"I love the idea of having you, too," I told her. "I think we've had enough to drink, Tyndal. Let's get you to bed."

She stood up and wobbled a bit. "I think I need help," she giggled. We climbed the stairs and she helped me put fresh sheets on her bed. I got her a blanket and three pillows. She insisted she needed three, two to sleep on and one to hold. I hugged her and she lifted her face as if she wanted to be kissed, so I gave her a peck. "Night, baby girl," I told her. "If you need anything, come and get me, okay?"

I went out and closed her door. I heard her laugh again about something and I went to bed. It had been a long day and pretty unsettling, but I went right to sleep. I slept until ten, and she wasn't up yet. I woke her up at noon and she looked at me. "Bathroom," she croaked and I snatched her up. We barely made it before she made an offering to the porcelain gods. I got a washcloth and cleaned her up.

"I'm going to die," she groaned. "Damn it, Dad, why did you let me drink that beer?"

I loved that, "Dad." "I won't let you drink anymore," I said.

"Yes, you will," she said. "Only once in a while, though, and not so many. I need aspirin, Ibuprophen, or something. I have a terrible headache and I need to brush my teeth, badly."

We did all that and I carried her downstairs. I cooked scrambled eggs, toast and bacon. She sat at the bar and felt miserable. She ate a slice of toast, drank some milk and coffee and she felt well enough to try the bacon and eggs. When she finished, she went off to shower and I did, too. It was two before we were ready to be civilized. We walked down to the park and she held my hand. It felt tiny in mine and I wanted to hold it forever. We sat on a bench and she snuggled up against me.

"What are we going to do?" she asked.

"About what?" I asked her.

"About me," she said. "What are we going to do about us?"

"What do you want to do?" I asked.

"I want to stay with you," she said. "You're my father; you should take care of me and love me."

"Okay, let's do that," I said.

"Really? I can stay with you? You'll take care of me?" She was very excited.

"Of course," I said. "Tyndal, the day after tomorrow I'm leaving the country. I'm never coming back. I'll take you with me or I'll fix it so that you can stay here. What do you want to do?"

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"I'm going to Fiji," I told her "Would you like to live there?"

"I think so," she said. "Why are we going there?"

"I need to disappear," I told her. "I'll explain everything, but we need to leave the day after tomorrow. Very bad things are about to happen and a lot of very powerful people, very bad people, are going to be really pissed off at me. We have an obscene amount of money and we'll use some of it to disappear. We'll start a new life. Fiji is an independent country; they speak English and the economy is good. It's a tropical island and I know you don't like cold weather. It should be perfect, as long as I have you."

She got a little teary-eyed. "Do you really think that? I know I'll be happy if you love me. There's nothing for me without you. I'd be a ward of the state. If you keep me, I promise you'll never be sorry."