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old pals out there was dwindling. I was yet to find out which of them was the latest to die, because other than with Rink, I’d no connection to any of the other operatives I once hunted terrorists alongside.
    I wondered if whoever was hunting me had used the tattoo to track me, but that wasn’t likely. A more probable scenario was that they had used their connections in the criminal underworld, or even the law-enforcement community, to sniff me out. Unfortunately I’d enemies in both camps. Yet the most obvious way in which they would have traced me here to Tampa, and to Rington Investigations, was through Charles White, the private investigator from Miami who’d played at mediator between the Jamaicans and the Pilarcik family. As far as I could tell, Charlie White was a good man: I doubt he’d have given me up willingly.
    As I strode back to the office, clutching my waxed cup of Blue Mountain coffee, I called him on my cell.
    “Charles White Private Investigations,” said a voice.
    It wasn’t Charles. This voice was feminine. It sounded slightly wary.
    “Who am I speaking with?” I inquired.
    I didn’t get a straight answer. “If you wish to speak to Mr. White, I’m afraid he’s out of the office at this time.”
    “Can you tell me when you expect him back?”
    There was a hitch in the voice, a second or so of a pause that confirmed my fears. When she came back on, the woman went through the motions robotically. “I’m sorry, but I can’t be precise. If you’d like to give me your name and number I’ll have him contact you on his return.”
    “How long has he been gone?”
    “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t divulge that kind of information.”
    She sounded worried, and rightly so.
    I considered asking White’s assistant outright if he was missing, and if she had any idea about what had happened to him. But I didn’t. The Jamaicans had moved on from Miami. They were here in Tampa. As for Charles White, there was a likelihood that he was currently feeding the fish out in Miami Sound.
    Instead, I said, “It’s okay. I’ll call another time.”
    My assumptions were speculative at best. Maybe Charles was the type to disappear for days at a time, but I couldn’t ignore the coincidence. I had that prickling sense that had alerted me to danger in the past and I wasn’t about to write it off now. The Jamaicans would have easily learned Charles’s identity. Poke him with a machete enough times and he’d give up the names and descriptions of those he’d sent to conduct the rendition of their hostages. Perhaps the Rasta man at Jolie’s had thought my tattoo was more indicative of my identity than my name, and had described it to make sure he was closing in on the correct person.
    I’d purposefully left my Audi parked across the street from Jolie’s. The Jamaicans weren’t there, but since they’d already mentioned they’d visited Rink’s office and found it deserted, I decided I’d leave things looking the same way. Possibly they had someone watching Rington Investigations and they’d report if my vehicle turned up.
    I went left at the next intersection. Still two blocks up from the office. Mid-way along the next block was a service alley and I headed along it. Coming to the next cross street I paused, conducting countersurveillance measures instilled in me during all those years of active service. I didn’t spot a shadow. I headed for the next service alley, but once out of sight I halted, waiting to see if anyone nosey enough would poke their head around the corner. While I waited I sipped on my coffee. It had grown tepid. I binned the cup in a Dumpster. Nobody showed up.
    Happy that I’d gone unobserved I headed down the alley to where a roller shutter concealed the back entrance to Rink’s building. I had a key to the lock and I let myself in the back door. There’s a room at the rear that occasionally doubled as a bedroom. No one sleeps there anymore. A bullet hole in the door frame to