Undercurrent: A P.I. Munro Crane Romantic Suspense Thriller Read online

  “Well, I’ll tell you what. I learned a thing or two during the war. I look at things completely differently now.” Kaz was saying seriously but Crane sensed an underlying bitterness that his hard eyes could not veil.

  “War changes a man,” Crane concurred.

  “Did it change you?” Kaz asked suddenly. Crane raised an eyebrow in surprise.

  “I’ve always been a soldier,” he replied, “but yes, I suppose it did. After the injury, I retired from the armed forces. My ankle will never be the same again.” He tapped his left food against the bar stool.

  “So what do you do now?” Kaz pulled out the stool next to Crane and sat down. Even that he did stylishly, Crane thought.

  “I’m a private investigator,” he said slowly, watching Kaz for a reaction. Most people considered it a step down the career ladder. Others were intrigued, usually the ones who read too many detective novels. Which category would Kaz fall into?

  “How interesting. Are you for hire?” Kaz’s eyes were bright with curiosity. Crane was taken aback. That was one question he was not expecting.

  “Um, yeah, I guess so. You need some work done?” An uneasy feeling began to build in the pit of his stomach.

  Kaz nodded slowly. “I could utilise your services for a week or so. It wouldn’t be what you’re used to though. Not very exciting. It’s mainly a surveillance job. In fact, I’d do it myself, but it would be a bit… well, obvious, if you know what I mean?”

  The feeling grew stronger. Crane took a sip of his club soda. He’d grown to trust his instinct over the years. It had never done him wrong.

  “Want a drink?” he offered.

  “Johnnie Walker on the rocks,” Kaz told the bar tender in a voice used to ordering people around.

  “Surveillance?” Crane enquired when Kaz had been given his drink.

  “Mm… it’s a rather delicate issue.” He studied Crane from under long eyelashes and hesitated as if making a mental decision. “Can I trust you?”

  “My work is strictly confidential,” replied Crane.

  “Glad to hear it. It involves my wife you see.”

  “You want me to spy on your wife?” Crane struggled to keep the surprise out of his voice.

  Kaz didn’t look remotely uncomfortable with the idea. “I know it might seem a little strange, but hear me out.”

  Crane tried to keep an open mind.

  Remain detached.

  Kaz shifted on his stool. “I love my wife very much and have since the first moment we met. She’s had a few mental problems over the years. She’s prone to anxiety and takes anti-depressants, that kind of thing. Lately, I’ve noticed a change in her. She seems more distant, more detached, and she disappears for hours at a time and won’t say where she’s been or what she’s been doing. I’m worried she might be involved in something… dangerous.”

  Crane frowned. “What do you mean, dangerous?”

  Kaz shrugged, not making eye contact. “Maybe drugs, or maybe she’s seeing someone she shouldn’t be. There are a lot of crazies out there, as you know.”

  Okay, now they were getting closer to the truth.

  “Are you worried she may be having an affair?”

  Kaz looked away. “Is it wrong to want to know the truth?” He took a sip of his drink, his hand steady and unwavering.

  Crane sighed inwardly. This was the last thing he needed. To spy on some guy’s wife because he couldn’t handle the fact she was having an affair. Except it wasn’t just some guy, it was the guy who had saved his life. He owed him and unfortunately it was payback time.

  “Okay, I understand. Here’s the deal. I’ll find out what’s going on with your wife. It shouldn’t take longer than a week or two. If she is having an affair, I’ll know in a couple of days.”

  Kaz beamed. “Great, thanks. Here’s my cell number. You can contact me anytime on it, day or night.” He slid a business card across the bar.

  Crane acknowledged it with a nod but didn’t pick it up. Kaz got up as if to leave.

  “Hey, what’s her name?” Crane asked. He knew nothing about this woman. Not even what she looked like.

  “Sarah. Her name is Sarah. She drives a silver Mercedes SLK convertible and every morning she works out at Lloyds Fitness Centre. That might be a good place to start. This is my address,” he took a stylish silver pen out of his jacket pocket and reached for his business card. On the back he scribbled an address near the lake, a very exclusive area.

  So Kaz Erkel had money. Crane wasn’t surprised. It fit. The fancy clothes, the high-flying friends, the manicure.

  “Do you have a picture of her?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll email you.”

  It was Crane’s turn to hand over his card. Cheaper paper, zero design. Just his name, occupation and email address.

  Kaz flicked the card with his forefinger. A gesture of confirmation.

  “What are your rates?” he asked idly.

  “None,” said Crane firmly. “I owe you. Let’s just call it a favour.”

  Kaz nodded, accepting his answer for what it was - payback.

  After Kaz had returned to his party, Crane sat mulling over what had transpired. His gut told him something didn’t add up, but none-the-less he’d do what he was hired to do and hope it didn’t take up too much of his time.

  “Sorry I’m late.” A stocky, middle-aged man in an ill-fitting suit pulled out the barstool next to him and sat down. “Traffic was hell.”

  Crane turned with a ready smile. “About time you got here. You know how much I hate these things.” Like him, Doug was more at home in combat pants and a T-shirt, but since he’d left the army and moved into the world of government bureaucracy, he’d had to clean up his act.

  The still agile, retired recruiting detachment commander for the U.S. Army Special Operations Command at Fort Bragg, N.C. and more recently FBI Station Chief, Doug Keeting, gripped his hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “Good to see you, buddy. It’s been a while.”

  Crane grinned. “It has. Things must be quiet at the FBI. Want a drink?”

  “Not that quiet. I’ll have a beer, thanks.”

  Crane ordered, then turned to his old friend and mentor. “So how have you been?”

  He’d met Doug during his Special Ops training. Doug had been his instructor on the Survival, Escape, Resistance and Evasion course, one of the toughest courses in the army. As a young recruit, he’d been trained in skills that allowed him to survive in any condition. They’d been to the arctic, desert, open ocean, jungle and mountain regions. They’d been trained in combat and captivity situations. Crane smiled as he remembered how initially Doug had tried unsuccessfully to break him. Eventually, a grudging respect had developed between the two men and by the time Crane had graduated, they were firm friends. That had been nearly twenty years ago.

  “Not too bad. I gotta tell you, I miss the action. Riding a desk isn’t my style.”

  Crane cringed. He couldn’t imagine anything worse, but for an old-timer like Doug, it was the only possible option if he wanted to keep working for the Federal Government. He patted him on the shoulder. “I sympathise. How long until you’re due to retire?”

  Doug chuckled. “Too long.”

  The conference room was getting crowded. Cocktail waiters and waitresses had to hold their trays above their heads to avoid getting bumped into. The hum of conversation had escalated to a loud buzz so Crane had to raise his voice to be heard. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Kaz leave with the Senator. He glanced at his watch. “So what’s so important you had to get me out here?”

  Doug gave him a sly look. “Don’t panic, the river can wait. I have a job for you.”

  Crane suppressed a grin. His friend knew him too well. Ever since he’d quit the marines, kayaking had become his adrenalin fix, something which restored his spirit but at the same time invigorated him and pumped him up. It didn’t match the military for pure excitement value, but since he was pushing forty it was probably time to turn
the excitement down a notch - especially since his last experience. He flexed his ankle under the bar counter and said wryly, “Well, that job is going to have to wait. I’ve already got one on the go, starting this week.”

  Doug frowned. “You’re kidding me?”

  Crane shook his head. “You’re fifteen minutes too late. I’ve just been hired.”

  “What? Right now?” Doug glanced around the room. “Who?”

  “He’s left already, but it’s a guy I met in Afghanistan.” He paused, then said softly, “The one who pulled me out of that bunker.”

  “You’re not serious? The guy who saved your life?”

  Crane nodded.

  Doug ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, I’m a little lost here, buddy. Help me out. I thought that guy was an Afghan soldier? But now you’re telling me he’s here, in Portland, Oregon, and just hired you for a job?”

  Crane gave a half-smile. It was a far-fetched story and to be honest, he’d have trouble believing it too, if he hadn’t seen Kaz with his own eyes.

  “I thought he was an Afghan too but he’s not, he’s American. He only fought with the Afghans to avenge his father’s death. His father was an Afghan and their entire village was taken out by the Taliban.”

  Dough leaned forward. “So what actually happened over there? You’ve never told me. I know you were fucked up when you came home, but…” He left the rest of the question hanging. Crane sighed. He supposed he owed Doug an explanation. Pride had prevented him from sharing his experience with anyone, other than the shrink they’d assigned him in rehab, and that was more to get her off his back than because he actually needed to talk. But for this conversation he needed something stronger than a club soda.

  After the barman had placed a double whiskey on the bar in front of him, Crane began his story. “During a reconnaissance mission, I discovered a Taliban stronghold, a cave network which riddled the mountains. You wouldn’t have believed this place. It was well-ventilated and equipped with food, medical supplies, everything you’d need to survive for months underground. It was no wonder we couldn’t find them. And there were thousands of militants living there, coming and going under the cover of darkness. We’d grossly underestimated their number and their fire-power.”

  Doug listened intently.

  “I fed all this back to the unit and they planned an attack, an insurgence to take out the compound and everybody in it.” His hands begun to shake as he recalled the anticipation of that assault.

  Doug felt it too. “That’s what U.S. marines do. That’s what you’re trained for.”

  “The goal was to reclaim that section of Helmand Province.”

  “Except you were captured.” Doug knew that much.

  Crane nodded. “I went in to suss out their weapons. They had everything there, including portable surface-to-air missiles, something I hadn’t counted on and hadn’t relayed back to the team. I got down as far as the second level before I was ambushed. I tried to fight my way out, but the bastards injected me with something, something that knocked me out for hours. It was only when I came round that I realised it was opium.”

  Doug stared at him with eyes the size of his whiskey glass. “They drugged you?”

  “Yeah, they had tons of the stuff. It was raw and unprocessed, but fucking effective. It’s a brilliant tactic, if you think about it. I couldn’t move, my brain had turned to shit, all I could do was lie there on this stinking mattress chained to the wall. Then, as soon as the effects began to wear off, they’d shoot me up again.” He reached for the scotch. “There was nothing I could do. They turned me into a junkie.”

  “Fucking hell.” Doug stared at him like was seeing him for the first time. “I had no idea. How long did this last for?”

  “It felt like forever, but in reality it was only a few weeks. Then came the attack on the compound and the bunker was destroyed. I got trapped under a ton of rubble. I would have died out there if the guy hadn’t come along and found me.”

  Doug shook his head. “No wonder you were so screwed up when you got home. So, that’s how you injured your ankle?”

  “Yeah, when the bunker collapsed, half the mountain came down on top of it. A boulder smashed into my foot and destroyed my ankle.” And his military career. He took a gulp of scotch and tried to shake off the melancholy which had gripped him like he was gripping the glass. He forced his hand to relax.

  Doug was shaking his head. “I’m sorry, man. How long did it take you to get off the drugs?”

  “They put me in a rehab clinic. I was clean in six months.” He was playing it down. It had been six months of hell, worse than any warzone he’d ever been in, but he didn’t want to get into that. Not now, possibly not ever. Some memories were best left buried. He took deep breath. “So you see why I can’t turn down this job?”

  “I understand.” Doug looked shell-shocked and for a moment Crane regretted telling him. He didn’t want his former commander to think he was weak. He’d always been the strongest one in the unit, the one who’d refused to be broken. Now Doug was seeing him in a whole new light.

  His friend patted him on the back. “You do what you gotta to do for this guy, and give me a call when it’s done.”

  “It shouldn’t take long. It’s a surveillance job.”

  “No problem. Take as long as you need.” He grinned. “My homicide can wait.”

  Crane threw back the rest of his scotch. “Thanks, buddy. Give me a couple of weeks and I’m all yours.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Crane studied the full-colour photograph of Kaz Erkel’s wife on the screen. She was beautiful, there was no doubt about that. She had the sort of sexy fragility which made a man want to protect her and take her to bed at the same time. She had wavy, blonde hair and a fresh, clear complexion that required no make-up enhancement. Velvet, chocolate eyes stared beguilingly into the camera, not without a hint of mischief. Crane found himself drawn to those eyes. They were wide and innocent, yet hinted the woman behind them loved to laugh. She had an elegant nose, soft cheekbones covered by a coral blush and unsmiling lips in a contemplative pose. He wondered what she’d been thinking as the lens snapped shut.

  Crane supposed he could understand Kaz’s concern, especially if she’d been acting strangely of late, but why didn’t he just ask her if she was having an affair? There was obviously a communication breakdown in the marriage. Hiring a private detective was hardly ever the answer to marital problems. In fact, if anything, it signified the beginning of the end but he kept those opinions to himself. His job was to find out who she was seeing – if indeed she was seeing someone – and the job was what he would do. Because he owed it to the man who’d saved his life.

  Crane snapped the laptop shut and walked into the bedroom to get changed. He’d built this log cabin when he’d left the marines. Honourably discharged due to injury. It was laughable. What they’d actually meant was with a smashed ankle and an addiction problem, we can’t have you back. A liability, is what they’d have called him. Not to his face, but to each other in the close confines of the decision-making boardrooms. It didn’t matter he was one of the best reconnaissance operatives they had, or his intel had given the Western forces the upper hand in nearly all the armed conflicts he’d been involved with in the Middle East. None of it mattered at the end of the day. He was out and he had to accept it.

  After he’d come out of rehab, cleansed from the lethal opium that had held him prisoner for weeks whilst in captivity, he’d begun building the cabin. It had taken him six months to complete. He’d slogged from nine to five every day for half a year in order to complete the structure. It wasn’t a palace – just one bedroom, a lounge and a kitchen – but he was proud of it.

  The manual work had taken his mind off the war in Afghanistan, which he missed almost as much as his body had craved the opium. But both yearnings had passed after a while, and the menial tasks of sawing, chopping, sanding, drilling and nailing had allowed his body and mind to heal and regain the
ir strength.

  Then, he’d discovered kayaking and the adrenalin proved a healthy substitute for the excitement he was missing. After six months of building and kayaking, Crane’s physique was back to its powerful pre-injured self, except for one part... His ankle would always be screwed. Despite four painful operations in which the best doctors the military had to offer, had tried to piece it back together, it was still weak and ached after even a short jog. Crane had realised some things were just too broken to be fixed.

  He took off his clothes and pulled on his wetsuit. His buoyancy vest and helmet were outside along with his kayak. He opened the front door and immediately his two golden Labradors, Blaster and Spirit, charged inside, tails wagging.

  “Time for a swim, boys?” he said, taking a deep breath of forest air. Underneath the smell of damp foliage and autumn leaves was the muddy scent of the river. He’d checked earlier and it was running high and fast, just like he liked it. A seed of anticipation began to grow in his belly.

  He needed this. The meeting with Kaz, and his subsequent chat with Doug, had loosened memories which were better left undisturbed, so much so that he’d had ‘the dream’ again last night. The one where he was lying on the dirty mattress shackled to the cave wall in the Taliban compound. He was semiconscious thanks to the effects of the opium and couldn’t move, his body paralysed. In the distance, he could hear the Chinook helicopters approaching. It was his team! They were coming to get him.

  He calculated the distance at the back of his fuddled mind. Seven hundred metres and counting…five hundred…three hundred…

  Then came the low scream of the F-16 fighter jets and he realised it wasn’t a rescue mission, it was a strike! He scrambled for cover, flattening himself against the back wall of the cave, but it was no good. The mountain imploded as the first bombs struck, rubble rained down and dust enveloped the bunker, choking him.

  He woke up gasping for air.