The Equalisers: A Soldier's Oath

Just when she’d been ready to give up, the last guy she’d called—a low-rent one-man operation she’d almost skipped over in her online Yellow Pages search—had told her about a rumor he’d heard. A new shop was opening up in Chicago. There was a buzz going around that this one would be different from all the others.

So here she was, in Chicago sitting outside a place that might very well be her last hope.

The Equalizers.

Her low-rent P.I. had waxed on about how this place planned to take covert investigations to the next level. The Equalizers would accept the less desirable or riskier jobs that no one else wanted to touch.

Since the firm had only just opened, Willow couldn’t be sure if the plan to take on any and all cases was out of necessity or not, but she was here.

She was desperate.

Her savings and investments were dwindling fast. This place might very well prove her final hope in more ways than one. There wouldn’t be enough money to hire anyone new if this one failed.

An ache twisted through her, making her want to curl up into a ball of defeat. No. She had to be strong. The only way she would ever get her son back was if she didn’t give up, if she tried harder.

Determination rushed through her on the tail of a burst of adrenaline when Davenport’s words echoed in her brain. Maybe she was looking for a miracle. Who said there was anything wrong with that? Miracles manifested themselves in many ways. She’d been taught that concept her whole life. That was one part of her upbringing she needed to hang onto.

Willow got out of the car and strode across the street to the entrance of the brownstone designated as number 129. The painted wooden sign hanging next to the door announced the name of the business in bold strokes.

The Equalizers.

Well, she would just see if the firm could live up to its fledgling reputation.

Acting before she could think of another reason to waver, she opened the door and went inside. The sudden warmth reminded her that she’d gotten cold sitting in her car with the engine turned off for all that time. A winter chill had blasted the midwest last night, causing major delays in several airports. Thank goodness Midland hadn’t been one of them. Once she’d made up her mind to come, she would have done so even if she’d had to walk.

A receptionist sat behind an L-shaped desk. Her back was turned to the door while she typed away at her computer. Several chairs and accompanying tables bordered the room. Magazines were fanned across the top of one of the tables. No plants or goldfish tanks. No heavy stench of cigarette smoke as she’d encountered in many of the agencies she’d visited. Just empty and quiet, like Davenport’s office had been, except for the receptionist’s busy fingers on the keyboard.

The decorating scheme left something to be desired, but the place was neat and clean. She could appreciate that after the last couple of places she’d visited in the past forty-eight hours.

Since the receptionist didn’t make the usual overture though she’d surely heard the door close, Willow stepped closer to her desk and spoke up. “My name is Willow Harris. I’m here to see the man in charge.” She purposely left off the phrase if he’s available. She’d come too far to accept any kind of excuse. The idea that he could be out of town banded around her chest and squeezed. Booking the first available flight and rushing here might have been a mistake, but she’d had no choice.

Her situation wouldn’t wait. She’d waited too long already.

Please let him be here.

Rather than offer a customary greeting, the receptionist frowned as she gave Willow a thorough once-over with assessing brown eyes. She appeared less than pleased at being interrupted from whatever she’d been doing on the computer. Maybe she wasn’t the receptionist at all. She could be one of the investigators who had decided to use this computer for one reason or the other.

“Is he in?” Willow prompted after another awkward moment elapsed. And here she had thought she’d already seen the most bizarre and unprofessional this business had to offer.

“How do you know the person in charge isn’t a woman?” The woman tucked a handful of sandy-brown hair behind one ear and gave Willow a pointed look.

Too taken aback to be embarrassed, Willow struggled a moment to come up with an appropriate response. “Well… who is in charge?” Maybe this woman didn’t work here at all.

“Mr. Jim Colby,” the woman behind the desk said with a smile that wasn’t really a smile, more a fleeting tick. “Do you have an appointment?”

Willow looked around the small reception area. There was no one else there. Unless Mr. Colby already had a client in his office or was expecting one momentarily, she didn’t see the point in the question. But then she remembered the discreet way Davenport had operated.

“No,” she admitted. “I don’t have an appointment. I flew in from St. Louis this morning in hopes that Mr. Colby could make some time for me.”

“Calling first would have been smarter.”

Willow reminded herself that she needed to get past this woman and to the man in charge. Giving her any advice on how a proper receptionist conducted herself might not be conducive to making that happen.

The truth was the woman was right. But Willow managed to keep her voice calm. “I know. I apologize for just showing up like this, but the matter is urgent.”

The receptionist, who didn’t wear a name badge or have a name plate on her desk and who looked utterly unimpressed, smiled another of those unsmiles. “I’m new here. I’ll have to check his calendar first.” She flipped through the calendar taking up space on the oak desktop next to the telephone. Not a single page she previewed had anything at all written on it.

“He appears to be free,” the receptionist announced. “Just have a seat, Ms. Harris, and I’ll find out if he can see you today.” She gestured to a chair.

Willow settled into a chair and tried to slow her mind’s frantic churning. Exhaustion simply wasn’t an adequate description of just how tired she felt. It was, however, the only word she could think of at the moment. This man—Jim Colby—had to help her.

The receptionist buzzed her boss on the intercom, using the handset to keep his end of the conversation private. A couple of pauses and yes sirs, and then she placed the handset back in its cradle.

“Up the stairs and the first door on the left.”

Evidently that was a yes to the question of whether or not he was available. Willow offered a polite smile, deserved or not. “Thank you.”

The woman didn’t say anything, not even a “You’re welcome.” She swiveled in her chair and resumed her work at the computer. Mr. Colby needed to seriously consider public relations classes for his receptionist.

The desperation clawing at Willow’s heart was the only thing that kept her from walking out, considering the vibes she’d gotten so far. If she’d wasted the money coming here… if she’d made a mistake…

She blocked the thoughts. Stay focused. There hadn’t been any other choice. This was her last hope.

A man she presumed to be Jim Colby waited in the doorway of an office in the upstairs corridor.

“Ms. Harris.” He thrust out his hand. “I’m Jim Colby.”

She placed her hand in his and he gave it a firm shake. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Colby.”

“Can I get you some coffee or water?” He directed her into his office as he made the offer.

Expansive oak desk, a credenza and lots of file cabinets along with numerous unpacked boxes took up most of the floor space in the office. Mr. Colby had, literally, just set up shop. “Ah… no, thank you,” she abruptly remembered to say in answer to his question. Though she appreciated that he appeared determined to be polite, getting right down to business was her priority at the moment. She sat down in one of the upholstered chairs and waited for him to do the same on the other side of his desk.

He studied her a moment, intense blue eyes looking right through her as if she were an open book published in easy-to-read large print. His assessment, however, appeared far less suspicious than that of his receptionist.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Harris?”

This was the hard part. How did she adequately relay the volatility and urgency of her situation as concisely as possible?

“It all started four years ago,” she began, without allowing the gut-wrenching memories that attempted to bob to the surface to do so. She’d learned long ago not to revisit that past. It was too hard to maintain her sanity otherwise. “I was traveling on business in Kuwait. I met a man and we had a… sort of whirlwind romance. We married only a few days later.”

She didn’t see any reason to give him the trivial details of her lapse into stupidity. She’d relived those days over and over again already in an attempt to pinpoint something—anything—that should have served as a warning to her. So far she’d found nothing.

“Two years ago we had a child, a boy.”

Something in his expression changed when she said boy. She already knew what he was thinking. A boy was a far more prized asset than a girl, even in a country as liberal and progressive as the State of Kuwait, making her quest a far more difficult one.

“Eight months ago I realized I couldn’t live the way my husband wanted me to for a moment longer.” It was not nearly as simple as that, but she knew from experience that he would ask questions until he had all the information he needed. No need to go into the gory details until she knew whether he intended to take her case or not. “I decided that a divorce was the only option. I could return to my home in the States and put those years in the Middle East behind me.”