The DHS man added, “We’ll get these people in shape somehow, some way.”
“I’m not sure it’ll be in my lifetime, sir,” Finn said.
“You can wing it back to D.C. with us,” the man said. “We have an agency Falcon standing by.”
“Thanks, but I have someone here I’ve been meaning to visit. I’m going back tomorrow.”
“Right. Until next time.”
Until next time, Finn thought.
The men left and Finn rented a car and drove into the Detroit suburbs, stopping at a strip mall. From his knapsack he pulled out a map and a file with a photo in it. The man in the picture was sixty-three years of age, bald with several distinguishing tattoos, and went by the name Dan Ross.
It wasn’t his real name, but then neither was Harry Finn’s.
CHAPTER 3
ARTHRITIS. And on top of that the damn lupus. They were a lovely duo, perfectly synchronized to make his life a painfully throbbing hell. Every bone creaked, every solitary tendon shrieked. Each movement sent a mule kick right to his gut and yet he kept going, because if you stopped, you stopped for good. He downed a couple of potent pills he wasn’t supposed to have and plunked a ball cap on his hairless, pale-skinned head, pulling the brim low over his eyes and then donning sunglasses. He never liked people seeing what he was looking at. And he never wanted people to get a good look at him.
He eased himself into his car and drove to the store. Along the way the meds kicked in and he felt okay, or at least he would for a couple hours.
“Thank you, Mr. Ross,” the sales clerk said, glancing at the name on the credit card before handing it back along with his purchases. “You have a good day.”