I find Nathan in his workshop, where he's patiently cleaning each spring and screw of his Colt. While the military may have shifted to the Beretta 9mm, Nathan's old school, and shoots American, using the Colt 1911 as his preferred carry piece. Until today, I was able to lie enough to myself that the chromed cannon was used only for practice and defense. Dangling from the coat rack next to his workbench is a single hanger that has both his suit jacket and dress shirt. There's not a single wrinkle or crease in the whole works, and I can also make out that his tie has been draped around the hanger with equal care. He's sitting on a barstool in front of a drafting table in just his suit pants and a wife beater undershirt, intensely focused on his weaponry.

“Hello, Nathan.” His workshop is an odd comparison in contrasts. Along one wall is his gun cabinet—containing not only pistols, but larger guns and weapons. No surprise there, since you'd expect that from someone who works in private security. But across the room is a wooden rack that's devoted entirely to tea. The rack is five feet wide by two feet tall, and the entire thing is filled with canisters of loose leaf teas plus an electric hot water dispenser. I didn't even know they made that many different types of tea, and he's got them all organized by type, flavor, and country of origin. In the corner next to the tea area is his fish tank, which contains a dozen different tropical fish all swimming peacefully. I guess it's great he has hobbies beyond being a scary motherfucker, but it's just... weird, I guess.

“Hello, Mr. Jackson. Is there something I can do for you?” Nathan takes a small toothbrush from a cleaning kit and begins scrubbing the trigger area of the pistol. Periodically he pauses to dip the brush into a small bowl with some nastyass smelling solvent before resuming brushing away.

“I came to talk with you about the errand Pops is sending you on. I trust we can keep this conversation between us?”

It's a risk, but one I have to take. Nathan's always been loyal to Pops, and I know that even approaching the man I could be risking a lot of anger. But this is Katrina... I can't sit back this time.

Nathan, however, scrubs at his trigger assembly a little bit longer, saying nothing before setting the whole thing down. “What did you hear?” he says coolly.

“That he wants Katrina Grammercy... dealt with. And something about ten years ago. What the hell does that mean?”

Nathan shakes his head, refusing to answer. Instead, he picks up the barrel of his pistol and something that looks like a round, giant Q-tip. I think it's called a bore swab? Anyway, he starts using it to wipe out the barrel a few times before he responds. “He did ask me to deal with Katrina. Do you have an issue with that?”

I blink in surprise. I wasn't expecting him to answer me, let alone admit to anything. “You're goddamned right I have an issue with it, Nathan! I mean, I've assumed for a while you had... skills, but to use them just because someone made me look like an ass?”

“Actually, she made you look like a dick,” Nathan jokes softly, and I stop. I've known Nathan for most of my life, and I think this is the first time I've ever heard him make a joke. I didn't know the man even had a sense of humor. I just assumed it had been shot off in the same war where he'd gotten that wicked-looking scar.

“I... Damn, Nathan, I didn't know you could make jokes. Not a bad one at that,” I say with a small laugh. “But seriously, though, it's just some pictures on the Internet. That's no reason to have a young woman... oh fuck it, let's talk like men. It's no reason to have someone killed!”

Nathan goes still for a moment, and I worry that I've crossed a line or something. He pulls the bore swab out of the barrel of the gun, setting everything aside before turning to face me. “And what would you know about good reasons to kill someone, hmm? Before I started working for Peter DeLaCoeur, I was in the Special Forces. I've killed people for a lot less,” he says softly.

“That was in the military. It's different.”

“Is it? Jackson, when I was at Campbell, we were sent to Somalia right after the end of the first Gulf War. This would have been right around the time you were getting your first teeth. It's not on the official list of deployments, but we were sent up to try and pacify a country that was embroiled in a civil war that's still going on today. The 75th Rangers might get the glory and the blame for that Charlie Foxtrot, but we were there, too.” He pauses, and shakes his head before continuing.

“The problem was that we couldn't find anyone worth turning the country over to. Each warlord was just as depraved and morally bankrupt as the next. It wasn't even a matter of having to choose between the lesser of two evils, it was more like deciding by randomly tossing a dart at a list of names. I saw things... I did things that made human life very, very cheap. I saw plenty of people killed, and for a lot less than some embarrassing photos.”

“It still isn't right, Nathan. Whatever happened twenty years ago... that was then, this is now. And what the hell's this about Katrina's parents?”

Nathan starts reassembling his pistol, slowly making sure each piece is perfectly aligned before he makes tiny adjustments with a miniature screwdriver set. “Samuel and Theresa Grammercy were killed when their car exploded in a parking garage near the Fair Grounds ten years ago. Katrina survived because she was fifty feet away, partially shielded by a concrete pillar that protected her from the worst of the bomb blast.”

“A bomb ordered by my father,” I say bluntly. “You can say it; I want the truth.”

“It may have been ordered by Peter, yes,” Nathan says quietly. “It may very well have been.”

“And is it possible that maybe you were involved in planting that bomb?” I ask. Nathan slides the barrel of his Colt back into the sliding upper part and checks the action.

“If you're asking me if I have experience with explosives, the answer is yes. Special Forces trained me in those and a lot more. But I didn't kill Samuel and Theresa. I didn't really like Samuel, but he was a family man, and someone who was doing a little bit of good in this town. I certainly would not have blown them up in front of their daughter. Besides, weren't you two close back then?”

“We were good friends,” I admit. “I met her when I was six, I think? We were in the same class through most of elementary school.”

“Did you have feelings for her? She was blossoming into a young woman right about the time her parents died, and you were... well, if my memory is correct, that was about the time you started showing an interest in women.”

It's my turn to remain silent as I think back on the past. Had I been interested in Katrina? I remember thinking she was cool, and not yucky like I thought most girls were back then. And she was really cute, in a way that... oh, fuck this, I can't tell Nathan all this. I can't even be honest with myself. “She and I... she was a special friend, which makes what happened in the limo not just embarrassing, but painful, Nathan. Regardless, I don't want her killed over it. It's not right, dammit!”

Nathan finishes putting his Colt back together and jacks the slide, checking the action. It slides back with a deadly hiss. Everything is perfectly clean and steely efficient before it catches in the open position. “You keep saying that word, 'right'. Tell me again, Jackson. What do you know about right and wrong?”

I square my shoulders and look Nathan in the eye. I don't know where I'm getting the guts for this, but I suspect it has something to do with Katrina. “I know enough to say that's it's wrong to order a young woman to her death over some embarrassing pictures. Especially when she might have a valid reason to hate your guts.”

Nathan flicks his wrist, and the slide on his pistol snaps back. He checks the sights quickly before setting his Colt down on the table and giving me... a smile? “Come, have some tea with me. I just acquired some charcoal-roasted Taiwanese Li Shan oolong that was grown on the southern slopes of Mount Ali. We can discuss your sudden interest in ethics as the tea steeps.”

I'm not a huge fan of tea, not even sweet tea, despite living in the South. Whatever fancyass tea Nathan's talking about is sure to be wasted on me, but fuck it, if it helps, it helps. I cross the workshop with him and take a seat while he draws water from the expensive-looking water heater and pours it into a pot. “The key to making good tea is to make sure you don't burn it,” Nathan explains. “That's where most people mess it up. Making tea isn't like making soup; you don't need to boil it. The tannins and flavonoids in tea are much more fragile than the ones in coffee even. So they require a slightly lower temperature, and a lot more patience. Instead of using boiling water, the ideal water temperature is between 180 and 190 degrees. I always keep my water at 182, to allow for the slight cooling that occurs with transfer to the pot. But if you go over 200 degrees, you might as well be dropping in some of those cheap Lipton teabags,” Nathan says disdainfully.

Nathan selects a canister from his rack and unscrews the top. I can see that the inside is lined with plastic, or maybe it's glass. Nathan notices me looking at the canister. “The glass prevents any oxidation that would result if the tea came in direct contact with the metal, and the metal keeps all light out. I could go with plastic, but I've noticed a decrease in flavor when the tea comes packaged in plastic.”

“Jesus man, how much does all this cost?” I ask, amazed. Seriously, this is some over-the-top-shit.

“The tea you'll be trying with me cost me a thousand dollars for the pound I was able to get my hands on. I have more expensive ones. This one though was a very good find for me, as it's been years since I was able to find this particular blend. I do hope it's as good as the last time.”

Nathan carefully scoops out some tea using a wooden spoon before placing the leaves into a ball-like thing with holes in it for water to flow through before he seals the thing and drops it into the pot. “Let's wait four minutes for the tea to steep, and then we can pour. Despite how particular I am when it comes to brewing tea, I just drink it from plain old coffee mugs. Give me a moment to grab some.”

“Really Nathan, you don't have to. I appreciate the gesture, though. I just never knew there was so much... complexity to tea.”

“Teas are like people in the sense that they're often very complex, and never quite what you expect until you try them. Now tell me, Jackson, why should I ignore your father's orders and spare Katrina Grammercy? Do you even have a reason beyond saying it isn't right?”

“Because it's like you said... haven't we done enough to this girl?” I ask, attempting to make him see reason. Why won't this guy listen to me? “Please Nathan, I'm asking you directly. Spare her.”

“And what will you do if I agree to spare her?” he asks, retrieving two mugs from a cupboard next to a small sink I hadn't noticed earlier. “Extract your own measure of revenge?”

“No... yes... fuck, I don't know. I want to start by talking to her. Nathan, I never knew why she disappeared from my life. I just went to school one day and the teacher said that Katrina had transferred schools. I wasn't into reading the news back then, I just rolled with it. But it hurt, and what she did last night hurt, too. I need to know. I need to look her in the eyes when I ask her why she did it.”

Nathan considers me for a long moment, then nods. “All right. Perhaps I've grown weary of death myself in my old age. When a man reaches fifty, the Reaper's a lot closer of a friend than you like to admit when you're twenty-two. Or hell, maybe I'm just trying to balance some old debts. I'll find Katrina, but I won't eliminate her. I'll report her whereabouts to you instead. If Peter asks... well, I doubt any woman who was able to put together the PSYOP that was done on you last night is going to be easy to find. It wouldn't be the first time someone's twisted Peter DeLaCoeur's tail and ran like a jackrabbit afterward.”

“Thank you, Nathan,” I say quietly. Nathan nods and sets a mug in front of me. He picks up his teapot and swirls it three times, then gives me a small half-smile.

“You're welcome. Care for some tea?”