Page 14 of The Man I Hate

Braxton

Jacking off in my hand wasn’t as satisfying as I wanted it to be. Disappointed somewhat in Anna’s sexual stamina, I stared at my computer’s monitor. As I recalled the highlights of my morning, Pratt stepped into my office.

The skin under his eyes was thin and dark. His hair—which was normally styled—was dry and unkempt. Wearing a look of defeat, he shuffled toward the closest chair.

“No good news?” I asked.

He poked a piece of candy in his mouth and neatly folded the wrapper before putting it in his back pocket. “Nope.”

Performing surveillance on high-profile targets was one of the services I offered. Typically, I gathered information in support of someone’s theory, and then provided photos and videos of the proof, at a price. Attorneys, actor’s agents, and movie producers were a few of my typical clients.

My means of gathering inside information ranged from interviewing disgruntled spouses to bribing enemies, friends, and neighbors. My sources weren’t always right. Some provided more accurate information than others.

Not yet convinced I’d acted on a bad tip, I searched for answers. “You were there the entire night?” I asked. “You never left once?”

“What? Left?” He looked at me like I’d punted his cat off the Vincent Thomas Bridge. “I was on assignment. You think I dipped out to Jack in the Box for a burger?”

“I’m just asking.”

“Watched the place like a hawk from a little after seven last night until about thirty minutes ago.”

“No movement whatsoever?” I asked. “No one came or went?”

“Nope.” He lowered his backpack to the floor and took a seat by the window. “Nobody in, nobody out.”

Gordon Pratt was one of the best there was. As a MARSOC Marine, the training he received in surveillance, countersurveillance, evasive driving, and hand-to-hand combat was the best the Nation had to offer. His twenty years of experience included time spent working side by side with the CIA, Navy SEALS, and the Army’s elite Delta Force.

I squeezed a drop of Visine into each eye. “You look like shit.”

“I’m worn the fuck out,” he admitted. “Pisses me off that I hid in that tree line for twelve hours and all he did was take his dog out twice.”

“You look like you haven’t slept in a fucking week. Put some of this in your eyes.” I tossed him the bottle of Visine. “What kind of dog?”

“I don’t know.” He put a drop in each eye. “I’m not a dog person. It was a little white poofy fucker with short legs.”

As far as I knew, our target didn’t have a dog. If he decided to get one, a “little white poofy fucker” didn’t sound like something he’d pick.

“Did you get pictures?” I asked.

“Of what?”

I narrowed my gaze. “The dog.”

“Sure did.” He tossed me the bottle of Visine and reached for the backpack. “There wasn’t much else to take pictures of, other than the neighbor chick southeast of him.”

Pratt had two weaknesses that I was aware of.

Candy and beautiful women.

His addiction to lollipops and Jolly Ranchers didn’t interfere with his ability to stay on task. Women, on the other hand, often did. On the rare occasion that he made a mistake, there was typically a beautiful woman involved.

I glared. “Explain to me how you could keep an eye on the objective if you were watching his neighbor?”

He pulled the camera from the bag and powered it on.

“I wasn’t watching her,” he insisted. “But I saw her. The sexy bitch was dressed in hooker heels, a bikini top, and a pair of cut-offs that fit her like a thong. She had tits the size of fucking cantaloupes, and she was walking a fucking leopard on a leash. Kind of tough not to see her.”

He handed me the camera.