CHAPTER TWO

Harley Watts stood just over six feet tall with white hair and a white mustache. He looked like your stereotypical cop from the eighties, complete with Hawaiian shirts and faded blue jeans when he wasn’t in uniform.

He was waiting on my front porch when I pulled into my driveway. I ignored him as I opened the garage door and parked my Yukon next to my blue 2019 Corvette ZR1. As far as I was concerned, unless someone had died, he could wait. And if someone had died, then he should’ve told me over the phone.

I closed the garage door behind me, unloaded my bags in the laundry room, and then went to the front door where Harley was now standing waiting for me.

“How long have you been out there?” I asked as I opened the door and let him in.

“Long enough,” he said.

“Were you out there when you called me?”

“Maybe. Do you have a cold beer?”

“You know I quit drinking. Want some tea? Coffee?”

Harley made a sour face. “I’d like a beer. But I guess I’ll take a sweet tea.”

“Yeah, well, I’d like my dog and some sleep, but here we are.”

“Where is the old girl?”

“She’s only five, and she’s at the dogsitter. I couldn’t get home in time.”

“Glamorous airline life, huh?”

“Pretty much.”

I walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. I had one bottle of sweet tea left. I handed it to Harley and grabbed a bottle of water for myself.

“Bottled tea?” Harley said, making that same sour face again.

“Why are you here, Harley?” I asked impatiently as we sat down at the table in my breakfast nook. I noticed Lana’s empty food and water bowls next to the table. It annoyed me how much time I spent away from her, and had once again failed to get her home on time.

Harley took a swig from the bottle and then said, “I want you to come fly for me.”

“At the sheriff’s office?”

“Yes, at the sheriff’s office. My aviation unit.”

“Harley, I don’t even live in Magnolia County and I’m not a cop.”

Harley nodded, as if considering what I had just said for the first time. “I talked to the sheriff today about it. He’s on board.”

“You want me to give up flying airliners to go fly helicopters for twenty bucks an hour?”

“It’s thirty bucks an hour, but no, I’m not asking you to give it up yet. Just part time.”

“Part time? What kind of commitment is that?”

“Whenever you can manage it.”

I rubbed my hand through my hair, squinting at Harley as if he had just come up with the most ridiculous plan I’d ever heard.

“Wait, you came all this way to tell me you got me a part-time job? Harley, I’m not even a helicopter pilot.”

“You’ve got, what, two hundred hours and a commercial rating, right?”

Harley was right. When the airlines had given out leaves during the pandemic in 2020–2021, I had taken some time off to get my commercial helicopter add-on with Harley as my instructor. He had taught me to fly some as a kid, but I hadn’t officially done anything until I had the time. We had rented a Robinson R-44 and gone through the pain together of converting a fixed-wing pilot to a rotary-wing pilot.

But since then, I had flown maybe fifty hours per year in rented helicopters. I was certainly no professional, and I didn’t have enough time for any insurance company to take me seriously.

“You could’ve texted me all of this, you know.”

Harley scoffed the idea. “Texting is for children. This is important.”

“Okay, so give me the details.”

Harley took another sip of the sweet tea and shifted in the chair. “I’m going to get you checked out in the OH-58 and the OH-6. You’ll have an administrative commission, so no need to go through the academy or anything—unless you want to.”

“I see,” I said.

“Once you’re comfortable, you’ll fly missions with TFOs.”

Tactical flight officers, or as Harley sometimes called them, JAFOs, were the deputies who sat in the left seat and worked the sensors while coordinating with ground units and dispatch.

“I’ve known you my whole life, Harley. Nothing is that simple. Why now? What else is going on?”

“There’s a storm coming.”

“A storm?” I asked in my exhausted delirium. “It’s wintertime, Harley. There are no hurricanes in the gulf right now.”

Harley laughed. “You know what I mean. Things are changing. The war is coming home. I need people I can trust.”

I couldn’t tell if my exhaustion was making Harley sound like he was speaking in riddles, or if he was actually being this way. My head felt like it was a fog. I needed sleep more than anything.

“And you think me flying your sixty-nine-year-old helicopters is going to win that war?”

“Not yet, but eventually, yes. This world is changing, Clint. Law enforcement aviation is changing. Dinosaurs like me aren’t long for this world. But you—you’re exactly what’s going to be needed for what’s next.”

“I’m forty-three years old and an airline pilot. What could I possibly have to offer?”

“You’re a fighter pilot, Clint. You’ll always be a fighter pilot. You think faster, move smarter, and act decisively when you need to.”

“That was a long time ago,” I said, shaking my head. “That part of me is dead.”

“That part of you will never die.”

“So, what, I’m supposed to chase the glory days flying orbits over drug dealers?”

“It’s a start.”

“A start? What does that even mean? Why are you being so cryptic about it?”

Harley leaned in. “Do you remember when you were flying F-16s, and there were some things I’d ask you about combat or weapons and you couldn’t tell me?”

I nodded.

“Well, same here. I can’t tell you what’s coming, but I can tell you that the sheriff approved your hire today. And if you want it, I can offer you something no amount of money at the airline can touch.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

Harley let the question hang in the air for a moment and then smiled knowingly.

“Purpose.”