Chapter 2
McKenzie drove the old truck out of Gilchrist County on CR 26 through Newberry and then headed down I-75. They had a five-hour trip ahead of them along the busy I-75 to the Florida Turnpike and then further south on I-95, ending in the cacophony of the bustling cultural hub of Miami.
McKenzie could tell John was getting anxious as they drove south. He had never met a man as devoted and loyal as John Fairchild, but the poor guy had the disposition of a mouse, a big change from his rough appearance as a damned good Green Beret medic. As frustrating as his nervous and timid demeanor could be, though, McKenzie couldn’t ask for a better right hand and he knew that his time as a medic had really burned through his mind. And, when he got mad, which was not often, he was as tough as anyone.
After spending two years with Rob Andrew in Miami, getting his Private Investigator license, McKenzie started his small practice in the rural and swampy regions of the Florida wilds. John had kept in touch with his buddy and never hesitated to become a part of the business. Mac had welcomed him as a partner, because, as much as McKenzie bitched about the clientele, he knew that he was getting older and slower and a slow paced business would last a lot longer than something as stressful as a big city firm. He’d leave that mayhem to Rob.
But here he was going back to Miami, the largest city in Florida and one of the busiest ports in the Southeast United States.
“Rob said his grandkids are missin’ and his son’s acting weird. His son’s ex-wife is the one that actually told him the kids were gone. Anyways, can you finagle that phone to get some info on his son, the ex and their kids?”
“Yeah, I was looking through their social media accounts.”
“Their what?”
“You know, where you post pictures of yourself and tell people what you like and what you’re doing?”
“That sounds awful. Who the hell does that?”
“Um, well, everyone actually.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, I have an account.” John gave McKenzie an impatient glare before McKenzie motioned for him to continue, shaking his head in bafflement.
“Anyways, apparently the ex posted something a few days ago saying she was fed up with Bobby, Rob’s son, and was aggravated that she hadn’t heard from her kids. The kids stopped posting about four or five days ago, which is extraordinarily rare for teens.”
“Why?”
“It’s how they socialize now. They constantly share news stories, pictures, jokes, funny memes and everything with their friends.”
“What is a meem?” McKenzie over enunciated the word, scowling as if the very pronouncement left a bad taste in his mouth.
“A picture of words and sometimes a funny background. How do you not know about this?”
“It sounds stupid.”
“Ok, well, anyways, it looks like the kids haven’t used the site for several days, which means they haven’t been able to use their phones. Bobby rarely uses his, so there’s nothing new on his page.”
“How does this help us?”
“Means that something is definitely going on. Kids live on these sites, constantly on there, so for them to stop at the same time means something had to have happened. Both of their phones died or were taken, or they have no internet access, like somewhere that the phones don’t pick up data or wifi.”
“Huh.”
John blinked as he shook his head in astonishment. For someone so smart and clever, sometimes McKenzie could blow him away with how disconnected he was with other people. As much as McKenzie jokingly referred John as Watson, John could see the similarities to his friend and the prickly Sherlock. John was surprised that McKenzie managed to stay just on this side of the line of seriously pissing someone off.
As McKenzie continued their drive down south, John nodded off. McKenzie chuckled to himself. They were getting old, but he refused to slow down, not yet. He had seen too much, done too much, to let life decide when he needed to stop. Worry did niggle at his brain, though, concern for what was happening to Andrew. They had come a long way from the days in the A-Team, with McKenzie at the helm and each of the Old Farts still young and spry.
He always thought it was interesting that so many of the team survivors got into private detective work. Bailey was up in New York doing his P.I. thing even though he was in a wheelchair. John didn’t have a full Class C license, but he still worked cases with McKenzie. Four of the remaining six working as private dicks, and of the other two, one freelanced as a sniper, of all things, and the last was a contract demolitions expert for imploding buildings. They were all getting old, but still kicking ass in their own ways. And then there were the ones who didn’t make it out of the ‘Nam. They were just as close.
McKenzie pulled his thoughts out of the murky depths of the past, a place it often tried to wander off to, focusing on the traffic as he made his way down I-95 and through the hectic beachside cities into Miami.
John jerked awake as the McKenzie began the steady stop and go of city traffic. Realizing where they were, John turned on the GPS and guided McKenzie to Andrew’s condo.
The Old Farts In Miami Page 4