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kept my head down, hoping the red light didn’t catch me at the bottom of the ramp. I’d rather be safely away from the guy in the Volvo I almost ran over, thank you.
    Mira’s always lecturing me about road rage and how many crazy people there are in the world. Sadly, she’s right. You never know when that guy next to you just found out his wife is cheating on him with the pool boy, or maybe he just got Diet Coke instead of regular at the drive- through. You never know what’s going to make someone turn on a fellow human being. And as much as I love my truck, I didn’t think she’d stop a bullet.
    There are times (usually when I’m having trouble with my compassion for man) that I wonder why I bother helping people. Humans, as a group, aren’t known for their inherent goodness. We run the very large gamut from true evil to insignificant pettiness, but as a rule, we’re not a kind species.
    It is also possible that I am jaded by the population I deal with on a regular basis. I get to see the worst of them—the greedy ones, the vain ones, the ones who reached for just a little more and got their hand caught in the trap. Now, I’m not saying that no one has ever sold his soul for a good cause. But typically, I don’t get those folk knocking at my door. Sure, the ones I get are sorry for what they’ve done, regretful and contrite. But . . . Well, I don’t know about you, but I personally think there had to be something wrong with them to entertain the devil’s offer to begin with.
    So, why do it? Why put myself on the line for people I don’t know, and like even less? Because it needs to be done. It’s not even a choice for me. A samurai who turns his back on those in need is no better than any other common thug. He should protect the weak and advocate for good over evil. Shirking that duty would be a great act of dishonor. And that’s just not who I am.

4
    T he darkness inside Chino’s Sports Bar was an abrupt contrast to the blinding sunlight outside, and I had to blink my eyes for a few moments before they’d adjust. It was fairly busy, for the Monday lunch crowd. I’d counted on that. Businessmen in suits chatted and told dirty jokes over their on-the-company steak lunches. One group of construction workers was loudly cheering on an arena football game at the bar. Three tables in the back were taken up by off- duty security guards from the airport, killing time before or after a shift change. Quiet places are no good for private talks. You need noise to muffle the conversation.
    I glanced over the tables, looking for Nelson Kidd. It was a sure bet he’d be in a ball cap and sunglasses. Famous people always think that hides their identity, like Clark Kent with his glasses. Kidd would also be wearing a long-sleeve shirt or jacket, despite the beautiful spring weather. It would hide his mark of shame.
    Sure enough, I spotted a man who fit the criteria sitting in the farthest back corner of the restaurant—an older man, with a cap for the local ball team, probably purchased at the airport or hotel gift shop. He wouldn’t dare wear his own team’s logo, not for this. He had on a sweatshirt and khakis, and he watched the restaurant with short nervous glances but never made eye contact. That was my man.
    Waving the hostess off, I headed that way. Mr. Baseball Cap and Shades looked up as I got closer, and despite the dark glasses, I could almost see the wheels of his mind working as he compared this man walking toward him to the description he’d been given. Six foot two? Check. Blond ponytail? Check. Scruffy red beard? Check, and if I didn’t shave soon, Mira was gonna get grumpy.
    He was still uncertain until I walked up and stuck my hand out to shake. “Mr. Kidd.”
    “Mr. Dawson.” He shook my hand finally, but he still made my name sound like half a question. You know, one of those “Please God, is this really the man I’m waiting for?” sort of questions. I was pretty sure it was the T-shirt