Blood tells truths

The call came at 3:17 a.m. That was how my father would’ve liked it, ugly timing, no warning, no room to soften the blow.

“Mr. Cole?” the voice said. Male. Flat. Professional.
“This is him.”
“Your father’s been killed.”

No I’m sorry. No pause. Just a fact, delivered like a dropped wrench.

By sunrise I was driving north, the interstate empty and gray, the kind of morning that makes you feel like the world hasn’t woken up yet and maybe won’t. My father, Daniel Cole, had been found in a burned-out marina office outside Camden. Official story: accidental fire. Unofficial tone: don’t ask questions.

That was problem number one. My father hated marinas. And he never had accidents.

He’d raised me alone after my mother died, a quiet man who worked logistics for a shipping company, came home on time, drank one beer with dinner, watched old westerns, and went to bed early. No enemies. No secrets.

Or so I thought.

* * * * * * * * * *

The marina smelled like ash and river mud. Yellow tape sagged in the breeze. A sheriff’s deputy leaned against his cruiser, coffee in hand.

“You family?” he asked.

“Son.”

He nodded, pointed with his chin. “Fire inspector says electrical. Old wiring.”

I crouched near the ruins. Burn patterns were wrong, too clean in places, too hot in others. Accelerant. Someone wanted it gone fast.

“Any witnesses?” I asked.

Deputy shrugged. “Drifter said he saw a man run out before the flames. Couldn’t describe him. Guess fires make folks jumpy.”

I stood. “Anything missing?”

“From what?”

“From my father.”

The deputy frowned. “We didn’t know he had anything.”

That made two of us.

* * * * * * * * * *

Dad’s house was ten miles inland. Small. Neat. Familiar. I unlocked the door and felt the quiet hit me like a held breath.

Everything looked the same. Couch. Table. His boots by the door. But the walls felt thinner, like they were hiding something.

I found it in the basement.

Behind a false panel in the utility closet was a steel case. Inside: a Glock, two extra mags, a passport under a different name, and a stack of photos. Men. Meetings. Shipping containers. One photo showed my father shaking hands with a man I recognized instantly.

Victor Harlan.

Former intelligence contractor. Black-ops middleman. Supposedly dead.

So much for quiet logistics.

I sat on the concrete steps and let it settle. My father hadn’t been who he said he was. He’d lived a second life. And that life had gotten him killed.

The passport had a stamp from Bogotá dated three weeks ago.

I booked a flight.

* * * * * * * * * *

Bogotá doesn’t ease you in. It grabs you by the collar and demands attention. I tracked Harlan through an old contact of my father’s, a woman named Ruiz who ran a bar that smelled like oil and regret.

She studied me over the rim of her glass. “You look like him.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Daniel was careful,” she said. “Careful men don’t die in fires.”

“Who wanted him dead?”

“Everyone,” she said. “And no one. Depends which side you ask.”

She slid a napkin across the bar. A name. An address. “Start there. But don’t finish.”

I finished.

The address led to a warehouse by the river. Guards. Armed. Professional. I waited for the shift change, moved when the cameras blinked, and went in through the roof.

Inside, crates were stacked like tombstones. Men talked in low voices. Spanish. Russian. English. A meeting.

I dropped behind one, put him down hard, took his gun. The room erupted.

Shots cracked. Wood splintered. I moved fast, kept low, used cover. Two down. Three. A man rushed me with a knife, I broke his wrist, took his balance, ended it.

Then I saw him.

Victor Harlan, older than the photo, but unmistakable. Calm amid chaos.

“Daniel’s boy,” he said, hands raised. “I wondered when you’d come.”

“Why?” I said. “Why him?”

Harlan sighed. “Because he wanted out.”

The words landed heavy.

“He was a ghost,” Harlan continued. “Best I ever had. Ran operations, cleaned messes. When he decided to disappear, people panicked.”

“So you killed him.”

“No,” Harlan said softly. “I tried to save him.”

Gunfire outside. Sirens. Someone had tipped the cops.

“He staged his death,” Harlan said. “Fire was supposed to erase him. Something went wrong.”

I stared. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” He reached into his jacket slowly, pulled out a phone, slid it across the floor.

A video. My father, alive, tired, eyes sharp.

If you’re watching this, he said, I didn’t make it clean. I’m sorry. I did what I had to do.

The sirens grew louder.

“Where is he?” I demanded.

Harlan met my eyes. “If he’s alive, he doesn’t want to be found.”

I made a choice.

I left.

* * * * * * * * * *

Two weeks later, back home, I stood by the river where the marina had burned. The case from the basement was gone. So was the passport.

In its place, on my kitchen table, was a note.

You did good. Live straight. That’s the only way this ends.

No signature. None needed.

I folded it, pocketed it, and walked outside. The sun was setting, painting the water red and gold.

My father’s double life had died in that fire. Maybe the man had survived. Maybe not.

Either way, the truth was mine now.

And it was enough.

The end