The fellow next to me leaned in close to listen to my story.

The life of a private investigator is like that of a firefighter. Hours of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. Except that PIs typically have fewer moments of sheer terror. These were my thoughts as I sat in my Cutlass Convertible staking out a house on a moon filled night.

It was another basic case of a rich middle aged husband wondering if he should trust his beautiful young wife. Because he hired me, I knew that he didn’t. The only question remaining was whether he was paranoid or not. My job was to find out. It is a hell of way to make a living.

It had been another typical day. I slept in and then went to the beach for a swim. The gulf shore of Florida has delightfully warm water in mid summer. I had nowhere to be until dinner time, when my work day began.

Around 7:00 his wife went to a friend’s house to play cards. I followed her to the house and parked a safe distance down the street. The house was on a residential street and I was easily able to blend in with many other parked cars. Then I settled in for a four to five hour period of extreme boredom.

When the sun set I put the top down. I was thinking that maybe I didn’t take this job seriously enough. I mean, PIs are supposed to drive cars that don’t stand out. I am not sure that a blue convertible met this criteria, but fresh air and the joy of looking at the stars were more important to me.

Around 11:00 I took note of how quiet the street was. There was very little traffic and no one was on the sidewalks. The houses were unremarkable, though expensive, ranch style homes. Apparently they were so nice that few bothered to wander outside.

I was daydreaming. The waves were washing up on the store. A tall blonde in a fluorescent orange was smiling at me, her hair flowing in the light breeze.

Click.

I wasn’t daydreaming anymore. My heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears. I recognized the sound. It was the sound of a hammer being cocked. Most likely a hammer belonging to a Colt revolver. The deafening silence before and after the deafening click told me that someone was standing very close, and very still. Although I could not see him, I had to assume that he had me in his sights.

Although it seemed like an hour, it is more likely that as I sat motionless, a second or two passed. My trusty Chief’s Special was tucked away in its shoulder harness. I knew that I was not quick enough to do anything about this unseen assailant. I also figured that any quick motion would probably hasten whatever action he was going to take.

Zing. Crack.

I remember thinking that I had always heard it is the shot that you don’t hear that kills you. Since I had heard this shot, did that mean I was alive? And just exactly why had I heard a zing before the crack? I turned to look over my left shoulder and saw a tall figure in a black trenchcoat and felt brimmed hat turn and fall in a twisting motion to the ground.

Under extreme stress, the mind can generate some remarkably trivial thoughts. As the figure fell to the ground, I thought to myself that the trenchcoat was quite out of place. It occurred to me that I face more pressing issues.

Like, just who shot this guy? The zing must have been the bullet passing by my ear faster than the speed of sound. The crack was the sonic boom that followed. Was I next?

A black four door sedan pulled up, preventing me from pulling out of the parking place. Four gentlemen dressed entirely in black exited the vehicle simultaneously. They looked like cat burglars.

Too stunned to move, I sat and watched as three of them picked up the fallen figure and placed him in the trunk. The fourth figure stepped to my car door.

He slowly leaned in to the car. He had a short military haircut and close trimmed mustache. In a low voice he said to me "You owe us. We’ll be back to collect." Then he returned to the black sedan and they were gone.

Suddenly I was deep in debt. I did not know what it would take to repay it. I wanted to run away and avoid it, but I had the feeling that they would make good on their claim "We’ll be back to collect." One thing was for certain. They knew a lot more about me than I knew about them.

The night returned to silence. The man’s wife returned home. Then I was able to return home. It was a long sleepless night.

The phone rang at 6:00 am sharp. "Hello?" I asked wearily.

"Dan Rankin?" Asked a male voice.

"Yes."

"When you get your call from Mr. Tolliver at 9:00. It is imperative that you tell him nothing unusual happened last night. Remember, you owe us." Then the line went dead.

I stared at the phone for a while is disbelief. Mr. Tolliver was the husband I had been working for all month. He called every morning at 9:00 for an update on what I had observed the night before. At the very least, I now figured my phone was tapped. Something told me that these guys knew much, much more.

At 9:00 I got the usual call from Mr. Tolliver. He asked if I was certain nothing unusual happened. It was as if he just didn’t want to believe me. I tried to hide my anxiety, assuring him that it had been an uneventful night. He thanked me and asked me to stay on the case for a couple more days. I agreed and he told me to begin tailing her at 5:00 pm that evening and hung up.

At 9:15 the phone rang again. "Hello?".

"Very good Mr. Rankin. Go to lunch as usual. We’ll be in touch." Click.

Clicks were beginning to define my life. Obviously my phone was tapped. But it was also clear to me that they knew much more than what they overheard on my phone line. It was also clear to me that I had no idea who "they" were. I hoped that I would find out at lunch. I also hoped I would survive past lunch.

The waitress Sandy brought the usual, a bowl of chili and whole wheat toast. I opted for coffee instead of Southern Comfort. I wanted to have all of my senses and reflexes working. I knew that even that may not be enough for me to survive the day.

I felt like I was having an out of body experience. On one hand Sandy looked like she always looked. She flashed a pretty smile and always made me feel welcome. The Irish Pub had the comfortable feel of rustic wood. It was just another day. Yet any moment I was expecting some stranger to kill or kidnap me.

"Do you have a light?" The voice snapped me out of my daydream.

"Yeah, sure." I handed the fellow a book of matches.

"Thanks." He handed them back to me and stared for a moment directly into my eyes. Then he left.

Just as the thought occurred to me that he might be with "them" I realized the book of matches was not the one that I handed him. I opened the matchbook and read "Finish and exit the side door in 15 minutes." I was beginning to feel like I was in a B movie.

Sandy thanked me for my tip and I tried to act casual as I strolled out the side door. A black four door sedan pulled up, a door opened, and I was told to get in. With luck I was being kidnapped but not killed. I got in and hoped for the best.

There were three of them in the car. All were dressed in dark colors, but they wouldn’t stand out if you saw them walking down the sidewalk. The tinted windows kept anyone from seeing inside. The driver headed for the expressway and the fellow next to me in the back seat started talking.

"Do you know who we are?"

"No." I replied.

"We are with the DSF, the Domestic Shadow Force. Our existence is denied by the government. We do what the CIA and the FBI cannot. Now that you have heard of us, we can’t let you go back."

"So you’re going to kill me?"

"No. We need you. But after tomorrow we will have to put you in a witness protection program. Are you OK with that? If not, then you will be killed."

I looked at him waiting for a smirk that would indicate sarcasm. He was serious. "It doesn’t sound like I have a choice."

"You don’t. If Mr. Tolliver doesn’t kill you, there will be more like the fellow we stopped last night. He worked for an international arms dealer know only as ‘Mr. Smith’". Mr Tolliver is trying to make a deal with him."

"Mr. Smith thinks he is setting up a double cross with Mrs. Tolliver. He took a liking to her when they met last year. That is how she found out that her husband was dealing arms. Until then she had no idea."

I sat quietly and listened. By now we were on an expressway cruising along at 75 mph or so. I looked out the window at the distant ocean. This story was so outrageous, I found it hard to dismiss.

The DSF fellow continued "Mr. Tolliver became nervous. He hired you to make sure that his wife wasn’t double crossing him. He never was worried about an affair. But he didn’t trust any of his men enough, so he hired you. When the deal goes down tomorrow he plans on eliminating you."

"What is it you need from me." I asked.

"Go for a drive tonight, but do not follow her. Mrs. Tolliver is going to meet Mr. Smith. Her husband won’t tell her where the deal is going down, but we hope Mr. Smith will and we will be able to bust the party. They were supposed to meet last night, but Mr. Smith’s man never returned with the all clear."

"The fellow you took out next to my car?"

"Yes. If he had taken you out, Mr. Tolliver would have backed out of the deal. We have to make sure that he thinks everything is OK. So after your drive, just tell Mr. Tolliver that nothing unusual happened."

"What’s in it for Mr. Smith?" I asked.

"She is going to claim that she knows where the arms are headed. Mr. Smith then thinks that he will be able to retrieve them and keep the money. In return, Mrs. Tolliver is asking to be picked up immediately after the deal for her own safety."

"So he will have to tell her where the deal is going down?" I guessed.

"Exactly."

"How do you know that he plans on eliminating me?"

"We have our ways." He said with a deadpan expression.

"So all I have to do is go for a drive and tell him nothing happened?"

"Once the deal goes down we will pick you up and take you to a safe house. I don’t need to tell you that you can’t tell anyone about this."

"Understood." I said.

"Watch your six." He said as the car came to a stop and I got out.

I didn’t really believe the DSF stuff. But I couldn’t think of a better explanation. I knew somebody had tried to kill me. Or it had been a great hoax to get me to do what they wanted. But I remembered hearing that "zing". That would have been tough to fake.

I hopped a bus back to my car. At 5:00 pm I picked up Mrs. Tolliver. At 5:05 I lost her. I spent the next four hours cruising up the coast. I had the top down. I felt the wind in my hair. I smelled the salt air like it might be the last time. After all, it might be the last time.

The phone rang at nine in the morning as usual. I assured Mr. Tolliver that nothing unusual happened. He said he wanted me to make sure that she stayed home today. He would be leaving at noon. I was to watch from the guest quarters and tell him if she ever left.

My heart rate increased. I didn’t like the setup. This was the first time that he asked me to watch the house. He also was rather insistent about where I was to observe the house from. I was glad that it was raining. I could put my bullet proof vest on under a rain poncho and not look out of place.

I decided to take my 1911. Usually I carry a .38 revolver, but usually I am not expecting trouble. The .45 caliber lead helped give me a little sense of peace. The seven round clip didn’t hurt either.

I headed over to the house and tucked the car out of site. I took up a position with a clear view of the main house and her car. She drove a red Porsche convertible that I wished I was riding in.

It rained steadily. I held the 1911 under the poncho. One of the great things about a life expectancy of twenty four hours is that you don’t care if you get a gun rusty. It enabled me to concentrate on making sure it was at the ready.

A half hour passed without anything but the music of the rain. Then I was suddenly hit in the back. It felt like a sledge hammer. They were right. You don’t hear the one that gets you. I saw stars. I felt pain. I felt numb. I didn’t know if the vest had worked or not. But it seemed like I was still alive and lying face down in the mud.

Slowly, deliberately at first, I rolled over and emptied my gun. The first three hit him in his vest, but the power of the 1911 knocked him backwards. As he fell one round went up through the jaw and he fell dead. Don’t ask me where the other rounds went, but when I got up I had an empty gun in my hand.

Then that black four door sedan drove up like the guy was trying out for a job racing stock cars. It slid to a halt and a rear door swung open. I got in and we sped away.

This time there were two guys dressed in black. In the front passenger seat was Mrs. Tolliver. She seemed shook, but was keeping it together. Maybe these guys were for real.

For the first time the DSF guys were excited. They were breathing hard. The guy next to me said "We got ‘em. Mr. Tolliver was dropped by Mr. Smith’s guys as soon as we moved in, but we got Mr. Smith alive." They seemed proud, but they weren’t ready to celebrate yet. "Most importantly we also got the rocket launchers."

Rocket launchers. Geez. There are a lot of happy helicopter pilots that have no idea they should start celebrating right now.

My adrenaline was wearing off. I was beginning to feel the pain of the broken ribs. I never thought I would be happy to have broken ribs.

Mrs. Tolliver and I were blindfolded. Then we drove for another hour and led into a house. There were five guys in black and looking serious that stood guard over us as they took off the blindfolds. They took the 1911 from me and we were led into a room with no windows. One of the guards told us to get some sleep.

Mrs. Tolliver looked at me and I looked at her. Then we each dropped down on our respective mattresses and lay there in the dark. We didn’t talk. We didn’t sleep. We just hoped that we were really going to be allowed to live.

The next day I had a disturbing meeting with someone who would not let me see his face. I kept thinking that I had cooperated fully with these guys, but they just weren’t ready to believe it. This guy wanted to make absolutely sure.

"Sit down." He said with absolutely no humor. There was little light in the room, and all that was available was aimed at me. I could not make out his face. I heard only a voice from the darkness.

"We are going to relocate you if you cooperate. We want to make absolutely sure that you cooperate. If you ever divulge any details of our organization we will discredit your story." He continued, "This is the bullet that killed the gentleman in the trench coat. This is the gun that fired the bullet. Not too many people have Swedish Mausers now do they?"

I didn’t like the feeling that crept over me. I had a Swedish Mauser. I anticipated his next comment.

"Now it so happens that a Daniel Rankin purchased this Swedish Mauser from a small gun shop in Georgia in October 1971. The same Daniel Rankin who was seen in his blue Cutlass convertible on the night in question. We also have an eyewitness that will testify that you pulled the trigger."

Now he leaned forward, but I could still not make out any features of his face. "Of course if you play by our rules, then no one will know. If you don’t, the you spend the rest of your life in prison."

After a couple of weeks, some trust was developed. They were apparently convinced that I would be able to keep my mouth shut. They began to examine places for relocation. Here is when my luck began to run my way. Their first choice was Alaska, but I insisted I had family there. Sure enough, they checked it out and Alaska was not a good place to relocate me.

The next place on the list was in New Mexico. Again I said that I had family. Again they checked it out and realized I was telling the truth. Next was Kentucky, then Pennsylvania. All were ruled out.

Finally they suggested the Virgin Islands. I knew no one there. It was perfect.

It was Mrs. Tolliver’s idea to relocate us to the same place. We had become close during our time in the safe house and she pointed out that it would be far safer to know someone safe than to put her somewhere all alone.

So the DSF gave us new identities and moved us to the Virgin Islands. Some up front money got us established, then we were on our own to make a living.

And that is how Mrs. Smith and I wound up proprietors of a bar called Moonshadows. It is also why, for the last thirty years, we have never left the island. So you see, no one else may believe that you were once a member of the DSF, but I believe you. How about another scotch?