The kid came in slow, like he was afraid the air itself might bite him. Lance Corporal stripes, cover clutched in his right hand, eyes too young for the things he thought he was carrying.

“Are you Gunny Mac?”

Mac looked him over, wondering what kind of trouble could make a eighteen‑year‑old Marine come hunting for a man like him.

“Yes.”

“I need you to find someone for me.”

Mac slid open a drawer, pulled out a blank sheet of paper. “Then I need everything you know. All of it.”

The kid hesitated, like Mac had asked him to confess his sins.

“I love her,” he said finally. “I got her pregnant. She said she didn’t love me, but she’s gonna have my baby. I don’t know where she went.”

Mac felt the weight of it settle in the room. “What do you want me to do, son?”

“The chaplain said I need her personal information… and the baby’s. So I can set up a fund. You know… send money to a bank in her name.”

He swallowed hard. “In case I get killed. Padre said I could use my insurance money. Make a trust fund.”

“How do you know she’s pregnant?”

“She told me.”

“That your only proof?”

A nod.

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

The headache hit Mac like a hammer—starting at the base of his skull, climbing fast, trying to punch its way out through his eyes.

“Write down everything. Height, weight, eyes, hair, any marks, where you met her, where she lived. And your unit. I want your CO’s name.”

Five minutes later the kid handed over the paper.

“How much do I owe you, gunny?”

“How much you got?”

“Three dollars…”

Mac felt like he was robbing his own son. “Get out of here, Marine. I’ll find out what’s going on.”

When the door shut behind him, Mac read the sheet. Then he went looking for the girl before she could sink her claws into the kid’s future.

Three hours, and nine bars later, he found her laughing with a sailor, drink in hand, having herself a grand old time. Mac sat down beside the sailor and told him to beat it. One look at Mac’s size and the sailor decided he didn’t need a hospital bed tonight.

Mac ordered a drink, bought her one too.

“Rebecca Downs?”

She blinked. “How’d you know my name?”

“It’s written on half the bathroom stalls in Chinatown.”

She laughed. “Hope it says ‘for a good time.’”

“You got a sense of humor,” Mac said.

It vanished fast. A sneer took its place. “You smell like a cop. What do you want?”

“You got a job?”

“Buy me another drink, copper. Maybe I’ll let you take me home.”

“You got a job?” he asked again.

“Yeah. Costs five bucks.”

“You’re pricey.”

Mac grabbed her purse, fished out her wallet. She lunged for it. He caught her hand and squeezed.

“Stop or I’ll break your fingers.”

She hissed. “Who do you think you are? I’ll tell Captain Chin—he’ll take twenty bucks out of your hide.”

Mac squeezed harder. She yelped.

“Just another ass-wipe. Shut up.”

He checked her license. Name. Address. One hundred and twenty dollars in her wallet. He took a twenty, pocketed it, handed everything back.

“You wanna know why I took the twenty?”

“You’re a rotten copper,” she spat.

“I took it for expenses. One dollar for the drinks. Three hours tracking you down. Ten minutes wasted talking to you. And twenty bucks for Chin, since you say he wants a piece of me. I have some advice for you. Leave the kid alone. I know where you live and it won’t be nice for you.

He stood, finished his drink, and left her staring daggers at his back—another ghost in a long line of them.

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