Ella June, the cook at Meadow View, had worked there for more than five years. She was accustomed to the serene quiet that settled over the lounge early in the morning. So when she walked through the kitchen door at six o'clock and found the residents seated in the lounge, her heart skipped a beat.
She stopped in her tracks, eyes widening in surprise. "What's this?" she asked, her voice cutting through the silence. "What on earth are you guys doing out of bed at this hour?"
Her words echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls with a hint of astonishment. The residents, usually sleepy-eyed and slow-moving, seemed unusually alert. Ella June's mind raced through the possibilities, trying to make sense of the scene before her.
As she scanned the room, her gaze settled on Homer, the more mild-mannered resident. His face was pale, his eyes rimmed with tears. Ella June felt a chill run down her spine as understanding dawned.
"Oh, my goodness," she breathed as the realization hit her like a cold wave. "Someone has died."
The room was already silent, and the air hung heavy with unspoken words. Ella June's mind whirred as she pieced the puzzle together. It all made sense now. She wondered which resident had passed.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Homer," she said softly. "What's going on?"
Homer rose and walked toward the cook. "It's Alfred. I'm afraid there's been an accident. Ella June, Alfred is dead."
The cook gasped for breath. "No, not Alfred. Homer, what are we to do? Alfred can't be gone." Ella June broke into soft sobs, burying her face in her hands.
Homer hugged her, and for a moment neither spoke. Finally, Homer whispered, answering Ella June's question. "We'll survive, like we always do."
Ella June made breakfast, and although the atmosphere was solemn, most of the residents ate, or at least pretended to. Few words were exchanged, and even Charlie stayed quiet. It was clear he understood what was going on.
At ten o'clock, a large bus pulled into the back parking lot of Meadow View. The air brakes hissed as the Silver Eagle came to a stop.
Aside from an occasional bathroom break, everyone had stayed in the lounge. The morning news played on, muted, with legible closed captions. Ella June had cleared the dishes and joined the group. The morning maids had come and gone, leaving the home much quieter than usual.
Everyone seemed at a loss for what to do. Vibrant activities typically marked mornings at the center, well, as lively as seniors could muster early in the morning.
Playing cards and checkers usually made up the morning ritual, along with spirited conversations, but nothing at the center seemed to interest the residents. Though they'd had coffee, most sat like zombies, watching the muted television. The caffeine seemed to have little effect.
Alfred's death had dampened their spirits, but the sight of a huge Silver Eagle passenger bus in the rear parking lot piqued their interest.
Homer rose and walked toward the window. The 40-foot bus stopped between the center's main building and the recreation building. A large awning covered the walkway between the buildings, and the bus drove under it without scraping the roof.
The bus had pulled around the building's left side, and the Silver Eagle's exit door faced the lounge. Everyone stared at the magnificent sight of the massive vehicle parked under the canopy.
Homer watched as the door opened. He wondered why such a monstrous bus was stopping at Meadow View. As far as he knew, no beds were available, and no field trips were scheduled for July. He stared as a man stepped into the sunlight.
The man wore a tactical vest, combat boots, and military-style clothing. A tattoo on his right hand depicted a large scorpion, its tail tip painted red. Homer studied the tattoo. His pulse spiked; he'd seen it before. It belonged to the Cartel de MC—the ruthless 'Mexico City' syndicate.
They usually stuck to New York and the Florida Keys. What on earth were they doing in East Tennessee, and why were they stepping off a luxury transit bus like a group of deadly tourists?
He knew at once that the man was an enforcer, a sicario who collected debts, maintained discipline, and eliminated threats. He also knew enforcers were usually armed and extremely dangerous.
Homer studied the man. Once more, he wondered what a man like that was doing at the center. Surely, the bus had taken a wrong turn.
Another man got off the bus; he wore street clothes and three gold chains around his neck. On one hung a cross; on the other, a large gold scorpion with its tail painted red. The same tattoo covered his right hand as the first man's.
He knew the man in street clothes wasn't just a cartel member; he was a man of status within the group. He wasn't a smuggler or a pionero. Those men were usually older, more experienced smugglers who often blended into the community. No, this man was something else, and Homer wondered what could have brought him to Mountain City.
Homer watched as the two men conversed. It was certainly odd that they were in Tennessee, but even odder that they were at the Meadow View Retirement Center.
Another man got off the bus, stretched leisurely, and surveyed his surroundings. His gaze fell on the window where Homer stood. Homer didn't know whether the man was looking at him or at his reflection. He couldn't tell.
The man was clearly not of Spanish descent; his features and demeanor marked him as Caucasian, possibly American. He appeared to be in his early thirties, though Homer found it hard to pin down his exact age. To Homer, anyone under sixty seemed like a kid. The thought amused him, and he chuckled softly.
Eight other men got off the bus, all dressed in tactical gear like the first man. Each had a tattoo on their right hand, marking them as cartel members.
What came next startled Homer. The men began walking toward the lounge door. Homer stayed standing, leaning against the windowsill, his mind racing. What could these men want?
The men entered the lounge. The middle-aged American walked toward the center of the room. All eyes were on him, and he stood in silence until the room fell quiet. He cleared his throat.
"Good morning," he said, his voice calm and confident. "My name is Mark Moore, and I'm Alfred's son."
The room stayed quiet. Heads turned, eyes widening as some residents nodded. Others shook their heads in disbelief. Finally, Mark spoke again.
"I'm sorry to hear of Dad's passing. I'm here to take over the Meadow View Retirement Center. In his will, Alfred," Mark paused and smiled. "Excuse me, I mean, Dad left this place to me. Enjoy your day. Tomorrow morning, I have an announcement that might ease your minds about your future." He smiled again.
However, Homer noticed the smile wasn't compassionate, certainly not caring, toward the residents of Meadow View. In his years of studying people, Homer saw a glimmer of greed on Mark's face, flickering between his smile and his green eyes. The man held secrets.
This caused a great deal of concern for Homer; he knew something was amiss. But what?
Mark glanced around, curiosity flickering as he took in the room. Homer wondered whether this man was seeing something far beyond what he himself could perceive.
With a slight smile, Mark looked at the man standing near the door. Both men smiled, expressions that might go unnoticed unless you were trained, as Homer was, to read people.
Homer once again realized that things were not as they appeared.