Tate

by Susan May Warren

  “Ball three! Full count.”

  She turned back to the game with a cheer for Gunnar.

  But Ford drew in a long breath, as if he might be weeding through his words.

  “What about…well, who would…” He took a breath then and nodded, as if backing up to form words. “We need you, Scarlett.”

  She glanced at him again. His green eyes were in hers, steady, holding them, and for a second, she couldn’t breathe. We need you?

  Or he needed her?

  A crack, and Ford focused back on the game. Gunnar had connected with the pitch, and the ball flew up and over the backstop.

  “Foul!”

  Ford breathed out. “Shake it off, big Gun. Eye on the ball. Connect.”

  “I know. And I love my job. Well—I love being involved with what you do.”

  The coach from the opposite team had come out to the mound for a conversation.

  “What we do, Red. Like save lives and take down global threats and rescue people and pretty much act as the tip of the sword in keeping this world from going to chaos.”

  He was sitting on his hands, as if he wanted to gesture wildly and was just holding them in place, trying to keep himself under control. “I can’t imagine going out there without…” He swallowed and met her eyes.

  Heat infused her entire body, and not just because of his words, so softly, earnestly spoken, but because his gaze latched on her then, and this time didn’t let her go. As if he might be trying to say something else, but the words were cemented inside his head, unable to break free.

  Then the bat cracked, and they turned to see the ball soar across the field into the blue and lavender of twilight.

  “Run!” Ford hit his feet and she followed, screaming.

  Gunnar threw the bat—somebody ducked—and scampered to first base.

  Out in the field, the ball tipped off the outstretched hand of the middle fielder and kept rolling.

  Gunnar rounded first and headed to second.

  The outfielder took off after the ball and ten feet later, scooped it up. Threw it.

  The ball fell halfway to second base, still in the outfield. The second baseman took off to fetch it as Gunnar hit second.

  His coach was rounding him to third, and Gunnar slipped, fell, and scrambled back up as the second baseman picked up the ball.

  “Run, Gunnar!” Ford hopped down the bleachers to the ground, running along the fencing, his arm swinging. “Go home! Home!”

  The coach had the same idea, and Gunnar popped the bag and kept running.

  The second baseman threw in the ball to the pitcher.

  Scarlett was on the ground now, running beside Ford as they kept up with Gunnar, bouncing along the fence, screaming.

  The pitcher turned.

  “Slide! Hit the dirt!” Ford shouted.

  Gunnar threw himself face first into the plate, diving low.

  The catcher grabbed the throw just as Gunnar slid over the rubber.

  A breath, and in that moment Scarlett’s gaze fell on Ford.

  He was just as fierce as she imagined him out in the field of operation, his expression tight, his pale green eyes on fire, almost daring the ump to call Gunnar out. But that was how Ford lived his life—all in, playing hard, and getting back up when he fell. Even if he had to fight back blindly. He never gave up. And she wanted…no, needed, that kind of man in her life.

  More, he’d nearly died—would have died, maybe—if she hadn’t called out the tango on his back.

  So yeah, maybe this man did need her.

  “Safe!”

  The crowd erupted, and as Gunnar was rushed by his teammates, Ford turned.

  He swept Scarlett up against him, swinging her around, holding her tight.

  Her entire body turned to fire.

  He set her back down, grinning, and for a second he looked like he might kiss her, something forming in his eyes.

  Then he turned away and ran toward Gunnar, getting down on his level to high-five him, then pulled him into a hug.

  Gunnar beamed like she’d never seen before.

  Please, Ford, don’t leave.

  7

  When Ruby Jane had announced a little over a month ago at their mother’s sixtieth birthday party that she wasn’t a travel agent but worked as a CIA analyst, honestly, Tate didn’t believe her.

  After all, she was his kid sister. The twin of his Navy SEAL brother, sure, so that meant she definitely possessed some serious get-’er-done genes and no doubt the smarts to untangle diabolical international plots.

  But for the CIA?

  Really?

  Except, she had tracked down information on the Bryant League when he’d asked. But he’d also done a Google search and unearthed similar information. The Bryant League, an offshoot of a group called the World Can’t Wait, or WCW, was affiliated with the Revolutionary Communist Party, an isolationist group that wasn’t afraid to use domestic terrorism to take down the government elites and give the “land” back to the people. Aka, socialistic reform.

  Which really meant they wanted to be in power, call the shots, and dominate the people.

  And people like Reba Jackson stood up to them.

  So, yeah, she had his vote. And he had her back.

  And the sooner he tracked down the two yahoos who probably had really planted the bomb at the San Antonio arena, not to mention fired the Marshall family barn, shot Glo, and somehow gotten inside their security perimeter at the Anderson event, the sooner everyone could simply calm down.

  He would crawl out of the senator’s clutches and go back to his sweet and easy gig running security for the Belles.

  If they’d take him back.

  Regardless, he wouldn’t have to endure for one more minute watching Glo be charmed into another man’s arms.

  He’d called ahead to Ruby Jane when he landed in DC, but his call went to voicemail again, so he pocketed the phone, picked up an Uber, and directed the driver to RJ’s address. She lived outside the Capitol Hill area, in the northern corridor in a one-bedroom condo. He’d seen it a couple times on their FaceTime calls but had a moment of pause when he pulled up to the brick building.

  Clearly, Sis made bank at whatever job she’d landed here in DC.

  He got out and buzzed her apartment number. No name was listed, so he braced himself to be the pizza guy, wrong apartment, but when he recognized the voice he said, “It’s Tate.”

  A pause, then a buzz, and he entered, walked up a flight, and knocked on 203.

  She must have checked the peephole, because it took a moment for the bolts to slide back, and there she was.

  Dressed in black heels, an untucked white oxford rolled to her elbows, and black dress pants, her dark hair down and mussed, she stared at Tate with a look of nonrecognition.

  Or maybe simply surprise. Then, oddly, she looked past him into the hall, grabbed his jacket lapel and pulled him inside.

  Slammed the door and bolted it.

  “What the—”

  She threw her arms around his neck, holding on. “Tate. Sheesh. Knox told me about the fight.” She leaned back, glaring up at him. “Why did you let him get the jump on you?”

  He blinked at her. “Uh…”

  She grinned. “Kidding. But you scared the snot out of me.” She kissed his cheek. “What are you doing here?”

  “Don’t you answer your voicemails?”

  Her mouth gaped a moment before she made a face. “Oh. Right.” She went into the kitchen and opened a drawer. Pulled out a smartphone and scrolled. “Seven messages?”

  “I’ve been worried.”

  She set down her phone. “Aw—”

  “No, seriously. I’ve been calling you for nearly two weeks. Where have you been?”

  She slid the cell phone back into the drawer. “At work.”

  He made a face.

  “Sorry. We’ve had a few things, uh, going down…”

  Her gaze flickered to a satchel tossed onto the sofa. And that’s wh
en he spotted the suitcase. The Delta planeside check tag still dangled from the handle. “Work?”

  She walked over and grabbed the bag. “Work travel.”

  He spotted her passport in the side pocket of the satchel and made a grab for it.

  “Tate! That’s my personal business.”

  “Italy. You went to Italy?” He thumbed another page over. “And the Czech Republic?”

  She retrieved the passport from his hand. “Yes. I…had work there.”

  “RJ—”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Not since this morning. A bagel in the Nashville airport.”

  “Nashville.” She trolleyed the suitcase into the bedroom and he followed. She threw it on the bed, then pushed him out of her room and back to the living room. “What are you doing there?”

  “I’m working for Senator Jackson—nice digs, by the way.”

  A long, gray contemporary sofa lined one wall, two armless chairs on the far side by the window, and a metal-and-glass coffee table centered the room, all on a white Persian rug over wooden floors. A flat-screen television hung from the wall.

  “Yeah, yeah. Senator Jackson? Glo’s mother? How did you get that gig?”

  “Glo fired me, her mother hired me. Easy. And now I’m trying to keep Glo safe from the Bryant League.”

  Ruby Jane sank onto the sofa and pushed her hands into her hair. He’d forgotten her habit of messing her hair when she was thinking. Or frustrated.

  “You okay, sis?” He sank down into one of the armless chairs.

  She leaned back, let her head flop, closed her eyes. “Yeah. Long few days.”

  “At work. In Europe. Yeah, that jet lag is a beast.”

  Her mouth quirked into a smile. “Fine.” She opened one eye. “I sometimes go out to the field to help with…situations.”

  “Like lost luggage?”

  “Like a rogue agent who just might be tasked to kill someone very important.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Hypothetically.” She looked at him. “If I were telling you the truth, I’d be in big trouble.” She winked, and now he was totally confused. She reached into her satchel and pulled out a thin computer. “Okay, the Bryant League. Where were we?”

  “You were trying to locate the identities of the two people seen with the suspected bomber. We thought they might be connected with the Bryant League, who had sent numerous threatening emails to the senator before the attack.”

  “Right. Knox’s mystery men.” Her computer booted up, and she seemed to be pulling up the file.

  “I have new information,” Tate said. “We had an attack at a fundraiser event a couple weeks ago, and we finally got ballistics back. The shells were from a M40A5. It’s a sniper rifle used by the Marines. I’m hoping you can cross reference any members of the Bryant League with military service—especially the Marines.”

  “You came all the way here with that tiny piece of information?”

  “You weren’t answering your phone.”

  “Desperate, anyone?” She looked up at him. “The search is running. Does this have anything to do with a certain curvy blonde?”

  He just stared at her.

  “Ve have vays of making you talk.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Okay, well, actually, we do have ways—”

  “Fine. Yes. Okay. I’m working for Jackson on the agreement that I don’t date—or even flirt, I suppose—with Glo. Except that Glo and I shared this moment—”

  “Moment? A long, naughty moment?”

  “No! Who are you? A kiss. We shared a kiss. Right before I got jumped by the Bratva in Vegas.”

  Her smile dimmed. “You got jumped by the Bratva? The Russian mob?”

  “I told you I worked in Vegas, right? Well, the guy I worked for worked for them. And…when I turned him in to the FBI—”

  “You turned in a Bratva mob boss to the FBI? Have you lost your mind?”

  “He killed a woman I cared for.”

  Her mouth tightened. “You were always the one with the soft heart. I remember you sitting outside with the goats, feeding them one by one.”

  “They beat her to death to get me to stay quiet.”

  “I’m sorry, Tate.”

  “Yeah, well, the important part of the story here is that they found me in Vegas, right after I kissed Glo. And she was nearly killed trying to save my life.”

  RJ touched his arm. “You both okay?”

  “Yes. For now, but…this thing between me and her…it won’t go away. But she seems to think she can save me if…I think…if she can get me to quit. At least I hope that’s what is going on, because she certainly has put the like on Sloan Anderson.”

  “Sloan Anderson? She’s dating Sloan? Oh boy, the plot thickens—”

  “You know Sloan? How small is this town?”

  “Smallish. But…I know Sloan because he used to work with us.”

  “Sloan worked for the CIA?”

  “With. Like a volunteer helping the greater cause.”

  “Like an informant.”

  “Like a friend who helped us help the world. He was a lobbyist. And lobbyists are supposed to influence legislation. And sometimes the right legislation needs a nudge now and again.”

  “What kind of legislation?”

  “Oh, things like votes on some of our government ‘aid’ packages overseas.” She finger quoted the word “aid.”

  He went quiet. “Aid, as in arms?”

  “Now you’re getting into specifics that could get us in trouble. Let’s just say that he has a lot of connections, a lot of friends, and a lot of information about people that could probably come in very useful to your senator friend.”

  “And he’s very good at wheeling and dealing.”

  “He’s a lobbyist. They influence.”

  He’d like to influence Sloan right out of Glo’s life, and pronto.

  “Your search came back empty,” she said, glancing at her screen. “Want me to search wider parameters?”

  “Yeah. Military in general.”

  Her stomach growled.

  “Apparently, I’m not the only one who hasn’t eaten.”

  She nodded to the kitchen. “There’s a Chinese delivery menu in the drawer with the phone.”

  He got up and headed over to it. Found the drawer, the menu to Jade Fountain, and grabbed her phone.

  She had seventeen unread texts and nine calls. “Why don’t you answer your phone? Or your texts?”

  “I will. Later. I would have eventually called you back.”

  He frowned. “You have a burner phone, don’t you? Because there is no way you’d leave the country without a phone.”

  She leaned her head against the sofa, spreading out her long dark hair. “I’ll take house fried rice and cream cheese wontons.”

  He shook his head and ordered.

  By the time the delivery arrived, they’d run searches on all branches of the military.

  “Sorry, bro. And while you were unwrapping your chopsticks, I ran a general search on all Bryant League activity. There’s nothing even on the radar for months. The last known event was a bombing at a recruitment station in Abilene, Texas, over a year ago.

  “Could be the same guys—it’s Texas…”

  “Are you sure that Kelsey’s stalker wasn’t the same guy who shot Glo in Montana?”

  “No. But Kelsey clearly saw the gauged ears that Knox described in his drawings of the bombing suspects. They’re just not that common.”

  “Getting more so, but…okay. I’ll keep looking. But you might want to start considering that the bombing in San Antonio was exactly what the police say—an act of desperation by an angry man.”

  “An angry rodeo clown? I don’t think he’s good for it, despite the evidence. I think he was the fall guy.”

  She picked up her carton of rice. “Yes, I see the irony. But, even the shooting at the house could have been her stalker. It was dark, and who knows what Kelsey saw.”


  Tate was finishing off his Kung Pao chicken. “Then who attacked us at the Anderson fundraiser?”

  “Anyone have a vendetta against Senator Jackson?”

  “Probably. She’s a senator after all.”

  “Maybe you should start searching a little closer to home. But here’s the good news…if the Bryant League has nothing to do with any of this, then Glo is probably relatively safe. Which means she doesn’t need your protection. You can quit working for the senator and you and Glo can ride away on your shiny white horse.”

  She stopped mid-bite. “Oh, sorry. Your shiny black motorcycle.”

  “I can ride a horse, RJ.”

  She kept her mouth closed, but her eyes laughed.

  “I was six.”

  “I wish I was old enough to remember. But the stories—oh, Knox and Rube were merciless.”

  “I broke my wrist. Of course I cried.”

  She looked at him, then something of kindness crested her face. “Just because you aren’t a cowboy doesn’t make you a failure.”

  He drew in his breath. “I know.”

  “Do you? Because you got it in your mind when you were six that you weren’t cut out for ranching. And you told yourself that you had to be awesome at something else. And nearly died proving it.”

  “It was war—”

  “Long before the war, Tate. Let’s talk about that motorcycle you fixed up and spent hours driving around the ranch. Your wall of BMX awards.”

  “Until I broke my shoulder and Ma forbade me to ride it.”

  “That’s my point. Then there was your glory on the football team.”

  “Rube played football. He was the captain.”

  “He wasn’t a running back. Hello, three state records and two concussions. But do you take advantage of that athletic scholarship and go to Montana State, like Knox? No. You join the military. Become a Ranger, for Pete’s sake. Trying to prove something, again.”

  He looked away. “I was serving my country. And I was a good Ranger.”

  “You were an amazing Ranger. A decorated hero—”

  “I wasn’t a hero.”

  “Yeah, actually, you were. Your Bronze Star? Your Purple Heart?”

  “All but one of my squad was killed—and I was their team leader. Heroes don’t get people killed.” He didn’t know how the conversation landed here, in his regrets. His wounds. And now he’d lost his appetite. “Are you coming home for Rube’s wedding this weekend?”