SEAL of Honor

by Tonya Burrows

  “Okay, you liked it. Though God knows why anyone would like being a SEAL.” Raffi propped his chin in his hand and lifted his brows in question. “So…you’re going into private soldiering, then?”

  “Soldiering? Are you trying to insult me?”

  “Soldiering, or sailor…ing?” He waved a hand. “You know what I mean. Are you going into the private sector?”

  Gabe stifled a groan. This again. He’d already told his best friend and former SEAL teammate, Travis Quinn, that he was not going merc. Several times. In fact, just about every day since the car accident that ended both of their careers last year. “Lemme guess. Quinn talked to you.”

  “Mm-hmm. A minute ago, downstairs. And let me just say, it’s a damn shame that guy’s straight.”

  This time Gabe did groan. “Raffi, man, I love you, but please don’t talk about my friends like that. It puts pictures in my head and weirds me out.”

  “That’s why I do it.” He grinned. “Anyway, for some reason, Quinn thought I’d be able to talk some sense into you. As if anyone can talk ol’ Stonewall Bristow into doing something he doesn’t want to do.”

  If anyone could, it would be Raffi. Gabe respected his youngest brother more than any other man on the planet, and Quinn knew it. That sly bastard.

  “For the record,” Raffi added and rested his chin on his laced fingers, “I think it’s a great idea. Way better than Dad’s plans for you.”

  True. The job the Admiral had lined up for him at the Pentagon was—God, he didn’t even know what to call it. “Boring” came to mind. So did “mindless.”

  “Gabe, can I ask you something?” Raffi said after a moment of silence.

  “No, but that’s never stopped you before.” Resigned to the lecture he knew he was about to get, Gabe limped over to where his jacket lay on the bed, light glinting off his rows of medals. It always surprised him how many he had. He just did his job and never much cared about the number before—but, man, now he’d never get another one. And how fucking depressing was that?

  “Well, I’m curious,” Raffi said. “Did you turn Quinn down because you really don’t want to go private, or because it would put you on level with Darth Vader in Dad’s eyes?”

  Inwardly, Gabe faltered, his heart doing a little two-step even though his hands stayed calm, his face schooled into an expressionless mask. “I don’t see why it matters. I’m not going into the private sector. End of story.”

  “It does matter. Big time.” Raffi watched him with a rare serious look in his eyes. “That’s it, isn’t it? Look, Gabe, if you’re holding yourself back because of the Admiral’s narrow-minded views—well, we both know how I feel about that. Tell him to go fuck himself sideways with a spoon, then do what makes you happy. And you, brother dear, are only happy if you’re out in some godforsaken wasteland of a country, risking life and limb, saving the world. Go work with Quinn.”

  “No.”

  “At least think about it? For me?”

  “Fine.” He was so going to find Quinn and throttle him for dragging Raffi into this. “I’ll think about it, okay?”

  …

  It took several hours of elbow rubbing with political so-and-sos before Gabe finally tracked Quinn down in the crowd. He stood in the most shadowed corner of the room, naturally, stiff in his dress whites, eyeing the horde of D.C.’s most powerful as if he expected an attack at any moment.

  Not a surprise.

  Quinn had earned the nickname “Achilles” during BUD/S training. A warrior to his marrow, all but indestructible since nobody had found his heel yet. His only concession that this was a party and not an op was the slender flute of champagne he held.

  Gabe stalked toward him.

  “This place is a terrorist attack waiting to happen,” Quinn muttered and lifted his glass in a salute to the room.

  Yeah, it was, and securing the damn mansion had been a nightmare, but that was beside the point. “Seriously, Q, you’re a rank bastard for siccing Raffi on me.”

  His lips twitched. “Did it work?”

  Gabe thought about the glittering crowd he’d been forced to schmooze with all afternoon and held back a wince. Did he really want the rest of his life to consist of politics and state dinners? Because if he lived in D.C. fulltime, the Admiral would guilt-trip him into attending. More importantly, did he really want to live under his father’s thumb again? Oh no. Make that, oh hell no.

  “Yeah,” he admitted. “It worked.”

  “Good.”

  “But answer me something first. Why don’t you want to command this private team by yourself?”

  “You know me.” He took a long swallow of champagne. “Would rather take orders than issue them.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since always. You have command in your blood. Me, I’m just one of the rank and file.”

  “Quinn—”

  “Incoming.” Quinn eyed the Admiral, who had spotted them and was making a beeline for their position. For some reason, the Admiral had never liked Quinn, pictured him as a bad influence even though he was the most squared-away guy Gabe knew.

  “Better get back to the party before Admiral Stick-up-the-Ass blows a gasket,” Quinn said. “Meet me outside in twenty. If you’re serious, there’s someone here I want you to meet. Oh, and you can remember to thank me for saving your sorry ass from a desk job anytime now.”

  He wasn’t joking.

  Gabe snorted in response. “You really are a bastard.” He waited until Quinn lifted his glass to his lips before adding, “But Raffi thinks you’re hot.”

  As he walked away, he had the great pleasure of watching the unflappable Achilles choke on his champagne.

  …

  Gabe slipped outside twenty minutes later, found Quinn and another tuxedo-clad man on the terrace overlooking the garden. Well, if it wasn’t Tucker Quentin. A businessman with sights on a senate seat, Gabe recognized Tucker from other political shindigs around Washington, but had never spoken to him before.

  “Ah, the man of the hour. Lieutenant Commander Bristow,” Tucker said as Gabe hobbled toward them. His foot hurt like hell, but he’d left his damn cane inside somewhere.

  “Gabe,” he corrected. “I’m not in the Navy anymore.”

  “Don’t give me that load.” Tucker flashed a smile worthy of his Hollywood roots. “We get out, but we never leave. I’ve been gone from the Rangers for ten years, but my men still call me L.T.” He held out a hand. “Tuc Quentin.”

  Gabe ignored it. “I know. So you’re the guy that put the idea of a private hostage rescue team in Quinn’s head.”

  “No,” Quinn said. “I heard Tuc was thinking of putting one together and approached him about funding us.”

  Tuc nodded. “On paper, you’ll be employees of Quentin Enterprises, specifically HumInt Consulting, Inc., but save for a quarterly expense report and the occasional contract I’ll throw your way, I plan to have nothing more to do with your team. If you come to me for advice, of course I’ll be glad to give it, but otherwise it’s yours to run as you see fit.”

  “Why?” Gabe asked.

  “I already have several teams working for HumInt, plus a multi-billion dollar empire to run.” His lips twisted. “I think I’m quite busy enough.”

  “No, I mean why are you doing this? People don’t hand out free money and expect nothing in return.” Especially not savvy businessmen, but Gabe couldn’t figure out Tucker Quentin’s angle.

  Tuc leaned his forearms on the balustrade and studied the garden in the courtyard. “That garden’s amazing.”

  “What are you getting out of this?” Gabe repeated.

  “Quinn’s right. You’re tenacious as hell. Perfect for this job.”

  Yeah, right. Gabe bit back the automatic response. If that were true, if he was perfect for any command position, the Navy wouldn’t have tossed him and his bum foot to the curb. He shifted his weight, suddenly very aware of the pain.

  “Why?” Gabe asked again. Meaning, why me? Bu
t he’d be damned before putting a voice to that insecurity.

  Tuc twirled the stem of his champagne glass between his fingers. “The brother of one of my men was taken hostage recently and we were unprepared to handle it. I don’t want that happening again. I’m a big believer in being prepared, and you have an admirable reputation in the spec ops community. I only ask that if I contract you for a job, it’s given top priority. You of all people must understand how important my men are to me. They’re family.”

  Gabe briefly met Quinn’s stare and then nodded once. He understood, all right, and his respect for Tuc ratcheted up a notch. “Should the occasion call for it, you and your men will have top priority.”

  “Thank you. So.” Tuc finished his champagne in one swallow and pushed away from the balustrade. “Quinn tells me you have a team lined up from the dossiers I gave him.”

  Gabe honestly didn’t know and looked at Quinn, who nodded and said, “We had six men submit resumes.”

  “Their qualifications?” Gabe asked.

  “Couple ex-CIA spooks, an FBI negotiator, a Delta Force medic, an explosives tech…” His eyes slid away for the barest instant before he continued. “And a Marine sniper. They’re all experts in their fields—”

  “Whoa, wait.” Gabe held up a hand. “What sniper?” He got nothing but a whole lot of stubborn silence in response and shook his head in disbelief. “Goddamn. You’re talking about Seth Harlan, aren’t you? The same Seth Harlan that—”

  “I recommended him for a position. He’s an excellent sniper,” Quinn said with an expression on his face that dared Gabe to argue. Well, he’d take that dare.

  “Q, are you out of your fucking mind? Harlan’s unstable.”

  “He’s better now.”

  “Good for him.” When Quinn just gave him a long stare, the kind that always made him feel like a complete ass, he added, “Listen, I give the kid credit for surviving what he did, I do. And I know you have a soft spot for him, but he’s traumatized. Who wouldn’t be? I don’t want that kind of baggage weighing down my team. Think about it. What if he has a psychotic break in the middle of an op?”

  Quinn held his gaze a moment longer, then swore softly. “Yeah, you’re right. I know you’re right, but—shit. All right. Harlan’s out.” He turned back to Tuc. “The only man I haven’t been able to reach yet is the linguist, Jean-Luc Cavalier. Apparently he lives in the middle of the bayou and has spotty cell service.”

  “If you want him, you’d better find a way to get in touch,” Tuc said. “Because I already have a job for you. I was recently contacted by Zoeller and Zoeller Insurance Company, on behalf of Bryson Van Amee. Have you heard of him?”

  Gabe had. “He’s in imports and exports and does a lot of subcontracting for the military.”

  “That’s right. Bryson was taken hostage this morning in Bogotá during a business trip. The FBI fears one of the guerilla groups may be responsible.”

  Gabe nodded. Wealthy American businessman plus Colombian paramilitary—yeah, the math added up, and the sum didn’t look good for Bryson Van Amee.

  “The FBI is working with his wife, Chloe,” Tuc continued, “but Zoeller and Zoeller wants to free him before a ransom is paid, or else they’ll be liable for a hefty kidnap and ransom insurance payout.”

  “Does the FBI know what Zoeller’s doing?” Gabe asked.

  Tuc gave a thin smile. “What do you think?”

  That’d be a big negative. Okay, he wasn’t all that crazy about working against the FBI—well, maybe “against” was too harsh a word, since they all wanted the same results. Still. It somehow seemed a betrayal of his former career.

  “I understand your hesitation,” Tuc said after the silence stretched too long on his end. “Believe me, I do. I had some bad moments when I went private. But I’d also like to point out that the FBI hasn’t sent a team in after him and isn’t planning to. They’re hoping to simply talk his abductors down or, if all else fails, pay the ransom. He’s not important enough to them. Even with his government contracts, he’s a small fish in the grand scheme of things, and Uncle Sam could care less about what happens to him. But that man’s damn important to his wife and kids, his sister, his company—and you’re his best chance at survival.”

  Gabe considered it. He had two choices. Go wheels up, sneak in under the FBI’s nose, and bring Bryson Van Amee home to his family, or gimp back to his boring new job at the Pentagon, where he would forever be under the Admiral’s thumb. Yeah. When put that way, there was really only one choice.

  “Q, we have to get mobilization orders to the men,” Gabe said, his mind already working through the logistics. He checked his watch. “Tell them to be ready at—wait, do you have a plane for us?” he asked Tuc.

  “Fueled and ready to go. You’ll also have helos and a HumInt pilot at your disposal here and in-country.”

  “Perfect. We’ll need one to dig Cavalier out of his hole in the bayou.”

  Tuc snorted. “Good luck with that.”

  “Tell the men to be at their local airport for a 0400 pickup,” Gabe said to Quinn. “I’ll swing by Louisiana and grab Cavalier, then meet you at…” He trailed off.

  “I have a private airstrip about forty miles outside New Orleans,” Tuc suggested. “My pilots all know where it is.”

  “That works. Thanks. We’ll come up with a plan of attack once everyone is together and we have more intel, but we need to get moving.”

  “On it,” Quinn said, already dialing. He tucked the cell phone between his shoulder and ear as he strode toward the relative privacy at the other side of the balcony. “Hey, Marcus, it’s Quinn…”

  Tuc turned toward Gabe and held out a hand. “I’ll have all the information you need before you leave. Welcome to HumInt Consulting, Bristow.”

  Gabe shook the offered hand. And tried to tell himself he hadn’t made a pact with the devil.

  NEW ORLEANS, LA

  Jean-Luc Cavalier was drunk.

  And naked, buried underneath a pile of equally drunk and naked women. Three women to be exact.

  None of them moved when Gabe knocked on the wood doorframe of Cavalier’s shack, so he let himself in through the screen door.

  “Cavalier.” Gabe nudged the guy’s head with his boot.

  Jean-Luc mumbled something in French and palmed one woman’s ass, gave it a squeeze, then drifted back to sleep with a smile.

  Jesus Christ. This is what his life had come to? Scraping a drunk linguist off the floor so that he had enough men for an op? He never would have found one of his SEAL teammates like this if they were waiting for a call to go wheels up.

  Gabe sighed, picked a half-empty bottle of wine off the end table, and dumped the contents over Jean-Luc’s face.

  “Huh? Wha—?” Jean-Luc sputtered and blinked up at Gabe. “Merde!” He scrambled to his feet and cussed in a lively string of Cajun French. His shoulder-length blond hair looked as if someone had styled it with a handheld mixer. “I didn’t know she was married. I swear. She didn’t have a ring.”

  “Which one?” Gabe asked, eyeing the women as they stirred to life. Girls Gone Wild, the morning after. Not pretty.

  “Any of them!”

  Gabe had to clear his throat to hide a laugh. “I’m nobody’s husband. I’m your new boss, Gabe Bristow.”

  “Oh.” He looked confused at that and ran a hand over his face. Then, “Ohh. HORNET.”

  “HORNET?”

  “I thought all you military types like acronyms.” He rooted around through a heap of discarded clothing, tossed some to the women, and pulled on a pair of khaki shorts. “HumInt Inc.’s Hostage Rescue and Negotiation Team is a mouthful, so I shortened it. HORNET.”

  Leave it to the linguist to come up with something like that. “We have a job in Colombia. That is, if you’re still interested.”

  “Fuck, yeah. I’ve been bored mindless.”

  “Looks it,” Gabe said.

  …

  The plane arrived at the private airfi
eld fifteen minutes past 0800. Thank God. If Gabe had to listen to another of Jean-Luc’s tone-deaf renditions of whatever song came over the radio, he might just draw his firearm and shoot the man.

  It was a big plane. Bigger than Gabe had expected, and each of the five men already aboard had claimed a row of the plush seats for himself. The former FBI agent, Marcus Deangelo, dozed in the second row, a plaid fedora pulled down over his face, his legs crossed at the ankle, blocking the aisle. Jean-Luc reached over the seat and flipped the fedora off his head.

  “Hey!” Marcus snatched his fedora back, blinking against the light. “Asshole. I should—whoa, it’s the Ragin’ Cajun.” He laughed as he sat up and slapped Jean-Luc a high five. “Dude, you smell like a wine cellar.”

  “Better than a Calvin Klein cologne ad.” Jean-Luc grinned and plopped into an empty seat in the fourth row beside Eric Physick. “Harvard! Where y’at? How’s post-Company life treatin’ ya?”

  Former CIA analyst Eric “Harvard” Physick chuckled and set aside the crossword puzzle he’d been working on. “I should have figured you’d sign on for this. I’m fine. How about you? Learn any new languages lately?”

  Jean-Luc answered in a musical string of words. Harvard tilted his head to one side, listening. “Is that… Yucatec Maya?”

  “That it is. I said ‘you bet your ass, I have.’”

  “Fluent?” Harvard asked.

  “Pretty damn close.”

  “That’s what, thirteen now? You’ve been busy.”

  “You have no idea. Let me tell y’all about the night I had.”

  Within minutes, Jean-Luc had everyone on the plane laughing at his night of adventure with the three women. The jet coasted toward the runway and the seatbelt light came on with a ding.

  Gabe sat next to Quinn in the front row. “So, what do you think?”

  Laughter exploded behind them. Quinn shook his head, but didn’t look up from reading the file on his lap. “It’s going to be interesting. To say the least.”

  “That the intel Tuc sent?”

  “Yes.” He handed it over as the plane picked up speed and pushed them back in their seats. “Bryson Van Amee is worth around a quarter of a billion dollars.”