SEAL of Honor

by Tonya Burrows

  Gabe repeated it to himself like a mantra. Didn’t work. It may be a virtue, but he’d never been all that virtuous and still wanted to throttle Marcus.

  He put a hand on Audrey’s back and guided her toward the door. “The rest of you, gear up and move out, but stay in touch with each other. We’ll be out of radio contact, but I have my phone. We’ll be back in a couple hours, tops.”

  With time dwindling steadily away, he couldn’t waste any more than that.

  Jesse trailed them outside. “Gabe, can I talk to you for a sec?”

  Now what? He stopped, waved Audrey on ahead. “Make it fast.”

  “It’s about Quinn.” Jesse took off his hat and swiped a hand through his long, dark brown hair before replacing the Stetson and adjusting the brim. “He hasn’t had a physical yet. Every time I approach him about it, he makes up an excuse. He hasn’t given me access to his medical records, either.” His dark eyes went to the front door as it opened and the man in question stepped out into the breezeway. “Granted, I don’t know him all that well, but it seems like odd behavior, so I thought I should mention it.”

  Odd? And the grand prize for understatement of the year goes to Jesse Warrick. No, that was beyond odd. That was so completely unlike Quinn that at first, Gabe’s mind couldn’t assimilate what Jesse was telling him with the man he knew. He turned toward his best friend, who was leaning against the front door with his arms crossed over his chest.

  “That true?”

  Quinn’s jaw cracked from the force of his back teeth grinding together. “I don’t appreciate you going over my head, Warrick. You have a problem with me, you talk to me.”

  “I tried,” Jesse shot back. “You brushed me off. Several times.”

  “I’ve been busy. In case you haven’t noticed, we have a very limited window to find Bryson Van Amee.”

  “What I’ve noticed is you’re defying a direct order from our boss.”

  “This coming from the guy kicked out of Delta for punching a ranking officer. Since when are you so hell-bent on rules?”

  “All right, gentlemen. Enough.” Gabe stepped between them before the heated argument escalated out of hand and, for one brief moment, wished for his former SEAL teammates. With them, there had never been scuffles like this during an op. Before and after, sure. But during, it just didn’t happen. You followed orders to a T or someone got killed.

  In fact, Quinn used to be by-the-book, strict as they come. Did a shoulder injury and discharge papers really make that big of a difference in him?

  “Q, man, why are you fighting this? It’s nothing. Let Jesse do the damn physical and give him access to your medical records so we can move on to more important things.” He motioned toward the Jeep in the driveway where Audrey sat, watching them through the window. “That woman is counting on us to bring her brother home and you’re wasting time we don’t have.”

  “Exactly,” Quinn said. “Time we don’t have. I’ve been busy and haven’t—”

  Jesse grunted. “I’ve shoveled some mighty big piles of bullshit in my day, but yours is the biggest.”

  Quinn stepped forward. So did Jesse.

  All right, this was getting ridiculous and Gabe was sick of listening to these two snipe at each other like ten-year-olds.

  “Knock it off or you’ll both have a meet-and-greet with the ground.” He shoved Jesse back with one hand and jabbed the business end of his cane at Quinn’s stomach. “You. Inside. You’re getting that fucking physical now.”

  “Gabe—”

  “Goddammit, I mean it. You wanted me to lead this team, so I’m leading it. And right now, you’re being an epic jackass. If you were anyone else, you’d be done. Don’t make me pull you off this op, Q. I’ll hate it, but I’ll do it.”

  The two men stared at each other over Gabe’s shoulder for a long, heated moment. Quinn finally relented. He turned and walked, stiff-backed, inside. A second later, Jesse sighed and followed, but Gabe caught his arm.

  “Call me if you have any more trouble with him.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  In the car, Audrey gave him a sympathetic look as he leaned his head against the seat and shut his eyes. After witnessing that spectacle, her faith in them as saviors had to be next-to-nil, and yet she laid a comforting hand on his arm.

  “This is new to you, isn’t it?” When he cracked an eyelid and shot her a sideways glance, she added, “Not the hostage rescue stuff. Seeing you work, I have no doubt that you know what you’re doing there. But this set-up is new.”

  That was one way to describe a six-hours-old, never-trained-together team. New. He called it a goatfuck. Man, he should’ve passed on this mission. He’d been so eager to get back into the field. Too eager—and his team was suffering for it.

  With a sigh, he sat up and started the Jeep. “That obvious?”

  She nodded. “Everyone’s testing boundaries. Not exactly jockeying for power, since they all seem to get you’re in charge, but they’re trying to figure out what they can get away with, what they can’t. It’s a natural progression for any newly formed group.”

  Yeah, but Quinn? He always liked to know where the boundaries lay and never, ever crossed a toe over them. What the hell was the matter with him?

  “The same thing happened when Phil joined my dolphins,” Audrey said, drawing his attention back to her. She sat buckled into the passenger seat, staring out the window at the passing Bogotá streets as he wound the Jeep through gathering traffic toward the edge of the city. He wondered if she was looking for her brother in the faces of everyone they passed. Probably.

  “You have dolphins?” he asked, partly out of genuine curiosity but mostly to take her mind off Bryson for a little while.

  She flashed him a brilliant smile before returning her gaze to the window. “Guess they’re not really mine, but I think of them that way. They hang out around my dock and visit me throughout the day. Rata, Matahina, Hika, and Phil.”

  “Phil?”

  “He’s the newcomer. Just showed up one day. Rata didn’t like having another male around his pod, but they’re buddies now. Took some time and quite a few fights, though.” She patted his arm. “Your pod has a lot more alpha males in it than Rata’s. You’ll get the kinks worked out.”

  But will it be in time to save her brother? He knew that was what she was thinking, and gave her props for not saying it aloud.

  “Why’d you name him Phil?” he asked after a moment of bumping along in comfortable silence. “Why not something more exotic?”

  “He’s not an exotic guy. He’s happy and sweet and laid-back. Phil suited him.” She shrugged, and the strap of that slinky yellow tank slipped off her shoulder, showing a whole lot of golden brown skin and freckles.

  No tan lines. Jesus.

  The image of her stretched out naked on a dock with dolphins dancing in the ocean around her took up residence in his brain right next door to his libido. He tried to shake it by recalling the directions to the limo driver’s house that he’d committed to memory. A forty-five minute drive southeast to a small town in the Amazon region where jungle tangled around the base of the mountains.

  And he was still picturing her naked.

  It was going to be a long ride.

  …

  “There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Jesse pulled his stethoscope from around his neck, tossed it inside his medical bag, and snapped the clasps closed. “Want a lolly now?”

  “Fuck you.” Quinn grabbed his shirt and stuffed an arm in the sleeve, muttering something that sounded like, “I hate doctors,” with expletives thrown between each word for good measure.

  Jesse shook his head. Different dance partner, same ol’ tune. He had almost come to miss it since leaving the military. He’d tended to lots of guys like Travis Quinn back then—burned out and perpetually as mean as a caged bull because of it, but in for the long haul because they had nothing else. The type that knew he wasn’t invincible and just didn’t give a rat’s hairy ass. Th
e type that didn’t exactly have a death wish, but neither did he have anything to live for.

  It was a sad, lonely place for a man to be, and could have so very easily been Jesse if it weren’t for his little boy. He’d already been on the edge of it when Connor was born, which was why Lacy divorced him and threatened to take away his son two months later when he got kicked out of Delta Force. Shit, he couldn’t even blame her for it. He’d been a piece of work back then. Pissed off, depressed. That threat was the boot in the ass he’d needed to pull himself together, and he’d done it right quick. His boy meant everything to him.

  Quinn needed something like that, something to mean everything, but he’d never open himself up enough for it. And he’d probably kick Jesse’s ass to Jackson Hole and back for giving that particular medical opinion seeing’s how he hated doctors and all.

  “I’m not a doctor yet,” Jesse said good-naturedly instead. He would be, though, then his son wouldn’t need to worry about whether or not he’d come home alive from his next mission. HORNET was just a means to an end, a way to keep his skills sharp and bring in extra cash to cover the expenses of med school.

  “Close enough. Are we—” As Quinn turned to grab his boots from the floor, something happened—Jesse saw it, like a flipped light switch blew a fuse inside his head. His face blanked. His eyes, though open, went vacant as the Wyoming plains in the middle of winter.

  “Shit!” Jesse shot to Quinn’s side, hat flying off his head from the speed of the movement, and wrapped an arm around his waist in case he toppled.

  And, just like that, he snapped back. “What the…? Get the hell off me.”

  “Nah, pal, you should have a seat.” And a freakin’ CAT scan. Unfortunately, the latter wasn’t readily available in Bumfuck, Colombia. The former was, and Jesse maneuvered Quinn into a nearby chair, then reopened his medical bag. “How long have you been blacking out?”

  “I haven’t.”

  Jesse snorted, looped a blood pressure cuff around Quinn’s upper arm, and clipped a pulse oximeter to his finger. “I already made a point about your bullshit earlier, so I’ll refrain from beating a dead horse by repeatin’ myself. How long?”

  “It’s nothing,” he muttered. “I haven’t eaten. I’ll get some food and be fine in a few minutes.”

  “Are you diabetic?” No answer. “Goddangit, you might as well tell me. I’ll find out.”

  Quinn said nothing, just stared mulishly at the opposite wall, his jaw clenched so hard his right eye ticked. His blood pressure and pulse were a little high, his O2 low. Not good, but expected after an episode like that. Whatever that was.

  As soon as Jesse ripped the BP cuff from his arm, Quinn was out of the chair, headed toward the door.

  “Quinn.”

  He stopped, still said nothing, but his shoulders tensed.

  “I need you to release your records to me.”

  “You’ll get them. Right now, we have work to do.”

  Yup, Jesse thought as he packed away his supplies and picked his Stetson off the floor. But the sixty-four thousand dollar question was, when? He had no doubt Quinn would take his good ol’ time about releasing them.

  Well, he’d just see about that. By hook or crook—probably crook, which was just fine by him—he’d get his hands on those medical records ASAP. Then, depending on if he found what he suspected he’d find, he’d have to take the issue to Gabe.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Bryson rolled over in bed and something hard snagged his wrists. He jolted awake, opening his eyes into the darkness of his bedroom.

  No, not his bedroom. Enough ambient light from somewhere illuminated the concrete block walls and a metal staircase descending into the middle of the room from the floor above.

  “Wha…?” Blinking, he looked at his caught wrists and at first didn’t understand the steel bracelets. Except for his wedding ring, he wasn’t the jewelry wearing type. Why would he be wearing…

  Handcuffs.

  Bryson screamed, jackknifing on the mattress. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, this wasn’t happening. Dreaming, he had to be. A horrible nightmare he’d soon wake up from and—

  His stomach revolted and he rolled off the pallet only to discover his feet and waist chained to the concrete wall. Vomit surged up his throat, stained the front of the thousand-dollar suit he still wore. Distantly he heard a door open and footsteps rattle the stairs. Voices.

  “What the fuck’s wrong with the gringo?” someone asked in Spanish, his voice the squeaky, immature sound of a teenager not yet through puberty.

  “It’s the ether,” a deeper voice replied. He remembered that voice. Jacinto. “Made him sick.”

  Ether?

  Oh God, the limo. He remembered now, in such vivid detail, the memory seared. The dizziness, the panic, the sleepiness. Jacinto wearing a bug-eyed mask and telling him to let it happen, that nobody would hurt him, that he was worth too much money. He’d been gassed. Kidnapped.

  Bryson puked until there was nothing left in his stomach. Dry heaved until tears streamed down his face and his ribs screamed in pain from the violent, useless spasms. Then he collapsed, wishing he’d slide back into the comfortable oblivion of unconsciousness.

  “Señor Van Amee,” Jacinto said.

  Bryson felt a boot nudge his side. Something pressed to his ear.

  “Talk.”

  He tried. Couldn’t do anything but moan.

  “Get him up.”

  A pair of hands hauled him upright and his head spun, kicking off another round of dry heaves. Again, Jacinto pressed something to his ear and ordered, “Talk!”

  “Bryson?” Chloe’s tear-choked voice was like a balm, soothing over the worst of his pain. “Bryson, baby, are you there? Are you okay? Talk to me, baby. Please.”

  He opened his mouth, found his tongue was like sandpaper as he tried to wet his lips. “Chloe.”

  “Oh God.” She broke down crying. “We’re going to bring you home, baby. We’re going to pay anything they want, okay?”

  Pay them anything they want. It was the logical thing to do, but God, it pissed him off. These cretins took him from in front of his own apartment building, scared his wife and kids and probably his sister, and now they were demanding money from his family? And after they got his money, they’d just kill him—he wasn’t a stupid man and knew they’d never let him go. He’d seen their faces, could identify them. And after they dumped his body somewhere, they would do it all over again to someone else.

  No. No, they wouldn’t. It ended here.

  “Don’t pay…them a…dime.”

  “Brys?”

  “I mean it. Not one—”

  Jacinto swore in Spanish, yanked the phone from his ear, and backhanded him so hard his vision flared white and stayed white for a long five seconds. Pain exploded through his face and blood spurted from his nose, over his lips, the coppery taste of it filling his dry mouth.

  “Chloe, listen to me!” He didn’t know if she was still on the phone or if Jacinto had hung up on her. “Don’t let them get away with this. Don’t pay them, whatever threats they make, whatever—”

  “¡Cállate!” A boot landed hard in his side and something cracked. Suddenly, he couldn’t draw a full breath without pain splintering his every thought and he collapsed onto the concrete floor with bone-jolting force.

  Jacinto grabbed his tie and hauled him upright. Breath that reeked of cigarettes and coffee and something spicy invaded his nose as a broad, dark face pressed so close, an irrational fear that Jacinto was going to kiss him flitted through his brain.

  “I speak Ingles, asshole,” Jacinto said in thickly accented English and jerked on the tie, cutting off his oxygen. “Try something like that again, I will kill you. I don’t need to keep you alive now that they have proof of life. Remember that.”

  LOS ANGELES, CA

  As far as second communications went, that wasn’t the worst. Wasn’t the best, either, and a hard knot of dread settled in FBI negotiator Danny Giancarelli�
��s stomach. He set down the phone and exchanged a knowing glance with his partner, then they both turned to Special Agent in Charge Frank Perry.

  “What—what was that?” Chloe Van Amee’s voice was high, verging on a screech. She looked from one of them to the next, eyes frantic, complexion white despite her tan. “We’re going to pay them, right? Yes, of course we’re going to pay them. Brys doesn’t know what he’s saying. We have to pay them. We—”

  “Mrs. Van Amee,” Danny said since Frank Perry didn’t seem to care to step up and do his job to calm the woman. “This isn’t unusual. Your husband is frightened, feeling out of control, and trying to take back whatever control he can.”

  “Oh God.” She doubled over in her chair and covered her face with her hands.

  Standing over Chloe’s shuddering form, Rick O’Keane arched a brow. Danny gave his partner an almost imperceptible shrug. It might be true. Bryson was no doubt frightened, but usually hostages were willing to pony up anything for their release. Wasn’t often he heard a hostage say not to pay.

  God, he wished Marcus Deangelo was here. His former partner knew how to handle family members better than any other agent in the office.

  “We’re obviously dealing with professionals,” Frank Perry said, and Danny turned in his seat to stare at him. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Van Amee. They don’t want your husband’s life. All they want is the money.”

  Hell. He can’t know that after two very short freakin’ phone conversations with the HTs—hostage takers. They didn’t know anything yet, other than Bryson was still alive, his ransom was around sixty million and some change, and the HTs wanted the exchange to happen as soon as possible.

  O’Keane looked just as thunderstruck, and nothing much surprised the Irishman. He cleared his throat and jerked his head toward the corner of the room in a we-need-to-talk gesture.

  “Perry.” Danny stood and motioned him toward the corner as well. “Let’s talk.”

  Perry ignored them both. “Mrs. Van Amee—Chloe. Is it okay if I call you Chloe?” When she gave a watery nod, he took the chair across from her that Danny had vacated. “Do you have access to funds for the ransom payment?”