by Ronie Kendig
“I can’t.” Vulnerability skated across her pretty face. “Not now.” She drew in another shaky breath, her hands trembling. “I have to…”
“Brie.”
She cupped a hand over her mouth as a sob escaped.
Eamon’s arms went around her shoulders, tugging her close, but she went rigid. Though she let out a few choked sobs, she kept that tight control in place before finally stepping out of his hold.
She gave a nod-shake. “Sorry. Thank you. I…” She looked down the hall. “Oh no.” Her brow twisted into a knot. “His wife…”
“No, leave that for the Army.”
“But she’s his wife! She should know he’s gone.”
“Yes. And she will. But if you call her—who will be there to hold her as she comes to grips with his death? Let’s leave that to special services to make sure someone is there to help her through this.”
She gave a curt nod. “Of course. You’re right.” Brie swallowed. “That’s why you came to me.”
True. He’d known of Brie’s special relationship with the general and didn’t want her to find out alone. Or by anyone else. “He was like a father to you, so—”
“Yes.” Determination flitted into her eyes. “Yes, he is”—she shook her head—”was. Which is why I need to honor him by pushing on, finding his murderer.”
Eamon inched closer, itching to hold her. Make everything right. She was tough, strong, determined, and focused. There was a reason Burnett had her as his aide, and it was the same reason that had drawn Eamon into her net, too.
Shoulders squared, hair in that meticulous bun, Brie nodded. “Thank you, Titanis.” She sighed. “I have work to do. If you’ll excuse me.”
“Of course.” He tucked away his misplaced thoughts. The ones that had him feeling like a scolded schoolboy. A billion dollars, a yacht, a powerful father, an outstanding military service record. But the one area he desperately wanted to succeed… instead, he walked into a landmine field of rejection.
CHAPTER 4
Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan
26 March—1300 Hours
Grief was the vicious enemy of progress.
Sal sat in the squeaky chair at his desk, elbows on his knees. Head down. Barely visible from his position, the office down the hall sat ominously closed up. It seemed to epitomize death with the way it alone sat darkened when all other lights glowed and tinkled.
When Burnett was around, the door was open and more than just the lights glowed. Hope. Progress. Sal lowered his gaze, remembering the general. Remembering his caustic wit that could be easily taken as mean. But to those who knew him, he was a balls-to-the-walls kind of guy. Gut it up and get it done. He didn’t put up with crap, and he didn’t dish it out either. With Lance Burnett came solid, honest, hardworking ethics. Sal had lost an anchor in life. He knew if he got off center, the general would yank his butt back in line. Give him what for and tell him to straighten up or ship out.
Now he was gone. Murdered on a tragic, deadly night. Right in front of his own soldiers. Right out his office door, practically.
“Who do you think will replace him?” Hawk asked, boots propped on the legs of his chair and head against the wall.
Sal leaned back with a heavy sigh. He didn’t even want to think about that. Denial did nothing except prevent forward momentum, yet the idea of facing new brass, new leadership, when they needed to nail this terrorist who’d attacked Raptor and Kandahar Airfield… “Just better be someone good.”
“Hooah.” Hawk dropped forward in the chair, noticeably changed since his trek through the snow-riddled mountains. He had settled into himself, and Sal somehow felt the loudmouthed guy earned some respect and space. “Someone who knows what’s going on.”
“They will.” Quiet and firm, Dean’s words pulled Sal’s gaze to where the captain sat, face awash in the blue haze of his computer screen.
“What’re you reading?” Sal asked.
“Reports from the attack.”
Sal glanced at his own desk, at the files stacked up. He’d gone through them a couple of times already, looking for anything that provided a tip on the deadly attack against CECOM. Found nothing. “What about the prisoner?” He could put a little of his frustration to rest by introducing his fists to the guy’s face.
Dean yawned as he slumped back and checked his watch. “Should have an answer by fourteen hundred.”
“We should’ve already had immediate access.” Sal pushed to his feet. “Why did Ramsey stall us anyway?”
“DIA’s interviewing him.”
Interviewing. That was a nice word for what actually happened in those meetings.
“Let’s hope it’s an aggressive talk,” Hawk said with a gleam, one that matched what Sal felt.
And that scared him to be this keyed up. This ready to cram a rocket down someone’s gullet.
The front door swung inward, throwing bright afternoon light across the Command building. In stormed a bevy of brass—more than one might see at a range. Sal straightened, giving respect to the officers who streamed in.
“Captain,” General Ramsey stepped from behind a colonel and extended a hand to Dean. He was a good ten to fifteen years younger than Burnett and had a truckload of intensity about him. Probably why he was balding and gray.
“What is that smell?” Hawk muttered, his gaze flicking to the newcomers hanging near the door. SEALs—squids. Riordan. Schmidt—the one who’d fought Hawk at the hookah bar. And a handful of others.
Sal gave Hawk a warning look to keep the tone neutral with officers on deck. But when he turned, Cassie had joined the group. He hated himself for thinking it, but he’d been hoping that she’d vanish with Burnett gone.
“Captain, if we could have a word with you and your team.” Ramsey moved toward the briefing room without waiting for a reply, the officers and squids following him like a wake of rotten fish.
“Guess we’re about to get answers,” Hawk muttered as he sidled up to Dean and Sal.
Harrier, Titanis, and Knight were with them now, too.
“This feels wrong.” Sal couldn’t shake the feeling no matter how hard he tried.
“Keep it calm,” Dean said, giving everyone a firm look. “Discuss later. Just hear them out.”
“Who keeps bringing the stale fish into the house?” Hawk complained as he made his way into the room, shouldering past the SEALs and taking a seat.
Inside the crowded briefing room, Sal remained near the door. And to his chagrin, so did Cassie. He set his jaw and trained his attention on General Ramsey.
“It’s been a rough couple of days. We’re all ticked off about General Burnett’s murder, and we’re not going to let that go unanswered.”
“Hooah,” Hawk murmured.
“But we need chain of command established. For the foreseeable future until we get someone else in place, Raptor, you’ll report to me.”
It made sense, mostly, for them to answer to Ramsey, but somehow, it stuck in Sal’s gut. Why it bothered him, he couldn’t tell.
“I’m also keeping the JSOC pairing of Raptor and Riordan’s team.”
That’s why.
Sal shifted and resisted the urge to fold his arms over his chest, a sign of disrespect. He skated a look at Dean, whose stony expression gave nothing away about his feelings.
Dean might be stoic, but he wasn’t an unfeeling sort. It’s what made him a good team leader. Made him a man Sal respected, even when they disagreed. Yet he couldn’t read what the captain thought about this. Not all men were as gifted at hiding their feelings as Dean. Sal envied that. He’d never been able to hide what he felt.
“With what’s on the line, it’s no time to make sweeping changes,” Ramsey said. “We’ll keep things as Burnett had them. Captain, I’ll need you liaising with Command more than ever. Russo, you’ll manage the team and coordinate with your captain and Commander Riordan.”
Sal nodded. “Yes, sir.” He swallowed the bile in having to coordinate with Riordan
. But they’d do what they had to in order to complete the mission.
“Lieutenant Hastings, until further notice, keep working intel about this terrorist who’s hit.” General Ramsey’s gaze shifted—right at Sal. “You’ll stay with the team, too.”
Why wouldn’t I? He’d just told—
“Yes, sir.” Cassie’s soft voice, lilting with her Southern roots, drifted over Sal’s shoulder. “Thank you, General.”
Son of a french-fried biscuit! The general had been talking to Cassie.
“Mr. Russo, as team leader, you’ll need to work closely with Walker to make sure she has the most recent, up-to-date intel.”
So much for hoping she’d be gone. Out of his sight. Out of his life.
Ramsey angled toward the colonel at his left. “Am I missing anything?”
The full bird shook his head.
“Okay.” Ramsey pursed his lips, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. “Questions?”
“Sir,” Dean spoke up. “We’d like access to the prisoner we secured the night of Burnett’s murder.”
“Of course you would.” He nodded and looked at the colonel again. “Get that cleared.”
“Sir,” the colonel said with a nod.
“Thank you, gentlemen—and ladies.” General Ramsey exited, the other brass trailing him. But not the SEALs.
Dean slapped his shoulder. “I’ll catch up with you. I need a word with Ramsey.”
“Something wrong?”
“Too much.”
“Hooah,” Sal mumbled as the captain made his way out.
Riordan strutted toward Sal. Stuffed a hand toward him. “Guess we’ll be working together again.”
Sal shook the hand. “Guess so.”
“Let’s meet at the Boardwalk to talk.”
“It’s shut down,” Harrier said, joining them.
Riordan’s dark eyes sparked with amusement. “Perfect place for a quiet talk. Away from ears.”
After a quick check of his watch, Sal nodded. “Fifteen hundred at the Boardwalk.”
“Sixteen,” Riordan countered. “We have things to follow up on first.”
Sal nodded. That sounded a lot like they wanted a plan in place that didn’t include Raptor. Which made sense since Sal planned to do the same thing.
The squids followed Riordan out, and Raptor tightened up around Sal. He had to admit, he was sick of this. All of it. Fighting some invisible ghost in the network. A ghost that seemed to have grown corporeal and spat bullets at them. But that Riordan wanted to talk away from eyes and ears gnawed at him. What did he know? Or did he have an idea of who might be behind this? Either way, Raptor couldn’t afford to shirk this opportunity.
“Sir?” Harrier asked.
Sal patted his shoulder. “Shower up and grab some grub. Meet at my tent at fifteen hundred.”
Tonight had altered everything—life. Getting saddled with Walker when he had to keep his mind on this mission, not on hating her, Sal felt a suffocating weight pressing on him.
He logged off his system but sagged toward his chair—movement out of the corner of his eye stopped him. Pushed him straight. He tried to hold back the flinch at the blond hair and blue eyes. She was watching him, probing in that formidable way of hers. She always found the holes in his armor. Always got under his skin.
“What?” he bit out.
“I hope we can work together… peaceably.”
His gut churned. “You nuked any chance of that four years ago.” Sal turned and left the quiet hum of the Command building.
God had seen fit to torment him. It wasn’t enough for Vida to pay for his sins. Now he had to live and breathe the same air as the woman responsible for killing her.
Boris
26 March—1335 Hours
Seriously. Do they think this will work? I mean, I’m here. They’re here. But there’s no point in this. I have no information to surrender. And—yes, I know they’re not easily dissuaded. This dude has some serious determination lurking in his big, dark eyes.
But that, that is nothing compared to what this minion has going on. I mean, I swear Jason Bourne’s creator takes cues from this guy. It’s terrifying.
“I mean it. I don’t know anything. It was all kept sterile.” The pain throbbing through my fingers is horrific. I just want it to stop. I need it to stop. Can’t think. The whole thing with these spy games is to figure out what your opponent wants most. And give it to them.
Not literally, of course. Because then what power do you have? None. You’re at the bottom of the dung heap, with them tromping over your rotting corpse. You’re dead. No, you keep that information close to your heart and your weakness closer. If they find your weakness, they find the information.
He’s moving toward me again, all calm and stoic. Like some stone-coldhearted piece of work.
And he is. Trust me.
“I ain’t got nothing man. Plucking out my nails”—a whimper trickles through my words. I’d like to say it’s on purpose but I’m not that good—“won’t produce what I don’t know.”
That’s what I have to make them believe. Because if I give up the goods, then it’s over. I’m over. And we all know, I can’t let that happen.
Imagine if I can endure this. Get free—there’s always hope because we all know that everyone has a price—then get back to Mr. Big Money himself and cha-ching! I’m in and richer than ever.
And my name is written in the stars of the cyberverse. I’ll be notorious.
Mr. Big Whig enters now. “What has he told you?”
“Lies.”
“No—no, they’re not. It’s true. I don’t know anything. They didn’t tell me.”
The man at the utensil tray smirks. “See? He thinks we will believe him.”
The man in the slick olive suit and turban stares at me with what can only be described as an icy glare. “Change his mind.”
EAMON
He had better things to worry about, but the blue eyes of a certain lieutenant nagged to the point of distraction. Eamon submitted his report from the attack then headed down the hall. Burnett’s death had shaken her up, but she’d warriored on as only Brie could. He could relate. It’d been the same for him when his mother had died. She’d looked after him while his father politicked and made his billions.
He wouldn’t make the same mistake. Wouldn’t abandon a family to make money. Something gone in a flash.
Voices slowed him. As the senior administrator for the generals, Brie probably had a lot of work, and no doubt had to coordinate with Ramsey and Ames. Eamon checked around the corner.
Brie hunched over her desk, arms folded on paperwork she was looking at. But leaning over from behind her and pointing at one of the documents—Riordan. They were… close. Cozy. The SEAL, Eamon hated to admit, was handsome and gregarious. That latter trait was one Eamon lacked. He’d had to protect too much for most of his life to be outgoing and boisterous.
Brie laughed at something the commander said.
A strange feeling bumped Eamon’s confidence out of line. Had he read her wrong? He’d thought she liked him. She let Riordan a lot closer than she’d let him. He lowered his hand, which had been poised to rap on the door. He glanced at her once more then pivoted. His boot squeaked as he stepped away, much like the pinch in his chest.
“Titanis?”
He stopped. Hesitated then stepped back. “Sorry.” He glanced between them, hoping his displeasure wasn’t evident on his face. “I can come back later.”
Brie sat back in her chair with a smile. “No, it’s okay,” she said, waving him in. “Actually, I need to talk to you.”
With a nod, Eamon tucked aside the bruise of jealousy and entered, hovering across from Brie at her desk.
“I’ll check back with you later.” After a conciliatory nod to Eamon, Riordan left the office.
Eamon watched the commander then turned his attention back to Brie.
She arched an eyebrow. “You okay?”
He lifted a shoulder.
“Sure.”
“You looked ticked.”
Not exactly successful at burying his feelings. Though she was right, Eamon redirected. “You wanted to talk to me?”
Brie stood and closed the office door. “Yes,” she said, returning to her seat. “Burnett was putting a plan in place when he died. I just heard from DIA and they have ordered me to pick up where he left off.”
“If I can help…”
She grinned, and if she knew that smile could get anything out of him, she’d probably be the death of him. “I’m glad you said that. Because the general wanted you and me to go do some recon at Takkar Towers.”
Eamon stilled. Recon with her? “Wouldn’t Raptor be a better choice?”
Her grin widened. “No, because we’ll be inside—civilian. We’re going in as siblings who want to lease a condo in the residential tower.”
“Wait,” Eamon said, tripping over her words. “I’m trained for combat. Not espionage.”
“Actually, you’re trained for both, aren’t you? I mean—SAS commandos need to know how to read and manipulate situations for their benefit, right?”
“Sure, but—”
“And you’re less known to Takkar and his minions. Being Australian works for you.”
“But you’re not Australian.”
“Right.” Brie shook her head, confused. “So?”
“You said we’d go as siblings. You don’t have an accent.”
“I’ll fake it.”
Eamon sniggered. “A real Aussie against a fake one?”
With sagging shoulders and a puffed breath pushed out between pursed lips, Brie scratched the side of her head. “I was never good at faking them anyway. In high school, I was in a play and did the worst-ever rendition of a Southern accent, so I’d probably murder your language.”
“Accent,” he corrected.
“Have you heard how thick it is? Yours is more like its own language.”
“Are you saying you don’t like my accent?”
“It’s sexy—I mean, fine.” She ducked, crimson flooding her cheeks.
Sexy. A smirk pulled at his lips. So he hadn’t read her wrong. But how far did her attraction to him go?