by Pamela Clare
He never went on a mission without tea. He wasn’t a barbarian.
He shoved his pistol back into the duffel along with his dirty laundry. Their duty weapons had been packed onto pallets when they’d left Kabul and would be taken to Cobra’s full-time armorer, who cleaned and inspected each firearm after every mission.
“McManus, you in?” Jones asked.
Quinn hadn’t been listening, but the single men always went out to their favorite bar to let off steam after an operation. “Aye, I’m up for gettin’ rat-arsed.”
Thor Isaksen, who’d served with Denmark’s Sirius Patrol, snorted. “Rat-arsed? You Scots have a million ways of saying drunk.”
Quinn couldn’t help but grin. “Aye, that we do.”
And you’re proud of that, are you?
Derek Tower, one of the co-owners of Cobra, a former Green Beret, entered the room wearing a tailored suit, a smile on his face. “Welcome back. Good work. I wish all assignments were this easy.”
Quinn was about to say he’d be bored out of his fucking mind if that were the case when his personal mobile phone rang.
Andrew Lewis.
Lewis had been Quinn’s lieutenant in his first few years with the SAS—Britain’s Special Air Service. He’d been a bloody good officer, and Quinn would have followed him straight into hell had he but asked.
Quinn answered. “Lewis, man, what’s happenin’?”
“I’m sorry to bring you bad news. Murray’s dead.”
“Jack Murray? Dead? Och, yer arse! He left me a message a few days back. I couldnae call him back because—”
“He was attacked two nights past in Glasgow, his throat slit. The police think it was a robbery. I know this must come as a shock. What an awful business. We’re all terribly upset. I wanted to tell you myself. I didn’t want you reading about this in the papers or finding out some other way. With social media and all—”
“Jack’s … dead?” The blood rushed from Quinn’s head, his ears ringing.
“He is, mate. I’m dreadfully sorry. I know how close you two were—the two Glaswegians in our unit. He was a good man, an outstanding soldier.”
“Aye, that he was.” Quinn swallowed. “When is the service?”
“I don’t know. The Procurator Fiscal has ruled the death a culpable homicide, and police are investigating. They won’t release his body until they’re certain they’ve got all the evidence. Some of us are pitching in to pay for military honors.”
“Count me in.”
Jack was dead.
Grief hit Quinn square in the chest. “Do they have any suspects?”
Jesus!
“Not that I’ve heard.”
Quinn thought of Jack’s wife and his two wee daughters, his throat growing tight. “How are Ava and the girls?”
“I went to see her this morning, offered my condolences. She’s managing as well as anyone can expect. Victim Support has been round to see her. I’m not sure the children understand. They’re quite young.”
“Aye, they are.”
Olivia was four. Isla wasn’t yet two.
They wouldn’t even remember their father.
“I’ve a few more calls to make. I’m terribly sorry, McManus.”
Quinn fought to push aside his shock and grief. “Thanks for lettin’ me know, man. That took balls. I’ll be there for the service.”
“Good man. Let me know when you get here.” Lewis ended the call.
Quinn sank to the bench, legless with shock and sick to his soul.
Jack was dead.
It took him a moment to realize that the room had fallen silent around him. He glanced about, saw that his fellow Cobra operatives were watching him.
Tower broke the silence. “Bad news?”
Somehow Quinn found the words to answer. “My best pal was killed two nights past—his throat slit. We served together for the better part of ten years. He’s got a wife and two wee ones.”
“Jesus.”
“God, I’m sorry, man.”
“Fuck.”
Quinn looked over, saw understanding on the men’s faces. Combat created a bond that was stronger than blood, a bond only someone who had served could understand. “I need to take some time.”
“Take all the time you need,” Tower said. “Don’t worry about paperwork. We’ll deal with it.”
“Thanks.”
Quinn was going home to Glasgow.
Elizabeth Shields was late joining the others at the Pony Express—the dive bar that served as the official Cobra hangout. What she really wanted was to go home, sink into a hot bath with a glass of wine, and then go to bed. She hadn’t slept much on the flight from Kabul and had spent most of the afternoon in an intel briefing with Cobra’s owners—Javier Corbray and Derek Tower—about a possible mission to Saudi Arabia.
But as one of the few women employed by Cobra, she couldn’t let the place turn into a boys’ club. When the men went out together, she went with them. She might be an intel analyst and not a fighter, but she was as much a part of the team as they were. She wouldn’t let them forget that.
She walked through the entrance, the steady rhythm of the Eagles’ One of These Nights coming from the juke box inside. “Hey, Evan.”
The big bouncer’s stern expression became a wide smile. “Hey, Elizabeth. Those losers you hang with are sitting at the bar.”
“Thanks.”
The guys weren’t hard to find. Taller and more muscular than most men, they moved with that swagger she’d come to associate with special forces operators. They were some of the best fighters in the world—and, yeah, they knew it.
She threaded her way through the crowded room and squeezed in next to Dylan, Thor, and Malik. “Hey, guys.”
She glanced around, looking for Quinn, but didn’t see him. With that beard and a head of thick, red hair, he stood out no matter where he was. The two of them danced together from time to time.
Okay, so they flirted, too. But who could blame her? His Scottish accent made everything he said sound sexy. She could admit to herself that she was drawn to him—in no small part because he had rescued her from Abdul Jawad Kazi’s men—but it was nothing serious. As long as they both worked for Cobra, it could never be serious. Not only were those the rules, but Elizabeth had learned the hard way what could happen when a woman slept with a coworker.
“Hey, Shields. They finally let you out for a breath of air?” Malik asked.
“Finally.” She motioned for the bartender. “A glass of merlot, please.”
She must have been tired because it took her a moment to realize that something was wrong. The men weren’t ribbing one another like they usually did, their expressions grave. “What is it? What happened?”
It was Malik who answered. “McManus got a call. His best buddy from SAS was murdered a couple nights ago, his throat slit.”
“Oh, God. How awful!”
“He looked pretty torn up, man.” Dylan asked for another beer.
Elizabeth searched the crowd for Quinn once more.
“He’s on his way to Glasgow,” Malik said. “He flew with Corbray to D.C. and is catching the red-eye to London.”
“Oh.” Elizabeth wished she’d known. She would have said something and offered to drive him to the airport. “He’ll want to be there for the funeral.”
“The guy had a wife and two little kids,” Thor said. “Imagine surviving a decade at war and then being murdered on the streets of your hometown.”
“Awful,” Elizabeth said again, at a loss for words.
She had watched on satellite and drone feeds as good men and women were cut down. She’d flown home with heroes, their coffins draped with American flags, and had witnessed the heartbreak and grief of their families. She’d done her best to offer comfort, knowing that nothing she said would make a difference.
That was war.
But losing your husband to a robbery after he’d made it through years of combat… That was a different kind of tragedy.
She took her glass of wine from the bartender. “Do they know who did it?”
Malik shook his head. “Nah, I don’t think so. McManus said something about them not releasing the body yet because they’re still investigating.”
That added another layer of pain for the man’s family. They’d lost him, but they couldn’t yet mourn him or lay him to rest.
Lev Segal, who had joined Cobra after a career with Israel’s Sayeret Matkal, came up behind them, taking a seat next to Malik. “You all hear about McManus?”
Heads nodded.
Lev ordered a Fat Tire. “I hope they find the bastard who did it.”
“They should string him up by his nuts.” Dylan took a sip. “That’s what I would do if anyone murdered one of you. Kill one of my brothers—or sisters—and I’ll make a necklace out of your teeth.”
“Hell, yeah.”
“Damn straight.”
“What a sweet thing to say.” Elizabeth couldn’t help but smile.
She appreciated Dylan including her. For most of her career, she’d felt left out, a woman in a world of men—special operators, military brass, and politicians. No, she hadn’t gone into combat like they had. Her life had rarely been at risk. But her work had been essential for the success of their missions. She’d done the research and analysis that resulted in US forces being sent into action—and then watched them carry out their orders via satellite feed, barely able to breathe at times.
The guys at Cobra were different, perhaps because it was a private company. There were no alphabet soup agencies or generals vying for control and glory, no politicians looking for photo ops, no one fighting over budgets. They were a team.
Then Elizabeth remembered. “Anyone want some good news?”
No one looked particularly excited by this.
“Of course,” Thor said at last.
Elizabeth had gotten an email from Shanti O’Neal but had forgotten about it the moment she’d heard about Quinn’s friend. “Connor made the Dean’s List.”
“What? O’Neal?” Malik laughed. “No way, man.”
Dylan raised his beer. “Way to go, college boy.”
“I guess he wasn’t the idiot we thought he was,” Lev teased.
Thor was more polite. “That’s good to hear.”
Shanti had been a Cobra client a little more than a year ago. Connor, a Cobra operative, had been the head of her security detail. The fact that the two of them ended up getting married afterward was a bit of a scandal, though Connor’s decision to leave Cobra to go to college had prevented him from answering any thorny questions. That had been a harrowing mission, though certainly not the roughest for Elizabeth. She’d come to respect Shanti, a human-rights attorney, and they were now good friends.
The conversation drifted after that, but Elizabeth’s thoughts stayed with Quinn. She took out her phone, sent him a quick text message.
I just heard the terrible news. I’m so sorry. Please let me know if you need anything.
She waited for a moment, hoping he’d respond, wanting to know she’d reached him. Cobra’s planes were equipped with wi-fi. But after a few minutes with no answer, she tucked her phone away.
Glasgow
It was almost nine in the morning when Quinn arrived in Glasgow. He rented a black Vauxhall Crossland X and drove down the M8 toward Stepps to Jack and Ava’s place off Cumbernauld Road, rain drumming on the windshield.
It was a typical dreich day—cold, wet, gray.
Och, he hated this city. Memories rushed back at him, but he pushed them from his mind. He’d left that life behind long ago. It had no hold on him now.
He took the A80 exit and soon found himself in front of the house. Jack had done well for himself after leaving the service. He’d gone to work as private security for some MSP in Holyrood. He and Ava had bought this place—a respectable villa made of proper stone—when she’d fallen pregnant with their first. Quinn had helped them move.
Och, who needs all these bloody books?
Those are Ava’s. She loves to read, so she does.
Quinn parked, sat in the car. He’d spent twelve hours in the air trying to come to grips with the truth, but some part of him still couldn’t believe it.
Jack. Dead.
Nothing about it made sense.
He re-read Elizabeth’s text. He’d already sent her a reply.
Thank you.
What else was there to say?
Quinn glanced over, saw that the blinds were closed. He hadn’t warned Ava he was coming. It had been midnight in Glasgow when he’d left Denver, and he’d been certain she and the wee ones were sleeping.
How would she feel about him showing up at her door?
He was about to call her when the front door opened and Ava appeared, Olivia and Isla behind her. He climbed out of the car, left his duffel in the boot, and walked up the footpath to the door.
Ava stared at him, clearly surprised to see him. Her eyes were red from crying, dark circles beneath them, her blond hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
He wished he’d been here a few days ago to stop this from happening. “I’m so bloody sorry, Ava.”
She stepped into his embrace, her body trembling as she wept. “He’s gone.”
Quinn held her, wishing he could cry, too. Instead, he felt only rage.
After a moment, Ava drew back. “I apologize. I’m a mess. You’ve come such a long way. Can I make you some tea?”
Quinn hadn’t had a proper brew since breakfast yesterday. “Aye, I’d be grateful.”
“Olivia, do you remember your Uncle Quinn?” Ava shepherded her daughters inside while Quinn held the door for them.
Olivia looked up at Quinn through wide blue eyes, nodded.
He walked inside and closed the door, shutting out the damp. There on a small mat sat four pairs of wellies, the largest belonging to Jack. Jack’s coat hung from its hook, his brolly in the stand.
God almighty, Jack. How the fuck can you be dead?
“I’m embarrassed by how untidy the place is.” Ava’s English accent sounded formal to Quinn’s Glaswegian ears, especially after five years of living in the United States. “I do apologize.”
“Never you mind about that.”
They moved to the kitchen, where the rubbish bin overflowed and dishes sat piled high in the sink.
Ava filled the kettle and put it on to boil. “Have you had breakfast?”
“I had a bite at the airport.” He didn’t want her fretting about him.
She turned to the sink. “I’ll do the washing up while that boils.”
Quinn stood. “Ava, come and sit. I’ll do that.”
“Oh, I couldn’t ask you—”
“You’re no’ askin’. I’m offerin’.” He knew how to load a dishwasher.
She turned, met his gaze, her control crumbling, despair in her blue eyes. “It’s been only three days—just three days—and it’s been a living hell. I didn’t know a person could feel this much pain. How am I supposed to get through the rest of my life?”
It was an honest question, one that came from her heart. Christ Jesus, he wished he knew what to say—or whose head to bash.
He led Ava to a seat at the table, knelt down in front of her, and looked into her eyes, trying not to let his emotions show. “You’ll take it one day at a time, aye?”
2
Quinn sipped his tea, while he and Ava talked, the two wee ones playing in the next room. “He called last week, but I was in Afghanistan. I didnae call him back. We were busy, and by day’s end I was pure knackered. I shoulda taken the time.”
He would never have the chance to speak with Jack again.
“Don’t feel guilty about that. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Have the police told you anythin’?”
“A little.” She drew a breath, as if to steel herself. “The post-mortem said he died quickly of a single slash wound to the left side of his throat that severe
d his carotid artery and trachea, but I could see that for myself. They asked me to identify his body and…”
Ava’s face crumpled, and she began to sob.
Rage sheared through Quinn at the sight of her suffering.
“I would have done anything to put life back into his body. He … he was blue and… so still. God, I want him back.”
Quinn had seen death, had carried the corpses of friends from the battlefield. “Try not to remember him that way. I know from experience that it disnae help.”
“Yes. Quite right.” She nodded, sniffed. “The autopsy found no signs that he’d been in a fight—no bruising or cuts. The toxicology tests aren’t back yet. The detective says it looks like a robbery. The killer left the car but took Jack’s watch, wallet, and his mobile phones—both his personal phone and his work phone. Police said they could use the phones to track the killer, but so far…”
The killer would have to be daft not to think of that, but Quinn didn’t say so. “Give the police time. There are a fair few ways to track a mobile phone.”
Ava’s lips curved in a wobbly smile. “He’d only had that new phone for a few weeks. He lost the other one while he was working. I had his old number memorized, but not this one. Not yet. The phone isn’t even paid off. God, this can’t be real.”
This brought fresh tears, her grief breaking whatever heart Quinn had left. He’d never felt so helpless. “I’m sorry, so I am.”
When she’d regained her composure, she told Quinn how Andrew Lewis and Alastair Whitehall, the MSP who’d been Jack’s employer, had stopped in with flowers to offer their condolences in person. “Whitehall said such nice things about Jack to the press. Wasn’t that kind?”
“Aye.” Quinn thought it was the least Whitehall could do. “Do you have kin nearby, someone to help wi’ the girls, make meals, get the messages… er… do the shoppin’?”