Defenseless (Somerton Security #1)

by Elizabeth Dyer

  “We’re okay,” Georgia began, because frankly, that was most important, and judging from the way Ethan struggled to tear his gaze away from Parker, it was what he needed to hear. “We got your message,” she said slowly, drawing Ethan’s scrutiny away from Parker. “But we were on our way out when we ran into trouble.”

  The muscle at Ethan’s jaw flexed before he managed, “What kind of trouble?”

  “A hit,” Georgia confirmed for him. “Definitely a pro. He let himself into the loft, but we didn’t stick around to figure out how. He caught us in the narrow hallway between kitchen and bedroom. Good thing, too—if he’d had the room to maneuver properly, we’d both be dead.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Ortiz swore.

  “But you’re both okay?” Ethan asked. “No injuries?”

  Georgia watched as he struggled with the urge to turn back to Parker. To assess him again. So he was aware of the overprotective streak. Interesting. Better question was, did he know how his concern affected Parker? Because from what Georgia had observed in the last five minutes, every time Ethan clucked like a mother hen, Parker deflated a bit more. Grew quiet and still, two things it had taken Georgia less than twenty-four hours to figure out he did when he was off-kilter or insecure.

  “We’re fine.”

  For the first time, Parker startled, and then snapped back into the conversation with a scowl. “I’m fine. She was shot.”

  Georgia rolled her eyes. Drama queen. “Minor graze. No stitches, and definitely nothing to worry about.” She shrugged off Parker’s concern. Her side was tender and a little stiff, but the rest of her felt like deliciously stretched taffy. “Can’t say the same for the other guy . . . What was his name?” she asked, hoping to draw Parker more thoroughly into the conversation, to get that mouth moving and brain firing. She wasn’t one for incessant chatter, but Parker’s silence was just weird. She hated the very idea he might feel out of his depth, might doubt his own experience and abilities. Bottom line, when it mattered, Parker had made the tough call. He didn’t deserve to feel incapable or weak.

  “Gordon Fletcher,” he tonelessly offered.

  In Georgia’s experience, facts had the capacity to detonate like bombs, wreaking havoc and destroying terrain that only moments ago felt familiar. She watched as the knowledge that someone these guys knew, someone they worked with and trusted, had tried to kill one of their own.

  “Fuck,” Liam mumbled. “Fletcher’s an ass, but . . .”

  “He’s dead?” Ethan asked.

  Georgia jerked her chin once.

  “Then I’m sorry,” Ethan said. “I never intended to put you in such a position, Georgia. I didn’t know until far too late—”

  “Wait, wait.” She held up a hand. “First, I’m trained, and I knew the score before I accepted the job. I may not have liked it, but I knew details were thin. And second,” she said, glancing toward Parker, who stopped pulling against the cuticle on his thumb long enough to glance up at her, understanding dawning across his face, “I think you’ve misunderstood. I didn’t kill Fletcher.” She pinned Ethan with a hard stare. He should know Parker better than this. If left to her, he would. “Parker did.”

  Oh shit, she’d said it.

  Parker shifted, resisting the urge to take a step away from the table. In the back of his mind, Parker had known Ethan would find out, that he’d need to know every detail of what had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Given everything the men standing around him had done, everything Parker had done from behind a keyboard, the truth—I killed a man—shouldn’t have been a big deal. Every single person at the table knew what it was to choose life over death, to make the hard choice. And every single one of them would have done the same thing. Ethan would have done the same thing.

  Pull the trigger, save a life.

  No apologies. No hesitations.

  He’d just never expected to be the blunt instrument. To hold the gun or take the shot.

  The remembered scent of gunpowder burned Parker’s nostrils. Gordon’s face, slack and devoid of emotion, swam to the front of his mind.

  You’re going to look at me, and you’re going to remind that kernel of doubt that the important thing isn’t that you killed him . . . It’s that you saved me. Georgia’s voice, clear and strong, pushed away the mental debris.

  It was the truth he’d held on to for the last twenty-four hours and the truth he repeated to himself as he met Ethan’s gaze. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find there. Disappointment? Anger? Disbelief? Whatever the case, he hadn’t expected Ethan’s quiet regard, a calculated look that told Parker he was reassessing everything he knew about him, everything he’d believed up to this point.

  As if life had picked him up and relentlessly shaken him like a bottle of Mountain Dew, anxiety fizzed at the edges of everything, disturbing his thoughts and setting the inside of his skin tingling. This, he realized on a sigh, was what he’d been afraid of. That Ethan would look at him and see someone he no longer knew, someone he couldn’t classify. Parker had learned, time and time again, that most people didn’t understand him, not really. Not unless they could peg him, place him in a clearly labeled box they knew how to deal with.

  Meal ticket.

  Hapless nerd.

  Tech genius.

  To Ethan, Parker had gone from annoying know-it-all to protected little brother. A relationship that had begun with discord—Ethan had been adamant he didn’t want some snot-nosed twenty-two-year-old geek on the team—changed to genuine respect, though it had been bought at a steep price. If not for the fact that Parker had saved Ethan’s life, they might never have arrived at the relationship they now had. And while Parker could do with a bit less hovering and a little more faith, he wouldn’t trade Ethan’s regard for anything. More than anyone, Ethan had accepted Parker for who and what he was, made an effort to get to know him. In return, Parker had made every effort to rein in his crazy, to temper his sometimes manic tendencies and work within the ordered world Ethan understood most. It was a relationship built on a few universal truths. Ethan was the brawn—capable, agile, and a force to be reckoned with in the field—Parker was the brain, scary smart, handy to know, but ultimately not the guy most people chose in an emergency. He lacked the natural confidence, the cocksure athleticism it took to be a true operator.

  It was a reality Parker wasn’t comfortable with—he’d never liked the idea he was the weak link in any situation—but one he’d made his peace with. Better to acknowledge his shortcomings and play to his strengths than jeopardize Ethan’s regard. He’d driven away enough people over the years; he had no intention of doing the same to Ethan—or anyone else on the team.

  Probably best just to minimize the confrontation with Fletcher. Maybe if he dismissed it, Ethan would, too. “Guess all those lessons at the range finally paid off.” He forced a smile to his face. “And unlike Ginger Snaps’s prediction, I didn’t shoot off a foot.”

  “Pretty sure I said ass,” Liam mumbled, scratching at the red stubble along one cheek.

  Parker stood under the weight of Ethan’s stare, waiting for him to say something. Anything.

  “How did you know Fletcher had been sent to kill Parker?” Ryan asked Ethan, pulling his attention away.

  He shook his head. “I didn’t. At least, I didn’t know about Fletcher specifically. Only that there was an immediate threat in play.”

  “But how?” Georgia spoke up. “When we talked at Parker’s loft, you didn’t seem especially concerned. You even downplayed the situation.”

  Georgia shuffled closer as Ethan turned back to Parker. “I had no idea what I’d be walking into—or that things were at such a crucial tipping point.”

  For the first time, Parker could clearly read the emotion on Ethan’s face. Guilt.

  “If I had, I’d never have left you exposed,” Ethan said.

  “You didn’t,” Parker said. “Georgia was there. She saved my life, got me out.”

  “We saved each other,” s
he said, clenching his forearm.

  “Right, sorry,” Ethan said.

  Georgia shook her head, brushing aside the apology.

  “For months now, Parker’s been pestering me about anomalies within the CWU, operations that had occurred outside the scope of his recommendations or outside of his knowledge entirely.”

  “What sort of anomalies?” Ryan asked.

  “Parker?” Ethan said, motioning for Parker to jump in. “Probably best if you explain this part.”

  Like a snake gearing up for an attack, dread curled in Parker’s stomach. Shit. Parker had hoped Ethan was finally following up, finally taking Parker’s concerns seriously. But now, given the timing of Ethan’s investigation and Fletcher’s attempted assassination . . . no way was this anything other than an inside job. Someone within the US government, with nearly unlimited resources and no oversight, was trying to kill him.

  Fan-fucking-tastic.

  “I’m supposed to have access to all operational files for anything we run a predictive analysis on. Hell, I even sit in on the majority of the threat-assessment meetings and go/no-go decisions. Problem is, a few months ago I started running across encrypted files in our database. At first I didn’t think much of it; my security clearance is high, but I’m not privy to everything.” Thank God for that. If he’d learned anything, it was that governments operated in shades of gray, that nothing was ever black or white, and that sometimes the cost of one life just didn’t factor into the bigger picture. As far as Parker was concerned, he was interested only in information and outcomes that pertained directly to his tech. And his ability to make it better.

  “At first, I’d run across an encrypted file every few months, rare enough that it was easy to dismiss. Until I found a file I recognized by name. One of the major players in the cocaine scene in South America had begun targeting an oil company. Stealing shipments, kidnapping employees. We’d considered sending in a team to take out the leader but ultimately decided against it. There were too many variables. Too many risks. Predictive analysis showed only a forty-five percent chance of success, less than twenty percent in terms of maintaining long-term stability in the region. I wasn’t okay sending one of our teams into a situation like that, risking lives on a mission that unstable. At the go/no-go meeting, we decided to reassess in six months.”

  “But I’m guessing that didn’t happen,” Ortiz said, the line of his shoulders rigid.

  Parker shook his head. “When I asked about it, I got the runaround. A lot of It’s classifieds and Don’t worry about its.”

  “So you snuck a peek,” Liam said, palming his cup of coffee in slow circles against the table. They all knew him well enough to know that “classified” was basically like a dog’s invisible fence line. Stepping over it carried consequences, but if Parker was curious enough, he wouldn’t notice or care.

  “Yeah. Someone authorized the op, though the file didn’t specify who.” Parker sighed and shifted from foot to foot. “Thankfully, that op didn’t carry any negative outcomes.”

  “Negative outcomes?” Georgia asked.

  “Significant loss of life or assets,” Ethan explained.

  “At first, I brushed it off,” Parker continued. “But the longer I tried to dismiss it, the more it niggled at the back of my mind. It didn’t fit.” He cut a rueful smile. “You all know how much that sort of thing irritates me.”

  “Understatement,” Ryan muttered.

  “So you started looking,” Liam stated.

  “Yeah.” Parker shrugged. “Honestly, I wasn’t even sure what I expected to find. Maybe just that ops we’d passed on were being authorized by someone higher up? I honestly wasn’t all that concerned with the obvious questions.”

  “Then why bother looking in the first place?” Georgia asked.

  Interestingly, she didn’t sound impatient or irritated—most people were when Parker skipped over or ignored the obvious. They tended to assume he was either too stupid to ask the question or just too lost in his own world to care. Typically it was the latter, which drove people nuts. But apparently that didn’t apply to Miss Bennett. Once again, Parker suspected Georgia understood him in ways most didn’t—and adjusted her expectations accordingly.

  “Because I’m supposed to have access to all outcomes—no exceptions,” Parker explained. “I take all that data, the positive and the negative, and work with a team of analysts to filter it into quantifiable information we then use to modify my program.” Parker shifted from foot to foot, resisting the urge to stuff his hands in his pockets and hunch his shoulders. “One of the hardest parts of this job is knowing that my program, while it often saves lives, occasionally costs them as well.”

  “Parker,” Ethan warned, “we’ve talked about this.”

  “Yeah, yeah, we have,” Parker snapped. “Repeatedly. But that doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change the fact that tech I built and recommendations I make deploy teams into dangerous situations. It doesn’t change the fact,” he continued, his voice dropping to a low, rough whisper, “that sometimes I make decisions knowing that odds are I’m sending men, good men, into situations where they’re likely to be seriously injured or killed. Or that I do so knowing that the long-term outcome, the big picture, justifies the cost. It’s my tech making those decisions, justifying those actions. At the end of the day, it’s on me.”

  “The hell it is,” Ethan argued. “You’re not the only person with a voice in this; you’re not the only one making decisions or recommendations. This guilt you carry, this sense of responsibility. It’s not healthy, Parker—”

  “I disagree.” Georgia cut Ethan a warning look, and to Parker’s surprise, Ethan snapped his mouth shut. “Everything Parker said is true. And he damn well should carry the consequences of his actions, his decisions, with him.”

  Ethan opened his mouth, but Georgia cut him off with a sweep of her hand. Turning to Parker, she said, “We’re all responsible for the choices we make and for the consequences of our decisions. You should care about every individual who is put in harm’s way. You should own the reality that their lives, their fates, are in your hands, for better or for worse—even if you know that risking their lives is the right thing to do. It should matter, Parker. It should be hard. The day you forget that, the day it becomes easy—that’s the day you’ve gone too far.” She swept her angry gaze back to Ethan. “It should never become routine to tell someone their loved one died. That there was nothing you could do. That they should move on.”

  “You think that’s how I felt about Will? That it was easy for me to tell you he died?” Ethan ground out, hurt and anger waging a war across his face.

  Georgia snapped her mouth shut, though the tension between them remained. Both of them angry but neither speaking.

  Parker couldn’t parse out all the information flowing through his head, or be certain how it all related back to Georgia. Questions for another time, he knew, but the reminder he didn’t know her that well—that Ethan knew her better—grated on his nerves.

  Georgia turned back to him. “I’m not suggesting it’s your fault when things go wrong, Parker,” she said quietly. “Everyone has to own their choices—the men you send out, they put themselves in your hands, and in the hands of the government as a whole, in the first place. They know the risks. But caring about what happens to them, remembering them, that’s important, too.”

  Parker placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed, heedless of the stares the rest of the team gave him. “You’re right,” he said. “Which is why I’m supposed to have access to every outcome, positive or negative. Because while I can’t create perfection and I can’t make guarantees, I can keep making the program better. I can make sure every single life counts, if not in the moment, then in the future.” He sighed and turned back to the group. “So yeah, I hacked some files. Started flagging operations I either didn’t know about at all or operations I thought we’d scrapped.”

  “How many were there?” Liam asked.


  “Not many, not at first,” Parker admitted. “But over the last eighteen months, I’ve found thirty-six. Enough to make me wonder what was going on. Enough to mention it to Ethan.”

  “Right,” Ethan said, taking over. “At first, I wrote it off. It’s not that uncommon, you know? You operate off book or in a special capacity long enough, you start to realize that compartmentalization is rampant. One department may deem a risk unnecessary, while another decides to move forward. We may decide to pass on an op, but someone higher up may have more insight to cost/benefit than they’re prepared to disclose.”

  “So what changed your mind?”

  Ethan grew quiet, as if weighing exactly what he wanted to say. “A contact at the Department of Justice reached out. There’ve been some disturbing allegations against the CWU. One in particular he wanted me to look into.”

  “What allegation?” Liam asked.

  Ethan grew stiff and still. “I’d rather not repeat it—not until I have confirmation one way or the other.”

  “But why?” Georgia asked. “Don’t you think we have a right to know what the hell is going on?”

  “You have a right to the truth, but right now, I don’t know what that is.” Ethan shook his head when Georgia opened her mouth to argue. “I won’t empower a rumor by spreading it. I won’t hurt someone with false information.”

  “Okay, so based on a tip, you went snooping. For what?”

  “Files. Specifically the ones Parker had previously singled out.” He cut Parker an irritated glance. “You’re annoyingly persistent but rarely wrong. I figured best-case scenario I’d take a look, find something to convince the DoJ nothing was amiss, and at the same time convince you to stop risking criminal charges for hacking a DoD server.”

  “And worst-case scenario?” Ortiz asked.

  “If there was a worst-case scenario, then I damn well wanted to know about it. This is our unit—if someone’s working against us, I want to know about it. And in any case, I have a higher security clearance, so I figured that diminished the risks of any serious trouble.” Ethan sighed. “Obviously, a miscalculation on my part.”