by Ronie Kendig
Burnett held up a hand. “I know. And so does Payne. They’re sending a team—”
“They send anyone who smells like American military down there, the hounds of hell are going to rip out their hearts. Then you’ll lose him for good.”
Blue eyes held his. “Son, this is not my first rodeo and you’re not Cardinal, god of the spy sea.”
The terse words pulled Cardinal off balance. The general had never snarled at him like that. Which meant one of two things: Burnett agreed with Payne, or Burnett was ticked off, too.
Either way, his mission just got tanked. Austin’s life had been put in dire straits.
There was no battle to fight here. Payne tied Burnett’s hands. Which cut off Cardinal’s limbs. And possibly severed the heart of a family—the Courtland’s.
Not that they’d ever know their son had been abandoned by their country.
Aspen already knows that. She just didn’t have the right definition to MIA: Presumed Dead. To her, it meant they couldn’t find a body. Cardinal knew the truth—the U.S. buried the body with its complacency and bureaucracy. He respected laws and procedures.
They defined civilizations, prevented collapses.
They also crippled civilizations. Initiated collapses.
He’d seen it too many times. Cardinal gave a nod of surrender. Gritted his teeth, then turned for the door.
“Cardinal.”
He opened the door and dragged his attention back to where it did not want to go.
“Don’t.”
A smile almost made it to his face.
“I mean it.” Burnett leaned forward, rested his arms on his desk. “That very propensity to go rogue is why you got benched. Let them handle this.”
“Of course.”
“I mean it. I’d hate to see you fly off without his stamp of approval,” Burnett said. “Then get down there and need help. They’d be all over my hide.” A smile twinkled behind the terse words. “I’d have to send my very best after you to drag your sorry hide back here.”
Cardinal stared at the general. The man who’d taken him under his wing, guided him, honed his skills, taught him things, learned things from Cardinal…and always, always saw things the same way Cardinal did.
“Understood.”
Amadore’s Fight Club
Austin, Texas
“Good gravy, girl.”
Aspen eyed her friend as they headed into Amadore’s, assaulted at once with the thick odor of sweat and BO wafting toward them. “What?”
“You only e-mailed him two days ago. What do you expect? He was in DC, for crying out loud. For him to drop everything and come up here?”
Bristling at her best friend’s wisdom, Aspen strode back to the women’s locker room, which wasn’t more than a converted broom closet with a shower well. “He’s military. He’ll get it. If he was with Austin, then he was a Green Beret.”
“Girl, I don’t know. I couldn’t find record of that.”
“You’re an investigative reporter, Britt, not the FBI. Records like his would be blacked out or concealed.” It was a stretch, but hey, it made her feel better.
Brittain Larabie tossed her bag onto the bench. “What if he doesn’t come?”
Aspen turned to her friend. “We went over all of that with the others before I e-mailed him at your condo.”
“Yeah,” Brittain said, with a roll of her head. “And if I remember, not everyone thought it was a good idea to bring this guy into the plan. In fact, Timbrel said you were digging a grave. And Darci says this man’s psych profile showed a lethal dedication to his career. She’s not convinced he’s right. I was with this guy an hour and he never smiled. I mean—creepy! And—”
“Enough!” Aspen thrust her hands into her hair and tied it back with black elastic as she met Brittain’s gaze in the mirror. “We need him—he was there with Austin the day of the attack.” Yanking the zipper on her bag, she felt the tension tangling her mind and thoughts. “He knows what happened. Maybe I’ll have enough to file an appeal or something with the judge advocate. General Gray and his wife still invite me to their Christmas parties. They like me. Maybe he’ll listen.”
“Yeah, and maybe the Easter Bunny will deliver a gold egg.”
Aspen glared at her friend. “I don’t need your negativity—”
“It’s not neg—”
“I know. It’s the facts. Negative facts, I’d point out.”
Britt let her shoulders sag in an exaggerated way. “What about Austin’s fire buddy? He said he doesn’t remember this guy.”
Aspen rolled her eyes. “Will was a player whose loyalties were with himself.” She sighed. “As much as I don’t want to put my last hope in this Mar-whatever guy, I will take him over Will any day.” When she’d hit SEND on that letter, a thread of hope stitched up her broken, angry heart. She plunged her hand into the bag and drew out her wrist wraps.
Warm hands cupped her shoulders, drawing Aspen’s gaze from the yellow wraps she secured around her palm and wrist. Compassion oozed from the milk chocolate eyes.
“No.” Aspen stepped back. “Don’t do that.” She snatched the gloves from the bench and strode into the gym, acutely aware how much her best friend wanted to apply the brakes to this before they got started. But Aspen couldn’t—wouldn’t—let Austin’s name end up on some memorial wall. He wasn’t dead. She could feel it.
Or…could she?
It’d only been in the wee hours of the morning as she wept over his disappearance that she wondered if their twin connection was still alive. Was he still alive?
Batting the gloves into a better fit, she crossed the open floor, passed the free weights, the ellipticals, and treadmills. At the speed bag, she warmed up. When a slow burn radiated through her muscles, she started for the ring.
Mario straightened as she passed, stilling the kickboxing bag he’d just struck. He grinned. “Hey, beautiful. Ready for more?”
Slipping in her mouth guard, she arched an eyebrow at him.
He whooped.
As she reached for the ropes to step in, Amadore, ghostlike man that he was, appeared out of nowhere. “You with us today, Angel?”
With more conviction than she felt, she nodded.
He pointed to Mario. “You hurt her, you answer to me.”
Smiling, she nudged his shoulder then bent through the ropes. She strode toward the center and met her opponent. All six feet of the man towered over her five-foot-five frame. Muscles rippled beneath his dark skin as those eyes—Timbrel called them lady-killers—sparkled back at her. In the center, she bumped gloves with Mario, their official start signal.
He threw the first punch, launching them into a rigorous workout. Though they were well matched, he always seemed determined to bring her down. She enjoyed the challenge. Much like this new venture of hers—finding her brother. Bringing him back. Darci insisted Aspen had gone one too many rounds in the ring and incurred TBI traumatic brain injury, to attempt this. But like Aspen, Darci’s mind and heart raced at the thought of doing something everyone else said they couldn’t.
Would the guy come? Though she wasn’t a former intelligence operative like Darci or a borderline Mensa like Khaterah, Aspen had been gifted with an insatiable thirst for truth and justice. But without this guy, without Dane Whatshisname—who named their kid after a dog, anyway?—she could hang up this plan. He had been there. He knew her brother. Knew the location. The terrain. And he still had connections with the military. Desperately needed connections to get them in and out of Afghanistan. Besides, going in with a team of men alone…well, even Aspen wasn’t that stupid.
Black slammed into her face with a resounding thud.
Aspen spun away, stumbling.
Mario cursed.
“Hey,” Amadore’s shout sailed through the cavernous, split-level gym. “What’d you do?”
“Nothin’,” Mario said.
Aspen sniffled, smelling and tasting the metallic glint of blood. She wiped the warmth from her up
per lip and sneered at Mario. “You’ll pay,” she mumbled around her guard.
Mario grinned, but even beneath that she saw uncertainty as he darted a gaze to Amadore, who loomed over the front counter, his face aflame. “I warned you, Mario. You hurt her—”
Aspen threw a right cross at the distracted man.
His hand flew up and blocked. He angled to the side and countered.
Her mind had left the ring, and that’d cost her some blood. She wouldn’t make the mistake again. And now, she had to pay back this player. Besides, she was tired of Amadore protecting her. The men here needed to know she could hold her own. If she’d proven that in Iraq, she could do it at Amadore’s Fight Club, too.
Tracking him around the ring, she deflected several aggressive—and stupid—moves. Mario was running on his victory. He’d die on it, too.
He raised his knee—she shifted, turned slightly, and rammed her elbow down on the meaty part.
Mario flinched and dropped his guard.
Aspen threw a hard right. And connected.
His head snapped back, but he was already in motion. A left jab. Right. Light glinted off the glass-front door—the glare flared across Mario’s face. Then Aspen’s. Both looked toward the front, ready to holler at whoever had forgotten to pull the curtain to prevent such a distraction.
“Hey,” Mario shouted. “The bwind.” His mouth guard made him sound like he had rocks in his mouth.
“Sorry, sorry”—Luke, the new hire, rushed and secured the curtain. The streaming sunlight wreathed a tall, muscular figure before the light vanished. Aspen blinked, and when her gaze hit the reception desk in the open-area gym, she froze.
Four
Amadore’s Fight Club
Austin, Texas
Can I help you?”
Distrust and disgust stared back from a face that said trouble was best left outside. If Cardinal were the guessing kind, he’d peg this guy as the Amadore whose name stretched across the painted-black window gracing the storefront. Built like a barrel, with hands as big as two ball-peen hammers, the guy had hair that had once been jet black and curly. The proverbial Italian Stallion. And by that no-mess greeting, the stallion had things to protect.
Musty and dim, the fight club had all the glamour and odor one would expect. Light dribbled through the spots where the window paint had flecked off the large panes lining the front of the old warehouse.
Dust danced on the light beams, as if locked in their own boxing match.
Cardinal brought his gaze back to the guy who waved off a scrawny kid. “Looking for someone.”
“We ain’t a date joint,” the burly guy said.
Amusing. “Good, I’m looking for a guy.”
A shrug of the massive, well-muscled shoulders. “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” The man almost grinned. “We don’t judge.” He slowly looked Cardinal up and down. “Well, most of the time.”
Cardinal cocked his head and met the man’s entirely too pleased eyes. “Look, someone asked me to meet him here. A—”
Thwump!
The burly guy jerked his attention to the ring where two fighters, wearing headgear and other protective gear, were heavy into a match.
Thwump!
“Hey!” The burly guy stalked to the other end of the counter. “Mario! What’d I tell you? I’m warning you, punk!”
The guy in the ring held up his gloves in a show of submission.
“Angel, eyes up. Focus!” Scowling, the burly guy backstepped, still watching the match in the ring at the center of the gym.
Cardinal could understand why.
“Up, watch—that’s right!”
A woman—had the big guy called her Angel?—bounced around the mat, going toe-to-toe with a bully of a guy. And holding her own. He’d half expected her to be laid-out flat after the way that guy swung.
A hard right. She deflected and threw her own.
“Whoa,” the scrawny kid mumbled from the other side of the counter.
“She’s good,” Cardinal said.
The man’s head snapped toward him. “What?” he barked. “What’d you say about my angel?”
“She’s a solid fighter. Good form. A little slow on the return, but—”
“Hey, Angel,” the man yelled, still glowering at Cardinal. “This punk says you’re too slow on the return.”
Cardinal laughed. “Hey, it was just—”
She waved her gloved hands. “Bring it!”
He glanced at the ring. Brown, wet ringlets sprung from a pulled-back ponytail, framing the face and doe-like eyes—well, doe in shape. The fury spewing from them made her seem more like the siren who’d coaxed Odysseus from his voyage—mission.
“No, no, I’m here to meet someone.”
The burly man laughed, long and loud. “Mister,” he said with a menacing gleam, “meet my angel.” Finally, he looked away. “Mario, give the guy some gloves.”
“No, seriously.” Cardinal wanted to punch the scrawny kid who stood laughing at him. “I meant no harm.”
“He’s just chicken,” the kid taunted.
Laughter bounced through the fight club, and only then did Cardinal realize he had an audience. A large one. He wanted to curse. He rounded on the guy when he started making clucking noises.
The kid’s smile vanished, and he backed away. “I’m going…to…” The guy pivoted and ran.
When Cardinal turned around, something flew at him, thumped against his chest, then dropped to the floor. He glanced down to find gloves and wraps at his feet. Though he retrieved them, he had no intention of fighting, especially not a woman.
He held the equipment out to the man behind the counter. “I’m not here to fight. I’m here to meet someone by the name of Courtland.” He looked to the ring, expecting the woman to perk up when he said her name. She didn’t. “You know where I can find Aspen Courtland?”
Something dark flickered through the man’s eyes. “Yes.”
“Where?”
He pointed to the ring.
“Now who looks slow?” came a taunting voice—a female voice. She stood at the side, red gloves hooked over the top ropes. The white tank accentuated her curves—and her toned arms and trim waist. Dark spots—blood?—splattered her shoulder. He’d seen the number she did on that other guy. Though young, short, and athletic, she had a fight the size of Alaska—and as cold—in those cobalt eyes.
The burly guy lifted the gloves. “One round. If you fight fair and remain standing, I’ll introduce you to Courtland.”
This wasn’t the first time he had to buy loyalty from locals. Probably wouldn’t be the last. Slowly, he reached for the gloves. “I’ll hold you to that.” He hesitated, looked at the woman again, then back to the big guy. “Two minutes?”
“As I said, one round. I’m a man of my word.”
“So am I.”
The man slapped his shoulder. “You can change back there. Luke will get you suited up.”
Within minutes, Cardinal had a pair of shorts, shoes, and a tank on. His newfound friend, Luke, led him back into the gym.
“Hey,” Cardinal said to the man who’d been in the ring with the girl, “any tips? I don’t want to hurt her.”
Mario laughed. “Yeah, go easy on her. She’s not as strong as she looks.”
Why did that sound a lot like “you’re stupid enough to believe me”? Cardinal slowed. “Then what does that make you since she beat the snot”—he motioned to the guy’s red nose—“out of you?”
More laughter. Mario bumped his fists against the gloves, a sign of camaraderie. “Don’t hold back.”
Surprise leapt through Cardinal.
“Angel won’t.”
Angel. It felt like a sick, cruel joke. The name invoked a haunting memory.
Applause and cheers broke out around the gym, pulling Cardinal back to the present, back to the ring. Surprisingly, most of the others gathered round. Angel waited in the ring, conferring with two other women, who indicated to him as he stepped
through the ropes.
The burly guy stood at the center of the ring. He held out his hands. Angel approached, and only as she came closer did he realize she was small…and beautiful—er, young. Way young. Was she even out of high school?
“Fight fair. Two-minute bell.”
Five
Amadore’s Fight Club
Generate momentum off the right toe. Keep balance. Take balance away from the other guy. The tall, muscle-bound man rivaled anyone she’d ever matched. In the first thirty seconds of their sparring, she realized he knew boxing. A lot about boxing.
Fair enough. No holds barred.
Aspen backed up, forcing him to come to her. He moved fluidly, which amazed her that a man his size could do it smoothly. Acutely aware of the throng gathered on the bleachers surrounding the ring, she tried to keep her focus. Shake off the words Timbrel had muttered as the guy climbed into the ring: “a hottie like that—let him win so he’ll feel bad and take you out.”
The glove came up, glanced off her chin. She rolled out of it and followed through with a right hook, which he deftly avoided. The jabs and punches came quicker. Apparently, he’d gotten over fighting a girl—the trepidation clear on his face as he lumbered onto the mat was gone. Agitation wound around her stomach. She’d seen that look on every airman who’d been paired with her in the field. They quickly figured out there were bigger sissies back in their bunks. But she hated the assumptions, hated the looks and jeers. This guy had held that presumption for all of ten seconds before unloading.
Hands up, she protected herself against a jab. Though he stood as tall—no, taller—than Mario, the bulk on this guy added some leverage she hadn’t expected.
Keep your feet moving. A left, right. She swung hard.
He deflected.
Harder.
A quick strike snapped her head back. Stunned, she backstepped. He eased into the space. She slammed a solid left, which he protected, then she rammed a right. Caught his side. He grunted but swung upward. The momentum carried through, popping her head back. Aspen gasped as her feet left the mat.