Chapter Two
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Gabe Bristow never thought he’d live to see his own retirement party. Never thought he’d have a retirement party if he
did
live that long, but this black tie soiree was so typical of his mother. If Catherine Bristow couldn’t find an excuse to entertain, she made one up. Wedding? Throw a party. Funeral? Throw a party. Global disaster? Throw a party in the bomb shelter. Personal disaster? Throw a party and invite the who’s who of D.C. politics.
This forced medical retirement definitely qualified as a personal disaster in Gabe’s book, so of course, every Tom, Dick, and Jane on Capitol Hill were arriving downstairs in their best monkey suits and gowns.
Standing in front of a mirror in his boyhood bedroom, Gabe straightened his cuffs and then just stared at his reflection. Man, he always figured the next time he wore all of his medals, he’d be in a casket wrapped in an American flag. He’d have preferred it that way. This whole retirement thing felt wrong on so many different levels.
“Oooh, bro, lookin’ good. I do love a man in uniform.”
Gabe lifted his gaze to see Rafael, his youngest brother, propped in the doorway, wearing a hot pink vest over a black shirt, black trousers with a pink satin stripe down the outer seams, and a pink and white striped tie. He carried a black wool jacket over his shoulder and wore a pair of dark shades against the afternoon sunshine. One bright pink highlight streaked his dark hair over his left eye.
Their parents would have a conniption when they saw Raffi today. God love him.
“You’re trying to give the Admiral a heart attack, aren’t you?”
Raffi waggled his brows. “That’s the idea. Why else do you think I act so
fabulous
when he’s around?” He stepped into the room and performed a quick turn, topped off with a fanciful flourish of his arms. “Like?”
“No, it looks ridiculous. And you’re not doing yourself any favors by perpetuating this”—Gabe waved a hand to indicate the pink monstrosity of a tux—“stereotype whenever you come home.”
“But it’s so much fun to see that vein throb next to Dad’s eye.”
“Raf, c’mon, man. Drop the act. I know exactly how much his prejudice hurts you, and beating him over the head with a rainbow stick every time you see him won’t make it any easier for him to accept you.”
“I don’t want that man’s acceptance.” His tone said he’d rather lick a platoon of combat boots clean than admit he needed anything from the Admiral. He pointed an accusing finger. “And neither should you.”
“Stubborn,” Gabe muttered.
“Hard ass.” Raffi plopped down on the edge of the bed with a long-suffering sigh. “Dad raised his little sailor so well. It’s sad.”
“Hey, I like—” No. Past tense. He had to use past tense now. Gabe paused, drew a breath, and corrected himself, “
Liked
being on the teams.”
“Okay, you liked it. Though God knows why anyone would like being a SEAL.” Raffi propped his chin in his hand and lifted his brows in question. “So…you’re going into private soldiering, then?”
“
Soldiering
? Are you trying to insult me?”
“Soldiering, or sailor…ing?” He waved a hand. “You know what I mean. Are you going into the private sector?”
Gabe stifled a groan. This again. He’d already told his best friend and former SEAL teammate, Travis Quinn, that he was not going merc. Several times. In fact, just about every day since the car accident that ended both of their careers last year. “Lemme guess. Quinn talked to you.”
“Mm-hmm. A minute ago, downstairs. And let me just say, it’s a damn shame that guy’s straight.”
This time Gabe did groan. “Raffi, man, I love you, but please don’t talk about my friends like that. It puts pictures in my head and weirds me out.”
“That’s why I do it.” He grinned. “Anyway, for some reason, Quinn thought I’d be able to talk some sense into you. As if
anyone
can talk ol’ Stonewall Bristow into doing something he doesn’t want to do.”
If anyone could, it would be Raffi. Gabe respected his youngest brother more than any other man on the planet, and Quinn knew it. That sly bastard.
“For the record,” Raffi added and rested his chin on his laced fingers, “I think it’s a great idea. Way better than Dad’s plans for you.”
True. The job the Admiral had lined up for him at the Pentagon was—God, he didn’t even know what to call it. “Boring” came to mind. So did “mindless.”
“Gabe, can I ask you something?” Raffi said after a moment of silence.
“No, but that’s never stopped you before.” Resigned to the lecture he knew he was about to get, Gabe limped over to where his jacket lay on the bed, light glinting off his rows of medals. It always surprised him how many he had. He just did his job and never much cared about the number before—but, man, now he’d never get another one. And how fucking depressing was that?
“Well, I’m curious,” Raffi said. “Did you turn Quinn down because you really don’t want to go private, or because it would put you on level with Darth Vader in Dad’s eyes?”
Inwardly, Gabe faltered, his heart doing a little two-step even though his hands stayed calm, his face schooled into an expressionless mask. “I don’t see why it matters. I’m not going into the private sector. End of story.”
“It does matter. Big time.” Raffi watched him with a rare serious look in his eyes. “That’s it, isn’t it? Look, Gabe, if you’re holding yourself back because of the Admiral’s narrow-minded views—well, we both know how I feel about that. Tell him to go fuck himself sideways with a spoon, then do what makes you happy. And you, brother dear, are only happy if you’re out in some godforsaken wasteland of a country, risking life and limb, saving the world. Go work with Quinn.”
“No.”
“At least think about it? For me?”
“Fine.” He was so going to find Quinn and throttle him for dragging Raffi into this. “I’ll think about it, okay?”
…
It took several hours of elbow rubbing with political so-and-sos before Gabe finally tracked Quinn down in the crowd. He stood in the most shadowed corner of the room, naturally, stiff in his dress whites, eyeing the horde of D.C.’s most powerful as if he expected an attack at any moment.
Not a surprise.
Quinn had earned the nickname “Achilles” during BUD/S training. A warrior to his marrow, all but indestructible since nobody had found his heel yet. His only concession that this was a party and not an op was the slender flute of champagne he held.
Gabe stalked toward him.
“This place is a terrorist attack waiting to happen,” Quinn muttered and lifted his glass in a salute to the room.
Yeah, it was, and securing the damn mansion had been a nightmare, but that was beside the point. “Seriously, Q, you’re a rank bastard for siccing Raffi on me.”
His lips twitched. “Did it work?”
Gabe thought about the glittering crowd he’d been forced to schmooze with all afternoon and held back a wince. Did he really want the rest of his life to consist of politics and state dinners? Because if he lived in D.C. fulltime, the Admiral would guilt-trip him into attending. More importantly, did he really want to live under his father’s thumb again? Oh no. Make that, oh
hell
no.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “It worked.”
“Good.”
“But answer me something first. Why don’t you want to command this private team by yourself?”
“You know me.” He took a long swallow of champagne. “Would rather take orders than issue them.”
“Since when?”
“Since always. You have command in your blood. Me, I’m just one of the rank and file.”
“Quinn—”
“Incoming.” Quinn eyed the Admiral, who had spotted them and was making a beeline for their position. For some reason, the Admiral had never liked Quinn, pictured him as a bad influence even though he was the most squared-away guy Gabe knew.
“Better get back to the party before Admiral Stick-up-the-Ass blows a gasket,” Quinn said. “Meet me outside in twenty. If you’re serious, there’s someone here I want you to meet. Oh, and you can remember to thank me for saving your sorry ass from a desk job anytime now.”
He wasn’t joking.
Gabe snorted in response. “You really are a bastard.” He waited until Quinn lifted his glass to his lips before adding, “But Raffi thinks you’re hot.”
As he walked away, he had the great pleasure of watching the unflappable Achilles choke on his champagne.
…
Gabe slipped outside twenty minutes later, found Quinn and another tuxedo-clad man on the terrace overlooking the garden. Well, if it wasn’t Tucker Quentin. A businessman with sights on a senate seat, Gabe recognized Tucker from other political shindigs around Washington, but had never spoken to him before.
“Ah, the man of the hour. Lieutenant Commander Bristow,” Tucker said as Gabe hobbled toward them. His foot hurt like hell, but he’d left his damn cane inside somewhere.
“Gabe,” he corrected. “I’m not in the Navy anymore.”
“Don’t give me that load.” Tucker flashed a smile worthy of his Hollywood roots. “We get out, but we never leave. I’ve been gone from the Rangers for ten years, but my men still call me L.T.” He held out a hand. “Tuc Quentin.”
Gabe ignored it. “I know. So you’re the guy that put the idea of a private hostage rescue team in Quinn’s head.”
“No,” Quinn said. “I heard Tuc was thinking of putting one together and approached him about funding us.”
Tuc nodded. “On paper, you’ll be employees of Quentin Enterprises, specifically HumInt Consulting, Inc., but save for a quarterly expense report and the occasional contract I’ll throw your way, I plan to have nothing more to do with your team. If you come to me for advice, of course I’ll be glad to give it, but otherwise it’s yours to run as you see fit.”
“Why?” Gabe asked.
“I already have several teams working for HumInt, plus a multi-billion dollar empire to run.” His lips twisted. “I think I’m quite busy enough.”
“No, I mean why are you doing this? People don’t hand out free money and expect nothing in return.” Especially not savvy businessmen, but Gabe couldn’t figure out Tucker Quentin’s angle.
Tuc leaned his forearms on the balustrade and studied the garden in the courtyard. “That garden’s amazing.”
“What are you getting out of this?” Gabe repeated.
“Quinn’s right. You’re tenacious as hell. Perfect for this job.”
Yeah, right.
Gabe bit back the automatic response. If that were true, if he was perfect for any command position, the Navy wouldn’t have tossed him and his bum foot to the curb. He shifted his weight, suddenly very aware of the pain.
“Why?” Gabe asked again. Meaning,
why me?
But he’d be damned before putting a voice to that insecurity.
Tuc twirled the stem of his champagne glass between his fingers. “The brother of one of my men was taken hostage recently and we were unprepared to handle it. I don’t want that happening again. I’m a big believer in being prepared, and you have an admirable reputation in the spec ops community. I only ask that if I contract you for a job, it’s given top priority. You of all people must understand how important my men are to me. They’re family.”
Gabe briefly met Quinn’s stare and then nodded once. He understood, all right, and his respect for Tuc ratcheted up a notch. “Should the occasion call for it, you and your men will have top priority.”
“Thank you. So.” Tuc finished his champagne in one swallow and pushed away from the balustrade. “Quinn tells me you have a team lined up from the dossiers I gave him.”
Gabe honestly didn’t know and looked at Quinn, who nodded and said, “We had six men submit resumes.”
“Their qualifications?” Gabe asked.
“Couple ex-CIA spooks, an FBI negotiator, a Delta Force medic, an explosives tech…” His eyes slid away for the barest instant before he continued. “And a Marine sniper. They’re all experts in their fields—”
“Whoa, wait.” Gabe held up a hand. “What sniper?” He got nothing but a whole lot of stubborn silence in response and shook his head in disbelief. “Goddamn. You’re talking about Seth Harlan, aren’t you? The same Seth Harlan that—”
“I recommended him for a position. He’s an excellent sniper,” Quinn said with an expression on his face that dared Gabe to argue. Well, he’d take that dare.
“Q, are you out of your fucking mind? Harlan’s unstable.”
“He’s better now.”
“Good for him.” When Quinn just gave him a long stare, the kind that always made him feel like a complete ass, he added, “Listen, I give the kid credit for surviving what he did, I do. And I know you have a soft spot for him, but he’s traumatized. Who wouldn’t be? I don’t want that kind of baggage weighing down my team. Think about it. What if he has a psychotic break in the middle of an op?”
Quinn held his gaze a moment longer, then swore softly. “Yeah, you’re right. I know you’re right, but—shit. All right. Harlan’s out.” He turned back to Tuc. “The only man I haven’t been able to reach yet is the linguist, Jean-Luc Cavalier. Apparently he lives in the middle of the bayou and has spotty cell service.”
“If you want him, you’d better find a way to get in touch,” Tuc said. “Because I already have a job for you. I was recently contacted by Zoeller and Zoeller Insurance Company, on behalf of Bryson Van Amee. Have you heard of him?”
Gabe had. “He’s in imports and exports and does a lot of subcontracting for the military.”
“That’s right. Bryson was taken hostage this morning in Bogotá during a business trip. The FBI fears one of the guerilla groups may be responsible.”
Gabe nodded. Wealthy American businessman plus Colombian paramilitary—yeah, the math added up, and the sum didn’t look good for Bryson Van Amee.
“The FBI is working with his wife, Chloe,” Tuc continued, “but Zoeller and Zoeller wants to free him before a ransom is paid, or else they’ll be liable for a hefty kidnap and ransom insurance payout.”
“Does the FBI know what Zoeller’s doing?” Gabe asked.
Tuc gave a thin smile. “What do you think?”
That’d be a big negative. Okay, he wasn’t all that crazy about working against the FBI—well, maybe “against” was too harsh a word, since they all wanted the same results. Still. It somehow seemed a betrayal of his former career.