Authors: Allison Brennan
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Suspense, #Thrillers
“Father Francis Cardenas, the priest I told you about, used to be on Price’s Delta team and is trying to track him down. Considering he’s been AWOL for five years, he could have taken a new identity or left the country. For all we know, he’s hiding out in Mexico or Canada. Anyway, right now I need to get back to work. I’m at an ugly crime scene.”
“Aren’t you interested in the background check you asked me for?”
She looked around for Jack and couldn’t see him. She wanted the information, and she didn’t. She felt like a voyeur, spying on Jack Kincaid’s life. Did she really need to know who he was and what he’d done?
Yet he was a witness. Jack Kincaid had a relationship with at least one of the victims, and he was their pilot for the time being. She needed to know who she was dealing with, especially if it got really messy.
You’re kidding yourself. You know exactly who you’re dealing with.
She found herself trusting Jack in ways that surprised her, but her training told her she had to be cautious. And she was curious.
“Abbreviated version,” Megan said. “I really don’t have much time.”
“There’s nothing that sends up red flags for me, so you can rest easier. Now, the government might have some issues with him, but he had an honorable discharge, several major commendations, and saw some heavy combat. Most of his records are sealed so tightly that even I can’t sneak a peak. Frankly, I wouldn’t mind having a man like Jack on my team.”
That made her feel marginally better, but she’d also dealt with some of the men J.T. employed and contracted with. They were hardly saints.
“Jack enlisted in the army when he was eighteen. Army Rangers. Made it out—most don’t last through training. Missions across the globe, most in Central and South America. Ten years ago he retired and has been living in Hidalgo ever since, hiring out his services. I don’t know him, but I ran the name by Duke Rogan and he says it’s familiar. Probably through Kane—he’s been known to bring in mercenaries when needed. There’re no public photos of Kincaid that aren’t military issue, no public articles or interviews. He does the job and keeps his mouth shut. He’s exactly the type of man I would want for liberation and rescue operations. But—”
She waited. “But what?”
“He’s a bit of a maverick. I get a sense that he’s a bit of a fixer.”
“A what?”
“Fixer. Kane and I use it to describe people who want to right wrongs, who stand for the underdog even when the underdog is about to get his brains bashed in. I don’t have a list of all his ops, Delta or private, but the ones I found support this. I did hear that last week he led the rescue of a team of medical missionaries from the University of Mexico, and not only returned them to the embassy unharmed, but retrieved most of their supplies. Penicillin, hydrocortisone, prednisone. All extremely valuable on the black market.”
Megan almost wished she was writing this down. “Thanks, J.T.”
“You don’t have any questions? How unlike you, Meg.”
“You’ve been immensely helpful. Now if you can find George Price for me . . .”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“I owe you another one.”
He chuckled and hung up.
Hans approached her. “I’m going to the morgue with the assistant sheriff. He said there’s a decent motel just outside Indio. His deputy will give you directions.”
“I’ll go with you—” she said.
“No,” he cut her off. “Stay here and see if they come up with any witnesses. I’ll meet you at the motel later.”
“Hans—”
He’d already turned his back to her. She watched him get into a sheriff’s car and drive away.
Why in the world was Hans so angry with her? He hadn’t been himself since he learned about the mistaken identity. Didn’t he see that the dog tags actually helped them? She frowned. Why would the killers intentionally point them in the
right
direction? If she could sit down with Hans and try to talk it out, she knew they’d find something to go on.
Terrific. Both Jack and Hans were ticked off at her, and she hadn’t done anything to warrant it.
“Hey, Blondie. Meg.”
Her stomach jumped into her throat and she whirled around. “You scared me!”
“I know.” Jack had no remorse, but a faint hint of humor tinged his voice. “Padre just called. He thinks he found Price. I can talk to him if you need to stay here—he’s in southwest Colorado. Two, two-and-a-half-hour flight.”
“Are you sure it’s him?” Megan was skeptical. “How did Padre find him so fast? The guy has been hiding from the military for five years. I find it hard to believe your friend found him in less than twelve hours.”
Jack shrugged. “They served in the same unit. Padre probably had a better idea where to start looking than anyone in the military bureaucracy.”
“I’ll go.” Megan looked at her watch. It was nearly five. She dialed Hans’s cell phone. His voice mail picked up. “Hans, I have a lead on George Price. I’m going to follow up on it with Kincaid. I don’t know when I’ll be back, but I’ll call you tonight.” She pocketed her phone. She couldn’t worry about Hans right now. She only hoped that Padre had really found Price and this was not a wild-goose chase.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
Jack could sleep anywhere, anyplace, anytime—except during take-off and landing.
Megan didn’t have that problem.
She’d fallen asleep as soon as he leveled off after taking off from Joshua Tree. Two hours, fifteen minutes later, he’d landed near Cortez, Colorado, and she was still sleeping.
The quiet flight time had given Jack the opportunity to reflect on more than Scout’s murder and his brother Patrick coming out of his coma. Jack also spent a lot of time, too much time, watching Megan.
There was something about her . . .
Her curves. She had one of those tall, hourglass bodies. The kind of curves that a man could dip in and out of. The kind of breasts that begged to be touched, kissed, squeezed.
Long, long legs. Legs too long for her torso, long and muscular. Megan wasn’t fat, but she had the shaped body of an athlete. Hard and soft. Hard muscles covered by soft, soft skin. He pictured her legs naked, moving up and down his legs, uncontrollable.
And damn, but was she smart. It was almost sexy that she didn’t realize how good she was, but it bothered him that she second-guessed herself so often. He didn’t even think she noticed it, it was so ingrained in her. Maybe that was part of being an FBI agent. You weren’t allowed to think for yourself. Sort of like being enlisted in the army. You implement orders. That was your job, your vocation. And if you think too much, you’re screwed.
After they’d landed, he couldn’t resist pulling the clips from her hair. He did it slowly, so as not to wake her. Nothing happened, but he suspected when she sat up, her hair would fall in silky cascades down her back. He touched the bun. Soft. So white. His hands looked nearly black against her hair.
Jack had turned forty last month and in all those years he had never been in love. He’d slept with women, had what might pass as a relationship, and for a time he had a fantasy that his brother’s girlfriend would turn to him instead of Dillon. Not that he wanted Kate. She was too much like him.
But Megan was like him, too . . . and completely different. She was a bulldog, pushing, thinking, probing . . . but she also played by the rules. She worked within the system. Jack hated the system. The tired old rules that had forced him to leave innocent people to die.
Megan Elliott was one of
them.
She may not have made the rules, but she sure as hell followed them. And no matter what Jack saw in her, the internal light that told him she would—she
could
—be her own person, he suspected that when push came to shove Agent Elliott would sacrifice anyone and anything, including herself, to preserve the damn system.
Yet she had come with him to talk to Price. She had left her security blanket—Dr. Hans Vigo—and joined Jack on a trip into the unknown. She’d attempted to ask for permission, but when it wasn’t forthcoming, she’d made her choice. She might follow the rules, but she was willing to forge her own path.
Jack swallowed uneasily and focused on the controls, double—triple—checking the gauges and system.
Twenty-four hours ago Megan had burst into his life, gun drawn and hackles raised, and now Jack never wanted her to leave.
Shit.
What was he thinking? He wasn’t, and that was the problem. He wanted to screw her. That’s all it was, he hadn’t had a good lay in months. Years! The last few women had been . . . nothing to him. He didn’t even seek out companionship anymore. If someone was willing and able, sure, he’d oblige, but he didn’t pursue any woman.
He wanted Megan in the worst way. He wanted to kiss those pink lips. Top and bottom. He wanted to put his mouth on her breasts, suck her nipples until she squirmed and moved beneath him. Jack wanted to hold her hips as he moved in and out of her, bringing out her passion. He saw in her a fireball ready to combust if he touched just the right spot.
He stifled a groan and willed his dick to settle down. He was only horny because he had a smart, sexy woman sleeping in the cockpit next to him, her lips slightly parted, her lacy little camisole peeking out from under her blouse.
Man, he was in deep shit.
“Wake up already.”
Megan groaned and tried to roll over on her side. Her elbow hit something metal and she jumped, sitting straight up.
It was dark. She looked out the window and saw her reflection. Her hair had fallen out of her bun. She must have been in a rush, her hair never fell out when she put it up. She glanced around, feeling out of sorts.
Jack smiled her way, his dark eyes unreadable.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep.”
“We’re here.”
He rose from the pilot’s seat and walked stooped over to his small overnight bag sitting on one of the seats.
She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and glanced at her watch. Seven-thirty. “Wow, you made fantastic time.”
“Scout kept the Caravan in great shape.”
She hadn’t realized they had been using Scout’s plane. She should have put the plane into evidence, or logged it as part of the victim’s estate, but she didn’t say anything.
She turned in her seat. Jack had pulled off his shirt. His back was to her, marked with scars. She sat on her hands when she almost reached for his deltoids. She swallowed, needing water.
You just woke up. You’re dehydrated.
Right. More excuses.
Admit it, Megan, what warm-blooded woman wouldn’t want that hard body next to her in bed?
He pulled on a body-hugging black T-shirt, strapped on a shoulder holster, then donned his bomber jacket. Covering up the goods didn’t slow her racing heart. He looked as dangerously sexy clothed as bare-chested. “Do you have a jacket?” he asked.
“What you see is what you get,” she said lightly.
He turned and frowned. “We’re at sixty-two hundred feet. While this area is nice and warm during the day, it gets cold when the sun sets. It’s fifty degrees now, with an expected low of forty-four.”
“You should have told me before we left,” she snapped. “I asked the deputy to take my bag to the motel back in California.”
“I assumed you’d have known that the Colorado mountains weren’t south Texas in April.”
She bit back a response. “I’m fine,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Take my jacket.”
“I’m
fine.
” She whipped out her cell phone to dial Hans. She couldn’t get a signal.
“Try later. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“Where is nowhere?” she asked as they left the plane.
“A small unmanned airstrip outside Mesa Verde.”
“How’d you land?” There were only two landing lights on the runway she could see.
“I’m good.”
“Where are we going? Should I call the local field office and have someone pick us up?”
Jack laughed. Meg stopped walking and crossed her arms. Damn, he was right. She was freezing.
“Give me your jacket,” she said.
He did. She almost felt bad, except that he was still laughing as he handed it over.
She wished she hadn’t taken his leather jacket. Sure, it was warm, but it smelled like Jack Kincaid. All male. She wanted to sink into his jacket and close her eyes, feeling as if Jack himself was wrapped around her.
“I have it all taken care of.” He walked across the dark airstrip. Megan wanted to protest and demand information; instead she followed.
They’d walked in silence half a mile and came upon a four-wheel-drive pickup. Jack stopped just out of sight of the pickup, then nodded. “It’s Princeton.”
“Who?”
“George Price. Princeton is what Padre called him.”
Megan stopped walking. “He could be a killer. You should have warned me.”
“The killers were in Riverside County this morning. In a vehicle. They couldn’t have driven here in ten hours.”
“Maybe they had a plane!” She didn’t like being brushed off, and she really hated not knowing the game plan. “You should have told me the plan.”
“Padre talked to a mutual friend of Price’s who said he hasn’t left the mountain in years.”
Megan said, “I’m not taking any chances, Jack.”
“Trust me on this one.”
She didn’t want to trust Jack. He wasn’t a cop, he wasn’t a federal agent, and she was the one responsible for stopping these killers before they hurt anyone else.
“I have your back, Blondie.”
“Be careful,” she said.
The corner of his mouth tilted up. The half-smile on Jack’s hard-lined face almost made her heart melt.
Almost.
She could withstand his overwhelming sex appeal.
That’s what she told herself as she quickly looked away, flushed, and approached the man who might be the real George Price.
Jack reached the truck first, opened the door, and used it as a shield. “Princeton?”
Price looked more or less like the photo the army sent this morning but bald instead of a standard military cut. He sported a gray mustache and trimmed goatee and wore a diamond stud in his left ear, which had certainly not been there five years before.
“You’re not Frank.”
Price had a gun in his hand fast; so did Megan. She aimed it at Price’s head. He had his gun aimed at Jack through the window.
“Don’t even think about it, bitch.”
Jack said, “Jack Kincaid.”
“Kincaid,” Price murmured. “I know of you. And the cop?”
How did he know she was a cop?
“Megan Elliott,” Jack said. “I give you my word no one will know you’re here.”
“I’ve already packed up,” he said, gesturing toward the back of the pickup. “I’m on my way to Timbuktu. You have five minutes. That is, if the cop puts her gun away.”
“You first,” Megan said.
Price didn’t move.
Jack hit Megan’s wrist and disarmed her. She wasn’t expecting it—her entire focus was on Price. She felt betrayed and hurt.
And genuinely pissed off.
Jack had her gun and held it butt out to Price. The AWOL soldier nodded with a half grin, and Jack returned the gun to her. “Put it away, Megan.”
“Ten minutes,” Price said. “Only because I like her.”
Jack and Megan got into the pickup. She found herself sandwiched between two Neanderthals.
“Sorry about the war games,” Price said as he started up the vehicle. “I can’t be too careful.”
“I understand,” Jack said, then added, “but next time you pull a gun on me or mine, I’ll break every fucking bone in your hand.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
Ethan’s head pounded. The six ibuprofen and four Tylenol he’d taken over the last two hours had done little to diminish the pain. He needed to sleep, even if his sleep wasn’t real. Sleep for him was a movie of the past. It left him not only unrested, but panicky.
“You’re a fool.” She slapped him.
Slapped
him. “Hold on, Ethan. It’s almost over.”
“Where’s Hackett?”
“He’s coming,” she said. “Trust me.” She looked around the rented cabin, foot tapping, angry at him. Ethan didn’t know why.
He took one of his needles and absentmindedly pushed it into his palm. The accompanying pain masked the ache in his head. He pulled the needle out, rolling it between his fingers. “We should have gone to his house. I told you we should have gone to his house.”
“I shouldn’t have to explain to you again why that’s impossible. Too many people, a good security system. Hackett comes here every third Thursday. This is the best place to take him.”
“It’s too open. Too public.” He looked out the window toward the beach.
“He always gets a cabin, not a room in the main lodge.”
“That doesn’t matter. It’s still too public.”
“We’ll stuff a rag in his mouth like the guy in Vegas,” she said. “You just have to focus. No more mistakes, okay?”
He crossed his arms. The sun was setting. He could hear the ocean, but couldn’t see it under the reflecting shimmer of the light. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to go home to Pennsylvania. Would his mother even recognize him? He hadn’t talked to her in five years. When he came back from Afghanistan, she’d cried. He couldn’t handle her tears. Her pain. Any pain, except his own.
“This is the end, Ethan. You know that, right?”
“There’s more.”
“No there isn’t.” She kissed his neck. He barely felt it. “After Hackett, you’ll finally have peace.”
“They aren’t all dead.”
“That’s okay.”
He pushed her away. “It’s not okay!”
“Can you do this? Or are you backing out now?”
“Of course I can do it,” he snapped, rubbing his temples. “Too much sun. I hate the beach.”
She shook her head. He didn’t know why hating the beach made her look at him with contempt. Was it important?
“I need to be able to trust you, Ethan. This is the last one.”
“We left Frank Cardenas alive.”
“We’ve talked about this.”
“I’m not done talking.”
“I am.” Stepping toward him, she touched his face softly. A caress. “Honey, I need to know that you’re with me. That you’re ready. This is the riskiest of them all.”
“I’m ready.” He nodded to emphasize how ready he was.
She started toward the door. “When I call—”
“What?” he asked. Where was she going? “Don’t leave me.”
“I have to. He’ll be here. Do not leave this room. Okay?”
She smiled and Ethan blinked rapidly. Did he see fangs in her mouth? No, it had been a trick of the light.
She said, “It won’t be long. Be ready when I call.”
He straightened. “I will be.”
His head pounded. Something wasn’t right, but he didn’t know what. Maybe it was just him. He was wrong. He was very, very wrong. He laughed, then squeezed his eyes shut with the pain.
She was still in the room. “Don’t do anything, go anywhere, talk to anyone. Not until I call you.”
Ethan picked up a vase and aimed for the wall, but she grabbed it out of his hands and slapped him. The familiar sting comforted him as much as the sound of her palm hitting his flesh.
“You’ve already jeopardized everything! Don’t cause a scene just because you can’t have your way.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.” He didn’t think he had. She’d taught him to think on his feet, and he always did. Those people at the rest stop could have identified them, so he’d taken care of it.
“Don’t go there, Ethan.”
“They were witnesses. And you were listening to that fool.” He stared out the windows. The sun had disappeared. Maybe it had drowned in the ocean. All that was left was bleeding pools of orange, pitiful remnants of the dead sun.
“Do you know how many times I begged for mercy?” He didn’t know he’d spoken out loud until he heard his voice ringing in his ears. Still, he doubted. Had his lips moved? Had his throat vibrated?
“Do you know how many times I cried out for the God my parents told me,
promised
me, was there? I turned to Satan, hoping at least he was real and would deliver me. I didn’t care about my soul; I just wanted it to stop.”
And Satan had come, complete with tits and ass. Ethan turned away from the darkening sky and looked at his master.
She wasn’t a god or a devil. She was real, yes, in the flesh. His penis twitched, wanting her to touch him, to hurt him. Make him want to die. She could kill him. She wore a sexy red dress. Like Satan would wear if he were a woman.
“There is no God,” he whispered to her. “There is no Satan; there is nothing but humans slithering around the world much as they slithered out of the ooze millions of years ago. And you were buying it. You were
listening.
He would have told someone about you. Remembered you.
You
taught me to be careful.
You
taught me to cover our tracks, to wear disguises, to prevent evidence from building a case against us. It’s
working,
and then you turned into a quivering mass of pathetic, crying
Jell-O
when some idiot starts to pray for you. It’s your fault he’s dead.”
Her face was livid. “He caught me off-guard. But you killed him! You didn’t have to kill him.”
“What was your excuse with that fucking
priest
who left me to die? I should never have listened to you.”
“Don’t bring the priest into it. The fact remains, you shouldn’t have shot them. Ballistics, you asshole. You used the wrong gun!”
He didn’t know what she was talking about. He didn’t know much about guns, only what she’d taught him. Yet she looked at him like he’d made a big mistake. He hadn’t! But she didn’t like him anymore. Despair washed over Ethan.
“I—”
“Just forget it. Forget it,” she barked. “They won’t be able to get the ballistics report overnight. Forty-eight hours, and that’s stretching it. They’d have to pull out all the stops to get anything that fast. I already got rid of the gun, we’re going to be okay, I hope it’s okay.” She shifted nervously on her high heel shoes. She was worried about something. He should remember what, but he couldn’t. He squeezed his temples again, the pain blinding.
“It could have been so much worse, Ethan. Get it together and don’t do
anything
without my express permission.”
His lip quivered and he bit it. “Okay.”
“I’ll call you when he gets here,” she said. “Then you’ll have to get ready. Can you do that?”
He nodded.
Karin stared at Ethan and worried that he was going to screw up her entire plan. There was too much riding on this for him to go totally bonkers on her. She’d been managing his psychosis for two years through manipulation, pain, and sex, but none of that seemed to be working anymore.
He didn’t look well. She couldn’t do anything about that now. She refused to feel guilty for what he had become. He had made his own choices, twisted mind and her manipulations notwithstanding.
She patted Ethan gently on the cheek, still red from her most recent slap. “I need you to be strong. We’re in this together. When we’re through, you’ll be back to your old self. You believe me, right? You know that this was the only way for you to reclaim your life?”
He nodded. She smiled and kissed him. “Good boy. Wait for me.”
She closed the door on him and took a deep breath, the evening air fresh and salty, a bit crisp. This was it. Everything she’d been working toward for the last year was riding on tonight.
As long as Ethan stayed in the cabin and waited for her call, her plan would work.
She pulled off the clear latex gloves she’d been wearing and stuffed them in her large purse. She’d had an excuse for Ethan had he questioned her about them, but he hadn’t noticed. She wondered if he even really saw her. Most of the time he didn’t remember her name.
Which was good, but she couldn’t count on it. Like she couldn’t count on Ethan not noticing that she hadn’t brought any of her personal belongings into their beach cabin.
She stopped far enough away so if Ethan was looking out, he wouldn’t see her. She pulled out her compact, inspected her new hair color. She wished she didn’t have to cut more hair off later, she kind of liked this in-between length.
She applied another layer of makeup, popped in brown-colored contacts, and fluffed her bottle-blond hair. She’d curled it earlier. She never wore her hair all primped and perfect. It would be a great cover. As soon as she got it wet, it would go straight.
She walked across the resort grounds and into the main hotel and sat in the bar to wait for General Lyle Hackett.
He preferred blondes.
Price took them to a dark biker bar on the outskirts of Cortez, Colorado, fifteen minutes from the airstrip. Megan didn’t like feeling intimidated, but she clearly stood out in this environment. She resented Jack for putting her in this situation when they could easily have talked back at the airstrip—or met Price on neutral turf. As it was, everyone in the bar knew Price by name. They called him “George,” not much of a new identity.
Price took a bottled American beer; Jack ordered the same. Megan asked for water. Everyone looked at her.
“Get her a beer.” Jack leaned over and whispered, “Loosen up. He’s okay. But everyone here was suspicious of you the second you walked in, and you announced you were a cop when you ordered water.”
“So what?” she snapped. She
was
a cop. A
federal
cop. She didn’t want to show Jack how nervous she was out of her element, but he knew. He tugged on her hair, kept his hand on her back. Protective. She didn’t need protecting. But she grudgingly admitted to herself that it felt nice.
“So you thought I was dead,” Price said after draining half his beer in a gulp.
“Yes,” Megan said. “Have you ever been to Sacramento—”
Jack cut her off. “You heard about the Hamstring Killer.”
“Not until my pal called me after talking to Padre.” He used his bottle to gesture toward the wide-screen television. A baseball game played on the screen. “This is the only television I watch, and it don’t play nothing but sports.”
The stupid act was just that: an act. Megan tried to ask another question, but Jack squeezed her leg. She bit her tongue and sipped her beer. She resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose. She’d never liked the taste of beer. Wine, sure; margaritas, any day. But beer? Never. Still, she had to do something; otherwise she’d give Jack Kincaid a dressing down he’d never forget. Forced to trust him, she didn’t have to like it.
“Scout was one of his victims,” Jack said.
Price sipped his beer. “Sorry, Kincaid. That sucks.” He sounded genuine.
“So were you.”
Price shook his head. “Not me.”
“A guy in Sacramento was killed wearing your dog tags.”
Price continued shaking his head. “Don’t know anything about that. I tossed them five years ago. The day I walked out on the army.”
“Where?” Megan interjected.
“Excuse me?”
“Where did you toss them? In the garbage? Gave them to a friend?”
“Why?”
“My victim had them around his neck.”
Price shrugged. He glanced left and right as if waiting for someone to jump him. “Don’t know, don’t care.”
Jack said, “He could go after Padre next. It’s connected to one of your missions. I think it’s related to the one with the reporter. Your team disbanded after that.”
“Don’t
fucking
bring up that little
prick.
” Price slammed the empty bottle down on the bar. Without asking, the bartender brought another.
“We have to catch this guy. Padre gave me the players, and the only people still alive who were on that mission are you, Padre, and Jerry Jefferson. Jefferson is still overseas.”
“And Rosemont,” Megan added. “We’re looking for him right now.” Hans said he’d put in a call after getting the list of operations from Padre, but Megan hadn’t been briefed.
“I hope he’s dead.” Price snarled.
Megan didn’t like George Price. “How did you feel about the rest of your team?”
He leaned forward almost imperceptibly. Jack tensed beside her, but Megan held her own. She wasn’t going to have either of these men bully her, lie to her, or manipulate her. She had too much riding on this case. Justice for the dead, for one. But more important, stopping the killers from claiming another victim.
Price’s voice was low. “Let me make it perfectly clear,
Miz
Elliott, Barry Rosemont was never part of my team. He was our fucking
albatross.
He killed Thornton as certainly as if he’d pulled the trigger himself.”
Jack said, “Padre said it was a trap.”
“You can call it a trap. I call it a setup. They were waiting for us. Because Rosemont couldn’t follow orders. He wandered off, was seen by one of their spies, who reported it. By the time we realized we were being followed, our target was long gone and we were surrounded. Thing is, Rosemont
knew
he’d been seen. He didn’t tell us because his assignment was to write about a Special Ops mission from planning through execution.”
Price was so tense Megan thought if she touched him he’d blow. She stayed silent; this was Jack’s world.
“I was in Somalia,” Jack said quietly. “The media really fucked us over there.”
“I don’t blame the assholes in the media as much as the damn politicians thinking that every battle should be broadcast live so the world can watch. And the military leaders who went along with them. Public relations. Fuck that. War ain’t pretty, never was, never will be.”
“Who had the bright idea to send a reporter on a covert mission?” Jack asked.
“Hackett.” Price practically spat his name. When Jack didn’t say anything, Price added, “He’s retired. He should be dead, too.” Price stared straight ahead. “Joe Thornton had two boys. Little kids. He had four more months and then he was out. Was going to be a cop, was already accepted to the police academy.”