Blindsided (Sentinel Securities)

"Nash we got a problem."

Jason Nash lay on his big king sized bed, its Egyptian cotton sheets, twisting around his midsection as he reached for the phone by his bedside. Hearing the voice of his business partner in his ear, Jason Nash was suddenly wide awake.

"Meet me down stairs in twenty, I'm almost there."

"Will do." Nash disconnected the call, already on his feet and reaching for his clothes. Pulling on his jeans and trademark black t-shirt, he was in the lift and punching the basement button within five minutes of leaving his bed.

At a shade under the six foot mark, and short, shaved hair, he conceded that blurry eyed from lack of sleep did give him a somewhat intimidating appearance this morning. He'd probably have reached six foot if his head wasn't shaved. But seeing as his hairline was beginning to recede he decided the best thing to do was to keep it shaved to a number 1, buzz cut and deny it was happening. Worked for him.

Running his hand over the top of his bristly head, he stared at his reflection in the mirror-like, stainless steel of the lift door and frowned. He wasn't getting any younger. Today he seemed to be feeling every stupid thing he'd ever pushed his body to do over the last 37 years, more than usual.

He'd only just gotten back from his last assignment
in South America the night before
where he'd escorted a small group of Australian businessmen on an inspection of their mining interests.

Sentinel Securities was the joint partnership of five ex SAS, Australian Special Forces soldiers, of
which
, Nash was one. They owned a modest inner city building block that housed their apartments and business. The company was the men's life. They lived and worked together—there was little time for much else in their life and it had been that way for their entire adult lives. In the regiment they were used to living in
each other’s
pockets and while each man did his own thing in their down time, the majority of time they liked to spend it do
ing things together. They were
family.

The lift slid to a smooth halt and Nash headed straight for the well-stocked kitchen on the far side of the enclosed basement / garage the men ran their business from.

For the most part, Nash liked the laidback style of Brisbane. It was close to the airport—a necessity for their frequent overseas jobs and not far from the Gold Coast—Australia’s favourite playground of sex, sand and sin. There were worst places to live—and he’d been to a few of them over the years.

The other members were drifting in as he poured himself a cup of the strong brew he preferred and had just finished making.

The big doors of the garage sliding open as the sleek silver McLaren F1 came purring to a stop in its parking bay. With only 106 cars ever produced, the sleek, silver beast was worth a God damn fortune.

"Made good time I see," Nash said eyeing his friend over the top of his coffee.

John MacAvoy flashed a grin, giving his pride and joy a pat on its shiny bonnet proudly, before making a beeline for the coffee machine.

They were only waiting on one more member to show up, and judging by the loud roar of the engine outside, Nash could hear Luke
W
inters, more commonly known as Casper, was about to make an entrance.

He couldn't remember a time when these guys hadn't been a part of his life. Admittedly, he'd only met them
in
basic, when he'd enlisted in the Army, and then Mac, once he'd made it into the elite Australian SAS, but there was nothing about his childhood before the Army he particularly wanted to recall, so calling it on a technicality, he chose to stick with starting his better memories from that point in his life onwards.

MacAvoy, or Mac as he was better known as was the most senior member of the unit. He'd already been a veteran of the SAS when Nash had been selected, by at least six years. He was exactly what you'd expect from an elite warrior, hard, cold, and focused. He'd been a figure the rest of them had held equal measures of fear and respect for when they'd first met him. Although to be a member of the SAS you needed to be able to think on your own, a large part of it was the ability to work as a team. Mac was capable of this when the occasion called for it, but he gave the impression to most people of a very solitary person…and one that you didn't necessarily approach without a good reason. His whole persona gave a distinctive impression of
back off
! And for good reason. He had a past no one ever brought up.

Nick Stone was the team mother. He was their medic and general peacemaker. With too many alpha personalities in the same room, he was the one who managed to defuse their heated debates and simmer them down. He was probably the glue that had held them all together for so long.

Nash smiled despite himself as his gaze fell on Gracie, he couldn't help it, the guy was a born comedian. At first you wouldn't think a personality type like that could make a good soldier, but after working
alongside
the guy all his adult life, Nash knew Gracie could be as fierce and lethal as the rest of them when it counted. His sense of humour though, had broken many a tense moment and been a balm that helped ease the trauma after a mission. There was simply too much shit to handle in the
defence
force, if you couldn't laugh, it'd ground you beneath the heel of its boot.

The Ducati idled to a stop next to the McLaren, and Casper dismounted his beast, pulling off his helmet and greeting the other two men with a nod of his head. Casper was a sniper—trained to observe and wait patiently, sometimes for days on end before he completed his mission. His humour was dry to the point of abrasive, and although he was a man of few words, when he did have something to say, it was usually profound. Nash figured if you had to spend as much time waiting, usually hidden in foliage or lying face down in the dirt and mud, you'd have a lot of time to ponder the meaning of life and maybe even come up with a few answers.

When Casper had his coffee in his hand, Mac pulled out seat at the table across from Nash, Gracie and Nick and sat down, placing a black lap top on the table before him. Casper stood on opposite sides of the kitchen, choosing to lean against the bench.

"This assignment has just turned into a major shit fight," Mac sighed.

Nash had lived and worked around his friend long enough to recognise the lines of concern around his eyes meant that whatever he'd found out about this latest job, was not going to be good news.

"You didn't find this Declan Cruz, character?" Nash asked, between sips of coffee.

"I found him alright…
unfortunately
, so did some mean arse bikie gang."

"A biker gang?" Nash frowned across as his friend doubtfully. "I thought our client was a Gold Coast entrepreneur?"

"He is. Declan Cruz is supposed to be a disgruntled ex-employee who took off with company information."

"Then how did Bikies get involved?"

"Apparently they've also been looking for Cruz…and now have him." Starting up the computer, Mac hit a few keys and clicked open a file. Turning the computer around to face the other two men, he swivelled his gaze between them as they studied the photos on the screen. "These are the photos I took. The gang go by the name of the Three of Swords."

"Three of swords? Isn't that like some tarot reading thing?" Stone frowned.

"It can represent pain, either your own or the pain you inflict on others," Casper spoke up, nonchalantly shrugging when the other men glanced over at him with varying degrees of scepticism. He gave a shrug, "My sister used to read tarot."

Nash's gaze dropped back down to the photo on the screen showing a group of men seated on bikes wearing leather jackets with a gruesome heart being pierced by three long swords. "So what would a biker gang want with this Cruz, guy?"

"Apparently, the same thing we want."

"And we don't know what this info was Cruz stole?"

Mac sent Nash an irritated glance, "It's none of our business."

"Unless it's something illegal."

"Since when have been concerned about that? Christ Nash, lately you're being a real pain in the arse to work with."

"Maybe I think it's time we got a conscience."

"Maybe it's time you remembered we're here to provide a service—nothing more. It's none of our business what he stole—just that it belonged to our client and they want it back. Did we ever get told half the stuff we were sent in to risk our necks for when we were in the regiment?"

Nash clenched his jaw and dropped his angry gaze from his
long-time
friend across the table.

"We're not paid to know the details—we get paid to do what we do best—what we're
trained
to do, nothing more."