SEAL of Honor (18 page)

Harvard.

Skinny, tousled, and sleepy-eyed, he sat on the edge of the bed in only a pair of white briefs, fumbling around for his phone. When it stopped ringing before he got to it, he groaned, gave up the search and flopped back to the mattress.

She’d never been so happy to see anyone in her life. “Harvard!”

He bolted upright. His dark hair hugged his head on one side while the other stuck up in a near mohawk. “What?” He squinted at her, then scrambled for his glasses and put them on crookedly. “Audrey? Christ, is that you?”

“Gabe’s hurt,” she said. There would be time for lengthy explanations later. “Do you have any way of getting hold of Quinn?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, of course. Uh…let me…it’s here somewhere.” He groped around in the bed for a radio and hit the talk button in Morse code. Three short bursts, three long, three short.

A moment later, Quinn responded in a whisper. “This is Achilles. Go ahead. Was that a S.O.S. call?”

“Affirmative.” He looked at Audrey, realized his glasses were askew, and straightened them. “Stonewall is home.”

Pause. “Say again.”

“Stonewall is home and needs medical attention ASAP.”

Another pause. “Aye aye.” Quinn’s voice was tight with emotion. “ETA fifteen minutes. Out.”

Relief washed over Audrey in a great wave that took the last of her energy reserve with it. Safe. Finally. Gabe would get the help he needed and she could relax, breakdown, throw a tantrum—everything she hadn’t had the luxury of doing in the past thirty-six hellish hours. She slumped against the door’s frame, suddenly so very weak.

Harvard, sweet man, was right there, propping himself under her arm. He hid surprising strength in that rangy body, taking her weight easily, but he still wore only his briefs and looked like a whitewashed broomstick in underwear.

Audrey had to laugh at that mental image, though it came out sounding more like a sob. “You always did strike me as a tighty-whitey guy.”

“Yup, that’s me.” He either didn’t care that he was nearly naked in front of her or hid his embarrassment well. Back in the living room, he guided her to a chair. “Boring as vanilla pudding.”

“I like vanilla pudding.”

“Sit down,” he coaxed. He spared Gabe’s motionless form the briefest of glances before focusing all of his attention on her. “Are you hurt?”

“No. No, I—I—I’m bruised and blistered, but—just help him. He’s been shot. Please. I don’t want to lose him.”

Harvard’s eyes widened behind the lens of his glasses and she realized how telling that statement was. Well, they’d all find out sooner or later.

She met his gaze with a challenge in her own. “Yes, I’m in love with him.” At Harvard’s disbelieving laugh, she nibbled on her lower lip. “Is that a problem?”

“Nope.” He grinned, but sobered up fast. “Not for me, at least.”

Meaning some of the others might take issue with their relationship. Namely, Quinn. “Do you think it’ll cause problems?”

“Can’t say. If it does, they’re both professionals. They won’t let it get in the way of finding your brother.”

“God. Bryson.” She rubbed her forehead. “Is it horrible of me that I haven’t thought about him in hours?”

“Not at all, sweetie,” he said, but she knew he was just trying to comfort her.

Chapter Nineteen

Gabe’s eyes felt like someone had hot glued them shut by the lashes. It took three tries to pry them open, and then he had to blink several times before he got a load of the white plaster ceiling overhead and a line of florescent lights turned on low. Bags hung on a pole to his right, one filled with a clear fluid and the other with a dark red substance that could only be blood.

Hospital.

Hello, déjà vu.

Except this time, unlike when he woke in the hospital in Virginia after the car accident, he remembered exactly where he was and what happened to him. Colombia. Shot.

Audrey.

He searched the small room for her with his eyes. Nothing but a visitor chair, TV, and dresser.

Okay. He refused to panic and squashed the instinctive surge. If he made it to a hospital, she’s the one who got him here. Good chance she was also here somewhere, unharmed. Maybe off getting food and a cup of coffee or having whatever minor injuries she had tended.

God, he hoped they were minor. His were serious enough for the both of them.

Speaking of, time to take stock of his condition. Gabe drew a breath and shifted in the bed, expecting pain, but instead got little more than a numbed-out tugging sensation in his side.

Not bad.

His foot hurt more than the bullet wound. A pull on the sheet covering him showed it wrapped in an ace bandage and caught in a splint. Crutches leaned against the wall across from his bed. And he was not naked or in a johnny gown, thank God, but dressed in hospital scrubs. Perfect.

He swung his legs over the side and sat up. Dizziness swamped him, but only for a second, and he studied the IV pole when his double vision merged back into one picture. A painkiller, no doubt. Saline. Both of those he could do without and pulled the tape, sliding the needles out of his arm. Machines started beeping and he jabbed the off button. Last thing he wanted was for some pushy nurse to come running.

Gabe hesitated over the bag of A neg still hanging from the pole. It was almost gone, but he’d bled hard and probably needed every drop of the transfusion. Instead of unhooking it, he grabbed the bag and took it with him. His foot held okay, so he ignored the crutches and peeked out the door.

In the dimmed hallway lights, a clock jutting from the wall halfway down the corridor said 2300. With everyone tucked into bed and the staff whittled down to the skeleton night shift, that made things extra convenient. Should be no problem to find Audrey, get back to his team, and finish this whole goddamn catastrophe of a mission.

He slipped into the hallway and—shit, footsteps coming his way. The fast, sure, quiet stride of someone on a mission. He faded back into his room and waited for them to pass, but the steps slowed as they reached his door.

Yeah, figures. He knew it was too easy.

He pressed his back to the wall at the left of the door. Across the room, his bed, in plain view of anyone in the hallway, was a rumpled mess and obviously empty, but there wasn’t much he could do now to disguise that fact. Besides, if those heavy footsteps belonged to a nurse doing nightly rounds, he’d eat his dog tags.

Possibilities raced through his mind. One of Mena’s men come to get revenge? Or one of Cocodrilo’s men? Or, hell, with the rotten luck he’d had lately, it could be someone totally unrelated to this whole mess yet just as dangerous.

The man paused outside the door, then stepped quietly into the room. He moved two steps before he realized the bed was empty and started to turn, but Gabe was already on him, an arm around his neck in a hold meant to put him to sleep in less than a minute. The guy tensed in automatic reaction like he wanted to fight back. His arms even came up, but then he relaxed and his hand tapped out against Gabe’s arm in a very familiar way.

“Gabe,” he choked.

Quinn? Gabe spun him around by the shoulders. Dim light spilling in from the hallway cast deep shadows around his nose and eyes. Exhaustion, worry, and relief ravaged his normally stoic features, his gray eyes red-rimmed and haunted.

Gabe clasped Quinn’s head in his hands, just to make sure this was real, make sure he wasn’t still unconscious and dreaming of his best friend. He wasn’t. Quinn’s head was a solid mass under his hands, skin warm, beard stubble abrading the cuts on his palms.

He let out a relieved breath. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you, bro.”

“Same here, man. When I heard that shot over the phone—” Quinn’s voice came out thick and he paused to clear his throat. Then he drew Gabe into a hard hug.

Gabe wasn’t a big hugger by nature, but with a brother as physically affectionate as Raffi, it was something he’d gotten…well, if not comfortable with, than tolerant of over the years. Still, he didn’t know who was more stunned by the contact: him or Quinn, who abruptly released him and backed up, looking anywhere but at him, uncomfortable with even that small amount of affection.

Well, shit. Audrey was right. He had never paid attention to it before, but Quinn was one very sad man. Lost. Drifting. Alone.

And days ago, someone might have used the same words to describe him. Not sad, because while he was no roses and sunshine optimist, he’d always done his best to retain an ounce of humor even when his world looked the bleakest. But drifting, lost, and alone? Oh yeah, he’d been the poster child.

Until Audrey. Odd that he’d find such a solid anchor in a woman most people considered flighty.

Of course, her anchoring effect was only temporary. Despite her confession of love—yeah, he’d been out of it, but he’d heard that nonsense loud and clear—he had no illusions that whatever he and Audrey had would last past the end of this mission. They hadn’t talked of a long-term commitment, or short-term for that matter, and even if they wanted to give it a go, she lived in Costa Rica, which was three-thousand-plus miles from his home in D.C. How would
that
work?

Quinn cleared his throat, wiped a hand over his face, then finally looked at Gabe. “You should be lying down.”

“Nah. I’m fine.”

“Gabe, you were shot.”

“Believe me, I know. How bad was it?”

“All considering, Jesse said it should have been worse. It tore up some muscle, but missed all your vital organs and only needed stitching. You got lucky. An inch over would’ve been a direct gut shot. His biggest concern was the amount of blood you lost, which is why you need
this
.”

Quinn grabbed the bag of blood from Gabe’s hand and returned it to the IV pole. He eyed the two other disconnected IV lines, but said nothing about them. “So don’t fuck around with this until it’s gone.”

Hearing how close he came to death, Gabe sat on the edge of the bed. Better not to press his luck any further. “Where’s Audrey?”

“She’s in the waiting room down the hall. She didn’t want to leave your side and threw one hell of a hissy fit until Jesse poured a mild sedative into her.”

Ha. He’d have paid to see his men handle one of Audrey’s hissy fits.

Quinn was looking at him with an odd expression. He shoved aside thoughts of Audrey. “What’s wrong?”

“You.” He frowned. “You’re…different.”

“I’ve been hiked all over Hell, beat to a shit, and shot. Yeah, I’m not exactly in top form.”

“No. You’re…” He made a rolling motion with his hand as if looking for the right word, but then gave up and glanced toward the hallway. “What’s with you and her?”

Ah. That’s what this was about. Probably should have seen it coming. Since he hadn’t, he’d blame whatever was in those IV bags for addling his brain. “Nothing.”

“Did you fuck her?”

“Jesus Christ.” Anger exploded inside Gabe, so hot, so primal, that it took him by complete surprise. He didn’t get angry. Or if he did, he converted it into cool motivation. Always calm, unflappable, a rock, a stone wall.

But he definitely wasn’t feeling very stone-like right now and rolled his hands into fists in the sheet on either side of his hips to keep from hitting something. Or someone.

“Don’t go there, Q.”

Quinn stared back, unrepentant. “It’s a legit concern. For all we know about her, she could be behind her brother’s kidnapping.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“No, I don’t. And neither do you.”

Silence stretched taut between them. Gabe didn’t care what Quinn thought. He knew down to his bones Audrey didn’t have it in her to mastermind something like this, nor did she have the connections to do it, and he was not budging. Neither, it appeared, was Quinn. So they could sit here trying to stare each other down and waste time, or move on to another more relevant topic.

Gabe bit the bullet and spoke first, even as he inwardly continued to seethe. “Are we in Bogotá?”

After a second more of stubborn silence, Quinn nodded. “Affirmative.”

“The address I gave you. You check it out?”

“We have visual confirmation that Jacinto Rivera is staying there with an as-of-yet unknown kid of about sixteen,” Quinn said, sliding flawlessly from the role of concerned best friend to XO giving his superior officer a sitrep. “Harvard’s checking into the property, but he’s running in circles chasing aliases and dummy corporations. Whoever owns that house does not want it known. We never would have found it. We just don’t have good enough equipment. Or enough manpower.”

Something Gabe planned to fix. If they were going to do this whole private contractor thing, they were going to do it right from now on. No more of these half-assed, trial-by-fire missions.

“The kid’s name is Rodrigo ‘Rorro’ Salazar. Jacinto’s cousin,” he explained. “His deceased father owned the house. Did you see any sign of Bryson?”

“No visual confirmation, but when Jacinto arrived he went into a basement. There’s a small rectangular window on the south side of the house and Marcus saw the lights come on. By the time he got to the window, Jacinto had shut them off again, but he saw movement down there. They are definitely holding someone. What are the chances it’s not Bryson?”

Slim, Gabe thought. Everything they had pointed to Jacinto Rivera as Van Amee’s hostage taker. Were the chances good enough to risk his team in an extraction operation? He wasn’t sure. But did he really have a choice? No. They were out of time. Bryson was out of time.

“Is the team around?” he asked.

Quinn nodded. “Jesse’s in the waiting room with Audrey, and Harvard’s still back at the safe house. Marcus and Ian were heading to the cafeteria for coffee and snacks when I came down to check on you. I left Jean-Luc at Jacinto’s house. He reported in about ten minutes ago. All’s quiet.”

“Good. Leave him there, but get him on the phone and everyone else in here for a briefing. We need a plan.”

“Hooyah,” Quinn said.

…

Once everyone crammed around Gabe’s bed in the small hospital room, he gave them the rundown of what he knew about Jacinto and Rorro. He left out that he’d gotten the information from the now deceased Luis Mena since it would only cause a stir. He also left out his run-in with the probably deceased Liam Miller-slash-Collington because Quinn had more of a personal beef with the guy than he did. There would be plenty of time for those war stories after they got Bryson Van Amee home safe.

The guys then briefed him on what they knew. He agreed that the bomb-making factory they had stumbled over in their search for Jacinto Rivera had to be decommissioned, but it wasn’t a priority now.

It came as no surprise when they told him Cocodrilo claimed the EPC had no knowledge of Van Amee’s abduction. The more Gabe learned about the situation, the more he thought Jacinto and Rorro were acting on their own. The team also apparently had Cocodrilo held as a drugged and bound “guest” at the safe house, though there was some disagreement over what they should do with him.

“Turning him over to the authorities won’t do shit,” Ian said. “He’ll be free and back terrorizing people before breakfast.”

“What do you suggest we do with him?” Jesse drawled. “Oh, wait, we all know the answer to
that
.”

Interesting. Gabe studied the pair and made a mental note for future reference to keep them apart since they seemed to be about as compatible as fire and gasoline. He’d eventually have to work out that animosity between them. Just one more problem in a long list he had to deal with if this team was going to function smoothly.

“Easy, gentlemen. Let’s focus on Bryson right now.
He
is what’s important here.” He shifted in bed to pin Ian and then Jesse with silencing stares. He hated that he couldn’t do this standing up, but his strength was fading fast and he needed to conserve every ounce of energy. He regretted ripping out the IV pain medication, which Jesse had blasted him about as soon as the medic stepped into the room. Pain flared through his side every time he moved, and much to his annoyance, he couldn’t sit up straight without the head of the adjustable bed to support him.

With the pair grudgingly subdued, Gabe focused his attention on Marcus. “What can you tell me about the FBI agent in charge of Bryson’s case?”

“You want my professional opinion, boss, or personal?” Marcus asked.

“They’re different?”

“Only in that my personal is much lower.” Marcus snorted. “Frank Perry’s a know-it-all jackass who actually doesn’t know squat about shit. And, yes, that
is
my professional opinion. Perry’s a wannabe hotshot who rides on the coattails of everyone around him until all the hard work is done. Then he’s suddenly front and center to get all the credit. Or, if it goes to shit, he fades into the background and lets everyone else take the blame. Believe me, the Van Amees did not win the FBI agent lottery with him. He’s known around the office as Perry the Prick.”

“So he won’t be willing to work with us.”

“Not on your life.”

So much for that idea. “We’ll have to come up with another—”

“But,” Marcus interrupted, “the lead negotiator, Danny Giancarelli, is a good friend of mine. Or, uh, was. He has no more love for Perry than I do, and I’d bet my left nut he’s bound in so much red tape right now it’s driving him crazy. I’ve spoken to him once already, and I believe he’s frustrated enough to help.”