“Something like that.” He glanced around, licking sauce from his fingers. “I wanted to be clear about the Carabinieri situation. It wasn’t us—at least not the field team.”
I raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate.
“I made some calls. Leadership was evasive.” His expression darkened. “Someone knew about Naples before we did.”
“But you said you didn’t know about it when you arrived.”
“Wedidn’t.” He bit into another wing. “That’s what bothers me.”
Not good. “Either your leadership is running a parallel operation they haven’t briefed you on?—”
“Or there’s a leak somewhere,” he finished. “I know we mentioned the parallel possibility when we were in your office, but I don’t like it. I don’t fucking like either option.”
“Especially not when we’re moving against a potential WMD-level threat.”
The fiddle player launched into a lively jig, and several patrons near the small dance floor clapped along. Two couples stood to dance, their movements more enthusiastic than skillful.We sat and watched them play for a while, absorbing the risk in front of us. Absorbing and processing.
“Do you still keep in touch with anyone from Kandahar?” he asked, changing the subject yet again.
“Just you, apparently.” I kept my tone light. “Though that was more circumstance than effort on my part.”
“Hart joined the police force in Chicago.” Percival picked at the label on his beer. “Rogers has three kids now. Cohn started a tactical training company in Texas.”
Names I hadn’t thought about in years. I’d fought alongside those men, trusted them with my life, and walked away without a backward glance.
“And Brooke?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.
“What about her?”
I should have let it drop, but something pushed me forward. “She seems… like she recovered well.”
“Physically?” He took another wing, chewing through a few bites, as though we weren’t discussing what was likely the worst day of all of our lives. “You’ll never see her without a turtleneck.”
I pulled a celery stick from the basket, more to fidget with than to eat. My stomach was not interested in food. How could I not remember what happened to her? “That bad, eh?”
He shrugged. “She’s Brooke. All business, brilliant as hell, married to the mission.”
“Anyone else in the picture?” I asked, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.
He tossed the bones into the basket and grinned at me. “You mean, is she seeing anyone?”
I should have thrown the celery stick at him.
“No.” After wiping his fingers again, he started on his fourth sampler. “There was a guy at Pendragon who tried. Made unwanted advances, got handsy at a company thing.”
I gritted my back teeth. What was I feeling? Jealousy? Anger? “And?”
“And he doesn’t work with the company anymore.” Percival’s smile was frosty. “I broke three of his fingers removing his hand from her waist. Then, I had a chat with HR.”
Something fierce and protective uncurled in my chest—satisfaction at the thought of Percival defending her, frustration about not being there to do it myself.
“She can handle herself,” he added, pulling his phone out. “Always could.”
“I know.”
“Speaking of handling chemicals…” Percival swiped through schematics for the thermal suits Will had apparently sent him. “These look promising, but I’m concerned they’re not as protective as standard hazmat gear. Will sounded sure they’d hold up, but how confident areyou?”
“I’ve worn them. Will doesn’t cut corners on protective gear. They’re more comfortable than they look, and the integrated monitoring systems are clutch in high-risk situations.”
