Foster handed his dad his phone and clapped me on the back. “She’s gonna ream his ass. If there’s one thing you need to know about Holt women, it’s this: they’re fucking scary as hell, and the older ones start training up the younger ones in the cradle.”
I laughed at him, remembering my thoughts earlier about his wife.
When we were settled in a pickup sitting on the airfield, Foster said, “I know it’s late, but I’m sure Mama has been up cooking. She’s a true southern lady who will try feeding you as soon as you walk through the door, so be prepared to be smothered with food.”
“What do you mean—steal your SEALs?” I asked.
Foster glanced over his shoulder at me before turning to watch his dad walk toward us from the plane. “Dad runs a PMC. He needs another team. One that specializes in the Middle East and Europe.”
The admiral slid in behind the steering wheel of the truck. “Alright, boys, let’s head to the house. I need to remind Viv that she loves me.“
“Jesus, Dad,” Foster groaned, and I laughed.
I’d never had this kind of camaraderie with my father, or even a grandfather. I was alone in the world other than Adam, his grandparents, and the team.
“Admiral, not that I’m not appreciative of everything you’ve done…”
I had questions and needed answers. Adam and I both had another three years on this enlistment.
Before I could question him further, his phone rang.
“Holt,” he answered, listening silently to whoever was on the other side.
The man must be an amazing poker player because his expression never wavered. He maintained the same stoic appearance for several minutes.
Then the shit-eating grin Foster must’ve inherited from his dad split the admiral’s face, and he said, “Welp, it’s about damn time. I’ll get them outfitted and send them out with my guys. They can rendezvous with the unit in country.”
Foster and I kept glancing at one another. Neither of us was good at waiting for info. Foster just put on a better show than I did.
When the admiral turned to us, he said, “Your boy’s forced our hand. Guess he got tired of waiting.”
Your boy?
“Adam escaped?” I asked. “How do they know? Last we were told, they didn’t have a definitive location for him after I found him—or rather, his call sign being held up in that vehicle a couple of weeks ago.”
Matthew Holt’s face turned from a gleeful summer day to an angry thunderstorm in a split second. “This may come as a surprise to you, Jones, but even though I’m an admiral, I’m not a fan of JSOC brass. The vast majority of them have no wartime experience. They’re a bunch of paper-pushing bureaucrats.”
I tried my best not to laugh, but I failed miserably. “I never thought I’d hear a cake eater say something like that.”
The admiral scoffed. “Yeah, well, I’m not your typical cake eater. But back to your boy. Apparently they’ve known where he was for a week or so, or at least strongly suspected, and they kept it from the team because they didn’t want to be pushed into a response without definitive proof.”
He shoved his hands through his hair after scrubbing them across his face. It was a move I’d seen Foster and his brothers, Walker and Parker, do as well.
“We’re going to the house for a bit so Foster can see his mama because if she doesn’t at least lay eyes on the boy, I’ll be missing a few parts I kinda wanna keep.”
Foster groaned, “Goddammit, Dad.” His face was bright fucking red.
We walked into the house, and the rest of the team was seated around the biggest fucking dining room table I’d ever seen in a house. Granted, the house was a fucking mansion. It reminded me of the house onDallas.My mama had watched that show religiously while I was growing up. Only this house seemed twice the size of the one on that show.
“Who has Adam?” I asked, interrupting their banter.
I needed more info. I had to know he was okay. Or as okay as he could be when he’d been held captive for so damn long. It didn’t really matter who had him. They would pay. When all was said and done, flies would swarm their dead bodies and walk across their open, lifeless eyes.
Every eye in the room turned to me. The rest of the guys and Julie stared at me before turning their gaze on Foster and Matthew.
“Viv, darlin’,” Matthew said to a beautiful, regal-looking woman who was sitting at one end of the table with Julie. “Can you hug your son and get Foster and Brock some food so I can talk to the boys?”
Julie and the woman sitting with her—whom I assumed was Foster’s mom and Matthew’s wife—got up, kissed Foster and Matthew, and disappeared through a swinging door. They hustled back in with plates for Foster and me and then left the room after another round of kisses and whispers.
