“I mean, that was two weeks ago,” Viper said, rubbing his fingers over his beard. “He’s as useless as ever. Couple bullet wounds won’t make a difference.”
Striker seethed. “This is bullshit and you know it. You’re gonna make me miss out on this operation? We’ve got almost two weeks before we leave anyway!”
“Striker’s the only one who can say if he’s up for the job or not,” Reaper said with a shrug.
“That’s right,” Striker agreed. “He punctured a lung for fuck’s sake.”
“Fine now,” Reaper added.
Out of all the guys, Roarke and Reaper butted heads the most. Sometimes the asshole just didn’t know his place. When it came to decision-making, Roarke was lead. He called the shots.
However, he wasn’t going to have a pissing contest with one of his men. Not today anyway.
“We’ll revisit the conversation in a week,” he said to the group regarding Striker. “I brought you guys in to discuss the parameters of the job and so you could see for yourselves Reaper’s good to go.” He looked at Striker. “Whether you come this turnaround or in a month, you still need to be briefed.”
Striker clenched his jaw but gestured for Roarke to continue.
“How long?” Havoc asked. His expression was perpetually intense, but Lucan wore his callsign well—the bastard wreaked havoc like no other when necessary.
“Two months.”
“Who’re we working for?” Reaper’s brow furrowed warily.
“Classified.”
Reaper’s eyes rounded and Wraith whistled. Annoyance crossed Striker’s face. They all likely knew the answer, but he wouldn’t confirm their suspicions yet.
Government jobs were the darkest he’d done. Grueling conditions, long deployment—and usually infinitely more dangerous. Only stupid motherfuckers like them would take the high-paying work knowing it could end them. Or their freedom if they went down.
“Details on the target?” Wraith asked.
“Capture and kill and we recover the asset.”
“Location?”
“TBD.”
Wraith exhaled heavily through his nose with a nod.
Now that the job was close, they were all eager to get started. And the sooner Roarke left, the sooner he could get back to his family.
The conversation turned to a lighter topic, and a few minutes later everyone but Striker left. When Wraith closed the door, Roarke turned to his oldest living friend, who was now standing with his arms folded.
“You really going to hold me back on this?”
Roarke massaged the back of his neck. He couldn’t tell Striker that he was worried about him. That he’d come too close to losing another best friend. That he didn’t want Striker on the line yet. Because how fucked up was that? Their lives depended on this shit. They ate, slept, and breathed this lifestyle.
The fact that Striker had almost died was on Roarke. Maybe he had too much trauma to carry, and it wasn’t fair to project that onto his friend.
He shrugged. “I dunno, dude. I need you there. We all do.”
“So what gives?”
Roarke slid his attention around the original oak floorboards that had somehow stayed in the recesses of his mind all these years. “You’re the best,” he said, weighing his words. “I want you to keep being the best. Can’t do that if your head gets blown off.”
Striker chortled. “You know as well as I do if my head gets blown off, it ain’t gonna be because of my bum shoulder.”
Roarke smirked. “No, it’ll be because of that ugly face of yours.”
