Pakistan. I’m so fucked.
Twenty-four hours later,I’m in fatigues on a military transport plane headed to Pakistan. I didn’t call my parents. I couldn’t. Dad’s going to see right through Clarke’s manufactured excuse, and I’d rather be halfway around the world when that happens. Steve Pritchard might be over seventy, but he doesn’t miss a beat.
My sister Dani texted me this morning, but I haven’t opened the message yet. She doesn’t need to deal with my shit right now. Or even worse, be reminded of Gil and his betrayal.
My parents adopted Dani and Gil when Dani was only nine, and when Gil turned on everything—our family, the CIA, his entire fucking country—we lost so much. Hell, he tried to kill me five years ago, and last week, Dani almost lost Trevor again. The first time, they were just kids. The second? I can’t even think about what almost happened in Venezuela.
I rub my thigh as the plane levels out. The hundreds of cuts Gil used when he captured and tortured me five years ago cover my chest like latticework, but other than the pain and blood loss, none of them were serious. Until he plunged a knife deep into my thigh. I didn’t lose any motor function, but it still aches from time to time. A dull pain that won’t let me forget how I failed him.
Closing my eyes, I can still picture Gil as he was. The boy my parents brought into our house. Angry. Extremely protective of his little sister. Wary. But harmless. We were the same age. In the same class at school. Even…friends for a short time. Or so I’d thought.
The vision of him as a teenager morphs into the man who lured me to Caracas on a containment mission then ambushed my team, killing everyone but me.
That day? That first terrible day? When I woke up bound and gagged in an abandoned office building? Gil loomed over me, his face so full of pain and rage, there was nothing left of the man I’d once known.
“This is all your fault, brother,” he says as he twirls the switchblade in his hand. “You could have stopped this.”
I shake my head so hard the room spins. Gil flaunted his crimes to the CIA, the NSA, so many U.S. allies…anyone who would listen. He’ll never see the light of day again. That is if Trevor can do his job.
I dig my fingers into my thigh. I could have stopped him. I should have. Because I should have known what he was planning. Maybe down deep, I did.
“Commander Pritchard? You okay?” The kid next to me looks like he should still be in college. If not high school. Except for his eyes. There’s wisdom there.
“Fine. And you are…?”
“Hargrove. Griffin Hargrove.”
I give him the once over, studying his mannerisms, the practiced casual air, trying to figure out who he is and whether or not I can trust him. “First time in Pakistan?”
“Yes, sir.” His blue eyes dart around the plane before he clears his throat. “I’m on your security detail. Sir.”
Great. And he’s never been to one of the most dangerous regions in the world?
Clearly, I do a piss poor job hiding my displeasure, because Hargrove rushes to continue. “I’m the junior member, sir. I spoke to the team leader this morning, and he’s been in Islamabad for two years now. So has the rest of the team.”
Well, that’s something, at least. “Good to know, Hargrove.”
“Griff. No one but my SSO calls me Hargrove.” He offers me a sheepish smile. “Always makes me feel like I’m about to be singled out in front of the class.”
I arch a brow. “CIA?”
“Yes, sir. My previous posting was in Afghanistan. And I speak some Urdu.”
Offering him a firm handshake, I force all thoughts of Gil from my mind. This mission might be punishment, but it’s one I deserve. If I wallow too much in my own misery, I’ll put this kid—and the others working with me, for me—at risk, and that’s unacceptable. “Let’s hope the next few months are uneventful,” I say, regaining some of the composure and authority I lost in Venezuela.
Fake it till you make it. One of Dad’s favorite sayings. Time to put it into practice.
Chapter Two
August
Mikayla
The freak summer rainstorm sounds like hundreds of tiny pebbles hitting the roof of my car as I pull out of the garage at Baltimore/Washington International Airport. Next to me in the passenger seat, my mother sighs.
“You look so tired, Mikayla. How late did you work last night?”
Thank goodness I’m driving so I don’t have to look her in the eyes. “I left around 2:00 a.m.” My mother clucks her tongue, and though she only wants the best for me, she doesn’t understand why I do this. “Mom, the World Horticultural Society needed supporting documentation for the fellowship application, and I had to get it right.”
