Was that where he’d come from? She’d been so startled by his sudden appearance that she hadn’t even thought about why he’d been out so late. “Where were you tonight? It’s a little late for a charter, isn’t it?”
He stepped back, and it was as if that wall she’d imagined before came slamming back down. There was nothing remotely welcoming or inviting about his expression—had there ever been? It was as blank and hard as stone.
“Fishing.”
She didn’t believe him, but neither was she going to argue with him. His tone left no room for challenge. The conversation was clearly over.
The easygoing conversation we had going? Forget it.We aren’t going to be friends.
Got it.
She couldn’t explain why it stung. Why his sudden withdrawal upset her so badly. Why she felt even more alone than she had before.
Their eyes met in the semidarkness. She wanted...
Nothing.
She barely knew him. She didn’t evenlikehim. Why would she want to confide in him about anything? “I—” Her voice caught. She shook herself and drew a deep breath. “Thank you for walking me. I’ll see you in a couple days.”
He nodded, and then seemed to hesitate as if he were grappling with saying more. He turned to leave and even took a few steps before turning back again. “Go home, Miss Henderson. You don’t belong here.”
Miss Henderson.
The ominous warning dissipated in the cool night air as he disappeared into the shadows.
She was tempted to listen to him.
Six
SPECIAL WARFARE COMMAND CENTER NAVAL AMPHIBIOUS BASE, CORONADO, CALIFORNIA
The three officers rose from the table in their matching khakis, differing only in the number of bars of ribbons on each man’s chest, as Colt Wesson entered the room.
Pressed, professional, and polished, the officers’ appearance was in stark contrast to Colt’s long hair, ten (not five) o’clock shadow, motorcycle jacket, faded jeans, and T-shirt picked up from the pile off the floor. It had been so long since Colt dressed regulation he wasn’t sure he remembered how.
Commander Mark Ryan, the skipper of SEAL Team Nine and Colt’s onetime platoon commander, spoke first. “You shouldn’t be here.”
That was true for many reasons, none of which mattered. Colt was going to find out the truth. Whether it would be their way or his was up to them.
He eyed them coolly from behind the mirrored lenses of his glasses. The three men opposite him were Retiarius Platoon’s direct chain of command, and among the handful of people who would know what the fuck was going on.
“So arrest me.” It was an idle threat. To arrest him, they’d have to acknowledge his existence, and no one wanted to dothat. It—he—was too dangerous. Which was probably why they’d agreed to this meeting.
Rear Admiral Ronald Morrison, the highest-ranking officer in the room and the man in charge of naval special operations in the United States, frowned at him forbiddingly, which would have scared the shit out of Colt when he was twenty, but at thirty-eight he barely noticed. “I’m going to have the badge of whoever let you through customs.”
Colt’s mouth curved with rare amusement. “What makes you think I went through customs? Maybe I swam from Mexico? Or Canada? I’m a pretty good swimmer.” No one cracked a smile.Hard-asses.“I had some time off coming,” Colt said with a shrug. “I decided to take it.”
Captain Trevor Moore, the commander of Naval Special Warfare Group One, who reported directly to the admiral, had always been a straight shooter. He’d never liked Colt, which only showed his good sense. “Don’t be an ass, Colt—or more of an ass than usual. You shouldn’t have left wherever the hell it is you’ve been assigned.” Crimea—the latest shit heap. “This has nothing to do with you.”
There he was wrong; this had everything to do with him.
The admiral was obviously getting impatient. “Cut the crap, Wesson, and tell us what you want. And take off those damned glasses.”
The thin veneer of civility snapped. Colt removed the Oakleys—the only thing that had been hiding his rage—and tossed them down on the table. They skidded halfway down the glass-topped polished cherry veneer that was ubiquitous in military conference rooms. He leaned forward, no longer holding back the hostility and menace. “I want the fucking truth, and I want to know why I had to pick up a paper to find out that my men were missing.”
Only Moore didn’t seem taken aback. He’d known Colt for too long.
The admiral mumbled something about shutting up that damned reporter, and then said, “They weren’t your men. And as Trevor said before, this has nothing to do with you.”
