Of course, she hadn’t bothered to tell him how she felt—that she wanted him to stay. That would have been messy, and Savvy didn’t do messy. Not in her personal life because the world of covert operations was messy enough.
Savvy gripped her weapon, scanning the area. It was quiet. Only the sounds of Mother Nature filled the air. She scurried to the thick brush, taking cover. She’d stay put. She was sure whoever was out there was doing a body count, and they were missing one. But running would be stupid. They’d see movement. They’d shoot her on sight. Crouching deep in the thick brush, she lowered herself as close to the ground as she could, while still being able to see over the tall grass.
It was going to be a long few hours—if she even survived.
South America – Remote Jungle Outpost
The ceiling fan did its best, which wasn’t much. Humid air dragged through the bar in lazy swirls, carrying the scent of diesel, smoke, and meat that had probably been grilled two days ago. Mosquitos the size of rats buzzed about, looking for their next meal.
It wasn’t much different from the bayou, which oddly had come to feel more and more like home. Right about now, Patch missed his cabin in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but gators and thick brush.
Patch nursed a lukewarm beer at the edge of the room, seated across from Booker Hayes, a chopper pilot out of the Yellowstone Brotherhood Protector branch. They barely knew each other—different units, different terrain—but Patch had flown with worse. Far worse. At least Patch felt confident he could trust this dude.
Everyone who worked for the Brotherhood Protectors had a story. Whether it be an injury, a mission gone awry, or a betrayal, the men and women who worked for the organization didn’t come in because they were looking for sunshine and rainbows. They’d been battered, beaten, and worn down by the very institution they’d taken an oath to protect. Only to be chewed up and spit out like a nasty piece of meat.
Patch and Booker had been tasked to fly an injured government asset back to their own country. An asset who wasn’t supposed to be in the United States in the first place. If something screwy went down, well, by the Brotherhood Protectors moving the asset, both governments had plausible deniability.
Not much had changed since last year when Patch’s mission had gone to shit. Good people died, and he and his team were forced to live off-grid. To be ghosts. To be Shadow Hounds. Honestly, he hadn’t cared. He had no one left anymore. He’d buried his parents and sister. The only person outside his team who mattered to him had made him a ghost. Talk about ironic. But others had families. Friends. People who loved them.
That was a hard life.
It was strange that his world had flipped again just a few short months ago and he no longer had to be off-grid. He could leave Shadow Hounds if he really wanted to. But why would he? He liked living on the fringe of civilization.
Booker took a pull from his bottle, elbow on the scarred table, watching the ceiling fan rotate as if it were a hooker on a pole. “You always this talkative?” he asked.
Patch shrugged. “Depends on the company.”
Booker huffed. “Fair. But hell, since we’ve been here, you’re the only guy who hasn’t tried to bribe me, shoot me, or puke on my boots. Figure that earns me a conversation.”
Patch gave a faint smirk. “Not opposed.”
Booker glanced at his hand. “You got a girlfriend or wife back home?”
Patch shook his head. “No.” He guessed this guy didn’t know much about his division of the Brotherhood Protectors. But that was kind of the point. Patch eyed Booker’s ring. “But you’re married.”
Booker smiled, easy. “Yeah, few years now. Calliope. She was DEA, now runs a PI firm back home. Woman could talk down a coked-up gunrunner with one hand on a .40 and the other writing an invoice.”
Patch chuckled once. “Sounds like someone you don’t cross.”
“Exactly.” Booker leaned forward. “So what’s it like in the bayou?”
“Hot. Wet. Quiet. Unless the gators are pissed or it’s mating season. Then it’s louder than a Vegas brothel.”
“Sounds miserable.”
“I wouldn’t live anywhere else, which is damn funny since I grew up in Maine. Like the northern most tip of Maine. Up there, we got two weeks of summer, but we didn’t know that. The temps got over forty-five, and we were in our bathing suits, looking for water to jump into.”
Booker grinned. “Sounds like Yellowstone. And we got mountains. Long stretches of road. Locals either wave with two fingers or a shotgun. No in-between.”
Patch raised his bottle in a lazy toast. “If you’re waving in the bayou, it’s because you’ve got a gator on your tail. Or worse, a nasty python. I don’t mind much, but those things are the worst.”
“I’ll keep my bears, wolves, and cougars, thank you very much.”
“That makes me want to ask if your wife’s a cougar.”
“That’s the dumbest joke ever and the answer is no.” Booker shook his head. “But my work wife is sexy as hell and a really good kisser.”
“I don’t even want to know.” The more Patch sat with this guy, the more he remembered what it was like to be human… and that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Patch’s burner buzzed against the tabletop. He glanced at the screen. McGuire. “What’s up, McGuire?”
