“Liar.”
Rowan exhaled, sharp and frustrated. “I don’t like this one.”
“None of us do.”
“It’s too clean.” It was bugging the shit out of him that he couldn’t put his finger on what made every single hair on his body stand to attention. “Like it’s too easy. Those fuckers don’t just leave a man like Wilson sitting in a compound this exposed unless they want him found.”
Gael was quiet for a moment. Then, softly, “You think it’s a trap?”
“I always think it’s a trap.” His fingers curled into a fist, then he forced them to relax. “Just as I always think if not us, then who?”
Gael shrugged. “You’ll watch your six, trust your gut, and get the hell out before shit hits the fan. You know I’ll come on the run loaded for bear if I need to.”
He nodded. “Yep.”
“And Rowe?”
“Yeah?”
“Make time for your girl before we pop smoke, ’kay?”
“Huh?”
Gael clapped him on the shoulder, “I’m just saying, for us, this shit is normal. For her, it’s virgin territory. Give her some idea of what to expect so she doesn’t lose her damn mind. Feel me?”
“Yeah.” It drove him up the wall when Gael made sense. But in the field of relationships, he was the twin with experience, so Rowan would listen to him instead of fucking shit up by trying to muddle through and making a mess of it.
“Theo?”
“Yes, boss?”
“Get me Mercier on the line.”
“Call or screen?”
“Screen. I want to know if that jackass is lying to my face.”
“Roger that.” There was a pause as Theo put the call through to their fixer. “He’ll be on screen in three, two, and go.”
Gallus Mercier’s sharp and calculating face was just smug enough to make Rowan’s fingers itch to punch him in the nose. The man’s dark eyes gleamed under the low light of wherever the hell he was holed up, a cigar smoldering between his fingers like he was some kind of goddamn Bond villain. Rowan didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Talk.”
Mercier exhaled a slow stream of smoke, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Always a pleasure,mon ami.” His fake accent was thicker than usual, which meant he was either amused or lying. Maybe both; with that asshole, you were never quite sure. “You’ve got the intel. What else do you need?”
“How do I know your intel isn’t as fake as your accent is?” Rowan leaned forward, bracing his palms on the table. “Or should I hit up Gladiator and drag him out of Montana to drag your ass home?”
“Now, now, Salieri. There’s no need to go dragging my brother into this. He’s out of this hellhole, and his PTSD don’t need to be dragged back into this shit.”
“Tell that to Nemesis,” Rowan shot back. He didn’t give a shit that he was dropping Dalton Knight in the shit pile; he was a bigboy and could handle Gallus Mercier any day of the week if he had to.
“What?”
“One phone call.” Rowan picked up his phone for emphasis. “Hell, I don’t even need to dial the fucking number, I can just hit speed dial, and Nemesis will connect me with Glad.”
“You, mon ami, are an asshole.”
Funny how the fucker’s accent changed slightly when he was called out on his fuckery. “Damn straight. Explain why you’re the one calling this in. Wilson went DEA after he got out. He’s not a contractor, and he’s not meant to be anywhere in that fucking region.” If he didn’t get answers, then that was a problem that would need to be worked around the table before they spun up out of Stronghold. “Spill it, because I’m not putting my men in the shit if I don’t have all the cards on the table. Why’s this on my war-table and not an Agency op?”
Mercier’s smirk didn’t waver. “Because the Agency lost him. Because El Sombra’s got friends in high places…friends who’d rather Wilson disappear permanently than talk.” He tapped the ash from his cigar into a crystal tray. “You know how it is. Some strings can’t be pulled without complications.”
