Page 50 of Rafe’s Future

CHAPTER NINE

The next afternoon . . .

“Sorry it took so long for me to get back with you.” Derek West’s face appeared on the mounted flatscreen. “What I assumed would be an easy pick of intel on your assassin and the trail leading from him turned out to be anything but.”

“Meaning?” Rafe crossed his arms at his chest.

He and his team listened intently to the R.I.S.C. operative from inside the custom space he dubbed the team’s personal situation room.

In his experience, “war rooms” were often temporary. Thrown together for a specific task or mission. This room, however, had recently been remodeled with all future missions in mind.

Especially the ones that were personal.

It was spacious and equipped with everything they had at their main office and more. Conference table and chairs. Hi-def screen. Multiple state-of-the-art computers and a satellite phone. They could do their jobs from here as well as anywhere, but with the added comforts of home.

Rafe and his team could also defend themselves and his home should the need arise. Lining the wall on the side of the room opposite the line of computers were three very large, virtually impenetrable safes.

The first two held weapons of all shapes and sizes. Guns, knives, military-grade smoke grenades, to name a few. They even had a handful of frags—fragmentation explosive devices—thrown in for good measure.

And for their personal protection, there was safe number three. Behind its thick, steel door were enough tactical vests, gloves, helmets, and goggles to cover Rafe and his team.

“Meanin”—West’s Texas drawl was clear as he continued explaining why his deep dive on their dead hitman took two days—“once I started lookin’, the rabbit hole I fell into turned into a bottomless pit.”

“Please tell me you at least hit a few branches along the way,” Lena pleaded as she stood a few feet away.

“All the way down, darlin’.” West winked.

Though he didn’t dare show it, Rafe suddenly felt like a jealous teenager watching some other guy hit on his girl. Only Lena wasn’t his. Maybe someday but that remained to be seen. Add in the fact that Derek West was reportedly a very happily married man, and⁠—

Dammit, Owens. Focus!

“What did you find?” He forced the absurd thoughts from his head.

“A whole truckload of stuff.”

Rafe met West’s stare. “How about we start with a name? I assume you have one?”

“Sure do.” The other man glanced to the side, to what Rafe assumed was another monitor. “Your hired gun’s name is . . . sorry, was Timothy Miller.”

From his seat, Bones huffed out a low breath. “Oddly normal for such a cold-blooded killer. “Well”—West scoffed—“Your boy was anything but normal. Former Delta sniper discharged medically a few years ago after a pressure-plate IED sent a bunch of shrapnel into his back. Military docs got most of it out, minus two slivers close to his spine.”

“They left them in there?” Falcon looked to Bones as the medical expert of the group.

Bones shrugged. “If they were too close to his actual spinal cord, then yeah. They wouldn’t risk paralyzing the guy trying to remove it.”

“But leaving it in meant immediate removal from service.” Slade’s dark eyes met Rafe’s. “Could explain why he started working for the other side.”

Rafe dipped his head in agreement. “What else do you know about Mr. Miller?”

“A whole lot.” West’s tone was optimistic. “But before we get into that, I figured you’d want to hear about someone else.” When no one objected, the R.I.S..C. operative revealed, “I found his friend. The guy driving the car the day Alice was shot.”

“Name,” Rafe growled.

“Lionel James. But he’s known on the streets as Bulldog.”

One of Lena’s brows arched high in disbelief. “Bulldog? Seriously?”

“Nice, right?” West chuckled. “Anyway, Bulldog is a local, mid-level punk. His rap sheet shows priors for burglary, B and E, possession of a controlled substance with the intent to distribute, assault . . .” One shoulder rose and fell. “You know, the usual.”