Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
I’d missed that he’d changed into his regular instructor outfit, utility pants and a Hillcroft tee.
“What happened?” I asked. “Did you get briefed?” Or updated or whatever. He’d said he was going to Operator Adler’s office. She was basically in charge of his assignment now.
He cursed and kicked at a chair.
My eyebrows flew up.
“That stupid…son of a—” He growled and punched the nearest wall. Legit punched it. I was on my feet before I knew it. “I fucking told you, you dumb motherfucker.”
“Whoa—let’s not…put the wall in a hospital, okay?” I approached him from behind and carefully put a hand on his arm, and I was ready for anything. In case he instinctively got defensive. “What’s wrong?”
He sucked in a breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, and he kept his back to me for the most part. Like, I could only see a bit of his front.
“I kinda wanna blame your uncle for this, but at least he was smart about it,” he gritted out.
Wait, who? What? My what? Ethan? No, wait. No, no, he hadn’t been employed here. So, um, Darius? Ryan?
“What’re you talking about?” I pressed.
He huffed and scrubbed his hands over his face.
I didn’t realize what I was doing until I watched my own hand and how it was rubbing his back soothingly. But I didn’t stop, because it seemed to be working.
“Back in the day, Darius Quinn was known for three things,” he bit out. “He was one hell of an operator. He hated people. And he used to add a discreet tattoo on his body after a particularly gruesome assignment. Real subtle—no one ever knew what the detail meant, he didn’t talk about it, and nothing could be traced back to a mission or give up sensitive information.” He inhaled deeply through his nose and let it out slowly. Then he turned around to face me, and his anger was clear as day. “From afar, it’s just some intricate design that covers a portion of his chest and rib cage. My dumbass brother I’ve idolized my whole goddamn life thought that was a cool idea.”
Uh-oh. Something told me Vince hadn’t been as smart about it, to use Beckett’s words.
Another breath gusted out of him, and he hung his head. “He started doing the same thing, but he wasn’t as subtle about it. I told him numerous times—I swear. It’s the only time I thought he made a poor decision.” He swallowed and pulled out the chair next to him, and he slumped down in it. “He became more careful, to his credit, but he had one specific tattoo on his shoulder blade where, if you looked up close, you could make out coordinates.”
Shit.
I sat down next to him and just listened.
“It’s one thing if you have dozens of coordinates blending together,” he said. “But just one? It’s a direction for the enemy.”
“So, someone saw your brother’s tattoo?” I guessed.
He nodded with a dip of his chin, and he pulled something out of his pock…oh. The pack of cigarettes his brother used to smoke. Beckett actually lit one up and took a drag from it.
I was probably fucked in the head, but it was hot. As long as he didn’t do it often.
“I was right with my theory, by the way,” he said quietly. “He and I were followed for two days, a week before he died. They have a bunch of photos of us, mostly him. There’s a series of pictures of Vince washing up next to a car that we slept in outside of Mogadishu. Three or four close-ups of his back.”
Of the ink, more precisely, I assumed.
“How do you know?” I murmured.
He blew out some smoke and scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Because one of our operators found them in Fredericksburg about three hours ago.”
Fredericksburg, as in…like just south of DC? “You mean here in Virginia?”
He inclined his head. “Here’s where bad becomes worse.” He tilted his head toward me. “The Hahn associates we tracked from Texas aren’t alone. They met up with another crew in Fredericksburg, and we have no idea how long they’ve been here. What we do know is that the location of those coordinates is a run-down property owned by my brother, and these fuckers have had access to it. This is a house I didn’t even know existed.”
Holy fuck. “How could you not know about the house? When he died, wouldn’t someone in the family inherit it?”
“It’s not in his name,” he replied. “It’s not supposed to be. We’re always encouraged to have a safehouse or two, and Hillcroft can help us set up shell companies and whatnot to ensure they can’t be traced to our identities. So I assume no one has a fucking clue who to contact about that property. And we can’t waltz in right now, because the Hahns are watching it. They’ve been inside. Chances are they found my address there—it would make sense.”