Burn for Me (Hidden Legacy #1)(91)

“So you have no goals?”

“No, I have short-term goals,” he said. “They’re not particularly challenging.”

“Why?”

Mad Rogan took the lemon wedge off his glass and deposited it onto his appetizer plate, as if it had been some sort of offending bug. “Well, let’s see, what do men in my position usually want?”

“More money?” I sipped from my glass.

“I’m worth one point two billion.”

I choked on my tea.

He waited until I got my coughing under control. “I have investments, and I own several corporations that make money mostly without my involvement. At some point more money is just more money. Some Primes go into research, but it never held any particular interest for me. Occasionally I may improve a spell if I want to accomplish a specific purpose, but I find the idea of dedicating myself to it boring.”

“Professional goals?”

Mad Rogan shook his head. “I’m excellent at only one thing: destruction on a massive scale. Been there, done that, got a lot of fatigue-colored T-shirts. I’ve reached the pinnacle of that career.”

Our food arrived. That was fast.

I bit into my taco. Delicious. “Why did you get out of the army?”

“Do you ever regret mortgaging the business?”

I saw how it was. An answer for an answer. A piece of shrimp slipped out of my taco and landed on my plate. Smooth move.

“Oh God, yes. We should’ve sold it as soon as we knew Dad was sick. We would’ve gotten more money and started the treatment earlier. The experimental therapy was working, it’s just that by the time the mortgage went through, my father was too far gone. But I was very green at that point, and running the business with an established name seemed like a better option. Had we sold it, I would’ve built it back up by now under a different name. But hindsight is twenty-twenty. My mother got a little bit more time with my dad, and he got a little bit more time with us. I have to be content with that.” I realized he was looking at me oddly. “What?”

“It wasn’t what I was asking, but I guess I got my answer anyway.” He tilted his head. “I got out of the military because we were winning the war. When I started, Belize was in ruins and Mexico threatened half a dozen nations in South America. We had to hit hard to turn the tide of war, so I hit hard.”

Now that was the understatement of the century.

“Years later, the coalition had beaten back Mexico and pacified the region. In the end they didn’t even deploy me. Having me in the area was enough to force the other side into retreat. When the conflicts began to die down, the chain of command on our side started talking about going into Mexico. I realized I was a factor in that decision and I resigned my commission, because as much as I enjoy flexing my magic, it was time for someone else to rebuild what I had wrecked. Even if the Mexican Initiative hadn’t been an issue, I would’ve left. The army has no use for me in peacetime. I’m bad at paperwork, and I can’t teach others to do what I do. I’m a killer. So I got out.”

“And now you’re a Prime without a cause.”

“Yes. Most things are not a challenge.” He leaned forward, focusing on me. “When I find a challenge, I devote myself to it.”

Was that about me? Because I wasn’t a challenge. I was a human being. I opened my mouth to tell him that, but he glanced over my shoulder at the parking lot. I turned and looked behind me. A grey Ford Escape pulled into a parking space. It was an older vehicle, with at least ten or twelve years on it. The man who stepped out was in his midtwenties, fit, with broad shoulders and short blond hair. He carried a manila folder and was wearing an ill-fitting black suit, the kind that was probably bought years ago and hung in the back of a closet, wrapped in plastic, extracted solely for funerals, weddings, and job interviews.

The man approached us. Mad Rogan rose. The man offered him his hand. “Troy Linman, Major.”

They shook.

“Sit,” Mad Rogan said.

Troy sat next to me. “Ma’am.”

Ex-soldier. I’d bet every dollar in my wallet on it.

Troy passed the manila envelope to Mad Rogan. Rogan opened it and scanned the contents. “Eleven Bravo?”

“Yes, sir.”

Infantry. Some MOSs, military occupation specialties, translated well to the civilian world. Anything in 68 category, medical, was good. Or 91B, wheeled vehicle mechanic. Eleven Bravo wasn’t one of those MOSs. It was the backbone of the army, but in the civilian world, there wasn’t much you could do with it.

“Why did you get out?” Mad Rogan asked.

Troy hesitated. “I was coming up on my reenlistment. My wife was six months pregnant with our second child, and she didn’t want me to reenlist. She didn’t say anything, but I put two and two together. I was kind of done too. I wanted to get out and try civilian life. I wanted to come home every night.”

“How is it going?”

“We do okay,” Troy said.

His flat voice told me that they weren’t doing okay. Not at all.

Mad Rogan pinned him with his stare. “The background check says your house will be repossessed tomorrow, so I’ll ask again, Mr. Linman. How is it going?”

I couldn’t see Troy’s right hand, but his left had rolled into a tight fist. “I work third shift in a tire-retreading plant and deliver pizza in the evening. My wife works days while I watch the kids. She’s a payroll processing clerk. I’ve been applying everywhere, trying to get a job, any job that would let me work in the daytime. Anywhere with a decent paycheck wants a degree.”