Overture (North Security, #1)(36)

I press two fingers to my brow where a sharp pain slices my skull. There’s a wealth of problems in a handful of words. As the team commander, Elijah’s word would be final on a situation. Team members like Laney’s mother could advise him, but he had the final say—chain of command is crucial to these missions. Of course, sticking to the objective is also crucial.

An objective that has nothing to do with a local drug lord.

“What were his exact orders?”

“He told us to go dark until we met up at the rendezvous point, which would have been this morning. We waited three hours past the mark before retreating.”

“Are any of you injured?”

“Negative.”

Christ. I give the sitrep to Josh, who swears in a long and creative streak.

“He wasn’t going to scope out the situation,” Josh says, biting off the words. “He was going to assassinate the fucker, and probably start an international incident while he’s at it.”

Unfortunately there’s a very real possibility of that. While no one would cry over a shitty drug lord, the balance of power in these places is precarious. It’s even possible this person was backed by the local authorities, making Elijah the target of a corrupt government. “At the very least it sounds like he may have gotten himself captured.”

“Or killed,” Josh says. “And endangered his team in the process.”

Any other employee of North Security would have found himself fired for even a fraction of the breaks in protocol. Elijah North is more than an employee. He’s our brother. Which means I’m more interested in finding his ass than firing it—and then giving him a well-deserved black eye.

“Hold your position,” I say into the phone. “We’re sending reinforcements.”

It will take at least twelve hours to get on the ground there, but I’m not going to send the team looking for them when they’re already a man down and probably half-frozen from hiding out in the godforsaken wasteland that is northern Russia. I give her details of a rendezvous point for us to meet while Josh notifies the pilot to get his ass out of bed.

“Three men,” I say when we’re both off the phone. “I don’t want to send in the whole Blue Team now that I know the situation. Who knows what kind of fucking drug turf war we’re walking into. Quiet as a fucking mouse. Lewis and Jameson.”

“And you?” Josh says, raising his eyebrows.

It’s hardly uncommon for me to join a mission, especially one as crucial as this one. If word gets out that North Security was in the area, fucking around with criminal activity, then it means our true objective will also be exposed. “Do you have an objection?”

A sardonic rise of his brow. “Samantha’s graduation.”

How could I forget? There are a thousand dates in my head, but I don’t want to think about her graduation. It’s one step closer to taking her away from me.

Her graduation and then her birthday. And then the goddamn tour.

We’re only a month away from it now. I would give almost anything not to attend the damned ceremony with her self-righteous principal and the piece of paper he’ll give her that says she’s all grown-up.

I would give anything not to attend, except that it would hurt Samantha. That’s pretty much the one thing I’m not willing to do. “You’re right,” I say, gruff in my sense of loss.

“I’ll bring Elijah back,” Josh says, sounding grim. And of course he will.

Elijah’s the youngest of the three of us. For a time it looked like he would turn out the most normal. He was going to marry his high school sweetheart, until she was kidnapped on her senior trip. It’s been years now, but I think some part of him thinks she’s still alive somewhere. That poor girl that the pimp made an example of, she could have been the girl he loved.

Hell, I probably would have done the same thing. If Elijah wasn’t successful in exterminating the pimp, I’d help him do it. The girl would have reminded me too much of Samantha, at the mercy of terrible men.

Of what could have happened to her if I hadn’t gotten custody.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN





“I love power. But it is as an artist that I love it. I love it as a musician loves his violin, to draw out its sounds and chords and harmonies.” – Napoleon Bonaparte


LIAM

“A damned embarrassing business,” a man says.

I recognize him from the St. Agnes Board of Directors, of which I’m also a member. It’s a fancy name for parents who’ve paid enough money to ensure their children get special treatment at the elite private school. Or in my case, my ward.

We’re standing in a room with three hundred chairs and a makeshift stage while we wait for the students to emerge in their caps and gowns. The room is abuzz with proud parents, with boasts of honors and Ivy League colleges.

“The business about the coach from the public school,” he explains. “It’s a shame what happens for the regular kids in this country.”

“A shame,” I echo, keeping my tone bland. “If only there were people in a position to give their time and money to improve them.”

He gives me an uncertain look. “It falls to their parents, of course.”

“Of course.” The working parents of the kids at Kingston High are barely keeping food on the table, much less personally vetting every new hire at the school. And most of them don’t have the money or clout to expose a predator like that, even if they suspect something.