Page 28 of Surge

“Okay, just a prelim lesson on the choke-hold defense.” And for the next twenty minutes, he showed her how to defend herself if she got in a choke hold from behind. He wiped sweat from his brow and nodded at her. “We have to work on some muscle memory, but that’s what training is all about.”

“With Surge in a kennel.”

He grinned. “Please and thank you.”

“And thanks in advance for the self-defense. I obviously need it.”

“Heath threatened my life if I let anything happen to you or Surge. Trying to prevent that.” He took a sip of water. Maybe he’d misjudged this woman.

She laughed. “Don’t want you to get Ghosted.”

The pun wasn’t lost on him, considering Heath Daniels’s callsign, Ghost. “But if something does happen to you, will I be able to get that Mal home safely?”

She frowned. “Thanks to Sam, you know how to be around an MWD.”

“Mals are intense, though.” He took a last drink of water.

A long, slow nod. “I’m not a SEAL, and you’re not a dog trainer.” She twisted her lips into a smile. “You train me in self-defense, and I train you to work with Surge.”

That surprised him. “Agreed.” He took her empty bottle and tossed both in the trash. When he started to move the tables back, Delaney helped him.

It just took a minute, then they headed toward the door.

He snatched her shoulder and in just a second found the L of her hand at his neck. With a smirk, he released her. “Okay. You’re on our team.”

She had a wide smile.

“But don’t screw up.”

4

CORE, SINGAPORE

Garrett walkedthrough the foggy downtown singapore street market toward the circular skyscraper law building that stood among tall gray buildings for his undercover meetup. Made him think of a World War II spy—which was Delaney’s fault. She’d offered him a headset while she streamed Casablanca on the C-130 flight over. He still hated the movie, but the haze swarming around him this evening, the buzzing of relentless traffic, reminded him of that “beginning of a beautiful friendship” scene.

Get your head in the game.He stretched his neck and kept moving. Caldwell had arranged for the Sachaai guy to meet him nearby to sell Garrett a sample of the chem vials. So here he was, walking past vendors selling wares in stands and shops. He eyed a display of watches—for five Singapore dollars? But how long would a cheap watch last? He took a second to inspect one of the watches—or at least look like he was. The tension for the mission had ratcheted with Tyson Chapel’s warning from an hour ago that, apparently, after working a deal with an African chem supplier, Hakim was returning to Core. And the guy liked hands-on control of Sachaai’s movements within planned attacks. So it wouldn’t be out of the question for Garrett to find himself facing him.

Garrett roughed his hair, slid into his undercover devil-may-care persona. Chems were the sole focus of this mission. Not him constantly fighting his instinct to eliminate the source of so many deaths and the anticipated Wednesday attack. But that was revenge. The attack was on Americans—innocent bystanders in this game.

So Garrett refocused. “Everybody there?” he subvocalized.

“Overwatch here. Where else would I be?” Caldwell said from the safe house computer room. “I’ve accessed street cams and local business security cams.”

Sarcastic as usual. Caldwell had been frustrated his sources hadn’t alerted him to Hakim’s incoming return, that Damocles had preempted him.

“Eagle Three in position with Cerberus One and Two,” Zim confirmed, indicating he was at the corner rendezvous site with Thompson and the mighty mutt.

“Approaching stand.” He reached it and walked the perimeter of the busy eating area with shop vendors, trucks, stands, and a few tables and chairs. Garrett studied the signs on the side of the truck, made a show of eyeing the various pots sitting to the side, knowing the contact would likely be watching for him.

“Heads-up, Bear,” Caldwell comm’d. “Andre incoming on your three.”

“Copy.” Garrett slid his gaze to his right and saw a twenty-something guy saunter from the law office’s side door. Despite the darkness, his black hair and cheek mole were easily identifiable beneath the streetlights. He wore standard jeans and a hoodie. Just like the image Caldwell had found.

“I see him,” Garrett said as he angled back around. No sign of Hakim, thank God.

Lord, let this work. No going sideways. Please.

Andre ambled up, passed the truck, his gaze sliding along the truck and hitting Garrett, then he stepped in line next to him.

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