Page 12 of Hero's Heart

That didn’t mean he didn’t keep himself in peak condition. But Dustin wouldn’t know that.

“I don’t need you for a rescue mission. We’ve negotiated with the kidnappers and come to an agreement. I need you to make the exchange. Deliver the cash, get the girl back to neutral territory, and get the fuck out.”

“Why me?”

Dustin paused for a second then let out a sigh. “I need a fucking Boy Scout, okay? We can’t trust law enforcement in Moldova, and I’ve gotten word that someone on my client’s payroll may be tipping off the kidnappers. So, I’m going completely outside my normal network and bringing in someone I know isn’t going to make off with a shit-ton of cash.”

“And that’s me?”

“I may think you’re an asshole, Webb, but you’re a fucking honest one. You’re clean, you’re capable, and you owe me. Plus, my client, William Getty, is willing to make this worth your while. He just wants his daughter back.”

Callum could feel the familiar tension building in his shoulders. It wasn’t necessarily a bad feeling, more like his subconscious remembering how to do battle.

Still, he wasn’t about to cave to Dustin’s demands so easily—not without making the jackass squirm a little first. “You do realize I’m a sheriff now, right? Flying across the world at a moment’s notice isn’t exactly in the job description. I’ve got a town to look after.”

Dustin’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “I’m sure someone else can handle bake sales and chasing down lost cats for a fewdays. You still owe me, and this is me collecting. You know damn well you’re more than capable of handling it.”

He wasn’t wrong. Callum knew how to handle situations like this—and ones much worse. He hadn’t gotten out of the game because he wasn’t good at it. He’d gotten out because he’d needed something completely different after Amelia’s death.

“This is my job, Dustin. I take it and protecting Oak Creek seriously.”

“Look, I need you. I would do this one myself if it weren’t for my knee—need I remind you that I have a permanent limp because of you?”

Technically, that limp was from whichever Chechen mafia member had pulled the trigger in Budapest that day, but Callum didn’t argue.

“You have backup for me?” Callum asked after a long silence, his tone reluctant. “I’m not going in alone. That’s a recipe for disaster.”

“I don’t want to release details on my end by bringing in anyone,” Dustin replied. “You got someone there who wants to make some easy money? You should be done and back home in under forty-eight hours, including travel, which will be via private jet at Getty’s expense.”

“Give me a couple hours. I’ll think about it. Make sure I can get the men I need with me.”

“Fine. I’ll give you until 1800. You’ll need to leave at midnight.”

Callum nodded even though the other man couldn’t see him. “If I do it, this makes us even, Dustin. You don’t call me again.”

Dustin chuckled, the sound as irritating as ever. “Deal. We just want you to make the trade and get Marissa out safely.”

Something about this didn’t sit right with Callum, but it was probably the fact that Dustin Reynolds had always been and would always be an asshole.

But Callum paid his debts. “I’ll be back in touch in a few hours.”

He disconnected the call and stared at the lake, the peaceful water suddenly feeling like a mockery. He’d come out here to escape, to find a moment of calm. Instead, he’d been handed a ticket straight back into the fire.

The hum of the ceiling fan barely stirred the air in Callum’s kitchen an hour later as he leaned against the counter, the phone pressed to his ear.

He’d spent the entire way back in his boat thinking about who he was going to call to do this with him. Because despite telling Dustin he needed to think about it, Callum knew he wasn’t going to say no.

He had a shit-ton of people he could call—Zac Mackay or Finn Bollinger from the original Linear Tactical team. Ian DeRose or any of his crew from Zodiac. They all could do this sort of thing blindfolded, even though they were older than Callum’s forty-four years and retired.

In the end, he decided to keep it to the local Oak Creek guys—Linear Tactical 2.0, as he thought of them. The children of the men who had founded the survival, weapons, and defense school who had grown up and become warriors themselves. Callum trusted them.

“Linear Tactical. This is Lindstrom,” came the familiar gruff voice.

“Hey, Theo. It’s Callum. Got a minute?”

Theo chuckled. “For you, Sheriff? Always. Unless I’m about to be arrested.”

“Pretty sure I wouldn’t be giving you a warning call if that were the case.”

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