Page 88 of Warrior's Cross

“You can’t protect everyone, sir,” Preston advised in his customary soft, calm voice.

“I should be able to protect the people I care about,” Julian argued as they sat in the massive kitchen of his home, sharing a drink at the kitchen table. “There aren’t many,” he pointed out as he rubbed his tired eyes.

Preston cocked his head, watching silently. It was early June, and they had been holing up for nearly three weeks. They could both smell the end coming; they just didn’t know yet what form it would take.

“Arlo’s not stupid,” Julian continued gruffly. “He’ll figure out how to get to us eventually.”

“Perhaps sitting and waiting isn’t the best way to go about this,” Preston suggested. “Perhaps we should address the issue and move on?”

“Address the issue?” Julian asked bemusedly. “You mean go out and get shot at.”

“It’s always seemed to work in the past,” Preston answered with a wry grin before taking another sip of his whiskey.

Julian breathed in deeply and looked into his glass as if he might find the answer in a bottle of Bushmills.

“If that’s not appealing, perhaps you could retrieve those in danger and bring them here,” Preston went on slowly.

Julian looked up at him with narrowed eyes.

“It is a fine defensive position,” Preston pointed out knowingly.

“Blake would come easily enough. His wife is already in Paris with her mother. But bringing Cameron here would be the equivalent of kidnapping him,” Julian told him dejectedly. “He wants nothing more to do with me, Preston.”

“So leave him be,” Preston responded with a careless shrug.

“What?” Julian asked in surprise.

“He wanted nothing to do with your protection then, why give it to him now?” Preston asked curiously. “We wouldn’t be spread nearly so thin if we left him be.”

Some of the color in Julian’s face drained as he thought about leaving Cameron be, as Preston had suggested. God knew what Arlo would do to him.

“I can’t do that, Preston,” he whispered in a stricken voice. “I’m the reason he’s in danger.”

“If you say so, sir,” Preston agreed amenably as he poured them both more whiskey.

Julian rubbed at the back of his neck as he watched his companion.

He and Preston had been friends and colleagues for more than twenty years. He’d known the man longer and better than anyone else in his life. It was his job to be blunt.

He supposed it was fitting that it had come to this: the two of them sharing their last bottle of whiskey as they came to terms with being cornered.

“I never really liked him, anyway,” Preston muttered as he filled his glass almost to the brim. “Can’t we just kill him and move on?”

“Who?” Julian asked in horror. “Cameron?”

“No, sir,” Preston answered drolly. “Arlo. We could find him easily enough. We know he’s watching the restaurant.”

“Arlo is not the only one who wants me dead. He’s just the spearhead,” Julian pointed out. “If we go after him prematurely, innocent people could be hurt.”

“One innocent in particular, I assume?” Preston drawled as he watched the whiskey in his glass swirl.

“Yes,” Julian answered testily.

“Well. Waiting and watching is getting us very little,” Preston reminded. “Mr. Nichols has become a recluse. We’re in hiding, which I believe I need to point out is not something we do well. This is not the way we’re accustomed to operating, sir, and Lancaster knows it. He’ll know he’s found your weakness simply because he can’t find you.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Julian murmured.

“If you kill the man sent to kill you, especially if that man is Arlo Lancaster, the odds of anyone else being willing to take the job are very slim,” Preston continued reasonably. “It’s my opinion, sir, that Arlo is the only person willing to do it at all. People have wanted to kill you for years, and none have come even close to succeeding. There’s a reason it’s only just now coming.”

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