Page 112 of Tate
He didn’t know what sort of head game tactics, what sort of strategy to use to repair the gigantic blowhole between him and Scarlett.
Ford had his phone propped up on his counter as he boiled a half dozen eggs. He’d eat them after his run, and in the meantime, he’d taken the FaceTime call from his sister. And filled her in on the details of the wedding.
He may have mentioned Scarlett. And omitted the kiss but added in the cold front that had blown in between them after he’d…well, he wasn’t sure what he did. Been a gentleman?
Or maybe it was because of his not-so-subtle opinion of her crazy rescue swimmer idea.
“Eighteen hours of small talk about football teams and fast food and the occasional bad drivers.” No, eighteen hours of thinking about her in his arms, the way she’d saidKiss me, Navy.
The taste of her still on his lips.
I want this. Just this, right now.
Yeah, well, he was a red-blooded male, and he’d wanted to say yes with everything inside him. But he’d made himself promises about the man he wanted to be a long time ago.
Besides, he definitely wanted more than right now with Scarlett, and all he saw ahead of them were tangles.
“I’m sure she’s not blind, Ford. It’s not like you are Mister Socially Progressive.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
His sister was sitting in what looked like an old-world tavern, her earbuds attached to the phone, probably to muffle the ambient noise. But he could definitely hear another language—it sounded Slavic in tone. Maybe she was at a trendy DC bar. She wore her dark hair up, little makeup, and spoke with the phone close to her face.
“It means that you’re a typical male. You don’t believe women should have dangerous jobs.”
“What are you talking about? You were right there beside us, herding cattle on horseback, learning how to rope and wrestle steer to the ground for branding. I never cared if you got hurt.”
“Thanks for that. But I also beg to differ.” She raised an eyebrow.
Oh. She was talking aboutthat.He drew in a breath. “That was different.”
“That was you protecting me. Not wanting me to get hurt.”
“We were in a cave, and I hadn’t a clue how to get out,” he said.
“I got us into the mess?—”
He held up his hand. “Stop. Please, let’s not go back to the worst day of my life. Can we please just acknowledge that she’s going to be jumping into the middle of the ocean to rescue a drowning sailor who probably wants to use her as a buoy? RJ, people die intraining.”
“I know. Believe me, we looked at the stats when you went to BUD/S. Prayed you through it. I woke up with the nightmare of you drowning more times than I can count.”
He made a face. “Sorry.”
“Yeah, well, between you and Tate, I’m surprised that Ma is still talking to us.”
“Let’s not forget Reuben and his smokejumping. He started it all.”
Someone brought her a drink. She thanked him, and he thought he heard Russian. Interesting. She took a sip of what looked like tea in a glass. “Listen, I need to go, but I can’t get a hold of Tate. I called him, but my number is…unfamiliar, and he might have thought it was a telemarketer. I didn’t want to leave a message, and I’m not sure when I’ll be able to call again, so could you pass on some information to him?”
He didn’t know where to start with his questions, so he nodded.
“He sent me a picture of a guy he saw in a crowd, someone he thinks is connected to the Bryant League, a domestic terrorist group who he thinks is targeting Senator Reba Jackson.”
“He told me about the bombing,” Ford said.
“I ran facial recognition software on the picture, and it pulled up a hit. He’s ex-Marine, scout sniper. Graham Plunkett. We missed his association with the Bryant League—his brother is a member, but that took some digging because Graham has a different last name than his brother, Alan Kobie. Different fathers. Alan is the son of the mayor of San Antonio. But here’s the interesting part. Kobie was an EOD Tech for his firstdeployment before he got an other-than-honorable discharge. I don’t know why no one picked that up before, but I’d pay attention.”
Explosive Ordinance Disposal. Yeah, hello. Red flag, anyone? “So, what are you saying?”
