Page 17 of Tate
He let her go, then leaned back into the pillow as she left.
The door opened again, and this time Knox came in, glancing back at the retreating senator. “You all right?”
Tate frowned at him, and Knox lifted a shoulder. “I heard what was going to go down in the hallway. If it makes you feel any better, Glo’s a mess. She came out of the room crying, and now she and Kelsey are going back to the hotel to pack.”
“It doesn’t, thanks.”
“Sorry, Tate. But maybe Senator Jackson is right. Glo is…she’s in the public eye, and…” Knox made a face. “And you’re…”
“What—?” Tate snarled.
“A mess, bro.”
That shut Tate down. At least for a moment. Because yeah, Knox had to bring up the fact that he’d nearly gotten Glo killed.
Just like Raquel.
And Jammas.
And okay, maybe thiswasa bad idea.
But Slava and his ilk weren’t going to follow him to Nashville. And Tate did know what he was doing.
Most of the time, at least, when his brain wasn’t suffering from the aftereffects of kissing Glo. He’d simply been off his guard.
So yeah, he meant every one of his words to Senator Jackson. He’d keep his hands, his mind, and his heart away from Glo.
If that’s what it cost to keep her alive, he’d gladly pay it.
“I know I’m a mess. So get me out of here, so I can get home, get better, and get to Nashville and back to work. Glo might have fired me, but her mother just rehired me.”
Knox frowned.
“C’mon. Have you not met me?” Tate gave a smile and pulled down the neck of his hospital gown, revealing the ink across his chest.Surrender is not a Ranger word.“This is far from over.”
Knox shook his head. But a slight smile tipped his lips. “Senator Jackson doesn’t know what kind of trouble she’s hired on.”
“She’s about to find out.”
“There is movement in the compound, Charlie Three.”
The voice in Ford Marshall’s ear could save his life.
Steady, soft, the kind of voice that crept through him and found his bones, settled a steel surety in him that calmed his heartbeat, even here in the desolation of South Yemen.
“Confirmed, Operations.”
Sweat bathed his entire body, but he was fully kitted up in battle rattle, sweat pouring into his ears, and he smelled like the local wildlife. He’d been dug into his position under a figtree, surrounded by scrub brush and thorn trees, for nearly two hours.
They were all waiting for the terrorists in the Yemeni compound below to go to bed. For the go-word from Ops sitting at their FOB—forward operation base—on the USSSan Antonioout in the Gulf of Aden.
Their Black Hawk hidden in the valley not far away.
They’d sat on their hands, waiting on a dusty, rocky hillside while the night deepened around them with the smells of lamb cooking in tandoors, saltah stewing on open fires, and saluf—flatbread—baking in a clay oven.
“I’m so hungry I could eat a goat,” said Cruz. Their sniper’s voice came through the earphones built into Ford’s helmet.
Not the voice he wanted to hear, but Scarlett—or rather, Petty Officer Second Class Hathaway, assigned as combat services support to their unit—was monitoring the drone that scoped the area, as well as keeping the Black Hawk waiting to swoop in for exfil updated.
