Page 3 of Grissom
“And Alex,” Grissom barked. “I want Alex!”
“No!” Murphy bellowed back at his hard-headed agent. It was time to draw a hard line.
“Yeah, Murph! Alex!” Grissom bellowed back. “Call him! He’ll come once he knows what I’m up against. He understands. I know he does!”
Of course, he would. Alex was a father and a hard-charging son of a gun who always—always—had his agents’ backs. Which was why Murphy refused to dial that number. “Think, Grissom! Guldarn it, think! Kelsey just survived a gunshot to her head, and she damned near drowned. She needs Alex a helluva lot more than you do.”And I’m in charge of TEAM Two, damn it. Not Alex. Not anymore.
Grissom shook his head, his brows furrowing into a dangerous V. Which told Murphy the man didn’t remember how close Kelsey had recently come to dying, or what nearly losing her had cost Alex. Obviously, Grissom didn’t recall that he’dbeen there the day both TEAMs had taken down the human trafficking ring of then-Secretary of State Tristan Obermeyer and his despicable buddies, Michael Keane, Lancaster Wirth, and his son, Miles Wirth.
It was Lancaster who’d put the hit on Kelsey; his son Miles who’d hired Ryan Malloy, Ireland’s best sniper, to do the ugly deed and wound, not kill her. Of the three main players, Obermeyer, Lancaster, or Miles—no one knew which had offed Malloy, then hired a couple local tough guys to kidnap London Wilde, now Heston’s fiancée. Heston had rescued London and, in the process, had righteously ended Obermeyer. With a heap of prejudice.
Murphy knew where that body was, but the FBI still considered Lancaster and Miles Wirth as missing. Not that Murphy cared what the Bureau thought. Even if he knew where the Wirths were buried, he’d never tell.
“You gotta call him,” Grissom ordered more calmly. “Please. Alex is the best.”
“Yes, he is, but if anyone’s going with you, it’s me, guldarn it.” Murphy stabbed his thumb into his chest for emphasis. “Let me make a few calls—”
“Then step on it! I gotta get gone, Boss. My boys need me!”
Grissom finally said the right word. He’d acknowledged who his first-line supervisorwas.
“Understood. Grab a shower while I work on getting you released. Once that’s done, I’ll have Mother line up an Air Force bird out of JBA.” Joint Base Andrews. “Then I’ll make sure Taylor, Cord, and Walker meet us there.”
Most of the agents on both TEAMs were already searching for Grissom’s boys, either online from TEAM HQ or physically, boots on the ground in Costa Rica. Except for those with permanent stateside workloads: Mark Houston, Mother, Axel Cho, Harley Mortimer, Zack Lennox, David Tao, MaverickCarson, Tripp McClane, Jake Weylin, Cord Shepherd, and Beckam Garner.
Grissom turned for the head. “Grab me some decent clothes and boots. I ain’t wearing this orange shit. My go-bag and all my tactical gear, too. My vest. I need weapons, Murph. Get my knives and pistols. All of them.”
Murphy watched the bathroom door close behind Grissom. With any luck, his brain was finally mending. If not? Murphy was in for a helluva long flight to Central America.
Chapter Two
Grissom scrubbed the tiny, sample-size bar of yellow soap over his head, down the back of his neck, and back around through his beard, which was too damned long. What the hell was going on? Why hadn’t he shaved today? At least trimmed his beard like he usually did?
Most of what Murphy’d said made sense, but Kelsey had been shot? Since when? What fool with a death wish did that? Not being able to recall that sweet woman’s near-death experience was one of many black holes eating at Grissom’s brain, making him doubt himself and Murphy. Making him doubt everything. Like why was a tiny bar of soap he could barely hold in his big hand in this puny shower? Why’d he need Murphy to sign anything?
Grissom vaguely remembered being in a fight at some bar and the cops showing up. Tasering him. But the why, where, and when escaped him. And now he was—what? Incapable of making legal decisions? Under protective custody? Committed to a fucking asylum? Whose bright idea was that?
‘Yours,’the tiny voice inside his head whispered.‘The night you crashed. You agreed with Murphy after he insisted you wouldn’t want to scare your sons.’
“How could I scare them? I don’t even know where they are,” he exclaimed out loud. To himself. Like talking and answering himself made sense? Maybe he was crazy.
‘You’ll find them. That’s what you do. Protect the weak. Defend the powerless. Bring the lost lambs home. Never ever give up.’
Grissom nodded at the astute summary of the Army Ranger he used to be. “Yeah. That’s what I do.”Did. Intend to do…
The image of three children a world away shimmered between the misty spears sluicing from the showerhead. In a blurry flash, Grissom was back in Syria. Tothatday. Talk about a clusterfuck. He hadn’t been distracted or angry back then. Not at all.
One of the local leaders had contacted their CO with an urgent, “Help us! We found a bomb! In our school! Hurry, come help.” Which was pretty much the state of the entire war-torn country back then. At one time, Syria had been one of the most educated countries in the Middle East. The government had promoted literacy for all boys and girls. Close to one hundred percent of the country’s children were enrolled. Education was free.
Not anymore. The war brought chaos, along with the cruelty of child soldiers and gender-based violence—aka, rape—the standard weapon for invading countries in the whole fucked-up world.
So Grissom’s squad had hurried. Once in the village, they’d checked with the man who’d called. He’d claimed to be the teacher, that the school was the only normal thing left in the children’s lives. So dutifully, Grissom and his men had combed through the two-room, four-by-four brick schoolhouse, but hadn’t found squat. He recalled being thankful that there were no children present, that the town’s people had, at least, protected their kids. Their boys. Parents in Syria didn’t send girls to school anymore. Too many had already been kidnapped and exploited and—worse.
All six in Grissom’s squad had followed their Military Working Dog, Thumper, as she’d cleared each dark, little room in the building. Corporals Karras and Barone, Thumper’s handler Sergeant Halliway, and Grissom had been tight on theMWD’s butt when she’d alerted and bolted out the only exit that faced west. They’d gone left and followed her to the rear of the building. Captain Hauser and Sergeant Anderson went right. The squad reconnected behind the building, by that time facing due east. Nothing there but dust, scrub brush, and acres of barren landscape. No trees or buildings. Nothing to hide behind. No rusted-out trucks. No broken-down homes.
Despite the lack of obvious threats, Grissom had taken a knee at one rear corner of the building, and covered his squad’s backs, his M16 ready to spread suppressive fire in all directions if needed. Karras had assumed the same position at the opposite rear corner.
It wasn’t until Thumper’d started digging and Halliway called her off, that a prickle of unease had slithered up Grissom’s spine. Down on his hands and knees in the dirt with his rear end stuck in the air, Halliway had peered into the hole, then popped back up with a shit eating grin and said, “You guys gotta see this.”
