Page 42 of Uncharted

Tyler

My part in Cole Security Forces was on the up-and-up. For the most part. Jackson knew some of the stuff I did was questionable, even illegal sometimes, and certainly, I’d get in a shit load of trouble if what I did ever came to light. But I knew how to cover my tracks. I knew how tonotleave a trace.

Everything I did while I was a SEAL had been government-sanctioned. What I did now, not so much.

I was still saving lives, kicking ass, and ensuring the safety and livelihood of America’s citizens. That’s why even when I did what I did, even when it was illegal, it was still possible for me to sleep comfortably at night. If I couldn’t be out in the field or on the front lines, being behind a computer making sure our projects went according to plan and were a success was the only other option for me. And thankfully, Jackson and Cole Security Forces saw my skills as indispensable.

Jackson’s heavy footsteps approached. “Our conference call’s in an hour.”

I gave a nod without looking away from what I was working on. “That’s right. Sorry, I lost track of time. Been swamped with this stuff.” I felt him peer over my shoulder at the monitors in front of me. I tapped a succession of keys on my keyboard, hopping back and forth between my screens. I had three VDUs up and running, each one logged on and monitoring something different.

“I still don’t know how you manage to keep everything straight,” Jackson said, part bewilderment, part gratitude. I kept him in the dark about a lot of stuff, only bringing him in on a need-to-know basis. The more deniability he had, the better. It was all to protect him and his company. If I went to jail or prison, I’d figure out how to deal. But Jackson was married, and they wanted to start a family. Jeopardizing either of those was out of the question.

“Need to know basis,” I reminded him as he sank into the empty chair next to my desk. “And trust me, this stuff, you definitely don’t want to know about.”

His words were clipped and emotionless when he said, “Copy that.” There was no room for mischief or humor when it came to our jobs. “I need to brief you on a new assignment I need you on before we meet with Team Virginia,” Jackson said. There was a bit of hesitation in his statement.

I spared a quick glance, hoping this wasn’t going to be another job where I wanted to rip my hair out at the end of every day. “You got me babysitting again?” My last assignment had been a maddening fiasco. Working to protect a rogue super-model who wanted to party and “live life to its fullest” had made me feel like an old man.

“I know you despised working for Chaunté Simpson, but hey, it was easy, right? Easy work. Easy money,” he said. I grunted as I punched a few keys hard enough to signify my frustration. “Plus, I knew you wouldn’t compromise us by sleeping with the client’s daughter.”

I hated babysitting jobs. I especially hated having to babysit ChauntéRoyal Pain in my AssSimpson. I laughed at my secret nickname for her. Like Jackson said, it wasn’t a difficult job. It had been mindless work, and it did keep me busy. Plus, I did earn a crapload of money. So, at the end of the day, I really couldn’t complain.

“Why are you laughing? Chaunté is very beautiful, comes from a long line of money, and is one of the most eligible women in her circle.”

I raised my eyebrows in speculation.

“I may be married, but I’m not blind. And certainly not stupid.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m happily married to the woman of my dreams.” He gave a mindless shrug. “I’m just sayin’, other men may not be immune to her wily charms.”

“She’s not my type.”

“That’s a fair point. Your type is what?” I kept my face deadpanned. I could feel him systematically prying for information. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but your type is an athletic build, petite, dark hair, dark eyes. Am I getting warm?”

I grunted again. I wasn’t feeding into his cross-examination tactics. I knew how to keep my mouth shut when it came to interrogations.

Jackson leaned forward, his forearms resting on the desk and trying to get me to make eye contact. “Sandman, are you secretly crushin’ on my wife?”

My eyes snapped to his blue-green ones, surprised. “What?!”

The expression on his face was unreadable. “I know all the other ladies think you’re super dreamy and all that shit, but really? Catherine? C’mon, man.” His words were half-serious, half-humored.

“No way, Muff. Not even close.”

Jackson sputtered out a breath as he threw his head back. His bark of laughter boomed through every crevice of our workspace. I was surprised it didn’t draw everyone else’s attention and that a flock of people didn’t come rushing over to find out what was going on.

“Not that Catherine isn’t beautiful, Muff. That’s not what I’m saying at all.” Fuck a duck. I was tripping over my words with my friend, who was also my boss. And now he thought I had a crush on his wife?

Jackson clapped me on my shoulder. “Not to worry, Sandman. I know you’re not making goo-goo-eyes at my wife. Though . . . maybe you are for a certain lady”—his eyebrows danced on his forehead—“who carries a gun and a badge.”

“Christ,” I muttered and scrubbed my hands over my face.

“I’ve been wondering where your sunny disposition and peppiness have been coming from.”

“The pep in my step, that’s the advantage of Bee. She’s given me a sexy pimp-walk.”

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