Page 13 of Wild Card (The Trident Trilogy 3)

I hear the guys laughing behind me as Butch continues to pull me to the gate.

“That is my great-grandaddy’s name, and it is completely manly.”

“Good, then you won’t mind if I start calling you that all the time.”

Butch looks up at the sky. “Good Lord, you never gave me a little sister when I was young. Why have you cursed me with one now?”

He puts his arm around my shoulder and pushes me through the backyard gate toward the front of the house. He’s babbling on about his watch being an heirloom and how he won’t be able to function without it. I’m shaking my head and laughing until we round the corner. Paul Ward, the director of the CIA, is standing in the front yard. There’s an armored limo behind him surrounded by his protective detail—four men in dark suits and sunglasses. For a split second, I think I’m dreaming or having a nightmare in this case.

“Oh hell no!” I say as I come to a quick stop.

Butch yanks me behind him and pulls a pistol out of his waistband. The four guys with the director step in front of him and pull their weapons on us. All of a sudden, we have a standoff in the middle of sleepy Virginia Beach.

“Butch!” I say, trying to step around him. He blocks me firmly with his arm. “Butch, why are you carrying a loaded weapon at a barbecue?”

He nods his head toward the director. “They’re carrying weapons. Why don’t you ask them the same question?”

“They’re federal agents protecting the CIA director.”

“Yeah, and I’m a Navy SEAL protecting a poker cheater,” he drawls out slowly. “I don’t see much difference.”

The director steps around his guys. “She cheats at poker?” he says, smiling broadly.

“Like a professional.” Butch blocks me again as I try to get around him.

“No, I don’t cheat at poker, he just can’t read a bluff to save his life,” I say directly into Butch’s ear. He swats my face away. I look back at the director. “Why are you in my front yard?”

The director looks at his detail and motions for them to put their guns away. They do so hesitantly.

“Put your gun away, Butch,” I say, lightly placing my hands on his shoulders. “It’s okay. Really.”

“I’ll put it away,” he says, tucking it into his front waistband. “But you stay behind me.”

“George told me you’re dating a SEAL,” the director says, nodding his head toward Butch, “but this can’t be him—”

“Why can’t this be him?” Butch says loudly and then lets out a long whistle. “I mean, that’s just downright hurtful.”

The director smiles. “And I know this isn’t your dad. I’ve never met him, but I’ve seen pictures. Is he here? I’d like to talk to him.”

“You’re not getting anywhere near my dad,” I say, glaring at him. “Butch, take your gun back out.”

“No need. Turn around, Mills,” Butch says, laughing. “Turn around.”

* * *

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