Parker Quinn didn't recognize the number, but he did recognize the area code and a bolt of something exciting jerked through him. Who in that exclusive Virginia area code would be calling him? It had been a long time since he'd seen a number like that.

Curiosity won out and he swiped his thumb across the screen and brought it to his ear. "Hello?"

"Quinn! How the hell are you, buddy?"

Parker scowled and looked at the phone, wondering if he'd fallen into some type of time warp. It had been a couple of years since he'd spoken with his former boss, Navy SEAL Commander Greg Lambert, but he remembered his voice like it had been yesterday. "Hello, sir."

Parker had no idea why the man was calling him now. After he'd been injured, Lambert had been in to see him once, then never again.

Probably couldn't stand to be reminded what could happen when he looked at me.

That wasn't a very charitable thought, but it was how he'd felt at the time. Hurt and left behind. He'd given a huge amount of his life and sanity for his country, and his team, but as soon as he was damaged and no longer usable they were done with him. Yeah, they paid him his hazard bonus but, whatever.

He waited for Lambert to speak, because he wasn't sure how he felt about even talking to the man.

After a couple of long seconds, Lambert cleared his throat. "Well, I wanted to check up on you, see how you'd recovered."

Scowling, Parker looked out over the parking lot. He heard papers rustle in the background and had a feeling Lambert was looking at his medical record—if he wasn't actually watching him. The man had friends in high places with expensive toys. And Lambert never asked rhetorical questions. "I'm fine, thank you. As you can see."

His former boss chuckled. "You always did like to call me on my shit, Quinn. I appreciated that about you. Tell me what I can't read in the medical file. There's not much here."

Parker shook his head and looked around, suddenly overwhelmed with anger. They'd wiped their hands of him, now they wanted him to bleed for them again. "What's not in the file? It's not in the file that I can't take too deep of a breath because one of my ribs pops, and doctors can't tell me why. It's not in the file that it takes me twenty minutes to clear my eye socket of goop every morning. It's not in the file that my dick bends to the right when I get hard because of all the scar tissue on my lower belly. Is that what you're looking for Lambert? Some other reason to feel like you have it good in life? Why the fuck are you calling me?"

Silence stretched on the other end of the line and Parker realized he might have gone overboard. That banked anger that he'd learned to control had flared to life. He was almost yelling, and that wouldn't get either one of them anywhere.

"I'm sorry, Parker," Lambert said eventually. "No, I'm not calling you to make myself feel better. Since my wife died those moments are few and far between, so I'll have to think about our conversation later and see if it perks me up and makes me feel all sparkly inside."

Parker snorted in spite of himself. Lambert was as much of an asshole as he'd always been.

"How's your mobility?"

Again, Parker scowled. His mobility was a touchy subject. "Fine," he lied. "Why?"

Lambert sighed on the other end of the line. "I know you've gotten a job in Denver with Duncan Wilde, but I don't know what you're doing."

"Why don't you call him and snoop, like you used to? Use your influence to strong arm him into telling you?"

"I thought about it but I'm giving you the option of telling me. You were a good SEAL Quinn, and I'm sorry you got rolled out the way you did. I didn't follow up with you the way I should have, but if you're like me, you're chafing in the civilian world, looking for something more. I've got something for you but you have to be physically able to do it."

He wasn't even sure he wanted whatever it was. Probably some do or die mission that had to be acted upon immediately. That was usually the way Greg Lambert worked. And if Parker didn't do the job, Lambert would call some other dumb schmuck who would.

He had a good life here in Denver. After he'd been released from the SEALs, medically retired from the Navy, he'd moped for a long time, and wallowed in his recovery. Physically, he'd been mobile, but just barely. The insurgents had done a real number on him. When word had gotten around to him that there was a former Marine in Denver that only hired other disabled veterans, he'd been intrigued, but not much more than that. It wasn't until months later that he actually looked the place up online. There was one tab on the website to 'apply to join our team!' Parker hadn't even had a resume at the time. How do you encapsulate thirteen years in the Navy and all his SEAL experience into a few paragraphs? You didn't, you couldn’t; most of his missions had been classified and he couldn’t discuss them with anyone, ever. Instead he'd left his former commander's name and number, as well as a copy of his medical record. Apparently that had worked because a woman from Lost and Found called him two weeks later to arrange an interview, if he was still interested in the job.

Was he? He'd looked around his neglected apartment and knew he needed something to get him out of the slump he was in, so he'd agreed.

It was the best thing he'd ever done. The Lost and Found Investigative Service was comprised of veterans just like him-- men that had seen the bad side of war and returned from it changed. There were also a few women vets working there, just as blunt and capable as the men. Duncan Wilde had proven to be a savvy boss, pushing him to the limits of what he could do but not taxing him too much. Generally, he did surveillance or he drove clients that were under their protection. Denver wasn't a metropolis like New York or LA, but they had their fair share of affluent people needing coverage. He'd gotten his private investigator's license and realized that the more he got into the job, the more he had to learn. It was giving him something to work toward.

Parker didn't mind the challenge. It gave him something to focus on. Yes, it could have been more stimulating, but he understood that he needed to start on the bottom, too, and work his way up to the meatier jobs.

"The pay is substantial."

When Lambert spewed out the number, Parker couldn't keep the surprise from his face. "That's a heck of a teaser. What's the job?"

"Surveillance, for the most part, and possibly more. You'll be sitting on a prosecuting attorney for the next week. She's the primary in a criminal case against an actor from a small terror cell in Columbus, Ohio. He had visions of being a lone wolf but botched the job. Now he's in lockup awaiting trial. Actually, we think Mozi Al Fareq is the fourth or fifth son of the man that runs the terrorist cell responsible for the truck attack on the Columbus Christmas Parade several months ago. Do you remember that?"

"Of course," Parker said softly. "It killed a lot of people, mostly kids."

"Yes," Lambert said, his voice muted. "Fuckers. There's a special place in hell for people who kill little kids like that."

They were both silent for a long moment, each lost in their own thoughts.

"The cell has direct links through social media to known Islamic State operatives, but they've stayed quiet about this particular attack that al Fareq botched. Some of our experts think al Fareq was chafing under his father's thumb and decided to make a name for himself with a big splashy suicide, but it didn't work out that way. He didn't die when he drove that truck down the sidewalk at the art fair, then crashed into the Center of Science and Industry building. A security guard tased him when Mozi tried to shoot people outside the museum as he escaped."

Parker snorted. "Great for his ego, I’m sure, being brought down by a security guard like that."

"Well, I don't care about his ego, just the fact that his plans were botched. There were injuries, but it could have been much worse. But al Fareq is realizing how screwed he is and last week he wrote his father a letter pleading for help. We're monitoring all of this, of course, as well as all of his contacts outside."

"It sounds like you have everything under control."

"Not exactly. The father, along with the rest of his cell, has dropped off the grid. We can't find him. Any of them. One of the witnesses in the case has turned up dead, beheaded. Mozi’s father, Ali al Fareq, is apparently trying to silence anyone that saw his son get out of the truck. Or just plain unbalance the prosecution's case against his son. Your job will be to protect the prosecutor and if the situation presents itself, take out the cell. You have carte blanche to eliminate everyone connected to this little party."

Parker choked out a laugh. "You're not asking for much."

"I know this is a lot to ask of you, but things are heating up in the states. All of these little cells are honing their skills, possibly in preparation of a nationwide, simultaneous attack. We can't have it. We've been authorized by the highest level of government to make these cells go away, any way we can, but if we're caught, they'll disavow all knowledge of what we were doing."

"What?" He stalked across the room. "You've got to be kidding. Why the fuck would I sign up for this? It's a suicide mission."

Lambert sighed on the other end. "I know it feels like that, Quinn, but you have one of the best records of any SEAL I've seen in the past twenty years. You survived more dead end situations than I've seen any other man survive, and single-handedly brought down more terrorist cells than any two squads put together. You have a nose for this stuff and I wouldn't push you to get out there if I didn't think you could handle it."

"What kind of back-up will I have?"

"Nothing official. If you get into a pickle I might be able to have someone help you out. No guarantees."

"Fuck," Parker breathed. "This really is a suicide mission. The money is nice but not if I'm not going to be here to spend it. This is a no-go for me, Lambert. You're going to have to find another lamb to lead to slaughter."

"I need you to reconsider, Quinn. Your country needs you to do this."

Anger swirled through his gut. "Fuck the patriotic bullshit, Greg. I gave everything to this country for thirteen years of my life. I'm not going to give it my death as well. Some other, younger kid looking for glory can do that."

"I need you on this, Quinn," Lambert snapped. "I have other men but they're scattered across the country, doing jobs just like this one. I have an immediate need for coverage, and you are the only man for the job."

Parker shook his head. "I don't understand why you think that. I know for a fact there are other SEALs out there that would love to do this. I'm not the only man for the job."

Greg sighed heavily on the other end of the line. "The prosecuting attorney on the case is Andromeda Pierce."

Shock rolled through Parker and he went still, all of the anger suddenly rolling out of him.

Andromeda.

The years rolled back and he could see her in his mind's eye, long silky dark hair swinging over her shoulder, golden leopard’s eyes glinting with intelligence. The last time he'd seen her she had dumped him, then walked away as if she hadn't a care in the world and hadn't just ripped his heart out.

"That's dirty, Lambert."

"I know, Quinn. I'm sorry. If I could have anyone else do this, I would, but you're it for now. It's surprisingly hard finding retired SEALs of your caliber."

Parker shook his head at the ridiculous compliment. "Send me the information and I'll catch a flight out tonight."

"It's on your front doorstep. I'll be in touch, Quinn."

Parker flew Lambert the bird and the older man chuckled as he hung up.