Chapter 8
“When will you be flying out?”
“What?” The single word sounded more like a growl than Gabe had intended. He cleared his throat, tried to calm the whiskey demons that pounded the interior of his cranium and tried again. “Who is this?”
“Eddy Edwards.”
He sat abruptly, making the room swim a dizzying circuit around him. Planting his right hand on the bed to stop its crazy rotations, he carefully squelched the frenetic hope that soared through him like a hunting eagle. He didn’t want to sound too eager. “Is this Jenny with a y?”
“Are you hung over?”
“Aren’t you?”
There was a moment of silence before she spoke again, voice as sober as a monk’s. “I will require more information before I can make an informed decision regarding your proposal.”
He stood jerkily. Outside, it was fully light. But that was hardly the most surprising part of the morning; he was naked except for one sock. That sock was pink. It was a thinker. “They are dickheads,” he said.
“What?”
His mind was careening wildly. “I assume the fact that you called means the agency accepted your resignation.”
“It’s 0700 hours. I doubt they’ve had an opportunity to consider it.”
And he doubted they would for another forty odd hours. Guilt, or something like it, diffused his system, but guilt was a luxury he could ill afford. “What do you want to know?”
“How many operatives will be on this mission?”
“Operatives?” He glanced around the hotel room, searching for God knew what. Maybe the other pink sock? “You really are a spook aren’t you?”
“Mr. Durrand, how many—”
“Me,” he said and, closing his eyes, abandoned his search. “It’s me.”
The phone went silent to the count of five, long enough for him to wonder if she had hung up. “Are you suggesting that you are planning a rescue mission into the jungles of one of the most notorious drug countries in the world with no backup?”
“No,” he said, “I’m going to have a linguist with me.”
She paused a second. “Mr. Durrand…”
“Lieutenant.”
“Lieutenant Durrand, I do not think you are fully prepared for this mission.”
He refrained from laughing out loud. “That’s possible,” he said, tone admirably dry.
“In which case, it would not be prudent to involve myself in what could only laughingly be called a—”
“I didn’t realize it was your goal in life to be prudent,” he said and didn’t entirely try to keep the contempt from his voice.
He could almost feel her irritation through the phone. “Neither can I, in good conscience, allow you to do something so idiotic.”
He did laugh now though he managed to resist asking how she planned to stop him.
“I think it would be much wiser to notify our operatives already in South America about Mr. Shepherd’s circumstances.”
He drew a deep, steadying breath. “I think you know me better than that, Jenny with a y.”
“I don’t know you at all.”
“Are you trying to say you didn’t check up on me?”
There was a pause. “I’m not a complete idiot, Mr. Durrand.”
He didn’t comment. “Then unless your intel is completely worthless, you realize I’m going in whether it’s prudent or not.”
She sighed. The sound was long and slow. He waited in silence. It would have been nice to believe that he wasn’t holding his breath.
“Why?” she asked finally.
“Why what?”
He thought he heard her grind her teeth in frustration. It was not an altogether unfamiliar sound. “This could very well be a suicide mission. Why are you going in?”
He thought about the last time he had seen Shep. The bastard’s smile had been as cocky as ever. It was the bleak despondency in his eyes that had been new. “He owes me money,” he said finally.
“Really?” Her tone was dubious at best. “How much?”
“Ten bucks. We made a bet.”
“About what?”
“Whether or not he was going to get his ass kicked in Colombia.”
“So, you’re going to spend thousands of dollars and possibly forfeit your life so you can extract him from an ass-kicking and collect your ten bucks.”
“The Army takes its bets very seriously.”
“What do I get out of it?”
He felt his heart rate speed up, but squelched the hope that sailed through him. Hope was for dreamers like Linus Shepherd, who, despite everything life had taught them to the contrary, expected to find the good in people. “I’ll split the bet with you.”
“Anything else?”
“An all-expensive-paid jungle tour.”
“Your generosity is astounding. But I don’t think—”
“Plus a good review,” he added and let the words lie silently between them. He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. If he had an ounce of morals, he’d hang up immediately and make damn sure she didn’t go. Hell, if he had a soul, that’s what he’d do. But he’d left his soul somewhere near Tehran.
“Like I care what you think about me,” she said finally.
He snorted. Pushing the motel’s cheap curtain toward the scarred window trim, he glanced outside. He had a dynamite view of the parking lot just a few yards away. A quiet zephyr tossed a plastic bag against a weary Honda’s right front tire. “Let’s cut the crap, shall we, Edwards? We both know why you joined the agency.”
“Do we? Maybe you should enlighten me.”
“It’s to one-up your old man,” he said and let the curtain drop back into place.
He thought she would argue. In fact, he was sure of it, but she drew a soft breath. “All right, let’s say your hypothesis is correct. What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m a decorated Ranger, Edwards. A favorable review from me is as good as pinning a silver star on your chest.”
“Sleeping with the right people are you?”
He snorted and glanced to his right. The room looked like a cluster bomb had been detonated under the bed. “Listen, honey, a Ranger doesn’t have to sleep with anyone.” And rarely did, if he was the norm. “We’re gods in the military world.” Lonely ass gods with missing pink socks.
“What’s the pay?” she asked.
It took him a moment to shift gears. A little longer to forgive her insult to the Army. And how fucked up was that? “Five thousand upon return to the states,” he said.
“And if we don’t get Shepherd out?”
He stifled a wince. “Either way.”
She was silent for an eternity. “All right. I’m in,” she said.
For one long moment, he forgot how to breathe. But he forced his lungs to expand, convinced his lips to speak. “Don’t you want that in writing?”
“I think I can take your word on it.”
Or she wanted to outdo her father so much she really didn’t care about the money. Jesus, what had her old man done to her? “Can I take yours?”
“If I say I’ll do it, I’ll do it.”
“And?” His chest felt tight.
A knock on the door surprised him. He scowled and pushed the curtain aside again.
Eddy Edwards stood on the opposite side of the window, eyes steady as a drill sergeant’s on his. “I’ll do it,” she said.