Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Snow. On the ground, the trees, the mountains.
Nothing but white with hints of green and gray poking through.
A drastic contrast to the past several years of his life.
The endless shades of brown he’d stared at overseas.
Not that Phoenix hadn’t been around snow before.
He’d grown up in Reno. While most people saw it as an alternate to Las Vegas—assumed it was hot and dry and basically lacking—it was also known as a skier’s haven. So, snow wasn’t anything new.
Except this… It was majestic. Just a massive expanse of fluffy powder that stretched the width of the horizon.
Huge banks lined the roads as more flakes fell lazily from the sky, leaving big wet drops on his windshield.
Covering everything in that soothing white.
And, for one glorious moment, Phoenix actually felt at ease.
Until he hit a patch of ice. Had to remind himself how to handle his truck in the snow. Stay out of the ditches. Not that it was that much different from sand, but the last thing he needed was to crash his damn Chevy on his first assignment.
Cannon had offered to fly him into Pangborn where some guy named Rourke “Bishop” Kincaid would have picked him up—in a freaking helicopter, no less.
But Phoenix had opted to drive. He could have pretended it was to have more control over his movements.
To allow him to grab a burger at a moment’s notice.
To give himself multiple escape options.
But they’d all be a lie. It wasn’t about burgers or strategies. It was about being...him. Being trapped. That Cannon’s associates would discover Phoenix was permanently scarred, only with the kind you couldn’t see. Couldn’t fix with a few beers or uplifting words.
He hadn’t said that to Cannon. Not when Phoenix knew Cannon would have fought back.
Maybe pulled Colt or Rigs off their assignments to tag along.
Instead, Phoenix had pointed out that having his Chevy also made it easier to take his weapons—the argument that had finally convinced Cannon not to book the flight.
Cannon knew the score. That, even having the correct permits and checking his guns as required, taking his sniper rifle along always got Phoenix those looks.
And Cannon didn’t need his newest employee ending up on some kind of watchlist. Having people following Phoenix around.
Paranoid, maybe, but he already had tangos who wanted him dead.
Had the possibility of wet squads being sent his way courtesy of Agent Smyth.
Phoenix didn’t need local or federal law getting caught in the crossfire.
There was also the fact that he hadn’t willingly gotten into an aircraft since the crash.
Sure, he’d been flown stateside, but he’d been unconscious at the time.
Didn’t really remember anything after passing out looking for Anna—Olivia.
After he’d woken to discover the chopper smoking, everyone else still strapped inside… dead.
He’d started searching. Had nearly bled out trying to find her. Luckily, pararescue had shown up. Hauled his broken ass out of there. And, when he’d opened his eyes, again, he’d been in a bed at Walter Reed. Was covered in bandages with tubes connected to multiple machines.
He’d spent nearly a month in that bed before walking out the door. Mandatory medical leave while he finished healing. Though, he suspected his superiors were already worried about his mental state. That, even if his body recovered, his sanity never would. That he was beyond saving.
Getting involved with Smyth hadn’t helped his case any.
Cannon had been right. If Crow hadn’t pulled some strings—gotten him officially assigned to Crow’s JSOG team—Phoenix would have ended up in the brig, instead of spending the past three months on Cannon’s couch.
And Phoenix wasn’t sure he’d even thanked Crow. Thanked anyone.
Which only added fuel to Phoenix’s argument that he wasn’t fit for human interactions. That everyone would have been better off if he’d simply disappeared and how Cannon was risking his company’s reputation by sending Phoenix into the field. With another agency, to boot.
Christ, he never should have agreed. Should have jumped out of Cannon’s truck on the highway and faded into that damn field.
Too late to worry about it, now. Not when he was five minutes away from the café where they were meeting. From having to shake Bishop’s hand, pretend he was anything other than crazy. That this wasn’t the worst possible mistake Cannon had ever made.
The thought played on repeat in Phoenix’s head as he drove the last couple of miles before parking in the lot out front.
He drew a few calming breaths, then opened the door.
Snow crunched beneath his boots as he made his way toward the main entrance, pausing to study a white Tacoma parked across the road.
The truck looked more than familiar, and he couldn’t stop the shiver that wove down his spine.
The voice in his head from whispering that he was about to get ambushed, and he should escape while he still had time.
His damn pride had him continuing forward. Mentally bracing himself for the upcoming assault because if that white Tacoma meant what he thought it did...
Opening the door and seeing Gibson Miller sitting beside a large guy at the corner table—the one affording them the best sight lines of all the exits, while giving them enough room to maneuver before a threat could take them out—raised the warning voice to DEFCON Two.
Had it yelling the word, “retreat”, over and over.
Except, Phoenix had never backed down from a fight in his life.
Probably why his father had targeted him so much.
No fun hitting someone who’d already surrendered.
Who didn’t keep getting back up. And while it had been the single most important trait that had seen Phoenix through Delta Force selection, it had also been the one quirk that had continually gotten him into trouble.
Like now, standing there, wanting to turn and walk back to his truck—actually make that drive to the Mexican border—but instead, doing the opposite.
Steeling his nerves and moving forward. Across the worn linoleum until he reached the table.
Did his best not to glare at Gibson. Maybe take a swing and demand answers.
Answers he was pretty sure Gibson had. That one phone call Cannon had been talking about.
Phoenix didn’t remember too much from his last confrontation with Slader.
The showdown that had nearly killed him, again.
But he remembered standing in the shadows, listening to Crow and Gibson talk about Olivia—Livy, as Gibson called her.
That she was British. Most likely MI6. Which meant, Gibson was MI6, too.
No one had come out and confirmed that to Phoenix, though, he suspected the rest of his buddies knew.
Were in on the secret. Most likely waiting until he’d proven he wasn’t a nuclear bomb slowly counting down until he went critical.
Destroyed everything and everyone around him.
That he was worthy of more than just surface knowledge.
Being on the outside still stung when his Delta Force team had been the only place he’d ever felt at home. As if he fit in. Wasn’t a freak. Where his skills and his damn determination were an asset instead of a liability waiting to get him arrested.
The tightness around Gibson’s eyes as their gazes clashed didn’t ease the tension in the room.
The weight of the air slowly suffocating Phoenix—just like in Cannon’s truck.
Having to reach out and shake Gibson’s hand without clenching it took all Phoenix’s resolve.
That steel-hard determination he’d been thinking about.
Because, damn it, despite what he told his buddies—told himself—he wanted answers.
He wanted to know if he’d been nothing more than a fucked-up mission.
If Olivia was half as broken as he was. If she was slowly going insane, too.
A throat clearing brought Phoenix out of his thoughts.
Had him silently cursing himself when he realized he hadn’t released Gibson’s hand, yet.
Was staring at the man, completely ignoring the man on his right.
The guy Phoenix was supposed to be impressing.
Who he assumed was Rourke Kincaid—the man behind Timberline Tactical Group.
Former-Green Beret, according to Cannon.
And the guy looked as if he could still pass the damn selection tests today.
Tall, muscular, with that same “don’t fuck with me” attitude all Spec Op guys shared, Rourke Kincaid was intimidating, to say the least. Not quite on the same level as Cannon—no overt death vibe rolling off him—but Phoenix sensed the tightly wound restraint just waiting to snap at the first hint of a threat.
Phoenix hadn’t quite mastered the restraint part. Tended to jump in without consideration for the fallout. Another trait that was both a blessing and a curse. Though, based on how grim Gibson looked, having Phoenix there might be more than the mission could handle.
He made a conscious decision to release Gibson, nod as if he’d intended to grip the man’s hand for far too long, then twisted to face the other guy. “Ethan Vale, though, everyone just calls me Phoenix. You must be Rourke Kincaid.”
A smile, then the guy’s huge hand shaking his. “So, you’re the infamous Phoenix. Cannon’s told me a lot about you, kid. And most of the guys call me Bishop.”
Kid? Phoenix was definitely going to have words with Cannon.
A slap to Phoenix’s shoulder, this time. “So, did you really take out multiple targets from over three thousand meters?”
Shooting. A much better topic, and one Phoenix could get behind. Maybe even excel at without anyone figuring out he was batshit crazy.