Chapter 3 #2
Gibson chuckled, still eyeing Phoenix as if he expected him to bolt at any second. “Took Slader out, too. Half dead at the time. The kid’s all grit.”
Belay that. Phoenix was going to kill Cannon. Slowly.
Phoenix attempted a smile. Probably failed, but neither of the men seemed fazed. “The conditions were damn near perfect.”
Bishop grinned. “Right, if perfect is sunset with a drone overhead and no overwatch to have your back. I gotta say, I’ve known a lot of snipers in my time but that… It’s impressive, to say the least. Have a seat. Coffee?”
He nodded, again, slipping into the chair across from Gibson and Bishop.
Silently wishing they’d picked a booth so he could avoid having his back to the entrance.
Keep his neck from prickling every time the bell over the door sounded.
Wondering if the next person walking through was after him.
Part of Smyth’s wet squad. If he’d get innocent people killed if some asshole simply opened fire.
Gibson narrowed his eyes, then shook his head.
“Can’t take the soldier out of the man, yeah?
You can have my seat.” Gibson merely snorted when Phoenix raised a brow.
“Please, you’re practically crawling out of your skin having your back to the door.
You’ll get more comfortable with it once you’ve been out for a while, but I assume it’s still all a bit too fresh. Active duty, that is.”
Great. Less than a minute, and he’d already shown his hand.
Had them reading him. Five more, and they’d clue in to the fact he wasn’t even sure he should be there.
Didn’t stop him from switching seats, though.
Feeling a bit of the tension ease once he had his eyes on the exits. Felt more in control.
Gibson glanced around, leaning forward. “So, the last time I talked to Cannon, you were still confined to his couch. When did you get your discharge papers?”
Phoenix faked another smile. “Yesterday.”
“Bloody hell.” Gibson swiped his hand across his mouth, glancing at Bishop, then back to Phoenix. “Sorry, mate. Always a hard pill to swallow when it’s not your choice. Explains the shell-shocked expression. What did Cannon do? Get you to sign up on the drive home?”
“Pretty much. ‘No’ isn’t really in his vocabulary.”
“Seems to be a recurring theme in your unit.” Another sideways glance, and Phoenix swore Gibson was deciding his next move. And it didn’t take his buddy, Six’s, freaky mind powers to know Gibson wasn’t sure he wanted Phoenix on the team. Or, at least, on this mission.
Phoenix glanced at Bishop, but the man had the same stoic expression.
Not unwelcoming, but not the way Phoenix had envisioned the meeting to start off.
Not after Cannon had painted a verbal picture of how things would go down.
Had assured Phoenix that Bishop would be thrilled to have a man of Phoenix’s caliber in his ranks.
Which meant, Bishop was waiting on Gibson’s reaction. His evaluation.
Phoenix tried to remember if he’d inadvertently insulted the Brit. Maybe pulled a gun on him during that last crazy mission. But other than the confrontation with Crow in the safehouse, Phoenix didn’t recall threatening anyone else. Hadn’t really said much of anything to anyone, since.
Though, to be fair, it had been Gibson’s safehouse, according to Cannon.
And Phoenix had followed the other man..
. Hadn’t offered to help Gib, despite knowing he was injured—was bleeding.
Hell, Phoenix had been injured, too. Had only lasted as long as he had out of sheer willpower.
Even then, he’d surprised himself getting into the loft—being able to remain standing long enough to have it out with Crow—land a punch before he’d tanked and passed out.
Though, Crow hadn’t held a grudge. Had said as much to Phoenix. Cannon, too, so...
Phoenix eased back in the chair, shifting his gaze between the two men. “You weren’t expecting me, were you.”
It hadn’t been a question, and men merely exchanged a look.
Bishop placed his arms on the table, waiting until the waitress left them all some coffee before focusing on him.
“Due to the sensitivity of everything, we didn’t exchange names.
Even with burner cells, nothing is guaranteed secure.
So, Cannon only said he was sending the best marksman he had.
We just didn’t realize you were on the books, yet. We’d assumed he meant Midnight.”
“But... It’s a problem. Me being here.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just…” Bishop shook his head. “Shit, just tell him, Gibson. Best to get all the cards on the table, here, before lives depend on us all working together.”
Phoenix crossed his arms over his chest, nodding at Gibson. “Yeah, mate. Explain it to me. Though, I assume you’re questioning if I can play nice with others. Or maybe you don’t trust me behind a scope unless you’re sitting next to me.”
Gibson stared at him, silent, until he laughed and leaned back in his chair.
“It’s not you I’m worried about, Vale. Not in the way you’re thinking.
And I’d trust you to have my back, even if that’s all you could see of me.
You proved that when you stayed on that building, taking out targets even though you knew Slader would send that drone your way.
But, there’s a…complication we should discuss before we go any further.
One that could bite us all in the arse if we’re not careful.
And nailing Smyth is far too important to risk that. ”
A loud roaring in his head, then Phoenix was in Gibson’s face. One hand fisted around his jacket, the other palming the table. “Smyth? This is about him?”
Gibson didn’t flinch. Didn’t do much other than pat the arm holding him until Phoenix released him—managed to regain a modicum of control. “Thought that might get your attention. And yeah, with any luck, by the time we’re done, we’ll have the bastard in custody.”
Dead. That’s how this would end. With Smyth’s blood soaking through the snow. One big red bullseye cutting through the pristine white. And Phoenix would be the one to take the shot.
Gib chuckled. “I recognize that look. And I can’t blame you. I’d want revenge, too, if I were you. But, we need the bloke alive. Got a few questions to ask him. Not sure that lines up with your way of thinking.”
“I’m accustomed to adapting. So, what’s the problem? You say you trust me. And we both want Smyth’s ass on a silver platter.”
A sigh. And fuck if it didn’t get that warning voice screaming at Phoenix, again.
Only, this time, if felt more like DEFCON one.
Like he’d felt on that rooftop with no other option but to jump.
Gibson pursing his mouth only made it worse.
Confirmed Phoenix’s worst fears that things were about to get ugly. Go completely sideways.
He tried to ask the man what he meant, but his damn throat seized up.
Clamped shut or too dry to get any words out because all he did was sit there, staring at Gibson.
Waiting for the Brit to shred the last of his soul because he knew—fucking knew it involved the one thing he couldn’t face. The one person he couldn’t face.
Gib gave Bishop another look then shifted back in his chair. “If I’d known Cannon was going to send you—that it was remotely a possibility—I wouldn’t have contacted London. Would have kept it all local, but…”
He muttered something under his breath as he raked a hand through his hair. “This goes beyond Crow and the CIA. Beyond Cannon and the Marshal service. Christ, it’s a matter of international security. And, seeing as Blake was the one who unearthed Smyth’s existence, it seemed only fitting—”
“Blake?” A sliver of hope welled in Phoenix’s chest as he looked at Bishop, then back to Gibson, praying this meant he’d been wrong. That he’d jumped to conclusions because his brain couldn’t focus on anything beyond her. “Who’s Blake?”
“I am.”
That voice—the one he still heard in his dreams. That haunted his every waking moment. It flowed over him as boots tapped behind him, a shadow crossing the table. He forced himself to look over his shoulder—hoping it was insanity, his mind playing tricks on him, that it wasn’t her—only to inhale.
Had Gibson throat punched him without him realizing it?
Because that’s how it felt. Unable to breathe as Phoenix stared into those green eyes, her chestnut-colored hair loose around her shoulders.
The way it had been every morning he’d woken with her in his arms. When he’d thought forever was more than just endless fighting.
That he’d finally had a chance at a real life.
Fingers snapping in front of his face had him shifting his gaze.
Looking at Gibson. The man gave him an apologetic smile as he stood, moving enough to allow her to shift in beside him—Gib’s hand on her arm.
She didn’t speak, didn’t look as if she was breathing, either, as time stopped, again.
Nothing registering beyond the shaky echo of Phoenix’s pulse in his head.
Then, it rushed forward, the waitress dropping a plate in the background. What sounded like gunshots popping to life outside. And just like that, Phoenix was on his feet. Hand palmed on his weapon, body primed.
Bishop jumped up, grabbed Phoenix’s arm before he had managed to push past the other men. “Easy, kid. Just a truck backfiring.”
Phoenix frowned, glancing at Bishop before scanning the café.
Searching every face, then looking out the windows.
Waiting until he was certain Bishop had been correct.
That there weren’t armed men about to breech the door.
Took nearly a minute before Phoenix nodded—crossed his arms over his chest. Hid the fact that, for the first time in his life, his hands might be shaking.
Gibson glanced over his shoulder, sighing as he shuffled closer. “As I was saying... Had I known this was a possibility…” He looked between them. “Let’s all sit down. We need to chat.”