Chapter 48
FORTY-EIGHT
He’d left orders for Three to wake him up, but it was his phone that did the service instead, buzzing and blurring in his pocket so hard Bronson thought there was a tiny animal coming after his family jewels.
He jolted out of dreaming, overworked heart thundering, and for a sleep-fogged second he was back at Shah-i-Kot again, dust in his hair and the stench of gunfire, blood, offal, more dust kicked up by explosives. ..
Goddammit. She was supposed to wake me up. The phone glowed, spectral in the dimness—a buzz from Control, probably asking for updates.
Well, the old man could wait. Bronson was the boots on the ground, and Control had to expect he sometimes didn’t have time for little chats.
The worn leather couch he’d been napping on creaked as he hauled himself up.
What I wouldn’t give for a nip of bourbon right now.
Washing his face with cold water, swiping his graying hair back, not looking in the mirror any more than he could help it.
The bloodshot eyes, the indifferent skin—once he’d been handsome, but not anymore.
Bronson shambled back to the desk, pressed the call button to summon Three and yawned as he rubbed at his eyes again.
A few minutes later, irritated, he shrugged into his suit jacket, slid the phone into his breast pocket, and strode for the soundproofed door. He unlocked with a muttered curse and threw it open, intending to bellow for Three.
Instead, he was greeted with the sight of Noah Caldwell, grinning like a maniac and just lifting his hand to knock.
The major was in fatigues, and he positively reeked of cold, fresh air, and gasoline.
His baby blues sparkled, and behind him stood Three, a high blush in her cheeks from the cold, shouldering a rifle Bronson most definitely hadn’t cleared.
“What the hell is this?” Bronson snapped.
“We got ’em!” Caldwell all but clapped his hands like a three-year-old. “I had Three here calculate routes and vectors. We locked on and spooked them, then drove ’em into nets. We’ve got them all—Six, and Eight, and the woman. She’s a damn Gemina. Control will be—”
“You took Three off the rez.” You little prick. “Do you know what Control’s going to do to you when he finds out?”
Caldwell shrugged. His grin faded, but the smugness didn’t. “Control wanted all assets in place to be turned toward solving the problem. And it’s better than you were doing. Sir.”
For a moment Bronson wasn’t sure he’d heard the man right. Maybe it was sleepfog, maybe it was Bronson’s phone buzzing again in his pocket—this time it didn’t feel like a tiny animal, it felt like a set of razor claws digging into the top left of his chest.
Maybe it was Three, behind Caldwell, studying Bronson as if he was some kind of rare bug.
She was in a parka with a fur-lined hood and fatigue pants instead of a skirt and blazer; they looked good on her, covering up the skinniness.
The bags under her eyes were gone; Caldwell had probably ordered her to eat and change clothes.
Caldwell had probably made sure she had clothes to change into. The major was muscling in. Control was already looking to cut deadweight, and the big man would be a fool if he hadn’t given the little boy a set of orders concerning his immediate superior.
This doesn’t look good. Especially not for Ma Bronson boy’s Ritchie. “You took a valuable asset off without—” he began.
The major actually shrugged. At him. At Rich Bronson, who had been here from the beginning. “Three, why don’t you rack that and get cleaned up? There’s fresh kit prepared for you. We’ll debrief over breakfast.”
The woman didn’t even look at Bronson. She simply said, “Yes, sir,” in her usual colorless tone, turned on her heel—even the boots were new—and glided away.
Oh, no, you don’t, you pipsqueak. “So, you’re the big man now? You’re thinking you can—”
“Shut up, Dick.” He even said it kindly. “You were making a huge mess of things—I’m going to report as much to Control. Time for you to go out to pasture, old man.”
Sonofa... Rich Bronson stepped forward, his fist flashing out.
He was old and fat, true, but he’d been a boxer long ago, and he still moved with some lumbering grace.
There was a satisfying crunch—the major’s profile was never going to be Grecian again, and that was just fine.
Caldwell’s head snapped back. A gusher, bright blood pattering down; he’d definitely broken the little snot’s nose.
“Now you listen to me,” Bronson snarled, shaking his hand free of echoes. “I’m still in charge here, until Control arrives. I don’t take orders from you, and God help me, after I finish talking to Control you’ll be busted down to scrubbing toilets in Leavenworth. Get out of my sight.”
He shouldered past the major, stalking for the conn rooms. Time to do some real damage control, but first, he was going to tie up a few loose ends.
Maybe Caldwell would be one of them.
Had Bronson turned around, he might have seen the major staring at him, hate sparkling-bright in those already-puffing blue eyes, blood dripping on his uniform from a broken nose and a wide, unsettling smile on his thin lips.