Chapter 2
Dozer
Hunter's remote briefing room smells like burnt coffee and gun oil, same as always. There are worse smells. Way worse smells. I learned that in the Army.
Spartan Elite's headquarters is newer, bigger, and packed with enough technology to make a Pentagon contractor drool, but I feel more comfortable in this building. From the outside, it looks like an ordinary warehouse. Inside, it doesn't offer much more. That's intentional.
The room hasn't changed much since I started running missions with Spartan Elite. Matte-black walls, two monitors and one long conference table scarred by years of coffee cups, knives, and the occasional piece of equipment somebody dropped harder than necessary.
Hunter likes functional.
So do I.
I don't see much point in decorations or distractions.
Nothing in this room exists unless it serves a purpose.
And whenever we meet here, I know exactly what kind of mission I'm walking into.
Off the books, completely off the books.
The kind of operation that never makes it into Spartan Elite's official records.
The kind where even our own staff won't know where we are, what we're doing, or why.
Those missions are usually the most interesting. They're also usually the hardest… and most dangerous.
There's no backup unless Hunter specifically puts it in place.
No company resources to call on if things go sideways.
No convenient paper trail explaining why we're there.
If we get caught, Spartan Elite doesn't exist. If we fail, nobody is coming to clean up the mess.
I like those odds more than I probably should.
Maybe because there's something brutally honest about them. There’s no room for pretending and no need to write a fictional mission brief designed to make an ugly operation sound respectable. All that is left is the barebones of the mission. Just a job that needs doing and men willing to do it.
I sit in the same chair I always use, my back to the wall, the door in my peripheral vision. Call it habit, or training, or survival… Some things become so ingrained that a man stops thinking about them and he just does them.
I glance at the clock.
Six minutes.
I've been here for six minutes, running the mission through my head. On the surface it seems easy enough. A simple body recovery with zero electronic trail and a secure transport to D.C.
I like simple. Simple keeps people alive. Complicated, gets people hurt. People get hurt when somebody misses a detail, they die when somebody misses two. The fewer the details, the less likely for failure. Doesn’t matter how many details there are, I don't miss any.
That's why Hunter called me in before anyone else. He stands at the head of the table; one hand braced against the surface while he scrolls through satellite images on the monitor. Hunter has a way of briefing a mission that makes you believe he already knows how it will end.
Not because he thinks he's smarter than everyone else, but because he's spent enough years watching good men die to know exactly how quickly a plan can go to hell. I've learned the same lesson.
"You'll have a civilian consultant," Hunter says. That fact I don’t like. I prefer working alone. If I must work with another person, I prefer it to be one of our team, all former special forces. Give me Ghost or Ruby. I can work with them. A stranger? Too many unknown details.
He slides a folder across the table. It stops directly in front of me. I look at the folder, then at him, then back at the folder. That isn't the part I like. I don't open it.
"Define civilian."
"Forensic specialist. Digital and physical."
“We have a digital specialist. Ruby.” I counter.
“Ruby doesn’t perform autopsies; her specialty is technology.
We needed someone with experience with physical evidence.
She has a background in criminal and government forensic investigations.
” Hunter taps the folder once. "She used to do this for DOD.
Got cut in the last round of budget trims. Freelances now. "
He says it flat, like he’s giving me her résumé. Like it's nothing. But, Hunter isn't fooling me. There's something underneath his voice. I know Hunter doesn't say things without reason, and Hunter not saying something is its own kind of information.
"She."
"Yes."
"Female civilian."
"Yes."
I lean back, that changes nothing. Except it changes everything. "What's her name?"
"Kenzi Sullivan."
The name lands somewhere familiar. I search my memory.
Nothing. No known threats, previous operations or reason for concern that comes to mind.
I file the name away; I’ll research it later.
Consultants mean liability. Liability means moving slower.
Slower, on a job like this, means somebody's funeral.
Possibly mine. Possibly hers. Possibly someone else. I don’t do collateral damage. I have a very strict moral code. No civilians die. No children and no women. "I don't babysit."
Hunter's expression doesn't change. "You're not babysitting."
"That's what people say right before I end up babysitting."
"You're escorting a body and protecting an asset."
"Same difference."
"No." His voice sharpens. "Not this time."
I wait for him to say more, knowing Hunter isn’t telling me everything. There’s something missing here and he’ll tell me before I accept the job. Instead of filling in the details, Hunter pushes another photograph across the table.
A dead man in his mid-fifties stares up at me from glossy paper. He’s well dressed with no visible trauma.
"This is the dead man," Hunter says.
"I gathered that."
"His death isn't public; no one knows he’s passed."
That gets my attention. "Why?"
"Because if certain people learn he's dead before the autopsy, they'll know what we have."
I look at the photograph again. "What do we have?"
"We don't know yet."
I glance up. Hunter's eyes are hard.
"We know there's something inside him that could expose an entire criminal network."
"Something." I look at him. I don’t like the unknown. “Inside of him?”
"Evidence."
"What kind?"
"That's what Kenzi is going to determine."
I look at the folder again.
"Then why me?"
"Because I want the body to reach D.C." His gaze doesn't leave mine. "And I want her to reach D.C. with it."
There it is, the unspoken part that matters. The body isn't the only thing Hunter is worried about. The woman is. I don't know her, but it is clear Hunter trusts and cares about her. That's enough to make me take the job seriously.
It's also enough to make me wonder exactly who the hell Kenzi Sullivan is.
"How good is she?"
Hunter doesn't hesitate. "Good, really damn good. The evidence is important. Listen, brother, I want you specifically for this job. You don't spook and you don't need things explained twice."
"Neither do most of the team."
"She's different."
That makes me frown. What am I missing here? "How?"
Hunter closes the folder. "She's brilliant."
"That's not an answer, Ruby is brilliant."
"It is when it comes to Kenzi." He moves toward the monitor and brings up her personnel file. He starts flipping through her photographs, credentials, certifications, education and government clearances. I’m impressed, but this career history doesn't match the woman in the photos.
Hunter glances from the screen to me. "She sees things other people miss."
"That's useful." What isn’t he telling me?
"She also has an unusually high tolerance for the unpleasant."
I look at the photograph on the screen. Kenzi Sullivan.
She has dark hair and bright eyes that are impossibly teal.
Her smile looks like trouble and she’s far from polished.
I would expect more of a professional uptight look from someone with her history.
The picture on the screen at the moment appears to have been taken during some kind of government event.
She's wearing a blazer over a brightly colored graphic T-shirt with fishnet stockings and tall black boots.
Of course she is.
"She'll talk more than you're used to." He warns me.
"I figured."
"You’ll let her."
I look back at Hunter. "You've met me, right?"
"I have."
"Then you know I don't talk much."
"I've noticed."
"Why would I suddenly become conversational?"
"You won't." He smiles faintly. "She will."
I sigh. Hunter's mouth twitches. He's enjoying this. That is irritating.
"I don't need a distraction."
"Neither does she."
There's something in his tone, I catch it. "You're protective of her."
"Yes." There’s no hesitation and his answer tells me more than the file does.
Hunter trusts very few people. He trusts his operators with his life. But family is different. Family is the line he'll cross without thinking. Based on his body language and tone, this girl is family. Not a love interest, that’s Amber.
I glance at the photograph again. "What's the connection?"
Hunter is quiet for half a second. "Her brother was one of mine.
" Was. I don’t miss the word. In our line of work was only means one thing.
The room seems to get smaller. I feel the switch in energy.
I've seen Hunter carry that particular kind of loss before.
Her brother was one of his teammates, which means he was his brother.
A name that still lives somewhere behind the eyes.
"Afghanistan?" Hunter nods. "2011."
I look down at the file. Kenzi Sullivan. I see who she is now, a sister of a fallen operator and a civilian forensic specialist. But more, she’s Hunter's family. That changes the equation.
I know what it means to be the person left behind. People think military families are the ones waiting for deployment to end. They're not. They're the ones learning how to live with the possibility that it might never end.
I've seen the look and I've worn it after too many names were added to memorial walls.
Hunter shuts off the screen. "She doesn't need you to protect her from the mission."
"What does she need then?"
"Someone who understands the mission." I study him.