Chapter 21
Something had been eating at Hoot since he’d opened his eyes that morning, and it had nothing to do with the storm.
The sky outside the Condor’s Overwatch offices was darkening by the minute, clouds piling over Bell Creek like an army preparing to invade.
Rain was expected by afternoon, followed by thunderstorms and heavy winds.
Hoot barely noticed. His thoughts were elsewhere. One word stuck front and center in his mind. Pray. Lark’s question had burrowed into his head and refused to leave.
What if Bullet hadn’t been asking them to pray? What if he’d been trying to tell them something? Hoot had spent eight years accepting that one word as his teammate’s final plea. A dying man’s request for grace or redemption.
But if Lark was right... what had Bullet been trying to warn them about? And why had he been killed immediately after saving his life?
Hoot leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his beard. He should have been thinking about Calloway. The mission. The PSG connection.
Instead, his mind kept wandering to a woman with green-gray eyes and a mouth that had become far too good at distracting him.
He could still feel her beneath his hands.
Still remember the surprise of that first kiss.
The second. The way she’d fit against him as though she’d somehow been designed to occupy the space beneath his arm.
It was ridiculous. Hoot wasn’t boyfriend material. He knew that. His life wasn’t exactly conducive to relationships. His work involved government contracts, dangerous people, classified information, and sometimes things that technically didn’t exist on paper.
Love had never been much of a word in his vocabulary. Not outside his parents. He’d loved them. Still did.
But romantic love? That was something other people had time for.
Then Lark had come crashing into his life. Literally. Several times. And now he was beginning to think of her as his.
The thought stopped him cold. His woman. His girl. He grimaced. There was no way in hell he was admitting that to the team. They already called her his girl every chance they got. He wasn’t giving them ammunition.
But was he falling in love with her? The question unsettled him more than it should have.
Hoot was still wrestling with it when the door flew open and Flint strode in. “Conference room. Now.”
Hoot straightened. Something in his boss’s expression wiped away every thought of Lark. “What happened?”
“Baker found something.” Hoot was on his feet before Flint finished speaking. Within seconds, the team was filing into the conference room.
Flint took his place at the head of the table while Haley brought up the secure connection.
The big screen flickered, and Baker appeared.
No ocean behind him this time. Instead, the screen showed a wall of Hawaiian greenery—palm trees, broad leaves, and enough tropical foliage to make Hoot wonder if Baker ever actually worked indoors.
“Morning, gentlemen.”
There was a groan that could only be described as coming from a female. “Don’t start,” Haley muttered.
Baker grinned. “I haven’t said anything.”
“You were about to.”
“Probably.”
Flint leaned forward, interrupting the banter before it could devolve. “What did you find?”
Baker’s expression sobered. “Calloway.” Hoot’s gut tightened. Baker pulled up a series of documents. “For the last nine years, Grant Calloway has gone completely dark every six months.”
“Define dark,” Flint said.
“No financial activity. No travel records. No communications that can be traced through conventional channels. His corporate accounts stop moving. His known residences sit empty. His electronic footprint basically disappears.”
“Where does he go?”
“That’s the problem. I don't know.” Baker brought up another screen. “But I found something interesting. Every time Calloway disappears, several shell companies connected to international arms brokers become active.”
Hoot leaned forward. “Arms?”
“Small arms. Explosives. Military-grade components. Guidance systems. Communications equipment.” Silence settled over the room. Baker continued. “And here’s where it gets interesting. Some of those same companies have transactions involving stolen or illegally obtained classified technology.”
Flint’s jaw tightened. “How much?”
“Enough.” Baker pulled up another file. “Calloway’s blackouts coincide almost perfectly with the movement of those materials. He disappears. The shipments move. He reappears a few weeks later, and the shell companies go dormant.”
Hoot stared at the screen. “So he’s running weapons.”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“Not just weapons,” Baker added. “Information.” He clicked again. “Someone is trafficking classified data alongside the hardware.”
Hoot felt something cold settle in his gut. “What about PSG?”
Baker’s expression changed. “I was hoping you’d ask.
” The screen filled with corrupted files.
“Remember the data recovered from the vault during the Afghanistan mission?” Hoot’s heart gave one hard thump.
Baker continued. “Most of it was damaged. But I’ve managed to reconstruct portions of it.
” Files appeared. Fragmented images. Symbols.
One of them showed the unmistakable outline of a Roman-style helmet.
Hoot went still. It matched the partial one Lark had found.
“That’s PSG,” Voodoo said quietly.
“Exactly.” Baker enlarged another fragment. “There were references to shipments, payment schedules, extraction points, and something called Project Praetor.”
Flint exchanged a look with Hoot. “So the scientist was working with PSG.”
“And that’s why they took custody of him,” Voodoo concluded.
“That’s my working theory,” Baker said. “The scientist had access to information that could expose the entire operation. PSG needed the data secured before anyone else could get it.”
“Which explains why they were there,” Hoot said.
“Right.”
Hoot’s mind raced backward through the mission. The vault with the servers. Something wasn’t fitting. Then it hit him. “Bullet.” Everyone looked at him. “He was the first one into the vault.”
Flint’s expression hardened. Hoot could see it happening in the others’ faces too.
“If he saw something...” Voodoo whispered.
“Something he wasn’t supposed to see,” Hoot finished.
The room went silent. Bullet hadn’t simply stumbled into the wrong place. He might have discovered something. Something that had gotten him killed. Hoot’s heart began pounding.
And then Lark’s voice echoed in his head. What if “pray” wasn’t a request? He stared at the PSG symbol on the screen. Praetorian. Pray.
His breath caught. “Jesus.”
Flint looked at him. “What?”
“Praetorian.” Hoot pointed at the screen. “Maybe Bullet wasn’t saying pray.”
Voodoo’s eyes widened. “He was trying to say Praetorian.”
“Exactly.” Eight years. Eight years of believing Bullet’s final word had been a plea. And all this time it might have been a name. A warning. A final attempt to tell them who was behind the mission.
Baker cleared his throat. “And there’s more.” Hoot looked at the screen. Baker hesitated. “PSG isn’t just moving weapons overseas.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
Hoot’s blood chilled. “Inside the States?”
“Yes.” Baker brought up a map. “Waterways. Rivers. Coastal routes. Smaller ports. Places where containers can disappear into legitimate commercial traffic.”
The image of the broken crate slammed into Hoot’s mind. The island. The disturbed ground. The symbol burned into the wood.
He sat forward. “The crate.” Everyone looked at him. “Lark found a piece of a crate on the island.”
Flint’s expression changed. “The island in Bell Creek?”
“Yes.”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Voodoo asked.
“They could be using it as a waystation,” Flint replied.
Baker nodded slowly. “Possible.”
Hoot’s phone vibrated. He’d silenced it when they’d entered the conference room, as always. Another vibration. Then another.
Haley looked up from her laptop and spat out a tangle of curses. “Jester’s here.”
Hoot frowned. “What?”
“He just sent me a message.” She read it. “He’s telling you to check your phone.”
Hoot pulled it from his pocket. His stomach dropped. Three missed calls. All from Marilyn.
Jeeves was looking at his own phone. “Cammie’s called me twice.”
Hoot’s thumb hit Marilyn’s number. She answered almost immediately. “Cormac?” The panic in her voice made his chest tighten.
“What happened?”
“It’s Lark.”
Every muscle in his body locked. “What about her?”
“She went to the island this morning.”
Hoot stood. “Why?”
“She said she wanted to finish working on the bell before the storm.” Hoot glanced toward the windows. Rain had begun hammering the glass. “She’s not back.”
His blood ran cold. “How long?”
“She should have been home hours ago.”
“Did you call her?”
“Of course I did. Nothing.”
Hoot’s mind immediately went to the river. A kaleidoscope of thoughts rushed through his head. None of them good. The storm. The crate. The break-in. PSG. Lark.
Marilyn continued. “I thought maybe the boat got loose again. I wondered if you could—”
“I’m going.” He hung up. Flint was already standing. He didn’t need to say anything. Their eyes met. Flint gave one sharp nod. Hoot was moving before the gesture was complete. He ran for the door. Behind him, Voodoo shouted something. He didn’t hear it.
The uneasy feeling that had been sitting in his gut all morning had suddenly become something much worse. Dread. Cold and absolute.
Lark was on that island. A storm was bearing down on Bell Creek. And if the men who’d broken into her store had anything to do with the crate, the symbol, or PSG...
She wasn’t simply stranded. She was in danger. Hoot hit the door at a run. And for the first time in his life, he prayed Bullet had been wrong.