Chapter 2
The orange traffic cone sails over the blacktop like it’s been fired from a cannon, toppling end over end through the air. It hits the cracked pavement and bounces twice before rolling another ten feet and wobbling to a stop against a rusted chain-link fence bordering the abandoned lot.
Damon slowly lowers his sunglasses and cocks a brow as he stares at Jagger. “Pretty sure you killed it.”
Jagger’s hands remain at ten and two on the steering wheel, his gaze not moving from beyond the windshield as he navigates the maze of cones less than gracefully. “Killed what?”
“The cone.” Damon gestures toward the crumpled orange corpse lying in the dirt. “You murdered it.”
“It committed suicide.”
Damon turns in the passenger seat, the leather creaking beneath him. “The cone was standing still, Jag. It was literally stationary.”
“Fine.” Jagger sighs, cranking over the steering wheel. “But if it had been some guy shooting at our asses, you’d be thanking me right now.”
The air conditioning blasts against my arms, crossed over my chest, as I stare out the window over the empty acres of baking asphalt covered in elaborate patterns of traffic cones.
Aegis leased this abandoned mall parking lot years ago, converting it into a training ground where we could safely practice evasive driving maneuvers.
Training clearly far too advanced for Jagger.
He clips another cone, and it thunks through the wheel well before kicking out behind the SUV. “That one shooting at us, too, Jag?”
After rather abruptly bringing the vehicle to a stop, Jagger turns in his seat, a cocky-ass grin practically splitting his face in two. “I’d like to see you do better, old man.”
Holding his gaze, I let out an exasperated sigh of relief. “Gladly.” I open the rear door and step out into the furnace, the late summer heat unbearable in all this tactical gear.
Jagger holds the driver’s door wide for me. “You need help getting in, Dad? I wouldn’t want you to throw out your hip.”
“One more old man joke,” I grumble, my voice carrying across the stillness of the lot, “and I’m driving over your foot.”
Shaking my head, I climb behind the wheel, settle into the leather seat, and adjust the rearview mirror. As though he’s unable to stop himself, Jagger teases, “Ready to embarrass yourself?”
Meeting his gaze in the mirror, I shift the SUV into drive.
“Watch and learn.” I stomp on the accelerator, and the engine roars to life, a visceral sound that vibrates through the leather beneath me and into my chest. We surge forward, the sudden force pinning me against the seat as we rapidly approach the first section of the course, a slalom designed to force precise steering corrections at high speeds.
When I crank the wheel abruptly to the left, the tires bite against the asphalt as the weight of the vehicle shifts. Then, back to the right, the suspension tightening.
Left.
Right.
Left.
The SUV flows between the cones like water winding through a stream. Years of training and muscle memory take over, my hands moving before the thoughts have a chance to intervene.
I don’t need to glance into the rearview mirror to know that the ever-present arrogant smirk on Jagger’s face is slowly fading.
At the end of the slalom, I accelerate harder.
The speedometer climbs as the cones pass around us in a blur of orange.
When we reach a simulated roadblock, I snap the wheel to the right, then left, at the last possible second.
The SUV shifts beneath us, the weight transferring in a controlled slide, and its tires screaming against the asphalt.
The suspension absorbs the violence of the movement, and we thread the needle between obstacles that should be impossible to miss at this speed.
“Not bad,” Damon praises from the passenger seat, his knuckles nearly blanched around the door handle.
Instead of responding, I brake and downshift, the transmission growling its non-compliance as I spin the wheel hard.
Dust kicks up behind us in a copper-tinted cloud, and I reverse into the designated lane with mere inches to spare.
My gaze flits between the mirrors as we push triple-digit speeds.
At the end of the course, I let off the accelerator for a moment before slamming on the brakes, the SUV sitting perfectly within the painted parking zone barely larger than the vehicle.
“Damn.” Damon lightly chuckles. I put the vehicle in park and climb out into the heat to stretch my back.
They both follow me, their boots crunching against the loose gravel that had accumulated at the edges of the asphalt.
When I get my first look at Jagger, he appears offended, his handsome face twisted into a mask of theatrical betrayal. And it’s damned satisfying.
“I was hoping old age had finally caught up to you. That you’d have developed some kind of tremor. Arthritis, maybe. Early dementia.” Jagger shakes his head dramatically, running his fingers through his hair.
I meet his gaze, letting the corner of my lips twitch. “Apparently not.”
Jagger glances at the course, then back at me, that arrogant grin curving into place. “I guess we don’t need to take Dad’s keys away yet.”
Damon joins in Jagger’s jovial jesting, and I flip them both off, a gesture that carries years of friendship in its casual vulgarity.
While I am the eldest, I’m not quite sure how forty-six made me the designated old man of the group.
According to Jagger, being this close to fifty means I should be shopping for recliners and worrying about my fiber intake.
To be fair, my lower back does occasionally complain, a souvenir from a protection detail in Istanbul six years ago that had ended with me taking a flying tackle down concrete stairs. A truth I will never admit to him.
As the three of us walk toward the equipment trailer, I spot a petite figure sitting on the steps. My mood plummets immediately. Jagger follows my gaze, and he groans, “Uh-oh…”
Abby pushes off the steps and tucks her tablet beneath one arm.
Unlike the rest of us, she is dressed in professional business attire, tailored slacks that fit her perfectly, coordinating with the sleeveless black blouse tucked into them.
Her long brown hair is pulled back into a sleek knot that exposes the elegant line of her neck.
She looks every bit her part, managing administrative operations for the entire company.
While we joke that she bosses us around, she actually controls the schedules, logistics, travel arrangements, budgets, and the prevention of us accidentally burning the entire organization to the ground through negligence or stupidity.
It also means that when she appears unexpectedly in the field, somebody’s day is about to take a sharp turn toward paperwork or an international flight.
She walks over to us, her heels clicking against the asphalt with a purposeful rhythm.
The movement is efficient, determined, and somehow manages to convey threat despite the fact she is unarmed and wearing pumps.
“Good afternoon, boys. Smooth driving, Gunnar. I caught the last thirty seconds or so from the fence line.”
“Thanks.”
Jagger immediately points at me, his voice rising to a whine. “Teacher’s pet.”
“I literally said one word.”
She lifts her tablet, the screen catching the sunlight, and all three of us groan in unison; a harmony of dread.
“No.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Not interested.”
She chuckles, “I haven’t said anything yet.”
“We know that tablet.” Damon sighs, his voice heavy with resignation. “It never brings good news. That tablet is basically a harbinger of doom.”
Abby sighs dramatically, the sound carrying the weight of someone who spends her days herding dangerous men through bureaucratic necessities. “You three are exhausting.”
“We’re efficient,” Jagger corrects.
“That’s not the word I’d use.” She taps the screen, her fingers moving with practiced precision. “Hawk needs all three of you back at headquarters.”
“When?” Damon asks, his voice dropping into a more professional register.
“In a little over an hour.”
Jagger frowns, the lines etching between his brows. “What for?”
“An unscheduled meeting with a Fortune 500 company. They have significant international operations,” Abby continues, her voice taking on the cadence of someone reciting briefing notes.
“Executive travel concerns. Facility security issues. They’ve had incidents overseas recently and are looking to establish a full security partnership. ”
Jagger lets out an exaggerated sigh that seems to deflate his entire frame. “I was enjoying my day, Abbs.”
“You wanted a do-over,” I correct. “One where you don’t murder cones.”
“Allegedly.” Jagger places a hand over his heart, his expression wounded. “I’ll carry that burden every day. The guilt. The trauma.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Abby snorts, finding us far more entertaining than she lets on. “One more thing…”
“What?” I ask.
“Hawk specifically requested that all attending personnel arrive looking professional.”
The three of us stare at her. Then, as though on cue, we look down at ourselves.
Cargo pants stained with dust and sweat, scuffed tactical boots, and moisture-wicking shirts that cling to our skin beneath ballistic vests. Jagger looks back up, his gaze flitting between Abby’s tailored clothes and our soiled ones. “We are professional-looking.”
Abby laughs, the sound genuine yet slightly condescending. “That’s adorable.”
“We are,” he insists.
“You currently look like you’re preparing to invade a small country.” She gestures at our appearance with her tablet. “You look like a mercenary recruitment poster. You need to be in suits and ties, not cargo and Kevlar.”
Damon sighs. “I fucking hate ties.” Same, Damon. Same.
Abby nods sympathetically, though her eyes are bright with amusement. “I know.”
“They’re pointless.”
“I know.”
“They’re uncomfortable.”
“I know.” She sighs heavily. “You still have to wear one.”
His shoulders slump, the gesture of a man accepting his fate. Accepting all our fates. Jagger shakes his head, horrified, as if she’d suggested we attend naked. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes,” Abby volleys back and forth with him.
“No.”
“Jagger.”
He points accusingly at her, his finger trembling with theatrical emotion. “You’re enjoying this. This is your Christmas morning, watching us suffer.”
“I really am,” she admits with a Cheshire-cat grin, not bothering to deny it.
“I thought this company respected me. I thought we had a relationship built on mutual trust.”
Abby laughs boldly. “Nobody has ever said that about you, Jag.”
“We should leave now,” I insist, my voice cutting through the banter, “or we’re never going to have time to shower first.”
Abby smiles in approval. “See? Gunnar understands.”
“Of course he does.” Jagger rolls his eyes. “He’s forty-six. He probably gets excited about ironing. He probably has a favorite tie.”
“I don’t own an iron.” Much less a favorite tie.
“You absolutely own an iron.”
“I don’t.”
Damon looks between us, shaking his head slowly. “You both realize this is a weird fucking argument, right?”
Abby shakes her head, and for a moment, she simply watches the three of us with weary patience. “Sometimes it baffles me that you handle international crises for a living.”
“Thank you,” Jagger preens slightly.
“Because whenever I spend five minutes around you all together,” she continues, her voice dry as sand, “I wonder who is tying your boots in the morning.”
“That’s hurtful,” Jagger feigns. “Workplace harassment.”
Damon nods solemnly, unable to hide his smirk. “Hostile work environment. We should file a complaint.”
Abby turns on her heel and walks toward her car. “One hour.”
“We heard you.”
“Suits.”
“We heard you.”
“Ties.”
Jagger groans, the sound carrying genuine pain. “We heard you.”
“And if I see tactical boots with a suit, just remember, I know where you all live.”