4. Galahad
Galahad
Sawdust assaulted my senses. The office was an under-construction mess of exposed studs, half-installed drywall, and scattered tools, wrapped in a historic red-brick exterior and large front windows.
The plywood floor was coated with dust from the remodel, which clung to my boots.
I stepped over an overturned bucket and kicked a stray screwdriver out of the way.
“Watch your step,” I called over my shoulder, more instinct than genuine concern for Tristan. “The place is a damn obstacle course.”
“Sorry, princess. I thought you could handle a construction zone.” Tristan’s voice carried the hint of amusement that usually made me want to deck him. “Getting soft in civilian life?”
“I can’t believe you brought me here.” The in-progress office had a month or two of work before it would be ready for clients, let alone staff. “Nothing says ‘work for us instead of the largest military contractor in the country’ like a missing wall.”
“Missing wall?” Tristan barked out a laugh.
“Better than some of the places we worked out of before. At least here, the walls will eventually be finished. No rats. All it needs is a little manual labor and some business licenses. And functional plumbing. Once that’s done, it’ll be downright luxurious. ”
I grunted. He wasn’t wrong. No gunfire here, either. “Why the construction, though? Why not set up shop somewhere you could just move in?”
“Arthur liked the old building, but wants to do everything from the ground up, including the office.”
Arthur came from significant money, which had been a sore point as long as I’d known him.
Not only had his father owned the defense contractor we all worked for in Afghanistan, but there’d been serious nepotism involved.
When I’d first met the man, I’d assumed he was a silver-spoon asshole who hadn’t earned the right to lick my boots.
Turned out he was one of the best leaders I’d ever served under.
He’d spent far more time than he should have trying to prove he deserved what he had, which was why it surprised me that he’d take his father’s money to start this company. Although it did explain the ground-up theory.
“So…” Tristan’s tone shifted to his sing-song way that told me the harassment hadn’t actually started. “Emergency contact, huh?”
I should have driven straight through to DC without a pause. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m definitely starting.” He clapped me on the shoulder, like the fool he was. “That was some next-level smooth operator shit back there.”
I swatted his hand away, my fist clenching as I did. “I said fuck off.”
“From where I was standing,” he continued, “it looked a lot like a man taking a very proactive approach to keeping tabs on a certain green-eyed coffee shop owner.”
“You done?”
“I’ve barely started. I mean, you practically teleported across her café when?—”
“I don’t like bigger men intimidating women.”
That shut him up.
Unfortunately, it also triggered a memory of broad shoulders.
Of whiskey on a man’s breath.
Balled fists. Raised high.
I flexed my fingers and rolled my neck. “Her smile wasn’t about to make him leave.”
Tristan grabbed the screwdriver from the floor and placed it on the only real piece of furniture their company owned so far—a long table covered in blueprints and tools. His easy grin faded. “I get it.”
He didn’t. Not all of it.
We all had our skeletons. Maybe he’d figured mine out, but I didn’t talk about it when I was sober, and I didn’t drink, so I’d never spilled the details.
The door creaked open, and Arthur strolled in, tossing a clipboard onto the table.
He moved with the same authority he’d carried in the field, except now he wore it with designer jeans instead of tactical gear.
He gave me a curt nod, then said to Tristan, “The painters were supposed to wrap up today.”
Tristan, clearly relieved for the interruption, tapped on the blueprints. “Because you changed the layout after the framers were done and made them rip out a wall.”
“Someone has to ensure this place is built properly.” Arthur smirked without bothering to glance at what Tristan highlighted. His gaze flicked around the space, taking in the state of disarray. “The boardroom needed to be bigger, if we’re going to impress people.”
“Details.” Tristan waved a dismissive hand. “Our actions will be what impresses them.”
“Speaking of which…” Arthur’s lips twitched. “Did Tris talk to you about what we’re doing here?”
“Close personal security,” I said, twirling a finger in the air at the spiel. “Executive protection, protecting people, not objects.”
“Both,” Arthur corrected. “We’ve protected both before, and we’ll do it again. But this time, I’m the bureaucratic bullshit.”
“Music to my ears.” Tristan turned from the blueprints. “No more armchair generals. No more middle-of-the-night orders from Pentagon desk jockeys.”
While we were on the Teams, orders had come from on high, but we’d had some latitude on the how, if not the when or where. When we’d been contractors for the Agency—via Pendragon Security—someone else had still run the show. “No more Merlin calling the shots?”
Arthur and Tristan glanced at each other.
Fuck. “He’s in, isn’t he?”
“It’s not his company, but yes.”
“Who else?”
“Lance is in, obviously.” Arthur began counting them off. “Gawain’s hemming and hawing, but he’ll come around.”
That wasn’t like him. Gawain normally jumped in before anyone said it was time to go.
“Merlin’s wrapping up a contract, but yes, he’ll be here. And Morganna...” Arthur shrugged. “She’s buried in OSINT at White Spring, but Merlin thinks he can convince her to leave them.”
“You’re getting the band back together?” I rubbed a hand over my jaw. “Percival?”
Another glance between the men.
“Said he’s not ready to leave Pendragon.” Tristan leaned a hip against the table and folded his arms. “We’ve put out feelers to most of the guys who worked on the task force with us.”
That should have been a vote in their favor.
But I was already tied too deeply to these men.
No one at White Spring would try setting me up with a local café owner.
After I was there long enough, if a co-worker thought it was time to influence my social life, I’d find another job.
The company was large enough I could bounce between teams or departments.
But here? With at least six people I’d slept on dirt floors with? With two who’d patched me up after taking a bullet? When people got inside your heart, you ended up paying for it, one way or another. I’d paid enough and wouldn’t risk it again.
The town wasn’t small in the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it way, but once this company grew, everyone would know them. And that’s where the risk lived. “Why Brenton, Michigan? Why aren’t you closer to a major center? New York? LA? Hell, DC?”
Tristan gestured for Arthur to explain. “Lansing has an airport where we can keep the jet?—”
“The jet?”
Arthur nodded. “My father’s providing some seed money. And resources.”
Tristan’s irritating grin reappeared. “I think Uther?—”
“Don’t call him that.”
“Not in front of him, you mean.” Tristan winked. “I think he wants to keep a handy off-the-books team ready if the Pentagon says no to one of his projects.”
“We’re not beholden to him,” said Arthur, without his regular conviction.
“Until he cuts our power.”
“As I was saying,” Arthur continued, “Brenton is also under four hours from O’Hare and under two from Detroit Metro. Close to the Canadian border, and”—his lips tightened, as though holding back a smirk—“close to Tristan’s mom.”
“You’re jealous,” said Tristan.
“Momma’s boy,” taunted Arthur.
My stomach clenched, as it always did when they traded mom stories.
Arthur’s mother was a complicated woman, but Tristan’s mother?
Rhonda had sent him packages whenever we were somewhere long enough for him to receive them.
Not with treats or snacks everyone could pillage, but with photographs of artwork from her gallery, or little sculptures and puzzles he gave to local kids.
Time to change the subject. “Back to this job offer. What are you calling this place?”
Arthur exhaled in the specific way he did to express his dissatisfaction. “We’re working on the marketing angles.”
“Lance is pitching corporate-sounding names.” Tristan grinned. “Platinum. Sovereign. Something that screams, ‘We charge ridiculous rates.’”
I snorted. “Something that screams, ‘Totally not mercenaries, why do you ask?’”
“We’re not mercenaries.” Arthur countered, but his eyes crinkled at the corners.
“Leave that to your father?” Fuck, I was falling into old patterns and swapping jabs now. Barely half a day in a small town, and I was losing it.
Arthur frowned at me, but didn’t swipe back.
“My vote?” Tristan straightened and pointed directly at Arthur. “Round Table Security.”
Arthur groaned immediately. “Christ, not this again.”
“The knight thing?” I shook my head. “You two might have been born with those stupid names, but I’d like to go by Garrett occasionally.”
“Hey, we didn’t pick the names,” Tristan defended. “That was all?—”
“Fucking Merlin,” Arthur finished, with the exasperation of someone who had fought and lost this argument too many times.
We were originally assembled for Task Force Legacy, a CIA-backed operation designed to protect and secure ancient artifacts in the late 2010s.
Northern Afghanistan was a trove of hidden wealth.
Nearly thirty thousand archaeological sites had been identified, full of treasures from the Greco-Bactrian Empire, remnants of Silk Road trade, and hoards of ancient coins stamped with the faces of long-forgotten kings.
Gold and artifacts meant money. Money meant weapons. And weapons meant more dead bodies.
As trivial as the job had seemed during our initial briefing, we’d kept a lot of people alive.
But then the CIA sent us John.
When he heard he had a Tristan, an Arthur, and a Lance on what he liked to call his team, he declared himself the wizard in charge, and we were unofficially on Task Force Grail. He dubbed himself Merlin, of course, and the rest of the call signs followed.
We were his knights in shining fucking armor.
I checked my watch. It was almost four o’clock.
Tristan did the same. “The Velvet Bean closes soon.”
I considered growling at him, rather than swearing again, since it hadn’t produced the results I’d wanted.
Grace was fine. The Russian was rude, but not a threat. I’d probably overreacted earlier, but there’d been something about him… and something about her.
“Lance and I are grabbing drinks before dinner,” Arthur said, bringing me back. “You in, Galahad?”
One more reason not to work with these guys. They knew which buttons to press and exactly how hard. I turned an intentional glower on him. “Jackass.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Arthur pulled out his phone and began typing. “I’ll send you the address. You coming, Tris?”
“I’d love to, but Izzy’s had a pot of sauce in the slow cooker all day, and there are meatballs this big”—he held up a clenched fist—“calling my name.”
“The way to a man’s heart, as they say.” Arthur stuffed his phone back into his pocket.
To Tristan, he said, “Check in with the contractor in the morning, would you? I need a revised timeline. I’m heading to Monaco with Merlin in two days, and I don’t want to be worrying about progress while I’m gone. ”
“Will do.”
“And you.” Arthur looked at me. “Send me whatever White Spring is offering you. We’ll discuss how our unnamed security company can beat everything they’ve put on the table.”
“Round Table Security,” said Tristan, as he headed for the door. “I’m telling you. It’s got a ring to it.”
“Suffer-ring,” I muttered, which just made him laugh. Son of a bitch.