“Good. Take one of the SUVs. If you find Jamie, call it in. If you see Ryerson sniffing around and you can take him, do it. Zero body count unless necessary. Clear?”
“Clear.”
“Chase. Cody. You’re on the Tak lookalike. Head down to Long Wharf and poke around. Try to figure out what the fuck we’re missing. If you catch wind of anything, call it in before making any contact. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here, so keep your heads down. If it is Tak, he’s not here for any good reason, and the duffel he’s carrying is big enough to conceal a sniper rifle.”
“Adam,” Gray growled from Montana. “You better not be suggesting what I think you are. Tak’s one of us, and he’d never do anything to hurt Chase. Not on purpose.”
“It’s okay, baby. Adam’s right,” Chase said. “The circumstances are suspicious, and whether it’s Tak or not, we need to proceed with caution.”
“I don’t like this,” she replied. “You’re too thin on the ground. Let us come to Boston.” She waved her hand at the other three around the table with her. “We can help with the searches.”
“Absolutely not,” Adam said. “You’re Johnson’s number one target, and there’s no way I’m exposing Eve or Davis to any of this. Too risky. You can help from Montana by finding someone to take the baby and staying safe. Grant, you got this?”
“Yeah.” Grant gave a crisp nod toward the camera, his goateed expression carefully blank. “I got this.”
A hired gun who worked for Adam, Grant Kincaid wasn’t technically JTT, but he’d put his life on the line multiple times for Gray, for Eve, for the team. And despite Jay not being able to find any reliable records on him, they trusted him with their lives. He’d do anything for the people he cared about, and he had the bullet holes and busted ribs to prove it. He was also head over dumb ass in love with Gray.
A fact Chase had been quick to take advantage of. The more people around with a vested interest in keeping his wife alive, the better in his opinion.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” she huffed. “I need something to do.”
“No one said you needed a babysitter, sunshine.” Still recovering from a slug to the chest during Johnson’s last attempt on Gray, Grant had been assigned the unenviable task of keeping her from running after Chase and the rest of the JTT like an adrenaline junkie needing a fix.
“Stop calling me sunshine, dickhead.” Grinning, she looked from Grant in Montana to Chase in Boston. “You can’t keep me locked up here forever, you know that, right?”
He grinned back at her. “Hang tight, baby. I’ll be back soon, and I’ll bring you a snow globe.”
“I hate snow globes,” she said, whacking Grant across the bicep when he snorted. “Go find Tak. I promise I’ll be here when you get back, just don’t make a goddamn career out of it.”
“How about you, Eve? All good?” Adam asked.
“All good,” she replied. “Please be safe.”
“We will.” He nodded and turned his attention to the teenager sitting beside her. “You got your homework started, Davis?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Put on your sidearm and help Grant keep an eye on things until I get back, alright?”
The kid’s spine straightened, and he grew about three inches in three seconds. “Yes, sir.”
“Okay,” Adam said, checking his watch. “Unless something urgent comes up, we’ll reconvene at sixteen hundred Boston time.” And looking around the group assembled in the hangar, he added. “Keep it tight. You’ve got your orders. Let’s figure this shit out so we can get our asses home pronto. No unnecessary risks. Got it?”
A volley of got its echoed back, and Adam nodded sharply—once. “Alright, motherfuckers. Let’s roll.”
* * *
By the timeMason’s band left the stage, Summer’s ears were ringing. She’d heard three of her songs and didn’t love the changes he’d made to the bridge on one and the chorus on another. Didn’t matter. She’d sold him all three, and they didn’t belong to her any longer.
Besides, they weren’t her favorites, just catchy little country tunes meant for a local band in a dive bar. The ultimate goal? To sell her music to the Nashville set. Hear one of her songs on the radio. Break onto Billboard’s Hot 100.
“Big dreams for a little girl,” her mother would say.
Yeah, well. Dreams were free and all she had. So as long as the music filled her, she’d write it down. Slave over the intros, the beats, the lyrics until her sheet paper had more eraser holes than notes.
“You going back?” Red asked, collecting the empty bowl of beef stew he’d plunked down in front of her earlier. It had come from a can, been warmed in a microwave, flavored with enough salt to preserve her insides, and it was the best thing she’d ever tasted.
“Yeah.”
