“He kept his leg,” Boss said. “And as soon as he’s stable for travel, he’ll be transported back here.”
“That’s good.” Leo nodded, whistling again when they moved to the next bike and he saw the intricate, chrome wheels whose spokes were a series of chains woven around five-point stars. The motorcycle, aptly named Ranger, was Steady’s pride and joy, a nod to his time in the Army. And every time he looked at the glistening green camo paint covering the fenders and gas tank, or the killer front forks truncating in brass .50 caliber bullets, or the chrome battery box that was stamped with the Ranger motto—Rangers Lead the Way—he felt a punch of pride. Then there was the exhaust: three twisting, twining, glistening pipes that put out a roaring rumble that was the audio equivalent of a full-on, body-shaking orgasm.
Not that all the bikes at Black Knights Inc. weren’t hardcore, mind you. They were. But Ranger? Ranger was one badass mofo.
“Shit yeah. We’ll be glad to have him home,” Boss continued, running an agitated hand back through his thick crop of dark hair. “But as of right now, we’re not sure what his combat status will be.”
Ethan “Ozzie” Sykes had months of PT—physical therapy—ahead of him. And even then, it wasn’t a given he’d ever be mission ready again. The kinds of jobs they were required to do for the president and his JCs demanded the utmost in physical fitness. A gimp leg was pretty much a career killer.
Mierda.
And Ozzie knew it, too. The few times Steady had managed to get through to him via satellite phone, he’d heard it in the man’s voice. The despair, the desperation, the…fear.
“Fuckin’-A.” Mad Dog shook his head. “That sucks.” And Steady figured that was putting it in the mildest of terms. “And it always seems to happen to the best of us, doesn’t it?”
This time Steady was the one to answer. “Sí. If by the best of us, you really mean all of us. I don’t know one guy who’s quit because he wanted to. Injury seems to be the way we all go out eventually.” Which was just one of the tough truths about being a million-dollar, government-trained, spec-ops warrior. Once Uncle Sam turned a man into a machine of destruction, it was hard…no, not hard…it was damn near impossible for him to be anything else.
“But not us. Right, LT?” the SEAL nicknamed Romeo said, turning to Leo. “After this last mission in Pakistan, we’re out.”
“The hell you say.” Boss’s big jaw jerked back like Romeo had socked him on the chin.
“It’s true.” Leo grinned, crossing his arms over his chest and nodding. He unhooked his aviator sunglasses from the collar of his gray T-shirt and slid them onto his face with dramatic flair. Then he wiggled his eyebrows until they bounced above the mirrored lenses. “We’re buggin’ out, boys. Kissin’ the Teams good-bye and headin’ down to the Keys to take over my family’s salvage business…and do a little treasure huntin’.”
“Wait, treasure as in pirate treasure?” Dan said, his tone and the smirk on his lips broadcasting just how hilarious he found this idea to be. “Pirate treasure as in argh!” He closed one eye to indicate the thing might be missing and covered with a patch.
“Yuck it up, asshole,” Leo told him. “You won’t be laughin’ when—”
Boss’s cell phone came to life in the front pocket of his jeans. “Excuse me for one sec,” he said after pulling it out and glancing at the screen. Steady could tell by the look on his face that the president was on the horn. Boss’s mouth always pinched in a certain way, his eyebrows nearly touching over the top of his nose when POTUS called.
“Hey”—he jogged after Boss, who’d started toward the metal staircase that led up to the second floor—“tell him he better start answering my frackin’ phone calls!”
Boss frowned back at him, waving him off. But Steady thrust out his chin, sending Boss a look that very succinctly conveyed, I’m not fucking around.
After Abby dropped her bomb, he’d sat there, staring, blinking at her in dumbfounded disbelief for all of about ten seconds. But that’s all it had taken for the door on the jet’s fuselage to burst open and admit a glut of Secret Service agents. The suit-wearing throng had immediately gathered Abby and Agent DePaul up, bustling them off the aircraft before he had the chance to ask Abby what the hell she’d meant by that statement. Because I killed your sister…
Huh? I mean, what the ever-loving huh?
She hadn’t killed Rosa. A terrorist had killed Rosa. End of story.