Seal of Honor(3)
Shit.
He collapsed face-first on the seat and turned his head to the side, staring through hazy eyes at the mini fridge across the car. He reached out a hand. Maybe there was something in there… Something he could use to break out the window… Something…
“Tranquilo,” Jacinto said, his voice warped by the mask, but still as friendly as ever. Like he was talking about a fútbol game. Or the traffic. Or the weather. “Let it happen, Señor Van Amee. Go to sleep now. I won’t hurt you. You’re worth too much money.”
DOMINICAL, COSTA RICA
Audrey watched her computer screen in horror as her brother’s face went slack and his eyelids fluttered closed. The phone slipped out of his hand and sent her on a jarring ride to the floor of a limo. Or what she assumed to be a limo. She leaned closer to the screen, saw a curved ceiling, part of a black seat, and the toe of Bryson’s Italian loafer.
“Brys?”
Scrambling. A thump. The picture wobbled and she caught disjoined glimpses of his face, a mini-fridge, the seat, his face again.
“Aw-ree, eh nee…elp”
Her heart thundered blood through her ears and she barely heard his mumbled whisper. She leaned closer. “What? What’s wrong?”
His face slipped away and the picture tumbled into another jerky freefall. White shirt sleeve. Gold watch. White shirt sleeve. He must be crawling across the seat, still hanging onto the phone. And then—
Audrey leapt to her feet, her coffee splashing out of its mug, her chair crashing backward. Vaguely, she registered it knocking into her easel across the kitchen, heard the half-finished painting she’d been working on last night crash to the floor. But she didn’t give a damn. Her whole world centered on the computer screen, where a tinted partition slid down and a man in a gas mask told her brother that he was worth too much money.
The screen blanked.
No. Audrey shook her head in denial and turned around in a slow circle. Her kitchen, with its eclectic mix of art and cooking supplies, looked exactly the same as it had when she woke up an hour ago. The coffee pot hissed as the last of the new pot brewed. Her dolphin-shaped cookie jar, which chirped like the dolphins that hung out by her dock when opened, grinned at her from the countertop. Sheet-wrapped paintings waited propped against the wall for their upcoming trip to San José.
All the same. And yet, she must have just stepped into a Twilight Zone episode.
She refocused on the computer screen. Skype had ended the call and now rested on her homepage with her list of contacts. Bryson’s name sat at the top of the list.
She straightened her chair, sat down, and tried to call him. The ringtone buzzed. And buzzed. And buzzed.
No answer. Would she like to retry the call?
She blinked back the tears burning her eyes and jabbed yes.
Chapter Two
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Gabe Bristow never thought he’d live to see his own retirement party. Never thought he’d have a retirement party if he did live that long, but this black tie soiree was so typical of his mother. If Catherine Bristow couldn’t find an excuse to entertain, she made one up. Wedding? Throw a party. Funeral? Throw a party. Global disaster? Throw a party in the bomb shelter. Personal disaster? Throw a party and invite the who’s who of D.C. politics.
This forced medical retirement definitely qualified as a personal disaster in Gabe’s book, so of course, every Tom, Dick, and Jane on Capitol Hill were arriving downstairs in their best monkey suits and gowns.
Standing in front of a mirror in his boyhood bedroom, Gabe straightened his cuffs and then just stared at his reflection. Man, he always figured the next time he wore all of his medals, he’d be in a casket wrapped in an American flag. He’d have preferred it that way. This whole retirement thing felt wrong on so many different levels.
“Oooh, bro, lookin’ good. I do love a man in uniform.”
Gabe lifted his gaze to see Rafael, his youngest brother, propped in the doorway, wearing a hot pink vest over a black shirt, black trousers with a pink satin stripe down the outer seams, and a pink and white striped tie. He carried a black wool jacket over his shoulder and wore a pair of dark shades against the afternoon sunshine. One bright pink highlight streaked his dark hair over his left eye.
Their parents would have a conniption when they saw Raffi today. God love him.
“You’re trying to give the Admiral a heart attack, aren’t you?”
Raffi waggled his brows. “That’s the idea. Why else do you think I act so fabulous when he’s around?” He stepped into the room and performed a quick turn, topped off with a fanciful flourish of his arms. “Like?”
“No, it looks ridiculous. And you’re not doing yourself any favors by perpetuating this”—Gabe waved a hand to indicate the pink monstrosity of a tux—“stereotype whenever you come home.”