Seal of Honor(5)
Gabe stalked toward him.
“This place is a terrorist attack waiting to happen,” Quinn muttered and lifted his glass in a salute to the room.
Yeah, it was, and securing the damn mansion had been a nightmare, but that was beside the point. “Seriously, Q, you’re a rank bastard for siccing Raffi on me.”
His lips twitched. “Did it work?”
Gabe thought about the glittering crowd he’d been forced to schmooze with all afternoon and held back a wince. Did he really want the rest of his life to consist of politics and state dinners? Because if he lived in D.C. fulltime, the Admiral would guilt-trip him into attending. More importantly, did he really want to live under his father’s thumb again? Oh no. Make that, oh hell no.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “It worked.”
“Good.”
“But answer me something first. Why don’t you want to command this private team by yourself?”
“You know me.” He took a long swallow of champagne. “Would rather take orders than issue them.”
“Since when?”
“Since always. You have command in your blood. Me, I’m just one of the rank and file.”
“Quinn—”
“Incoming.” Quinn eyed the Admiral, who had spotted them and was making a beeline for their position. For some reason, the Admiral had never liked Quinn, pictured him as a bad influence even though he was the most squared-away guy Gabe knew.
“Better get back to the party before Admiral Stick-up-the-Ass blows a gasket,” Quinn said. “Meet me outside in twenty. If you’re serious, there’s someone here I want you to meet. Oh, and you can remember to thank me for saving your sorry ass from a desk job anytime now.”
He wasn’t joking.
Gabe snorted in response. “You really are a bastard.” He waited until Quinn lifted his glass to his lips before adding, “But Raffi thinks you’re hot.”
As he walked away, he had the great pleasure of watching the unflappable Achilles choke on his champagne.
…
Gabe slipped outside twenty minutes later, found Quinn and another tuxedo-clad man on the terrace overlooking the garden. Well, if it wasn’t Tucker Quentin. A businessman with sights on a senate seat, Gabe recognized Tucker from other political shindigs around Washington, but had never spoken to him before.
“Ah, the man of the hour. Lieutenant Commander Bristow,” Tucker said as Gabe hobbled toward them. His foot hurt like hell, but he’d left his damn cane inside somewhere.
“Gabe,” he corrected. “I’m not in the Navy anymore.”
“Don’t give me that load.” Tucker flashed a smile worthy of his Hollywood roots. “We get out, but we never leave. I’ve been gone from the Rangers for ten years, but my men still call me L.T.” He held out a hand. “Tuc Quentin.”
Gabe ignored it. “I know. So you’re the guy that put the idea of a private hostage rescue team in Quinn’s head.”
“No,” Quinn said. “I heard Tuc was thinking of putting one together and approached him about funding us.”
Tuc nodded. “On paper, you’ll be employees of Quentin Enterprises, specifically HumInt Consulting, Inc., but save for a quarterly expense report and the occasional contract I’ll throw your way, I plan to have nothing more to do with your team. If you come to me for advice, of course I’ll be glad to give it, but otherwise it’s yours to run as you see fit.”
“Why?” Gabe asked.
“I already have several teams working for HumInt, plus a multi-billion dollar empire to run.” His lips twisted. “I think I’m quite busy enough.”
“No, I mean why are you doing this? People don’t hand out free money and expect nothing in return.” Especially not savvy businessmen, but Gabe couldn’t figure out Tucker Quentin’s angle.
Tuc leaned his forearms on the balustrade and studied the garden in the courtyard. “That garden’s amazing.”
“What are you getting out of this?” Gabe repeated.
“Quinn’s right. You’re tenacious as hell. Perfect for this job.”
Yeah, right. Gabe bit back the automatic response. If that were true, if he was perfect for any command position, the Navy wouldn’t have tossed him and his bum foot to the curb. He shifted his weight, suddenly very aware of the pain.
“Why?” Gabe asked again. Meaning, why me? But he’d be damned before putting a voice to that insecurity.
Tuc twirled the stem of his champagne glass between his fingers. “The brother of one of my men was taken hostage recently and we were unprepared to handle it. I don’t want that happening again. I’m a big believer in being prepared, and you have an admirable reputation in the spec ops community. I only ask that if I contract you for a job, it’s given top priority. You of all people must understand how important my men are to me. They’re family.”