Seal of Honor(57)

Quinn sat at the table while the guys raged around him. He studied maps of the city and outlying areas that highlighted known EPC strongholds, but what he really wanted to do was bang his head against the table until he passed out. Because that would probably be more productive since, according to Cocodrilo, the EPC knew exactly squat about Bryson Van Amee’s abduction. They had nothing to do with any of it, and if Jacinto Rivera was involved, it was without his brother’s or the EPC’s blessing.

So who the hell took Bryson Van Amee? And who attacked Cocodrilo’s camp and presumably took Gabe and Audrey? He imagined it was the same person or organization that got into that shootout with the EPC on the jungle highway, but the license plate numbers Jean-Luc had taken down after finding Gabe’s Jeep shot to hell had come back stolen.

Back to square one.

Quinn pushed aside the maps and sat back in thought. They still needed to find Jacinto Rivera, their only solid lead to Bryson. And that warehouse still needed to go boom at some point, or else he wouldn’t be able to sleep soundly at night knowing he left a bomb-making factory in the hands of the baddies.

Mostly, the team needed to pull the fuck together or nothing would get done.

How would Gabe do it? Quinn had no clue. Gabe just had a natural aura of authority that made people follow him without question. Quinn didn’t have that, but he did know one surefire way to whip the guys into line. He may not be a great leader, but he was one helluva drill instructor.

Quinn stood up fast, letting his chair clatter to the floor. “Ten-hut!”

It would have been amusing to watch the former soldiers in the group snap to automatic attention if he wasn’t so pissed. Once a soldier, always a soldier.

Marcus, the fucking fed, just crossed his arms and scowled. “You military dudes really say that?”

“Yeah. Really. And if you guys have enough energy to bitch at each other like a bunch of nagging housewives, you have enough for some PT training. On the deck. Now!”

To Quinn’s complete surprise, the first to drop was Ian. The rest followed in grumbling succession—Marcus with a roll of the eyes—until only Jesse was standing and Harvard still sat at his computer.

Jesse said, “This is bullshit.”

“On the deck.”

“Screw you.”

“You’re not my type. Drop, Warrick.”

Jesse leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Make. Me.”

In a quick succession of moves, Quinn snapped Jesse’s Stetson off his head, slugged him in the solar plexus, the gut, and the side, bending him double, then elbowed him between the shoulder blades. Jesse went down to his hands and knees, gagging. Another blow to his lower back sent him sprawling on his face.

“Jesus Christ,” someone whispered in awe.

Quinn straightened, tossed the Stetson in front of Jesse, and looked around at the men lying flat on their bellies like an angler’s catch of the day. “Don’t fuck with me, guys. Since this isn’t the military, I don’t have to play nice anymore, and I’m done with you assholes jerking me around. From now on, listen to me and do what I say without question or you’ll all get to know the deck as personally as Warrick just did. Got it?”

A round of muttered yeses.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.” It came in succinct unison this time.

“All right. One-hundred push-ups. Now. You stop, you falter, you start over. Go!” Quinn pinned Harvard, who was still at his computer, with a hard look. “You, too.”

Swallowing hard, Harvard dropped out of his chair like a rock.

Satisfied, Quinn righted his own chair and sat down, planted his feet on the table, and snagged Harvard’s laptop. He wasn’t as good at research as their resident genius, but he had sources that needed checking. He began a search for Jacinto Rivera’s current whereabouts while the guys called out each push-up in resounding unison.

One. Two. Three.

Like ticking off seconds on the clock.

Jesus.

…

A knock on the bedroom’s door jolted Gabe out of a dead sleep. He launched from the bed and reached for his firearm, only to realize he was buck ass naked. Evening spilled vibrant colors into the room and tortured his pounding skull as the sun sank over the peaceful slice of ocean outside the windows. He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut.

The knock sounded again, impatiently this time, and Audrey sat up with a gasp, her hair a wild cloud around her pale face. “What’s that?”

Gabe scrubbed his face with both hands, trying to rub away the fog of sleepy disorientation, and found his jeans on the floor. “It’s okay. Probably a butler with the proper attire Mena mentioned.”

Sore and stiff from the beating he took that morning, followed by the fantastic way he’d spent the afternoon, he stuffed his legs into the jeans and crossed the room while buttoning the fly. He glanced back at Audrey to see her wiping her eyes like a drowsy child—but she sure as hell didn’t look childlike with her small breasts bare, pale peach nipples perky in the air-conditioned coolness of the room.