Good was a relative term, defined by a man’s moral compass—or lack thereof. In Gabe’s experience, money, power, and subjective ideals determined which way the needle pointed more often than things like duty, honor, or a clear sense of right and wrong.
Not that Gabe thought Silas could be so easily bought. The man was, or at least had been, as steadfast and loyal as they came, which was the only reason Gabe was willing to hear what he had to say.
“I don’t miss it.” Gabe had a few more bites of his nachos, then put the plate on the floor for Fred to finish off. “But if you have something you’d like to get off your chest, go right ahead. Confession is good for the soul, or so I hear.”
“My conscience is clear,” Silas told him. “That doesn’t mean I’m not sorry things went down the way they did.”
“And how was that?”
A small smile. “That’s classified, need to know only.”
“Then why are you here, Si?”
Silas’s lips thinned. “Because I think you need to know.”
Chapter Three
Gabriel
“Yeah? Why is that?” Gabe asked when several minutes passed and Silas didn’t expand on the “need to know” comment he’d so casually tossed out there.
Silas looked around the half-full tavern, his eyes sharp and assessing. Gabe did the same. A couple of locals shot darts across the room. Two women, dressed in dark jeans and heeled cowboy boots, played pool with some good ol’ boys. A balding, sad-looking guy at the bar divided his time between pouring out his troubles to the bartender and flirting with the well-endowed server. The other patrons were wrapped up in their own little bubbles, unaware and uninterested in the conversation taking place in the corner.
“Remember Mali?”
Gabe met Silas’s gaze, the name of the location in West Africa hitting a still-raw nerve. Silas knew damn well he remembered Mali. They’d gotten word of an impending high-profile target in the African Sahel region and had been sent in to quell the burgeoning enthusiasm of local Islamic extremists intent on breaking ties with the Algerian al-Qaeda affiliate there.
It had been a FUBAR situation of the highest order. Bad intel, bad sources, bad decisions—a shit show all around. It was supposed to be a simple in and out, but that had been no rag-tag group of power-hungry wannabes they’d gone up against. The extremists had been too well organized. Too well informed. Too fucking well-armed.
That mission had culled his team by half, and no one could explain what had happened or why. When he’d recovered sufficiently from his physical injuries and returned home months later, Gabe had used much of his forced downtime to follow up but was told it wasn’t a priority.
Gabe had strongly disagreed, but after more than a year of banging his head against the bureaucratic wall and getting nothing more than increasingly serious warnings to back off, he’d decided to take the retirement from honorable service they’d waved in front of his face and walked away.
But he’d never forgotten. And he’d never stopped looking for answers. Because for him, there was no honor in walking away.
Everything had pointed to a powerful backer, a major player in the international terrorist supply chain. Namely, a Greek tycoon by the name of Darius Kristikos. Kristikos controlled the lion’s share of international shipping lines, both openly and through a dizzying labyrinth of dummy corporations and personal connections, including ties to some high-profile world leaders.
Gabe soon learned that for all intents and purposes, Kristikos was untouchable. His empire, impenetrable. The family had been quietly gaining strength in the international playpen for more than a century, cementing its place in the top one percent of the top one percent and going to great lengths to keep it that way.
The whole situation stank worse than the dead fish that sometimes washed up on the shore near his place and sat in the sun for a couple days.
Gabe wasn’t a politician, but he was no naïve kid, either. He knew back room deals happened all the time, especially when billions of dollars earmarked for military spending and corrupt, greedy contractors rubbed elbows with powerful lobbyists and greased Washington palms.
As a result of those deals, however, good men had died. His men. He couldn’t—and wouldn’t—accept that. Not then. Not now. Not ever.
“That’s what Homer was working on?”
Silas gave a barely perceptible nod, his eyes as grave as Gabe had ever seen them. “Not officially, but yes. It was an unsanctioned op. Homer got some intel, and instead of waiting for it to go through the proper channels, decided to handle it himself.”
“Fucking suits and their proper channels,” Gabe muttered, thinking of his own experiences. He glared across the table in accusation. His old friend was now part of those proper channels.
Silas’s eyes hardened in offense. “I’m a SEAL first, Saint. Always.”
Gabe exhaled and rubbed a hand over his face. “I know that. I do. Just as I know there’s a reason you’re telling me all this. For Christ’s sake, stop pussyfooting around and just spit it out already.”
“All right. I’m putting together a special joint agency task force and I want you to lead it.”
Gabe laughed out loud, the sound not unlike Fred’s bark. He was certain Silas was pulling his leg. But Silas wasn’t laughing.
“Wait. You’re serious? You want me to work for Homeland? Better check your sources, Si. I made a few enemies over there, and I don’t think I’m allowed within five hundred yards of a DHS office these days.” Whether or not those threats had been real and the official-looking letters he’d received had been actual restraining orders, he didn’t know. He’d tossed them all in the fireplace without reading them.
“Not DHS exactly,” Silas told him, his dark brown eyes glowing with hidden knowledge. “A secret division of it. Bone Frog Command. Retired US Navy SEAL commanders contracted to lead joint agency missions to protect citizens against threats to the homeland.”
“Never heard of it.”
A smile ghosted over Silas’s lips. “Kind of the point.”
“Fair enough. Who leads this team of silver spooks?” Gabe asked, pretty sure he already knew the answer.
“I do,” Silas confirmed. “It’s relatively new, but we’ve already led half a dozen successful missions.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. Why me?”
“Because I know this is personal for you. Because I need someone I can trust.” Silas put particular emphasis on the word. “Someone who can plan, coordinate, and execute a successful mission, even when the odds are stacked against him. There’s no one better equipped for that than a SEAL commander.”
“Retired SEAL Commander,” Gabe corrected.
“So, you’re telling me you don’t have what it takes anymore? That you’ve lost a step?” Silas leaned in closer and lowered his voice even more. “That you don’t want to be the one to grab Kristikos by the short hairs and bring him down?”
Silas, that fucker, knew that was the one thing Gabe wanted above all else and he wasn’t above using it as bait. Deep in his gut, a familiar spark ignited with a sense of excitement, of possibility, but Gabe tamped it down. Yeah, he wanted to be the one to bring Kristikos down, but Silas hadn’t told him anything to make him believe the situation had changed enough to make that possible.
“Someone is playing you, Crash. This mission is doomed to fail. Kristikos has friends in high places, friends who don’t want us opening that Pandora’s box of fuck-all.”
“Two weeks ago, I might have agreed with you.”
Gabe raised an eyebrow in surprise. “What’s changed?”
“Darius’s son, Christos, has gone missing.”
Gabe whistled softly. “Is that a fact?”
Christos Kristikos was the eldest son and heir-apparent of Darius Kristikos. On the surface, Christos controlled the legitimate aspects of Darius’s business, particularly those in North America. Exactly how legit was questionable. The apple rarely fell far from the tree, in Gabe’
s experience.
“It is, and I don’t need to tell you, it has the potential to change the game entirely.”
Gabe didn’t give a rat’s ass about Christos, but if the golden boy, the heir to the Kristikos fortune, had truly gone missing, then that could indeed create a potential window of opportunity that hadn’t been there before.
“Tell me more.”
There was that smirk again. “Sorry, Saint. That’s all I can tell you . . . unless, of course, you decide to take me up on my offer.”
“Bastard.”
Silas pushed his chair back and dropped a few bills on the table. “Sleep on it. I’m leaving first thing in the morning.”
Chapter Four
Virginia
Conversation ceased abruptly the moment Virginia stepped into the kitchen, unintentionally interrupting a private conversation between Maya, the head of the kitchen staff, and Gregory, the estate manager. Gregory immediately straightened and took a step back. Virginia didn’t know why he bothered. Everyone knew he and Maya did more than discuss dinner menus and staff concerns together.
Virginia played along, pretending not to notice the way silence hung awkwardly in the air. “Maya. Gregory. Any news?”
Maya scowled at the interruption and fixed her with a nasty look. Gregory did a better job of hiding his displeasure behind his usual mask of superiority.
“No.”
He and Maya exchanged a look that promised they would continue their discussion later before he turned on his highly polished heel and left. Maya went back to the dish she was preparing, pointedly showing her back to Virginia in the process.
Virginia sighed. Even after ten years, she was still considered an outsider. Her presence was only tolerated because their employer, Christos Kristikos, wanted her around. Unfortunately, no one had seen or heard from him in more than a week, and when Chris wasn’t around, the others were less inclined to keep up their charade of civility.
Virginia didn’t give them the satisfaction of showing she cared one way or the other. Ignoring them—and their superior attitudes—had become second nature. They did their thing, she did hers, and for the most part, they stayed out of each other’s way. As big as the estate was, however, they were bound to cross paths occasionally. She tried to be polite when that happened. Them, not so much.
She went over to the well-stocked fridge and began pulling out ingredients to make a salad, ignoring the feel of Maya’s pointed glare on the back of her head. As a general rule, Virginia tried not to eat anything Maya prepared. The woman had a well-known habit of spitting in the food of people she didn’t like. Seeing to her own meals had the added benefit of pissing Maya off, since the kitchen was clearly Maya’s domain. But hey, a woman had to eat, right?
As for the lack of news, well, Virginia was pretty sure she was being kept out of the inside loop. Unfamiliar faces had been coming and going the last few days, disappearing into Gregory’s office or talking with Sander, the head of estate security.
Virginia had seen them from her office, arriving in glossy black cars and SUVs, representatives from foreign affairs divisions of the US government and the Hellenic Republic. Her interactions with them had been limited to two or three brief interviews, questions about her duties, and her relationship with Chris.
Hers was a rather unique position. She’d had little, if any, direct involvement with Kristikos Industries, of which Chris was the CEO of North American Operations. Despite her official title as his personal assistant, she wasn’t really that involved in his personal life, either.
She was more of a jack of all trades, hovering in the narrow intersection of Chris’s business and private lives. She scheduled appointments, handled some public relations, dealt with tailors and stylists and jewelers.
Unfortunately, none of that was particularly helpful in explaining Chris’s sudden disappearance, and when the authorities realized she didn’t have much to contribute, they quickly lost interest. They concluded, as most people did, that Chris only kept her on his payroll out of a sense of duty and responsibility. That her position as Chris’s personal assistant and the work she did were more about appearance than actual substance.
They wouldn’t be entirely wrong. Chris’s strong sense of duty and responsibility was what had brought her into his employ initially. However, he’d learned quickly that having her around could be useful. Not only was she quite capable, but as a soft-spoken, American woman with a friendly personality, she was also great for his image, especially since he’d chosen to make his home in North Carolina.
Others, like Gregory and Maya and the majority of Chris’s Greek-born staff, didn’t agree. In their minds, her presence was both unnecessary and unwelcome.
It wasn’t for a lack of effort on Virginia’s part. She’d tried. Tried to engage and get to know them. She’d asked about their homeland, their families, their hobbies, and interests in the hopes of finding some common ground upon which to build. She’d made inroads with a few, but not even a decade of living and working among them was enough for some. In their eyes, she did not, and would never, belong.
Virginia finished making her salad, keeping the plate out of spitting distance while she put things back into their proper places. “Have a good night, Maya,” she tossed over her shoulder on her way out. Maya didn’t respond.
Back in the privacy of her suite, Virginia munched on her salad and checked her phone and email for the dozenth time that day. Disappointment settled heavily on her shoulders when she saw there had still been no response to the texts and voicemails she’d left on both his business and his personal accounts.
“Where are you, Chris?” Virginia murmured into the empty space around her. “Why aren’t you answering me?”
Christos Kristikos was a busy, important man. She got that. She also knew that it wasn’t unusual for him to take off suddenly, sometimes for days, even weeks, at a time. On those occasions when she didn’t accompany him, he indulged her by checking in daily, knowing she would worry otherwise.
Those worries weren’t entirely unfounded. While Kristikos Industries ran a legitimate international shipping business, Chris’s father, Darius Kristikos, had suspected ties to international terrorists. Over the years, Darius had made a lot of enemies, enemies who wouldn’t think twice about using Chris to get to him.
She wasn’t shy about reminding Chris of that, either. He always smiled when she fussed at him, assuring her that he was well aware of the risks that went along with having such an infamous father, and that he took appropriate precautions.
Clearly, not enough.
Of course, it was possible that Chris had gone off on his own this time, too, but Virginia didn’t think so. And with each day that passed without word, the likelihood that he’d just walk through the door, chastising her for her unnecessary worry, lessened.
Chapter Five
Virginia
Virginia shut down her laptop and rubbed the spot between her eyes where a dull ache had taken up residence. She’d been scouring for some mention of something, anything, that might give her a clue as to Chris’s whereabouts. Granted, she hadn’t really thought it would be that easy, but she had to do something. This sitting around, this waiting, was nerve-wracking.
The internet was a wealth of information, and not all of it was good.
Nor was it accurate or reliable, she thought irritably.
They’d gotten some things right, though. Chris was extremely wealthy and had a penchant for beautiful women and occasional hedonism. However, since he was also a reclusive, private man, much of that information was based purely on speculation. Occasionally a tiny crumb of truth did make it out there, and it would be swiftly and ruthlessly crushed or expertly spun to his advantage by his public relations team, depending on the content of that crumb.
As expected, no new clues about his current whereabouts had magically appeared. There was no recent mention of him or his father. She’d even sunk low enough to scour the gossip rags that sometimes sensatio
nalized Darius’s alleged exploits. The old man was not only an international terror, he was a notorious womanizer as well. Apparently, there were plenty of women willing to overlook a lot to get close to that much wealth and power. Virginia’s search efforts had been reduced to hoping that some foolish, reckless paparazzi had managed to snap a photo and she’d spot Chris in the background. No such luck, however.
Virginia rose, taking a moment to stretch out the kinks. She’d tried a new Pilates workout earlier and her forty-five-year-old body was feeling the effects. It was still too early for bed, and she was feeling restless, so she opted for a walk in the estate gardens. The early summer night was mild, and some fresh air would help her relax and clear her head.
Things were quiet as she made her way down the stairs and through the hall. The day staff was long gone, and with Chris God knew where, everyone else had probably retired for the night.
The gardens were located on the south side of the estate, accessible from either the east or west wings. Virginia preferred to use the French doors in her office. There was less chance of running into anyone that way.
She frowned when she found her door open, certain she’d locked it when she’d finished earlier. Hadn’t she?
She stepped into her office noiselessly and held her breath. Moonlight streamed in through the French doors and windows, casting a silver glow over the furnishings. She flicked the light switch and looked around, exhaling when everything looked exactly as she’d left it. A brief check assured her that her desk and file cabinets were still locked and secure.
Virginia turned the lights off again and bolted the door from the inside, chastising herself for letting her imagination get the best of her. Even if someone had come into her office and looked around, they wouldn’t find anything more interesting than schedules, appointments, and contact lists.
She stepped outside, taking a moment to slip off her shoes. She strolled silently along the dew-laden path, eyes and ears open, avoiding the motion-activated lights along the way. When she reached the gardens, she inhaled deeply, drawing in the scents of exquisite blooms and damp earth. That, along with the feel of cool stone beneath her bare feet, re-grounded her and helped her put things back into proper perspective. Despite her ever-growing sense of unease, there was no solid evidence that Chris was in danger. There had been no threats, no ransom demands, and nothing to indicate foul play.
SEAL Out of Water (Silver SEALs, #7) Page 2
