Emerging freshly bandaged from his own exam, Gooney looked a little more human, if in need of a few weeks’ sleep. “Hey.”
Grant lifted his chin. “Hey, yourself. How you feeling?”
“Could be worse.” He flashed a grin. “You’re just sorry you didn’t get a chance to kiss me.” His gaze flicked toward the windows, toward the women outside.
“Don’t tell me you were faking unconsciousness just to get a break from the firefight. Besides, last night you were asking for it.”
“Well, a lot can change overnight.” His eyes lit and he straightened a little, perking up at whatever he saw outside.
“Speaking of — D.A. booked us out tomorrow morning, but we got the best hotel in Guatemala City for tonight. Sound good?”
Gooney shot him a look. “Seriously, man, you don’t have to take care of me.”
“Yeah, right. Cause you’re an ace at taking care of yourself.”
“You’re still not the boss of me.”
“Not for lack of trying.”
The doors slid open and Pam strolled in, her expression soft and almost gentle, her eyes fixed on her ex. Like his on her. “Lexi’s catching up with her friends. But she … had a lot to say about you, about how I’ve hurt you. Maybe you and I should talk?”
Must be Grant’s cue to head back to the waiting room, maybe get an update on Malcolm’s condition, but he hung back as his erstwhile client walked by. Gooney trailed after Pam, her hips swaying more than usual as she led him to a windowed nook off of the hallway to the waiting room. “The things you’ve done the past few days, for her — if you meant to impress me,” she said, “You really nailed it.” Her voice lingered on the word, adding an unmistakable underscore.
Grant slowed his own pace, his skin tingling as if he’d found evidence of a trap.
Gooney snorted. “Wasn’t planning on it, impressing you, I mean — I just did what I had to do to get Lexi back.”
“That’s part of what impressed me.”
Through the windows that met at the corner, Grant saw her step up toward Gooney, placing her wrists at his shoulders, her hands draping casually as if she could draw him closer, or push him away at any moment. “But if I’m going to let you back into my life, you’ll need more than that. I mean, I’m not surprised you haven’t found anyone else to take you in — or maybe you’ve just been waiting for me?”
She was beautiful, bold, rich, the mother of his children. He was a messed-up former soldier with his self-esteem in the basement and only the armor of his attitude to defend it.
“Waiting for me to come to my senses,” she murmured.
He couldn’t see Gooney’s face from this angle, but his hand reached toward her waist, and hesitated. “It’s not like I’ve been lonely since we split.”
“I don’t suppose you would be, but still. You never found anyone else like me. And honestly, I’ve never found anyone quite like you. The question is,” she stroked her fingers around his ear. “How can I be sure you’ve really matured, that you can control yourself and channel your emotions more productively?” She was practically purring. “How can I be sure you deserve to have me back?”
His head lowered, her hand resting there at his cheek, still not committed, and her voice set Grant’s teeth on edge. Leave it alone. Let Gooney handle it — he couldn’t be so far gone, he’d actually fall for this. Like she hadn’t cut him off at the knees and severed his connection to the children he loved — Gooney claimed he’d been lucky to get her, that he didn’t deserve her. Damn straight. Maybe Gooney could handle it, and maybe he couldn’t, and maybe Grant was through letting his friends be abused.
Grant picked up the pace and walked around the corner. “Hey, Pam. Gooney. Sorry to interrupt. Couldn’t help but overhear.” Both of them glared in spite of his disarming tone. “I have to say — and I’m saying this as a friend — I agree one hundred percent that he doesn’t deserve you.”
Gooney jerked back from her and swung about. “What the Hell, Casey? This is not your fucking circus, and I am not your monkey!”
Her lips curled, her glance flitting from one of them to the other.
“That’s right, Gooney. You’re not. You’re my friend.”
The red fury that edged out the hurt in Gooney’s face ebbed and his eyes searched Grant’s. “You want some intel on how to be a friend, Chief? This ain’t it.”
Grant stepped nearer, found himself pausing at parade rest, keeping his focus on his friend. “You don’t deserve her,” he said, clear and low. “You deserve so much better. And I think you know what that looks like.”
“Excuse me?” Pamela inserted herself between them. “What are you trying to say?”
“You’re praising him now for the exact traits you divorced him for. You provoked a PTSD episode in a courtroom, to blackmail him into giving up his own children, and from then until now, you treated him like shit. He’s a grown-up, ma’am, he’ll do what he wants, but I’ve saved his ass a dozen times and he’s done the same for me: no way I let you take another shot at him without trying to stop it.”
The next line, Grant enunciated as if she might need to read his lips. “He deserves better.”
Her face froze, that hint of condescension writ plain.
“Gooney.” Grant turned his attention, his friend looking no less stunned than the ex. “I’m planning to pick up a coffee and head back to the waiting room. You’re welcome to join me. Any time.” With a tip of his head, Grant turned on his heel and left.
Not his circus, not his monkey. Would Gooney go back to being her monkey, breaking himself to please her? Grant should’ve stayed clear of the whole thing. Consenting adults, and all of that. So long as Gooney knew what he was consenting to, and thought about what he was leaving behind.
He filled a cup from the station by the front desk, hesitated, and filled another. If Gooney was a no-show, probably the nurse would take it. He took the long way back to the waiting area, pausing when he saw a tall shadow already inside.
Gooney opened the door and stepped back to let him in. His eyebrows rose at the second cup, but he accepted it, staring into the dark pool as Grant took a first sip of his own.
“Seems like you were pretty confident you’d get to me.”
Grant shook his head. “Hopeful, not confident.” He found the tension knotting between his shoulders, and eased his back. “If she’s what you want, I’m not planning to ride your ass about it.” Gooney’s presence felt subdued, on the verge of collapse. Not hard to understand, given everything he’d been through.
“You’re not wrong about her, what she’s like.” Gooney lifted the cup. The liquid shivered a little as he did so, translating some tension in the holder’s grip. Grant picked the wrong time to press him, the wrong way to be a friend to somebody he’d always sworn he hated. Should’ve kept his mouth shut and let Gooney drop right back in to his comfortable Hell if that’s what he wanted. Instead, Grant landed yet another blow. In his defense, he didn’t have much practice at friendship.
Gooney met Grant’s eye, then he set down his cup. “Borrow your phone?” His had never returned from a watery grave.
Palming the phone, Grant unlocked the security screen and handed it over.
Gooney started to enter a number, then picked an autofill. Interesting. Shouldn’t be interested. Not his monkey.
Grant took another swallow, looking for anything to savor about the overbrewed sludge.
Gooney held the phone to his ear for a moment, then, “J-li, it’s me. Sorry about the timing.” His free hand tucked under his arm, shoulders hunched, one sleeve hanging loose over the bandage. “You got a minute?”
Gooney’s face softened as he listened. “Yeah, me, too. How’s the term going? Off to a good start?”
Give the man some privacy. Grant signaled his intention to step back into the hall, but Gooney freed his hand to hold up his finger, and motioned Grant to stay. “Another appeal? You think they’re ever going to trial, or what?” A hint
of anger, something to do with the Sons of a New America case back in Arizona, Grant guessed. Then, “I’ll let him know. We just finished something pretty big ourselves.”
Grant raised his eyebrows, and Gooney flashed his grin. Pretty big, indeed. “Tell you all about it when I have more time. The reason I’m calling is …” he straightened, holding Grant’s eye. “I’ve got a job offer on the table.” His hand raised a question, Grant answered with a nod. Any time, he said, and this last adventure only proved it. Broken or whole, Gooney was an asset he wanted on his team. Latest addition to Casey’s Home for Wayward Killers?
“I’m pretty sick of getting my ass chewed by the brass. This new gig, there’ll be a lot of travel, a pretty irregular schedule, prob’ly an elevated risk factor — have to work with some asshats, but at least they’re ones I already know — what?” He chuckled. “Got it in one.”
No surprise that she guessed what he was talking about. Jamie Li Rizzo knew how Grant felt about Gooney’s recruitment. He was hoping she felt the same way about drawing him in to a more permanent position in her own life. Maybe that’s why Gooney wanted him to witness the call, to confirm that at least one of those openings was available.
Gooney swallowed. “The thing is … I don’t have to be tied to Boston. I could pick my own home base, anyplace there’s a major airport.” Again, the gestured question, again Grant’s affirmative, a silent negotiation. His voice went a little hoarse, the strain returning. “I don’t want to be that guy, but … I can ask if Tucson would qualify. If you want. I don’t want to crowd you, and I know maybe I’m not welcome down there.” Listening, his whole body strained, the hand that held the phone gripping a little too tightly.
He tossed back his head in sudden release. He rocked on his heels, his lips parted with a gasp of joy, casting one, wild look at Grant, then his hand went to his forehead, hiding his eyes. “Jesus, J-li, I was hoping you’d say that.” Listening again, his breathing fast and his grin spreading. “I mean, if you don’t think Buster would get jealous, but I don’t know how soon —”
Grant briefly gripped his shoulder and caught the flash of his eyes, uncertain yet unclouded by anything but joy. “Any time,” he mouthed.
For a moment, Gooney clasped his hand over Grant’s, then let him go, and Grant left him there, planning a future that, not so long ago, neither of them believed he would have.
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More by this author
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Have You Read The Other Bone Guard Adventures?
They used to be part of an elite group known only as the Unit — until the brass decided to ignore their intel, and they followed Lieutenant Grant Casey into a firestorm to save a museum, and the people trapped inside. The aftermath leaves Grant and his wingman in the hospital, and the whole team on the outs with the military. But Grant fuses his interest in history with his specialized training, and the Bone Guard is born.
The Bone Guard — where adventure and history ignite!
The Mongol’s Coffin
An ancient song sparks a deadly race to Genghis Khan’s tomb
When Liz Kirschner discovers a musical map to Genghis Khan’s tomb, her scholarly life explodes into arson and gunfire. Grant Casey brings in his team for a race to the tomb — to prevent Chinese authorities from burying it forever. This novel speeds from Cambridge, Massachusetts to Cambridge, England in search of clues — then flies to Inner Mongolia, bringing together a Mongolian singer, Grant’s ex-commanding officer and a Hong Kong billionaire with a secret past. Mongolian traditions clash with modern priorities in a high-stakes adventure to save one of the world’s greatest lost treasures.
The Nazi Skull
When there’s a break-in at the tribal center on the reservation where he grew up, Grant flies home to Arizona only to find himself confronting white supremacists, Nazi eugenics and the tribal elder who refuses to speak his name: his own grandfather.
His family’s sacred cache is broken into and an immigrant beaten nearly to death, an ancient bone in his stomach. The search leads Grant to a rogue border militia hunting for the stolen remains of Peking Man. With Grant’s life and family on the line, he fights to stay ahead of the shooters as they investigate a Nazi POW camp and uncover a trail that’s been cold since the prisoner escape in 1944. Contentious cousins, local heat, and a sunken submarine build up the pressure until the desert night erupts in violence.
Grant must follow the clues from a map of the stars to a graveyard for B-29’s. Grant’s family secrets won’t stay buried in his quest to find the truth and stop the murderous rampage of a neo-Nazi betrayed by the person he trusted the most.
The Assassin’s Throne
The Bone Guard runs afoul of modern knights, ancient Assassins and the self-proclaimed King of Jerusalem, hell-bent on reclaiming his throne.
In the palace of the Byzantine Emperor stood a technological wonder fusing mystic symbols and ancient technologies: the awe-inspiring Throne of Solomon, challenging the unworthy with automated figures made of gold. In 1204, the Fourth Crusade pillaged Constantinople and cast the throne into darkness, the stuff of legend … until now.
When a wealthy roboticist hires the Bone Guard for her charity photo shoot, it’s the perfect chance for some R’n’R. Stand around looking tough, transfer an ancient manuscript, retire to the client’s mansion for a night of luxury — what could possibly go wrong? Then Grant’s stand-in gets shot, their objective stolen and the archive catches fire. So much for Nick’s mantra of “details, not ops.”
Instead of kicking back with champagne, Grant and his wingman plunge straight into danger, chasing a killer, a thief, and an old adversary they know as the Phantom. Their client is lying, their objective is missing, and their reputation is on the line — along with their lives — as they hunt for clues in Turkish baths and ruined churches from Istanbul to the Dead Cities of Syria. Modern wars spark ancient rivalries, leaving Grant caught between the man who would be king, and the mystery shrouding his throne. The Templars are after Grant’s head, and the next target is the woman who ignited his heart. The Bone Guard is on the job and the legend’s about to get real.
Rogue Adventures, Volume 1 Excerpt
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And coming in 2021! A new adventure series from E. Chris Ambrose: Rogue Adventures. Read on for a teaser of this exciting new work …
Nigel Rowe reclined on a poolside chaise, sipping a cocktail, interviewing body guards, and contemplating how they would kill him. Not the bodyguards, but the cartel, the gang, the thoroughly rotten ex, or whomever it was who tried to kill him the last time. He imagined it would come by bullet at a long distance, no time to see it and react, no chance of lining up the wrong man, no chance of his producer getting shot in the back as Nigel tried frantically to get the man to bloody move, would you!
Poison would be another good choice. Spooky action at a distance, as it were. He gave his tropical drink the side-eye, except he’d prepared this one himself. He rather hoped the assassin could be more clever than that. In fact, if they asked him, which they hadn’t and wouldn’t, he’d like them to choose something exotic and striking — like hiding an eyelash viper in his bedsheets — that would be striking, indeed, or perhaps causing an “accident” with an ancient artifact. He’d even settle for some cultural weapon or device, the sort of thing that would be displayed on that American program with the blacksmiths as an iconic weapon from history. Something he could stare at while it protruded from his chest and think, “Ah! That’s a museum piece. Pity about the blood,” as he expired.
At least there’d be good press. Excellent ratings boost, dying in a way appropriate to one’s life. Just ask S
teve Irwin and his opportune stingray.
Pray God it wouldn’t happen for a long, long time. Perhaps this next bodyguard candidate would be the one to prevent it, though she hardly looked the part. Clearly tall and vigorous, with a queue of long, dark hair, sunglasses, and an ambiguous skin tone. Plain t-shirt and pants that cut off mid-calf. The better to display the said calves? Perhaps. She carried a colorful shoulder-bag slung across her chest, more like a tourist than a bodyguard.
The prior candidate had weighed double this woman, and what he lacked in length of neck, he made up for in breadth of shoulder. He’d stuck out a big hand to engulf Nigel’s, and said, “Mr. Rowe, I’m your biggest fan.” Nigel didn’t doubt it.
He set aside his drink and picked up the tablet, scrolling to the resume of the next candidate. Schooling: US Naval Academy at Annapolis, subsequent service in Iraq and Afghanistan, a decorated veteran. Well. She was certainly a decorative one. Nigel rose, as his own breeding and training suggested one should.
He put out his hand. “Ms. Alexander? Nigel Rowe.”
Stopping in front of him, she slipped off her sunglasses and tucked the arm of the frame through her collar, sweeping the villa and grounds with a glare like a dark laser flecked with gold. “What am I doing here?” She spread her hands, palms up.
He took back his hand and slipped it into the pocket of his swim trunks, thumb on the outside, tapping. “Presuming you are, indeed, Devi Alexander, then I further presume you’ve come about the posting — unless your application was only in jest.” He tried a smile that had often achieved good results in the past. “I find myself in need of a defender, the Lancelot to my Arthur —”
The Maya Bust Page 28
