and Nate had gotten a call from his father. She’d passed suddenly and unexpectedly of an aneurysm. Nate never had a chance to say good-bye.
“You thinking of giving Emily a little brother or sister?”
Nate nodded. “Megan applied to law school. If she gets accepted, we might decide to wait till she graduates. If she doesn’t . . . Well, she’ll be pretty disappointed. She wants to help young women who get into trouble. She had a rough life and wants to make sure other girls have a better chance.”
“That’s a worthy goal.” Javier knew next to nothing about Megan, but he didn’t like the idea that she’d had a hard time of it growing up. Whatever her past was, she certainly seemed to have moved beyond it.
“How about you? You ever going to get married again, raise a few kids?”
Javier glared at Nate. “Are you my mother? She asked me the same thing when I was home.”
She wanted him to buy a house somewhere nearby, marry a sweet Puerto Rican wife, and give her more grandkids while she was still alive to enjoy them. But he’d had a wife, and she’d run off with some
cabrón
from Silicon Valley midway through their first married deployment—less than a year after they’d tied the knot. Why would he want to go through that again?
Nate studied him for a moment, then took one last swill. “Well, I guess we’d best get to work if we want to get the patio shoveled in time to get back to the horses.”
It
was
a big patio with a built-in gas grill, a fire pit, stone benches, a few outdoor propane heaters, and a couple of picnic tables.
Javier got to his feet, pain shooting through his left thigh. “Tell me again why you have barbecues in the middle of the winter, bro?”
Nate looked at him like he was an idiot. “We like steak.”
* * *
LAURA MET SOPHIE in the cafeteria for a late lunch, both of them opting for the salad bar over the burgers. They made their way to a table in the back of the nearly empty room, Laura grabbing a bottle of mineral water on the way.
“I can’t believe the FBI isn’t going to do anything to help you.” Sophie stirred sugar into her iced tea.
“That’s not exactly what they said.” It was close enough from Laura’s point of view, but she was a journalist and had to be fair—even if she was furious. “The special agent in charge—Agent Petras—said they had no evidence that Al-Nassar’s threats were credible or that I was in any danger. He said they were monitoring the situation and that they would act if they found evidence that a threat existed.”
“Having a terrorist leader put a fatwa on your head doesn’t count as credible?” Sophie jabbed her fork into her salad. “Good grief! What does?”
What Al-Nassar had done didn’t constitute a fatwa, but Laura didn’t feel like explaining. Besides, it wasn’t
what
the FBI agent had said, but
how
he’d said it.
“Petras was smug, so condescending. He talked down to me as if I were a nuisance, as if I’d cried wolf or something—when he wasn’t staring at my boobs.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “Why do men do that? Do they think we don’t notice?”
Laura had no idea. “What’s so infuriating is that
I
didn’t contact the FBI. I wasn’t the one who asked them to come.”
Sophie frowned. “Who did?”
“The U.S. Marshal Service.” Laura wished they hadn’t.
Sophie got a knowing look on her face. “I bet that’s the problem. There’s no love lost between the FBI and the Marshal Service.”
Then Sophie told her how her husband, Marc, the SWAT captain, had been deputized by the U.S. Marshal for Colorado a couple years back when Natalie Benoit, a friend and former I-Team member, was in danger from a Mexican drug cartel. She’d just started telling Laura how the cartel had abducted Natalie off a bus, when she caught herself. “Oh, God! Sorry! I’m sure you didn’t need to hear that.”
“Don’t apologize.” For a moment, Laura had forgotten about her own situation. “I’m
“You thinking of giving Emily a little brother or sister?”
Nate nodded. “Megan applied to law school. If she gets accepted, we might decide to wait till she graduates. If she doesn’t . . . Well, she’ll be pretty disappointed. She wants to help young women who get into trouble. She had a rough life and wants to make sure other girls have a better chance.”
“That’s a worthy goal.” Javier knew next to nothing about Megan, but he didn’t like the idea that she’d had a hard time of it growing up. Whatever her past was, she certainly seemed to have moved beyond it.
“How about you? You ever going to get married again, raise a few kids?”
Javier glared at Nate. “Are you my mother? She asked me the same thing when I was home.”
She wanted him to buy a house somewhere nearby, marry a sweet Puerto Rican wife, and give her more grandkids while she was still alive to enjoy them. But he’d had a wife, and she’d run off with some
cabrón
from Silicon Valley midway through their first married deployment—less than a year after they’d tied the knot. Why would he want to go through that again?
Nate studied him for a moment, then took one last swill. “Well, I guess we’d best get to work if we want to get the patio shoveled in time to get back to the horses.”
It
was
a big patio with a built-in gas grill, a fire pit, stone benches, a few outdoor propane heaters, and a couple of picnic tables.
Javier got to his feet, pain shooting through his left thigh. “Tell me again why you have barbecues in the middle of the winter, bro?”
Nate looked at him like he was an idiot. “We like steak.”
* * *
LAURA MET SOPHIE in the cafeteria for a late lunch, both of them opting for the salad bar over the burgers. They made their way to a table in the back of the nearly empty room, Laura grabbing a bottle of mineral water on the way.
“I can’t believe the FBI isn’t going to do anything to help you.” Sophie stirred sugar into her iced tea.
“That’s not exactly what they said.” It was close enough from Laura’s point of view, but she was a journalist and had to be fair—even if she was furious. “The special agent in charge—Agent Petras—said they had no evidence that Al-Nassar’s threats were credible or that I was in any danger. He said they were monitoring the situation and that they would act if they found evidence that a threat existed.”
“Having a terrorist leader put a fatwa on your head doesn’t count as credible?” Sophie jabbed her fork into her salad. “Good grief! What does?”
What Al-Nassar had done didn’t constitute a fatwa, but Laura didn’t feel like explaining. Besides, it wasn’t
what
the FBI agent had said, but
how
he’d said it.
“Petras was smug, so condescending. He talked down to me as if I were a nuisance, as if I’d cried wolf or something—when he wasn’t staring at my boobs.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “Why do men do that? Do they think we don’t notice?”
Laura had no idea. “What’s so infuriating is that
I
didn’t contact the FBI. I wasn’t the one who asked them to come.”
Sophie frowned. “Who did?”
“The U.S. Marshal Service.” Laura wished they hadn’t.
Sophie got a knowing look on her face. “I bet that’s the problem. There’s no love lost between the FBI and the Marshal Service.”
Then Sophie told her how her husband, Marc, the SWAT captain, had been deputized by the U.S. Marshal for Colorado a couple years back when Natalie Benoit, a friend and former I-Team member, was in danger from a Mexican drug cartel. She’d just started telling Laura how the cartel had abducted Natalie off a bus, when she caught herself. “Oh, God! Sorry! I’m sure you didn’t need to hear that.”
“Don’t apologize.” For a moment, Laura had forgotten about her own situation. “I’m
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