I don’t know why Colette is wasting our time with this. Glen, Kenta and I are the best-trained guys in the company. We’ve been working here for five years, ever since we got discharged from the SAS. Last month, we recovered the daughter of a British billionaire who’d been taken for ransom. The month before that, we were protecting an American presidential candidate after she got shot at a rally. We don’t work for young, spoiled celebrities, shoving back overzealous paparazzi and carrying their shopping bags through the mall.
“I think we should at least check it out,” Kenta says. “It’s only fair.”
“Me too,” Glen chips in. “It’s shitty to refuse to protect someone who’s in danger, just because of their reputation.”
I frown. “But—”
“C’mon,” Glen rumbles. “Just a preliminary meeting. Face it, you owe me.” He shoots me a crooked grin. The thick scar slashing down his cheek stretches, and guilt slams into me like a freight truck. Without meaning to, my eyes drop to his arms, taking in the matching scars around his wrists. They’re a few inches thick, raised and red. Even though we retired half a decade ago, they never really healed right. Spending months in shackles will do that.
Kenta shifts on my other side, and I can’t help but envision the scars that I know are slashed into his back. My fingernails grip hard into the wooden table as memories flood through me.
“Matt. Matt.” Glen claps a hand on my shoulder, and I blink, snapping out of it. I don’t even realise how hard I’m breathing until Colette passes me a bottle of water with a sympathetic look. I stare at it in my hands.
“I didn’t mean it like that, mate,” Glen says roughly. “I just meant, you’ve put me on the night shift for the last three jobs in a row. Not…” He pauses, redness climbing up his neck. “You know I don’t blame you for what happened.” He gestures vaguely at his face. “Neither of us do.”
I shrug him off and rub my eyes. He’s right. I owe him and Kenta. I owe them both a Hell of a lot more than this. If they want to meet the girl, we’ll meet with her.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But she better have a real damn problem.”
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