Where the hell is she?
Nerves caused Bebe to type a lengthier response than he was probably looking for.
She’s with me. I swear it’s not my fault. There was nothing I could do.
Almost thirty seconds went by before she got a two-word answer.
I know.
When they pulled through the gate, Mitch was standing on the grass waiting. Bebe swung around to put the passenger door closest to him and maintain as much distance as possible. He looked like he was going to dismember someone and throw their body parts on a bonfire—an act he’d probably actually carried out at some point in his life.
“What the fuck?” he said when Sadie stepped out with a bag of groceries. Bebe exited her side and made a subtle slashing motion across her throat. This woman was holding on by a very thin thread.
“Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” Sadie responded.
“I told you to stay inside the walls. Were those instructions too complicated for you?”
“Do you ever think of me, Mitch? Or do you just think of yourself? I’m bored. And I’m lonely. And I can’t even cook to relax because we eat the same things day in and day out!”
“What the hell are you talking ab—”
“Do you think another woman would put up with this?” she said, her voice rising in volume. “With you? Well, then you should go find her!”
She burst into tears and ran into the house, leaving him standing at the edge of the lawn. Bebe walked cautiously up to him. “You should tell her you’re sorry.”
He put a hand on his face and wiped slowly down it before stalking toward his gym.
CHAPTER 34
WEST OF MANASSAS
VIRGINIA
USA
JOE Maslick shouldered a tactical backpack and stepped out onto his porch. After pulling the door shut, he squinted up at the sky—a recently formed habit that made him feel like he’d gone from fighting terrorists to joining their ranks. Somewhere up there, just out of sight, was a camera drone. Physical surveillance started just outside the subdivision’s gate. Two-man teams working around the clock in eight-hour shifts. The electronic side of the operation was harder to detect, but at the very least his main phone and Internet were compromised.
He’d been serving his country since he’d turned eighteen and that piece of shit Anthony Cook was making him feel like a criminal. A traitor. Which is why when Rapp had called on an encrypted line and asked him if he wanted to make the situation worse, Maslick had jumped at the chance. Not smart, for sure, but the Cooks could pucker up and kiss his ass. And not on the cheek, either. Right down the fucking middle.
He tossed the pack in the bed of his pickup and slid behind the wheel. As he drove through the neighborhood, it felt like a graveyard full of overpriced mausoleums. Mike Nash was dead. Scott Coleman was in Greece. Bruno was in New Zealand, and Wick had gone home to Wyoming. Finally, there was Rapp, who was in South Africa waiting for the shit to hit the fan with no backup other than Bebe Kincaid and that mental defective Sadie Hansen.
Where the hell was all this going? He agreed that bunching up could create an irresistible target, but how long would they have to stay scattered across the world? There was a good chance that Anthony Cook would win reelection and, according to Dr. Kennedy, a decent chance his wife would follow. Did that mean the next time he got together with his boys, he’d have gray hair and a walker? Because of a fucking politician? Not on his watch.
The Nashes’ house appeared on the left and it was hard not to look away. Maslick had promised to take their son Rory skeet shooting later in the week and tomorrow morning he needed to install a gate on their deck so Maggie didn’t have to worry about Chucky falling down the steps. After what had happened, they were now the responsibility of the village. Unfortunately, the village right now was just him and a few old guys who’d been badasses in their day but now weren’t good for much more than drinking beer and criticizing his construction abilities.
What the hell was happening to his country? Mike Nash had been one of his closest friends. America’s motto was quickly turning from E Pluribus Unum to every man for himself. Families were being torn apart. Lifelong friendships were ending. No one believed in anything real anymore. No one would acknowledge that they owed America a debt—not the other way around.
And now here he was, right in the middle of the shit storm. If it hadn’t been for the military, Scott, and Mitch, he’d probably be working at the gas station down the street from where he’d grown up. Instead, he’d met some of the most impressive people in the world and traveled to more countries than he could count. Thanks to them, he was behind the wheel of a ninety-thousand-dollar pickup and living in a mansion.