3. Diego

"Idon't see why you won't just take up a gig teaching Spanish. It's easy, doesn't require any new skills, and you can take on several clients at once. That cash flow and flexibility is important," Mendez said through the phone. He was trying to convince me to follow him into the world of private tutoring. It'd been the same conversation for a few weeks now.

I wasn't sure why I even called, honestly. Maybe it was just good to hear a brother's voice after I woke up from another nightmare. I didn't always have dreams, but I consistently got them around this time of the year. It was my ETS date—the anniversary of when my contract with the army expired. I still wrestled with if I made the right call getting out. My brothers were mostly medically discharged—they were taken out of the fight—but I wasn't. I chose to take myself out of the fight. Truth was, I didn't know who I was without my friends, my squad. Now most of them had a woman to occupy their time and give their lives purpose, but Mendez, Guy, and I were on the outside.

On top of the loneliness, life was dull at the moment as we laid low. I was glad to have my feet back on American soil. Syria had been exciting. It woke something up in me that yearned to return back to the service. I stared at the medal we received for our help in Syria. Proving that the Syrian president was siphoning our aid money to fund terrorism was sort of a big deal. We were featured by news outlets for our work—again. This level of excitement lasted for a while both times we brought down human trafficking rings as well. My friends and I were becoming celebrities. It was great for the ego but bad for our future plans to go undercover and clean house on the remaining individuals involved with the trafficking.

We still wanted to go after the original Ricketts brother, the mastermind behind the whole ring, but we didn't have any new information to tell us where he was. We suspected Europe, but that was a large continent. According to Guy, their privacy laws were different, making it harder to track the man. MI6 was also searching for him, and Abbi's contact would let her know if they located him. Either way, we had to pause that search for now and lay low. We needed the world to forget our faces for a while, allowing us to fit back into the world as normal citizens. One day we might be able to finish what we started, but until then, we had to fill our days with something else.

Several of us have been approached by private citizens asking for assistance in tracking down missing loved ones, suspected to be taken by similar trafficking schemes. Some of us had, mainly Strong and Abbi. That was their bread and butter when they weren't working to set up their new gym. Christine and Wells helped privately fund those trips through her rich-as-hell family, and her position as vice president of Green Oil Industries. The rumor was her father was going to retire in the coming years, and the company would be all hers. Her heart for philanthropy would know no bounds, and finally the oil industry might have the right person spearheading it. The world would be a better place for it.

Jones and Jasmine assisted with a rescue here and there, but they were content to live their lives on the mountain in Jones' cabin. He remodeled it to be a private hideaway for the two of them and his twin sister, Mary. She had been a kidnapping victim and the reason we all got involved with the FBI in the first place.

Since coming back from Syria, none of us had heard much from Yates, but we didn't need the updates. His girlfriend, Natalia, the prior ambassador to Syria, had been all over the news. She was an advocate for the humane treatment of the private citizens as the government did an audit of all funds sent to the country in aid for the past fifteen years. The same money that was now suspected of being used to fund a series of planned terrorism attacks.

I moved to stand in front of the bathroom sink as Mendez talked about the perks of being a private tutor, but I was only half listening. Instead, I studied my reflection in the mirror. My hazel eyes looked tired and were still filled with grief and disappointment. I hated the fact that there was still very likely a large trafficking ring out there that was in operation, and there was nothing I could do. We'd failed to catch the head of the whole operation. It didn't matter how many people we tracked down and saved from their buyer. The traffickers left in operation were going to continue their work.

Maybe that sense of failure was what brought up my dream about New Kid. I'd always felt guilty that he went down in that cave in Afghanistan. Sure, he survived, but he sported a gnarly injury that ended his army career before it ever really started. If I'd double checked the area before moving on, maybe he'd be killing it somewhere as a SF soldier still.

The only thing that helped me sleep at night was the work Mendez and I completed in Mexico. We recruited a small group like ours to hunt down trafficking victims and set them up with resources. The team constantly reported to us about their missions. Together we'd hunted down some of those who had been sold. Of the ten victims we were hired to find, we found eight alive—our hearts were heavy for the two who were murdered. The worst part was delivering the news and the remains to their families. Even digging up the remains wasn't as bad as their mother's faces.

I didn't do well with crying and sad emotions. I'd never been good at knowing what to say or do. I'd rather just invest those emotions into something constructive, like continuing the mission.

I touched my face and noticed my skin was dry. My scruff had the occasional white hair, something I was not okay with. My hair was a little longer than I normally kept it, and my body was slouched. The stress of our work was taking its toll. I looked down at my hands, which ached from years of heavy use. I couldn't forget my scars—some remained visible for the world to see, while some were invisible only seen by me.

I looked back up to my reflection in the mirror. "I'll think about it," I finally said to appease Mendez. He was waiting patiently for me to answer him.

"That's all I'm asking for." He paused for a moment before continuing. "You seem to be in a funk since we got home." He changed the subject to one I wasn't too keen to speak about. Mendez and I were very close. He was the only one who could see through me. I trusted the girls with my feelings, too, especially Christine, but Mendez was my ride or die.

"Yeah, I know. I just can't help but feel guilty," I answered. I swallowed hard. "I'm alive, and they aren't."

"Garcia, man. There was nothing you could have done to prevent it. They were gone before we even knew of the ring in the Bahamas. What you and I did was bring closure for their families. We found their remains, and they were transported back home. You gave them that. You've stopped so many innocent deaths since you took your oath. You need to remember that."

And I'd also taken many. It didn't matter—the guilt for the injured innocent always felt like my cross to bear. "I know that, Mendez. It still doesn't lift guilt."

I heard him sigh. "I know you do. It's because you have a good heart. It's even bigger than Christine's—people just don't see that side of you. But I see it, man, and I get it. When you focus on the bad, focus on the good, too, so it doesn't suck you under." If I had the good heart, he was the insightful one.

I nodded, as if he could see me. "I'll try. Thanks."

"No problem. Have you heard from Strong? Apparently the gym is almost done."

"Well, that was fast. It feels like it was only a couple of months ago that they signed the lease," I responded with a chuckle.

"Yeah, beats me. I'm happy for them, though. Everyone deserves a bit of happiness after the lives we've had. Abbi didn't have it any easier than the rest of us. If this brings them a sense of purpose, then all the power to them," Mendez commented.

Prior to joining our group, Abbi had been a badass undercover FBI agent. I imagined her as a siren luring predators into a trap. She'd been in the hunting-traffickers game long before we joined, and she was damned good. She was Strong's perfect match, tattoos, muscles, and all—once she made the decision to open her heart to him.

"You're right. Everyone deserves that happiness and purpose. Hopefully that's in our cards one day," I said.

"It has to be. If Jones and Yates can settle down with one woman, then I refuse to believe there isn't one out there for us."

I laughed at that. He was totally right. Somehow the two biggest man-whores in the group were locked down in serious relationships. It didn't quite make sense. I flipped off the light and walked down the hall of my apartment to the kitchen. I heard a beep on my phone's speaker and pulled it away from my ear to look at the screen.

"Hey, Mendez, I've got an unknown caller on the other line. I'll give you a call back," I said. We always accepted the unknown calls. The people we needed to speak with weren't in the habit of leaving voicemails or callback numbers. Sometimes we had to shake hands with the slimy to catch the vile.

"Okay, later man," he said and then disconnected the call.

I looked at the screen again. It was a number with a Washington, D.C., area code. Maybe Yates got a new number?

"Hello?"

"Hello, am I speaking with Sergeant Diego Garcia?" a calm and collected male's voice asked. It was deep and unfamiliar. Not Yates.

It caused the hairs on my arms to rise. "Yes, who's calling?"

The use of my rank felt a little startling. Civilians didn't give a shit about rank.

"My name is Martin FitzPatrick, and I work with the Secret Service. President Hanes has specifically requested that I give you a call. He'd like to speak to you regarding an employment opportunity."

Gunfire must have really messed with my hearing, because I swore I heard this stranger explain that the president wanted to speak with me. That couldn't possibly be right.

"Hello?"

I shook my head quickly. "Yes, I'm here. I'm just trying to wrap my head around that request," I explained.

"Ah yes, I can imagine. This did come out of left field. President Hanes has asked me to set up a meeting with you. He was going to give you a call personally but felt an in-person meeting might be more appropriate," Martin elaborated.

What kind of opportunity could the man be offering? I knew he was a busy man; after all, he ran the free world. Even when he was awarding our group a service metal, he couldn't be there in person. The vice president stepped in his place.

"I mean, is it even an option to turn down a meeting with the President of the United States?" I asked with a kind of sarcastic chuckle that I blamed solely on shock.

"I'm sure it is, but I don't recommend it," Martin said, picking up on my sarcasm and answering with his own. I instantly liked him.

"I guess mark me down as a yes. What do I do from here?"

Besides shit my pants in nervousness.

"Give me your email address, and I will send you the instructions for your meeting with the president, including the date and time. The president has asked that I take care of your travel arrangements—so I will secure your plane ticket and hotel reservation."

"Wow, he's really pulling out all the stops for my visit. Do you know what this is all about?" Curiosity would kill me the whole way there if he didn't answer the question. What business could I possibly have with the president? I was no longer in the army, and I wasn't on any assignments that would come to his notice. He had the Secret Service, so all his security needs were covered. I was also vaguely aware of who his daughter was, but we hadn't had any contact since she left for Washington while we were still in school. That felt like ages ago. No, this had nothing to do with Roni.

At least I hoped.

She and I were not the kindest to each other in school, but I failed to see how that would be relevant now, more than a decade later.

"I'm aware of some vague details, but I'm not at liberty to discuss those. The president will brief you. In the meantime, I can tell you to wear your nicest suit and not to let anyone know of your upcoming meeting. When you arrive at the White House, you will be asked to sign a non-disclosure agreement regarding your conversation with the president. Can you agree to that?" Martin asked.

"I guess so," I answered.

What the fuck? An NDA? What was going on, and why was I being involved?

"Great, what's your email?" he asked.

I provided him with my email, and then he hung up. Within twenty minutes, I had an email in my inbox with an airline ticket for tomorrow. It was accompanied by my hotel reservation and specific instructions on who to call when I arrived. A car would be sent to pick me up and bring me to the meeting.

The email was lacking any further explanation on what the meeting would be about or why I was chosen. The craziest thing to happen to most of my friends from our post-military adventures was the news interviews.

When the news outlets first got wind of the trafficking ring in Vegas and that a group of civilians were the ones to locate it, they went wild. For a solid week, there were reporters camped out in front of our homes or apartment buildings hoping to catch us for an exclusive. For Wells, marrying a billionaire was up there on the craziest shit to ever happen list. Sometimes he forgot just how lucky he was. True love, money, and glory. The dude had it all.

Christine was recently approached by a journalist requesting to write a book about her kidnapping and her life since. That was way cool, but I think being approached by the president was definitely the new bar to beat, and I wasn't even going to be able to tell her about it.

Damn it.

I threw an empty duffel bag on the bed and began to pack for my last-minute trip to Washington. I found my nicest civilian suit and packed it. I didn't pack my army dress uniform because I didn't want to stand out or bring attention to myself. While I was sure this was an appropriate occasion to wear it to, it didn't feel right. That part of my life was behind me, as sad as I felt by that. The next time I'd wear it would be an army buddy's funeral or my own.

After everything was packed, I was at a loss for what to do.

Diego, get it together. Do what you always do, prepare.

I used to get a lot of shit from the guys for being overly prepared and professional, but that trait was going to be useful now. I didn't know exactly what the president wanted me for, but I decided I'd take away some of the surprise by brushing up on him, his family, and the current world of politics. A good soldier always prepared for his mission, and a Special Forces Soldier always knew the mission inside and out.

I pulled out the brand-new, top-of-the-line laptop that Guy bought me for my birthday. I started with opening the president's Wikipedia page. I made myself a strong cup of coffee, pulled out my notepad with my favorite pen, and then dug into my research.

?

An hour and a half later, I was as prepared as I could be for my meeting. President Samuel Hanes and his wife Monica were well-to-do upper middle class before he entered politics. He was a senator and then a governor before he ran for president and won. He had a grueling re-election campaign and visited all fifty states for rallies. Always beside him was his wife and daughter. He was now halfway through his second term. Most of the obvious stuff about their family I knew, of course—but I was surprised about how little I knew about Veronica. Roni for short.

She was a grown woman and still lived in the White House with her parents. From what I could tell, she wasn't involved in events and politics like members of her family. She just showed up for photographs and left. She went to college, got her bachelor's degree at Harvard, and then there was nothing. The occasional article about her out and about in a club or spotted speaking with a celebrity. She'd lived a life the complete opposite of mine since I'd last seen her. While I went through bootcamp, she was in an Ivy League college. When I was in the sandpit, she was in the White House.

If I didn't know any better, I'd say she was living the dream—but I was an observant person. I studied the photos and the video clips posted by the gossip rags; she didn't look very happy. Her dark green eyes lacked warmth, and her long dark hair usually fell in front of her face, acting like a curtain. She was beautiful but looked permanently pissed off. It only took a moment to piece together that she wasn't on the same page as the rest of her family. Her refusal to smile and her brief attendance at events spoke to that.

Would I run into her during my visit? Would she even remember me? What would I say to her? I'm sorry your dad is president. You look miserable.

Maybe it would be better if I avoided her if at all possible. In fact, I was jumping ahead of myself. I still didn't know why I was invited to the White House in the first place. Maybe the president wanted to ask questions from someone who saw human trafficking first hand for policy making. Maybe the employment opportunity was consulting. Or maybe Roni brought up our troubled past and he wants to punish me for it. He was my commander-in-chief for the last part of my army contract. I guessed he could do whatever the hell he wanted with me. I was at his mercy.

I was a little upset with myself, because I'd been living under a rock, and the president's request was a wake-up call. It wasn't until I sat down to complete my research that I truly understood the current political climate. Our work started a movement within politics. Several politicians were putting together legislation for harsher penalties for those involved in human trafficking. Others were trying to put together special task forces to recover those who had been taken. I enjoyed reading the opinions like, "We shouldn't be relying on washed-up ex-soldiers. The government's reliance on vigilantes to do their work is horrendous at best." Hell, I had agreed with everything there except for calling us washed up; that was insulting.

There were numerous articles written about my friends and me—but I had to wonder if these were the reason the president had wanted to arrange a private meeting and what that meant for my future. With this much info out there about us, how were we ever going to blend in enough to find Ricketts?

As I stared at my packed bag, I was plagued by another thought. Were any of my friends contacted for a private meeting at the White House?

I sighed in annoyance. My research didn't matter; I still didn't have a leg up. I'd be flying into that meeting blind, and I hoped I wouldn't have a crash landing.