Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

Quinn had a headache.

Thank fuck the shelter had only been able to spare a few lamps for their makeshift war room or else the headache might have graduated from ouch-ouch-ouch to put-a-bullet-in-his-skull-just-to-make-it-stop. As it was right now, he could manage.

He glanced away from the spread of satellite images on the table in front of him because he was starting to see double—a sure sign of an impending migraine. His gaze landed on the handful of photos Phoebe had provided of the village, which reminded him of what he'd caught Phoebe and Seth doing against the wall by the shelter's classroom. Which, in turn, made him think about why Seth and Phoebe had been in that hallway to begin with.

That scene at dinner had been a fucking disaster.

Hell, maybe it was a mistake to bring Seth onto the team. Gabe seemed to think so, and after tonight, there was no denying the guy's head was fucked.

But going by that logic, Quinn shouldn't be on the team either because nobody's head was more fucked up than his. Of course, Gabe didn't know about the blackouts he'd suffered since waking from the coma after their car accident a year and a half ago. Nobody knew—except for Jesse, who had gotten a hold of his medical records back in July and had urged him to tell Gabe about the traumatic brain injury.

And he had planned on it. Hell, he'd even opened his trap to spill it on more than one occasion, but every time, the words stuck in his throat. He'd lost his SEAL team, the closest thing he'd ever had to a family. Now he had HORNET and, as much as they sometimes irritated him, he dreaded the thought of losing that ragtag bunch. What would he have then if he didn't have them?

Nothing.

No purpose. No family.

Besides, the only ops the team had gone on since May were training missions. And occasional bodyguard jobs, like this summer when they babysat Senator Escareno's family in El Paso?—

Mara.

No. Jesus Christ, no. Why did that woman keep popping into his head?

Shoving away from the table, he paced across the cramped room and forced away the memories of Senator Escareno's gorgeous daughter. His focus had to stay one hundred percent on this mission.

His last mission.

He stopped moving at the thought and scrubbed his hands over his face. It pained him that he'd never be out in the field again, but…yeah. It was the right thing to do. He couldn't keep putting his men—his friends—in danger. So when the team returned to the States, he'd have to come clean about his medical issues. And then…

Well. Honestly, he hadn't considered the "and then" part of it.

Footsteps creaked on the stairs in the foyer, dragging him away from his depressing thoughts, and he dropped his hands. He couldn't see any of the girls sneaking out in the middle of the night—they were all too frightened by one thing or another to leave the shelter—so it had to be one of the guys.

Seth appeared at the bottom of the stairs as a long, lean shadow. He had the hood of his sweatshirt up and his head turned left then right, eyes scanning, searching for threats. His entire body was as taut as a guitar string, vibrating with nervous energy.

Damn. He did not look like he was holding it together.

After an uncertain moment, he finally moved and stepped into the foyer and Quinn couldn't help but draw a mental comparison between the sniper and a deer he'd once seen on a hunting trip with his adopted father when he was fourteen. The buck had sensed their presence on that icy winter morning, but couldn't see them up in the tree blind. It had crunched through the snow one graceful, careful step at a time, freezing every other step, ears pricked, dark eyes scanning.

Seth moved with the same vigilant grace as that deer. As if he'd bolt at the faintest whisper of movement, just like the buck had when Quinn scooted forward in the blind to get a better look.

Christ, Quinn hoped he was making the right call about this guy.

He raised a hand in greeting. "Hey, Harlan."

Seth froze and for a long five seconds, Quinn thought he might make a run for it like the deer had. Then he drew a breath that moved his shoulders and turned toward the war room.

"You okay?" Quinn asked.

Seth swallowed hard and nodded. "Nightmares," he said, voice hoarse. "They've, uh, gotten worse since coming back here."

Quinn picked up several of the photos and flipped through them. It was useless. He wasn't going to match them up to the sat images, no matter how long he stared at them. He tossed them down again and said without thinking, "Man, the way they had you tied up, letting you just rot away…you're entitled to a few nightmares."

In his peripheral vision, he saw Seth go very still. "You were there?"

Fuck. Realizing the mistake, Quinn faced the guy. He knew Seth didn't remember him and he sure as hell hadn't meant to bring it up, but the cat was out of the bag now. "Yes. I was part of the mission."

"You're one of the SEALs that pulled me out of—of—" Seth's throat worked. "Is that why you keep going to bat for me with Gabe? Because you were fucking there?"

"Yeah. Partly." He'd never forget walking into that mud house, the scent of death like a smack in the face despite the brutal mid-winter cold, and finding Seth Harlan chained to the wall in a back room, rotting away in his own filth. Seth's gaunt face had been a swollen, unrecognizable jumble of black, blue, and yellow splotches and someone had very recently sliced open his throat. At the time, a future hadn't looked promising for the young Marine. While the cold had kept him from bleeding out, he was hypothermic and septic, suffering from dehydration, on the verge of starvation, and had infected wounds all over his chest, back, legs, and groin. In fact, Quinn hadn't thought he would survive the trip back to a friendly hospital, not to mention make a full recovery and try to find work in the private sector.

Seth had spirit. It might be broken like his shrinks all claimed, but he had it in spades, and that was rare. Plus, broken could usually be fixed.

And, yeah, that hope was exactly why Quinn kept pulling to keep Seth on the team. He kept thinking of himself, how the Navy had tossed him to the curb for something beyond his control, how if it wasn't for HORNET, he'd be lost right now. He'd gotten his second chance. How could he not offer the same to Seth?

Seth stared at some point on the far wall, his jaw locked tight enough to make a muscle twitch at his temple. No doubt he was reliving the rescue from his end, trying to visualize which of the faceless, white-clad rescuers had been Quinn.

Finally, he exhaled hard and his gaze refocused in the here and now. "I should probably say thank you for getting me out of there."

"I'm not looking for thanks."

"Good." He nodded once. "That's good. 'Cause I can't give it. I just…can't."

"Don't blame you." Quinn waited, giving him some time and space to pull himself together.

When Seth appeared steady again, Quinn picked up the photographs and held them out. "Do you recognize any landmarks in these photos?" It was worth a shot. The man had been dragged all over the mountains for fifteen months.

Seth accepted the stack, flipped through it, then shook his head and handed it back with a trembling hand.

God. A sniper with unsteady hands.

Quinn hesitated before putting the photos away. "Seth, man. Tell me truthfully, are you ready for this? There's no shame in it if you're not, but I need to know now. I need to know I can put a rifle in your hands and send you into the mountains without worrying about Gabe's safety, or yours, or the rest of the team's. I need to know right now you can handle this."

Seth stared down at his hands for a long time. So long, that Quinn figured it was game over and the sniper would be States-bound by morning.

Finally, his hands curled into fists. When he looked up, Quinn saw exactly what he'd hoped to see. in the piercing blue gaze. Fire. Determination. Spirit.

"I can handle it," Seth said. "I'm going to bring Hendricks home, no matter what."

And Quinn believed him.