Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

Jesse Warrick tapped on the door to Gabe and Quinn's bunk and waited. He heard no movement inside, but he knew his commander was in there trying to get some shuteye before this new clusterfuck of an op. He just hoped Quinn wasn't in there, too, or else this was going to make for a damn awkward conversation. Hell, it might even end in a fistfight between him and Quinn again, like a similar convo had back in May.

The door opened. Gabe had his phone to his ear but waved Jesse inside the tiny room. More out of habit than manners, he took off his cowboy hat as he stepped over the threshold. Ran a hand through his hair and glanced around.

The jet had been gutted and redesigned this summer by HumInt Inc. to better suit HORNET's needs and now included a decked-out war room, a galley, and six of these small rooms. It was a typical dorm set-up with two surprisingly comfortable beds—a mirror image of his and Marcus' room next door. Except where his looked lived-in with his bed rumpled and a few clothes spilling out of his bag, Gabe's room was immaculate. His bag sat unpacked on the tightly made-up mattress and his boots waited by the end of the bed as if a pair of feet already stood in them at attention. Quinn's side of the room was just as precise.

Not a surprise. Guys didn't get much more fastidious than the two former SEALs.

"It will be a while before I can get in touch again," Gabe said into the phone. "You know how things get when they start moving." A pause. His lips curved into a little smile. "Yes, ma'am." Another pause and everything about the big guy softened. "I love you, too, Aud. Stay out of trouble while I'm gone, okay? And you can tell Raffi that goes double for him. Brother or no, I'll kick his ass if he doesn't take care of you."

A hollow ache opened up in the center of Jesse's chest, and he focused his attention on his hat, dusting imaginary dirt off the brim. Listening in on the husband and wife's conversation, he felt like a voyeur, an intruder in their intimate moment. And damn if it didn't remind him of the similar conversations he used to have with Cheyenne back when he'd been with Delta, and they could still talk to each other without it devolving into an argument. Not that he really missed his ex-wife. There was too much bad blood overshadowing the good memories for him to miss her. But he did miss having someone besides his horses waiting for him at home.

And, God, he missed his son with an intensity that hurt.

In that moment, as he tried not to eavesdrop on Gabe and Audrey's conversation, he starting making plans to take Connor to Disneyland as soon as he got back Stateside. He'd only been promising the kid the trip for years. Well past time to step up and make it happen.

But Connor was thirteen now. Would he even like a trip to Disney? What did thirteen year old kids even like nowadays? Jesse had no clue. His ex had done her best to keep him away from Connor, and he hated that he barely knew his own boy.

He made a mental note to ask Marcus later. The guy had a way with kids, always knowing the latest trends and coolest gadgets. He'd have some ideas on how to make the trip special for Connor.

Gabe finally hung up, slid the phone into the leg pocket of his cargo pants, and limped over to the end of the bed. He scooped up his boots. "So what's up, Jess?"

"How's the wife?" Jesse cursed himself as the question left his lips. That hadn't been what he meant to say and he covered by adding, "Isn't it a little early in Costa Rica?"

"0600, but she says she's been up for a while. Inspiration struck." Gabe shrugged, but an indulgent smile played around the edges of his hard mouth. "What can I say? Artists keep stranger hours than SEALs."

"She's worried about you."

Gabe exhaled, the sound something close to a resigned laugh. "Yeah. She's not going to sleep until we get home. She thinks I should be riding a desk because of…" He trailed off and tapped a hand on the cane propped against the wall.

Jesse decided not to comment. Gabe knew full well he agreed with Audrey. The big guy wasn't doing his foot any favors by running around playing hero, but sayin' so would only make the coming conversation more difficult.

Jesse motioned to the bag on the floor. "Where's Quinn?"

"He and Marcus are tactically acquiring a vehicle for us."

Good. Meant Quinn wouldn't be walking in anytime soon. "Are you worried we haven't heard back from Jean-Luc and Harlan yet?"

"Getting there," Gabe admitted. "Yeah."

"Do you think it was a good idea to send Harlan out?"

"He is a part of this team," Gabe said flatly, but it was hard to miss the unspoken until I decide otherwise in his words .

"Yeah, ‘course he is. But don't ya think he's kinda…" He'd planned on finishing that sentence with "broken," but trailed off. He didn't want to be the asshole talkin' shit about a guy who had lived through hell and come back out swingin'. And despite all of Seth Harlan's issues, the sniper wasn't the person he'd come to talk to Gabe about in the first place. "Nah, forget that."

"So," Gabe said after a second of silence. "What do you need?"

Like he didn't know. "To talk to you about Quinn."

Gabe pulled the laces of his boot loose and slid his foot in. He was trying to remain casual, but Jesse saw the way he tightened up as he asked, "What about him?"

"Honestly, he's not the guy I'd be sendin' out for anything rougher than a pony ride. Probably not even that." The look he got in response would have scorched a lesser man, but he wasn't about to back off. Not about this. "Listen, I'm sorry, Gabe. I know he's like a brother to you, but Quinn's medical history makes him a liability. We can't have him in the field. I'm already gonna have to keep an eagle eye on Harlan in case he can't deal. What happens if Harlan experiences a psychotic break and Quinn blacks out on us? We'll be down two men. If it happens in the middle of a firefight…" He didn't finish that thought. He didn't need to. His meaning came across loud and clear: They'd all be fucked. Hard and without foreplay.

"I hear what you're saying, Jess. I do," Gabe said and tugged his laces tight, making quick work of the knot before grabbing his other boot. He took more care about sliding that one onto his bad foot. "But I've been watching Quinn since you voiced your concerns back in July. I haven't seen any indication of lingering effects from his brain injury. Have you? Beyond that one time he blacked out in Colombia?"

Jesse pressed his lips together. He should lie. He had been keeping his eyes peeled for another blackout like the one he'd witnessed in Bogota and hadn't seen a damn thing, but to his way of thinking, just because the moon disappeared during the day didn't mean it no longer existed. Quinn's medical issues were very much a real thing, even if no symptoms presented themselves right now.

Yet he couldn't bring himself to flat-out lie to Gabe. He respected the guy too much. "An injury like his won't spontaneously heal itself. I told you before, it's a damn miracle he's alive and functionin'. After gettin' thrown through a windshield goin' seventy? His brain should be mush."

"But have you seen any more indications that Quinn is unfit for this op?"

"Christ, Gabe. You know what kind of position you're puttin' me in? I can't okay him for active duty. It goes against everything I've been trained to do."

"Have you seen any more indications that Quinn is unfit?" He enunciated each word.

"No. I haven't."

Gabe didn't so much as blink. "So I only have your opinion—which I do value—but in this case, it's based on an incident that happened one time six months ago, correct?"

"It's my professional medical opinion," Jesse said between his teeth. Heat blazed up the back of his neck, but he sucked in a breath through his nose and exhaled hard to dispel the anger. He'd been kicked out of Delta for his temper. He wasn't going to get kicked out of HORNET for the same reason, even if his commander had his head so far up a horse's ass, he was tastin' hay.

Then again, if Jesse's ten years of loyalty to the Army had taught him nothing else, it was that usually, in the case of commanders, horse's asses were the norm. It was up to the rank-and-file to bite their tongues and follow orders, no matter how stupid.

‘Course, he'd thought Gabe Bristow was better than that.

Jesse shook his head. "You're too close to this, man. He's your brother in everythin' but blood. I get that. But you gotta take a step back and look at this objectively."

"You think I haven't?" Gabe's voice was low, dangerous. "You think I haven't been grappling with this decision? That I haven't weighed the risks? I know Quinn better than anyone. I've seen him at his worst and watched him claw his way back. If I had even a shred of doubt about his ability to handle this mission, he'd be grounded faster than you can spit, but Quinn is one of the best operatives we have. I can't just sideline him because of an injury that happened over a year ago. Not when he's proven himself mission-ready time and again since then."

Jesse straightened and jammed his hat on his head. "Are you orderin' me to ignore my training?"

Gabe's mouth tightened into a grim line. He finished tying his boot and straightened, leaning heavily on his cane as he met Jesse's gaze. "I'm telling you I can't order my XO to stand down just because you think he's a liability. Especially because you think he's a liability. I have to take into account your history with him. You two have never seen eye-to-eye and I need something more than your say so. I need to see proof."

"I showed you his medical records."

"His records show a serious injury, yes," Gabe acknowledged. "But they also show a remarkable recovery. The doctors were amazed at how well he healed."

Jesse threw up his hands. "Healed ain't the same as cured! You know as well as I do that TBIs can have lingering effects that don't show up on scans. Mood swings, memory loss, blackouts. Any of that ringin' a bell? ‘Cause Quinn's checkin' all those boxes. Yeah, I admit, Quinn and I have our differences, but it's not my judgment clouded by personal feelings here." He strode to the door, but stopped half way out and tipped the brim of his hat in a sarcastic kind of salute. "And fuck you, Gabe."

He stalked back to the war room, where Harvard was hard at work at his laptop trying to pin down Jahangir Siddiqui's whereabouts. The rest of the team must still be in their bunks. None of them had slept more than three hours in the last twenty-four, and Jesse was starting to feel the strain of exhaustion. He probably should have bedded down for an hour while they were stuck here twiddling their thumbs, but he was too worried about the Quinn situation. The guy was going to get himself or someone else killed. Jesse sure as hell didn't want a narcoleptic watching his six in a pucker situation.

"Hey," Harvard said, gazing up from his screen when Jesse kicked an abandoned rucksack in frustration. "Something wrong?"

"No," he muttered. They only had a boss with a bum foot, a second in command with a traumatic brain injury, and a sniper with severe PTSD. Nothing wrong at all.

Jesus.

Jesse sank into a chair opposite Harvard and scowled across the table. If Gabe wouldn't do anything about Quinn, maybe he needed to take matters into his own hands, tell the rest of the team what was goin' on. It went against his training to divulge a man's medical issues, but he couldn't see any other way to force Gabe into taking action.

He opened his mouth, but a rattle at the plane's door stopped him. He got up to unlatch the door, expecting to see Jean-Luc and Seth returning with HumInt Inc's local contact, Fahim. Instead Jean-Luc staggered inside, bruised and bleeding, his clothes torn. He all but collapsed into Jesse's arms.

"What the hell happened to you?" Jesse lowered him to the floor and ordered Harvard to retrieve his medical bag.

Jean-Luc winced and slung a duffle off his shoulder. "Someone shot up the whole damn market."

"Jesus Christ. Are you shot?"

"Nah, nothin' like that. I chased down one of the shooters, we tussled a bit, and he got me good in the kidney. Left me to be stomped flat by the crowd." He swore in Cajun and gripped his side. "And stomp me they did."

"Where's Seth?" Harvard asked, returning with the medical kit.

" Pas d'idée. " Jean-Luc sat up and spit out a mouthful of blood. "Before everything went to shit, we were followin' the two shooters and a woman. Seth had a hunch she was hidin' somethin'. She slipped away, he ran after her, and that's when the bullets started flyin'. Lost him in the mess."

"All right," Jesse said after giving Jean-Luc a quick examination. "You're gonna be sore, but nothing appears ruptured or broken. You get dizzy or start to have any pain or swelling in your abdomen, or you start pissing blood, you tell me, Cajun. No toughin' it out. Got it?"

Jean-Luc offered up a weak, bloody smile. " Oui , doc. I'll be cryin' like a baby if it hurts, don't worry."

"Good." He grabbed several antiseptic wipes and started cleaning the superficial wounds when a shadow blocked out his light.

Gabe stood over them and took in Jean-Luc's condition, grim-faced. "And Seth?"

"MIA," Jesse answered.

"What about Fahim? Did you meet up with him?"

"No," Jean-Luc said, wincing at the sting from the antiseptic pads. "I found him laid out in his car a block from the market. Headshot, close range. Found this in his trunk." He shoved the duffle toward Gabe's feet.

Gabe bent over to unzip it. Weapons. Radios. "Well, it's a start." He held out a hand, and between him and Jesse, they managed to pull Jean-Luc off the floor. "Let's get the guys out here for another briefing. We need a new game plan."