Chapter One

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Slade felt the blood seep through the makeshift gauge bandage and snake down his arm, all the way to the back of his hand. His blood. And while the flow wasn't a gusher that would risk him bleeding out, it needed to be tended soon.

That made this trip a killing-two-birds-with-one-stone kind of deal.

A necessary deal on both counts.

Since Marise Brennan wouldn't have called him had this not been important. Hell, more than just plain important. Unless it was critical. Marise wasn't the sort to ask him for, well, anything.

Though anything was exactly what he was willing to give her.

Some debts lasted a lifetime and could never be repaid. She was one of them. And she was the reason that he'd come straight here after finishing that latest op for Maverick Ops.

Not a comfortable trip.

Then again, it hadn't been a comfortable op, either. Some ops were pissers and shitshows, and that one had fit right into that wheelhouse. Still, he'd won. He'd done his job and kept the case-solved stats high for Maverick Ops.

Of course, winning was expected of him and the rest of the team who took on the missions that law enforcement didn't have the resources or the wherewithal to do. For him, the latest one had involved rescuing the kidnapped woman, but the next one might be a cold case, finding someone who'd disappeared, being a bodyguard or assisting on a murder investigation.

Thankfully, the next one wouldn't be for at least a couple of days. His boss, Ruby Maverick, would give him some time to heal from this ass kicking he'd taken. Thankfully, the ass kicking hadn't been one-sided, and the other guys were going to need a hell of a lot more than a couple of days. That outcome meshed with Slade's motto when it came to assholes who kidnapped and committed other crimes that got people hurt.

Give worse than you get.

The assholes had gotten way worse.

Slade parked in one of the visitors' spaces of the Patriot's Retreat Senior Care Facility and locked up his primary weapon in his glove compartment. He kept his backup weapon where it always was—in a slide holster in his boot. Out of sight but available if needed.

Especially out of sight from Marise.

Because of some of that bad shit they'd experienced together, the sight of a gun could trigger her PTSD and maybe even spur a panic attack. She was capable of defending herself with her hand to hand combat skills, but using a gun was out of the question for her.

Slade got out of the van, wincing and groaning more than he wanted, not from just the bleeding cut but also the bruises and scrapes that were whining about needing some attention. They wouldn't get it other than a soak in his hot tub once he finally made it home and what Marise could do for him.

But first, he'd help her with whatever she needed.

Even though it was technically spring since it was early May, it was still hotter than hell. Welcome to Texas when winter jumped straight into scorching summer temps. Even though it was a short walk, only about ten yards, he felt beads of sweat pop out on his forehead and hoped it was solely from the heat and that some part of his internal temp regulator hadn't been damaged in the fight.

He made his way toward the front door of the facility, which looked more like an antebellum house straight out of Gone with the Wind. Definitely no nursing home vibe to the place with its grand white columns, manicured flower beds, and a covered porch that stretched all the way across the front. A trio of fans were making lazy turns over wicker rocking chairs.

Since it was going on ten pm, most of the generously sized windows had no lights spewing from them, letting him know that the residents were likely in bed. But not everyone was down for the night because he saw Marise peering out by one of the sidelights of the door.

A door that opened when she spotted him.

And there she was.

It'd been nearly four months since he'd seen her, but he had talked to her more recently than that. Just a few weeks ago when his brother had been killed. She'd heard about it and had wanted to make sure he was okay.

He was.

No grief for that particular brother who had deserved what was coming to him. The death had been a relief, but Slade had appreciated that once again Marise had had his six. Had there been grief, she would have gotten to him fast.

Just as he'd done for her now.

Seeing her always gave him the same emotional punch. A stew of memories from the past—the ones straight from hell—mixed with a totally male reaction of seeing a beautiful woman. And she was beautiful all right, with her dark brown hair framing a face that had no doubt gotten her plenty of second, third, and fourth glances.

Tonight, she was wearing purple scrubs, and she had her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She smiled, the relief evident in her expression.

Then, no relief, and the smile went south in a hurry.

"You're bleeding," she blurted, following the direction of the drops that were now splatting on the sidewalk.

Slade cupped his hand around his arm to add some pressure so he didn't leave a blood trail all the way into the facility.

"Don't you dare say it's a scratch," she added, and she went to him, taking hold of his other arm to lead him inside.

"It's more than a scratch," he admitted. "I was hoping you'd give me a stitch or two on my arm. Again," he tacked onto that since it wasn't the first time she had done that particular medical procedure for him.

Then again, Marise was a nurse and a former combat medic, so he suspected she had stitched up plenty of people over the years.

While they walked, she studied him, frowning but also giving him a nurse's once-over. "You'll need a butterfly bandage on your forehead, and you're moving as if your ribs might be injured. I won't bother to ask if you've been to the ER."

Slade conjured up a smile. "You're my preferred caregiver in situations like this. So, stitch me up, and then you can tell me why you called and left that message."

A message she'd left nearly an hour ago now, and when Spock had read it to him, it had given him a jolt of instant alarm.

Slade, I need to see you as soon as possible. Please meet me at Patriot's Retreat. I won't be leaving until I speak to you.

Yeah, instant alarm and a whole lot of urgency since in the entire decade that he'd known Marise, she had never once played the as soon as possible card. He'd literally gotten here as fast as he could, along with sending her a text to let her know he was on his way.

"Can you tell me what happened to you?" she asked as she led him inside the facility. The A/C was up and running, and he immediately welcomed the cool air that spilled over him.

"Parts of it."

Unlike the military missions they'd served on together, his op wasn't classified, but there were still bits of it he'd rather not share. It was hard enough to live with some of the images without spelling them out.

"An asshole from Austin decided to prove to his estranged wife how much he loved her by kidnapping her and taking her to a rundown motel in nowhere Texas. The estranged wife's new boyfriend hired Maverick Ops to find her. I did, and I got her back. I handed her over to the cops before I drove here."

Marise made a sound to indicate she was giving that some thought—along with assessing what he hadn't said. "So, the Austin asshole beat you up?"

He shrugged and winced when it got some bruises whining again. "Him and his two equally asshole brothers. At gunpoint, they forced their hostage, AKA the estranged wife, to call the boyfriend, telling him that she'd escaped and for him to come to the motel and get her. The boyfriend called me, and since I was closer to the motel, I got there ahead of him."

"It was a trap?" Marise concluded.

"It was," Slade verified. "I figured the kidnapping bastard of a husband would be there, but the moment I stepped out of my van, the brothers rushed out from behind a huge trash bin. One of them had a bat. The other, a knife."

He wouldn't mention the gun.

Slade felt her hand tense on his arm. "How bad is the cut." But she shook her head, waving that off. "I'll see for myself."

She maneuvered him down a hall, past an office that had her nameplate on the center of the door. Marise Brennan, Chief of Staff. A lofty title, but he knew she'd held a loftier one as the rank of Captain when she'd been in the Air Force. That's where they'd met, on sand-clogged missions where people got hurt.

And died.

That's where they'd laid the foundations for a solid friendship. Something they'd both needed as much as their next breaths. A confidant. A shoulder to cry on. Someone who knew exactly what they'd gone through and could help them continue to get through it.

Because they'd wanted to hang on at all costs to that solid friendship, they'd never been lovers. They'd come close. But always pulled back. Much easier to bleed all over a solid friend for life rather than a lover.

She took him into an infirmary that was similar to what he'd seen in some hospitals. There was an exam table and lots of equipment, and Marise had him sit on the table.

"Take off your shirt if you can manage it so I can check for other injuries," she instructed. Her back was to him while she rummaged through one of the cabinets.

Oh, he'd manage it all right. Along with doing a massive amount of silent cursing. Slade peeled off his black tee, glancing down at his chest and stomach. Hell, it looked as if a hoard of toddlers had had a field day with black and blue markers.

"The bat," Marise muttered, drawing his attention back to her. She met his gaze and aimed a scowl at him. "I'm tempted to poke at those ribs just to prove to you that you need to be x-rayed. I can't do that here," she quickly added. "The facility is top shelf, but for anything more than the routine, we send clients to the hospital."

"No hospital," he muttered, and he kept his gaze locked with hers. There was both annoyance and concern in her crystal gray eyes.

Something else, too. Something he couldn't put his finger on. Sometimes, in an unguarded moment he'd seen heat in those same eyes.

Heat for him.

It'd been mutual since his own eyes hadn't always been able to shut it down right away. But this time, it was only a flash of heat, followed by those other things.

Annoyance.

Concern.

Something else.

"The knife," she continued, moving onto the gash on his left forearm. She snapped on a pair of gloves, then removed the bloody gauge bandage so she could examine it.

In the bright light, Slade could see that it, thankfully, wasn't that bad. Bleeding, yep. It was doing plenty of that. Hurting. Yep, that, too. But it didn't look that deep. That was something at least.

"The last time I stitched you up, you had to drop your pants," Marise remarked.

Slade could almost smile about that. Almost. "Shrapnel the shape of an arrowhead on my right ass cheek."

"I hope it didn't leave a scar," she said, and then added, "It missed your weird-looking longhorn tat by this much." She held up a tiny space between her thumb and her index finger.

He made a sound of agreement. "Weird looking because it was done by a drunk tat artist on my eighteenth birthday. I can thank my brothers, Jericho and Nash, for arranging that."

And because of said drunkenness, the longhorn looked cartoonish and, yes, weird.

"How are Jericho and Nash?" she went on a moment later.

He nearly asked her why she was going the chit-chat, small talk route, and then he felt the jab of the needle. Shit. It added hurt to the hurt, but he realized she'd been trying to distract him while she gave him something to numb him up.

"Jericho and Nash," she repeated. "How are they?"

"Good. All three of us still work for Maverick Ops."

"Three heroes," Marise concluded.

"Three operatives," he corrected.

She shrugged in a way to let him know she preferred her own description. "And you're all doing okay with the death of your other brother, Bodie?"

It was a hard question to answer. Not because it conjured up grief but because Bodie had been a damn waste of space. A cowardly predator who'd tried to murder an eighteen-year-old girl when she'd turned him down.

"Three operatives, one dick in the family," he supplied. Then, he amended that. "Two dicks. Bodie took after our dad."

She looked at him, and he could see she remembered the alcohol-fueled conversations they'd had about his sperm donor father. Basically, he was a misogynistic asshole who'd gotten away with murder.

Specifically, the murder of his wife.

Of Slade's mother.

It'd happened shortly after Slade had left home, which meant he hadn't been there to stop it. Or to prevent his SOB father from disappearing, probably so he wouldn't have to face justice.

But that was old baggage he didn't want on his plate right now so he pushed it aside and got down to the reason he was here.

"What did you want to talk to me about?" he came out and asked while she began clearing the wound.

Marise didn't jump to answer. In fact, she didn't answer at all until she was done with the cleaning and had started the stitches.

"Colonel Vincent Rosa," she finally muttered.

Of all the things Slade had thought she might say, that sure as hell hadn't been on his radar. Colonel Rosa, his former commander way back when Slade had been an Air Force Combat Rescue Officer. That'd been eight, no ten years ago, around the time Marise and he had first worked together.

"What about him?" Slade asked.

She looked up from her task, and he saw that odd emotion again in her eyes. "He's here at Patriot's Retreat."

Slade took a moment to work that through in his mind. This was a place for seniors, and the colonel would be only in his late fifties or early sixties. But it was also a place for those with Alzheimer's and dementia. Or those whose PTSD had gotten the better of them and they were no longer able to function in day-to-day society.

"PTSD," Marise provided as if anticipating what he was trying to work out. "Can't get into the medical specifics, but with his signed consent, his wife had him placed here shortly after he attacked her. According to her account, he apparently thought she was someone else, that he was in combat, and afterward, he didn't remember the incident."

"Shit," Slade spat out.

Rosa was one of the good ones. A focused boss who never lost sight of either the mission or the personnel doing it.

"Yeah, shit about sums it up," she agreed under her breath while she continued to stitch. She was fast.

And good.

One day, he'd tell her that he didn't have a scar on his ass, thanks to her. Not that he could see that particular part of his body, but he'd asked a doctor about it during one of his routine physicals required for Maverick Ops.

"Did the colonel want to talk to me?" he asked while she cleaned the cut on his head. "Is that why you called?"

"No," she said and again went silent until she'd added the butterfly bandage and stepped back to meet his gaze. "I did call about him, but he doesn't want to talk to you. Trust me, I've tried to convince him. He needs help, Slade. He needs the kind of help you can give him."

There it was again. That something he'd seen in her eyes. And now he realized it was fear.

Hell.

Marise wasn't the sort to get spooked easily, so he had to know what had put that look in her eyes.

"I believe Colonel Rosa is in danger," she spelled out. "I am, too," Marise added. "I think someone might try to kill us."

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