Chapter 38

Goddamn Gabe Bristow. And Quinn. And their team-fucking-building.

Marcus dropped his bag inside the door of his condominium and shuffled on legs that felt like Twizzlers as far as the oversized leather couch before collapsing face down into the cushions.

Bruised. Blistered. Sunburned. Parched. Dirty.

His aches had aches.

And he was pretty sure his aches’ aches were reproducing like rabbits. But, hey, at least he got to come home and sleep in his own bed tonight, unlike the rest of the guys, who were stuck in a hotel near the naval base.

SERE training. Ha.

They might as well call it break-you-till-you-cry-for-your-mommy training. Welcome-to-the-ninth-circle-of-hell training. Expose-and-exploit-your-every-weakness training.

But he hadn’t cracked. None of them had, not even scrawny little Harvard. They all bent to their limits and past, but they hadn’t cracked. As soon as his body stopped throbbing, Marcus thought he might find some pride in that.

Take that, Navy SEALs.

Marcus jolted awake to the sound of his cell phone vibrating near his head. He hadn’t been aware of falling asleep, but he’d rolled off the couch and now lay with his head partly under the coffee table. When he pried his eyes open, he saw the cell doing a jig across the glass top. He could even see the caller ID.

Giancarelli.

If it was anyone else, he’d ignore it, drag himself into the shower and then pass the fuck out in his king-size, sleeping-on-a-cloud memory foam bed for three days. Or four. Hell, a whole week.

But it was Giancarelli. His best friend. The guy he’d ditched for nearly two years without so much as a see-ya-later because he’d been feeling sorry for himself.

Marcus groped around the edge of the table until he got hold of the phone. He didn’t have the energy to sit up. “Yo.” “Shit, don’t tell me you’re drunk,” Danny said.

Drunk? Yeah, probably sounded that way, Marcus realized.

“No. Overtired. What’s up?”

“I need to get a hold of Gabe, but I don’t have his number.”

“Can’t. He’s in Costa Rica with Audrey.” The fucker. Living it up with his woman in a tropical paradise while his men were all but tortured by his SEAL friends.

’Course, Marcus had to admit, the man did deserve some downtime after being taken hostage, beaten to hell, and shot.

“What about the other guy? Quinn?” Danny asked.

The urgency in Giancarelli’s voice penetrated the fog in his brain. He finally scooted out from under the coffee table and propped his back against the couch. “What’s going on?”

“I know who was pulling Jacinto Rivera’s strings. I know who was behind the abduction plot. The FBI won’t give me the time of day until I have the proof, but Bryson Van Amee needs protection ASAP.”

Marcus snorted and tried stretching out his legs. Christ, even his bone marrow ached. “Protection? From who, his airhead wife?”

Giancarelli’s silence spoke louder than anything he could have said, and Marcus sat up straighter. “That was supposed to be a joke.”

“Do I sound like I’m kidding?” Giancarelli said. “It’s Chloe. Which my extremely beautiful and intelligent wife realized was a nickname for Claudia. As in, Claudia Rivera, who disappeared from Bogotá in August, six years ago. And guess who popped up in the States in September, six years ago. Chloe Smith, who became Chloe Van Amee about three months after that.”

Jesus Christ. If Giancarelli was right….

Marcus hauled himself to his feet and powered up his laptop. When the internet came up, he wasn’t surprised to find Harvard online in the team’s secure group chat and tucked the phone into his shoulder to type out a message.

H, got a question for you.

As he typed, he asked, “How sure are you about this, Dan?”

“Pretty damn. I know it in my gut.”

And Danny had a good track record with gut feelings. “Okay. Hang on.” He set aside the cell and typed another message.

Can you do a background check for me?

Harvard was quick to respond:

Name?

Claudia Rivera

Already have it. Want me to send it to you?

Yeah

He picked up the phone again, but set it down and typed:

Do you have Chloe Van Amee’s background too?

No, never saw the need to look into her. Should I have?

I don’t know. Maybe.

I’m on it.

The computer beeped with an incoming email. Marcus accessed his inbox and raised the phone to his ear again.

“Danny, you still there?”

“What did you find out?” he asked.

“Harvard just sent the file. Hang on a sec.” He read it over, swore loud and long, and opened the picture attachment just another message from Harvard popped up:

FUCK

The pic opened, and Marcus stared into the face of a teenage Claudia Rivera.

The chat dinged with another picture from Harvard, one of Chloe standing next to her husband.

IS THIS CHLOE VAN AMEE?

That’s her.

To Danny, he said, “Just got a picture of Claudia and one of Chloe, and I’m looking at them side-by-side. I think you’re on to something. Chloe’s about fifteen pounds lighter, has bigger boobs, fuller lips, a straighter nose, and blonde hair, but there’s still a strong resemblance. Too strong to be a coincidence.”

Danny cursed. “It’s always the spouse, man. It’s so obvious, and yet we overlooked it because she just seemed…” He trailed off. “Not all that bright. She acted her part perfectly. Academy Award-winning stuff. She doesn’t even have an accent. Except…” He paused. “I did hear it once or twice when she said certain words. Couldn’t place it at the time, but I remember wondering about it.”

“All right, listen,” Marcus said. “I’m going to have Harvard send everything he finds your way. Try to get the Bureau involved. I’ll contact Quinn and see if we can set up a protective detail on Van Amee. Keep in touch.”

He hung up and was in the process of changing his clothes when his phone rang again. He expected Giancarelli, but it was Harvard.

Switching the phone to speaker, he tugged off his dirty shirt and picked a clean one out of his dresser. “Nice timing, man. I was just about to call?—”

“I checked Chloe Van Amee’s financial records,” Harvard said without preamble. “Her personal accounts are nearly dry, but she scraped together enough to buy a first-class ticket to Costa Rica. For tonight. Her plane arrived in San Jose two hours ago.”