Missing In Action Read online

  And he was my brother's business partner.

  If Kaisall was here, Will knew everything. Perhaps not everything but he knew my mission was fucked and he knew more about the past couple of days than I did. And if Will knew, my father did too. Not only that, but the CIA hadn't come for me. Either they wouldn't or couldn't.

  One more time—fuuuuuck.

  He dropped his hand on the woman's shoulder, a touch too familiar to be collegial, and she smiled. Yes. Then it clicked. Yeah, I knew her. "Mossad," I whispered. Israeli intelligence. "You're Mossad. I saw you a few years ago in—hmm. In Tangier. Right?"

  She gave me a quick shake of the head, a fleeting smile. "I'm sure you're mistaken," she replied. "I'm just a cake decorator."

  "And I'm just a cultural anthropologist," I drawled.

  She shrugged. "I'm told Morocco is lovely in October."

  "Especially when taking down terrorist cells." I bobbed my head when she didn't respond. "And Budapest in May? How do you like it there?"

  "It's hard to say. I haven't been in ages." She sounded a bit wistful, as if her memories were of the variety kept in scrapbooks and Instagram photos. But they weren't. Nothing we'd seen existed in the light of day. Hell, we didn't exist. That singular truth made our work possible.

  It also meant my brother's business partner had to fetch me from the North Atlantic because no one else dared come for me.

  "Yeah and I hear Russia's delightful in December but thank fuck none of us are there right now," Kaisall added. He beckoned toward me. "I hope you weren't especially fond of your spleen."

  I forced a shoulder up in spite of the pain twisting through my body. "No more than any other vital organ."

  "Good answer. Couldn't be saved." He tapped his fingers on the footboard. "Do you think you can walk? I've got a jet waiting at a small airstrip outside the city and we'd attract a lot less interest if you could board on your own."

  My tank was half full of borrowed blood and I wasn't sure I could feel my feet but I said, "Of fucking course I can walk on my own."

  I hadn't survived SEAL training and one deployment after another and then CIA training and years-long missions and also escaping Russia with a bullet in my side and a janky broken arm to give up now. No, son. No. I was walking out of here if it cost me everything. I'd get the fuck through it.

  That was how I lived—getting the fuck through it.

  "All right," Kaisall replied, skepticism heavy in those two words. "Wheels up in two hours." He wrapped his arm around the woman's waist, kissed her temple. "That's just enough time to get you a clean passport."

  I snickered. "How is Nova Scotia's black market? I've always wondered."

  Ignoring me, Kaisall said to the cake-decorating killer, "Anything you need before we go, April?"

  April. Yeah, that hadn't been her name in Tangier. Or Budapest.

  "It's only a quick hop to Hanscom," she said. "I'm good."

  I almost whimpered. Hanscom Field was west of Boston and half an hour to my brother's house. There was only one reason we'd fly there. Only one reason to head for the sleepy seaside town Will and his wife called home.

  I blew out a breath but I paid for it with a sharp surge of pain from my side. Goddamn fucking gunshot wound. Almost as annoying as the fucked-up arm. "Why Hanscom?"

  "Because you need to lie low, Wes," Kaisall replied. "CIA hasn't figured out how to clean this one up yet but they need you to stay the fuck away from anything with facial recognition."

  "And my cover?" A wry laugh passed my lips as I thought better of the question. I knew the answer. We wouldn't be hiding out in Canada and sneaking into the States if my cover was intact.

  Kaisall and April exchanged a sharp glance. He shook his head. "CIA isn't taking responsibility. They're sticking with your original story—Navy veteran turned cultural attaché buying up antiquities—but the FSB has you on video taking out one of their operatives. It's not good video but it's video and they're not afraid to air it."

  Once more for the cheap seats—fuuuuuck.

  * * *

  Kaisall twisted open a bottle of water and pressed it into my good hand. "Another hour and we'll be on the ground," he said.

  It was his best attempt at lightening my mood but it wasn't working. Everything hurt like fire and I was cold sweating straight through the clothes April had snatched for me. The nurses had loaded me up on painkillers after applying fresh dressings to my wounds but it didn't make a dent. If I had to be thankful for something, it was the posh comfort afforded by this private jet. I could dig deep but I didn't think I had it in me to endure two hours in the belly of a C-130 transport plane right now.

  "Since we have some time together, why don't you explain how you came to be involved in this situation," I said, offering a jerky nod at April and Kaisall.

  Kaisall scowled at his phone before setting it facedown on the glossy table between us. "We picked up an increase in chatter earlier in the month."

  "By 'we,' you mean Shaw," April added.

  Kaisall tipped his head toward her. "Yeah, Jeremy Shaw. Tracking and deciphering chatter is his ball game. He's our intel guy." He lifted his brows, silently asking her approval. She nodded in response. "Kept listening. Noticed some movement on the chessboard. Kept watching. Then we—Shaw—heard through some friends that your local contacts were missing. Then you and Veronica dropped off the radar."

  I stared at him, allowed a stiff smile. "Is there anything you're not watching? Anywhere you're not listening?"

  He shrugged a shoulder. "Eyes and ears are the name of the game."

  "You're not wrong about that," I muttered. "How'd you find me?"

  "Shaw," April said. "He was on the desk when it all went down."

  "I gotta meet this Shaw kid," I said. "Buy him a beer or two."

  "If you can get him out of the office, you're welcome to it." Kaisall barked out a laugh. "We opened some back doors and grabbed some traffic camera footage near the port cities. We figured you'd head west, head toward the water. The holiday meant fewer ships leaving port so the options were narrow. From there, we ran down manifests and hacked into comm systems to take a listen. It was a process of elimination and chances were good we'd chosen incorrectly but…" His voice trailed off as he reached for his phone.

  "But Will sent you in," I supplied.

  "Hell no." April shook her head. "We didn't tell him until we'd been there and back again."

  "Oh. Oh, okay," I murmured. My brother was a saver. He saved people. He did it as a SEAL and now as the commander of a private military force. I couldn't say for sure but I imagined he did a fair amount of it as a husband and father too. I didn't harbor any illusions about my importance in the world but I knew he'd show up if I needed him. He'd save me too. He couldn't not do it. "How'd you manage that if he knew about the chatter, the movement?"

  "He's been out of pocket. He went dark around the same time you did," Kaisall said. "Shannon had the baby a few days ago. You're an uncle. Again."

  I closed my eyes. One new development at a time. "I tried to get to the bridge," I said. "I figured I could fire off a message to Langley. Maybe hook onto an NSA channel. But I never got a clean opening. Hell, any opening. Armored guards kept a twenty-four-hour watch and I had to choose between taking them out and not bleeding to death."

  April leaned back, crossed her legs as she studied me. "How'd you get that bullet out? The flight surgeon couldn't find it but said it wasn't through-and-through."

  "Pliers," I replied. Remembering the pain of fishing the bullet out of my flank was only slightly better than incurring the injury itself. "Wasn't pretty but had to be done. Sepsis is the least interesting way to go."

  She pivoted to face Kaisall with a smirk. "Told you."

  He rolled his eyes. "Say thank you to April for saving your life. She HALO jumped onto that tanker in less than favorable conditions and I'm still unhappy about it."

  "Thank you, April," I said. "If that's your real name."

  "It is
," she replied. "As far as you need to know."

  "Thank her like you mean it," he snapped.

  "I fuckin' mean it," I replied, offering a weak gesture at her. I did, I meant it. I was appreciative of the effort and extreme risk that went into a high altitude, low opening jump in the middle of the ocean and everything that went into finding me and dragging me to the safe harbor afforded by North America. "Thank you."

  She shifted, recrossed her legs. "No problem."

  "It is a problem," Kaisall argued. "We were on vacation. In Jamaica. This guy has to go get himself shot and interrupt our damn holiday. I had plans for that time and they didn't involve scrambling a transport plane, tapping a team of medics, and sending my—my April into a no-win situation where she had to small-boat your ass to a fucking fjord. All because you got shot on the job."

  "To be fair, the gunshot wound wasn't my biggest issue," I replied, pointing at my busted arm. "This situation was more troublesome but I had it covered."

  Another eyeroll from Kaisall. "Okay, sure."

  "Hell, I'm happy I didn't have to steer that tanker myself. I thought about it a few times. Take out the crew, head to Greenland, get a little time in the hot springs. That's as close as I'm getting to an island vacation, right?"

  "Please don't remind me that I left my island vacation to orchestrate your exfil strategy," he said.

  "We left, Jordan," April said. "We left our island vacation."

  "To that end," I started, attempting a nod at both of them, "why don't we return to that island vacation? The last thing my brother needs under his roof is an injured spy with no cover." I lifted the water to my lips, gulped down a sip. "Just take me back to Jamaica with you."

  "You need ongoing medical attention," April replied.

  I gestured to my side. "Come on, Tomb Raider. You've pulled out a bullet or two and kept on going. I'm sure of it."

  She spread her hands out in front of her. "Not a one."

  "Bulllllllshit," I hissed.

  "It's true. Believe me, I've looked," Kaisall replied. "But watch yourself if she gets her hands on a knife."

  "The only reason we got off that tanker was my knife skills," she argued.

  "Ohhh, that's interesting," I cooed. "Someday I want to hear how you managed that bit." I tried tipping my chin in her direction but it only sent pain screaming through my torso. "But not today. I want you to take me to Jamaica today. All I need to recover is my toes in the warm sand and a dick in my hand."

  Kaisall stifled a laugh, saying, "I'm on orders to deliver you to Halsted's house."

  "Don't listen to my brother—"

  "Not your brother," Kaisall interrupted. "This order came from the Commodore."

  My father. Of course my father, the one who loved the Navy and everything about it so damn much he only answered to "the Commodore," was calling me home. It was a matter of days ago that I'd wanted nothing more than my father and his endless critique but now, without death crawling up my spine, I wanted nothing more than an island, a beach, some anonymity.

  That was the best and worst part of my life—the anonymity. The ability to exist without anyone noticing, anyone caring. I wasn't sure when I chose a life made remarkable by being forgettable. I didn't think I'd started out with this goal. If anything, I'd joined the Navy, the SEALs, and then the CIA with the goal of being remembered. Revered, even.

  I'd intended to be legendary.

  But that wasn't the way of it for spies and SEALs. I'd learned to accept that, and most of the time I loved it. I could be anyone, go anywhere. I could live hundreds of lives and make myself at home in just as many cities and want for nothing. Nothing at all.

  "We go to Will's house. Swing by, say hello," I conceded, "then Jamaica."

  April and Kaisall shared a knowing glance, one that said, Unlikely.

  "We'll stop there, prove to my parents that I'm alive and mostly intact, and then head for the islands," I continued.

  Another dubious glance.

  "If there's video, the Agency won't want anything to do with me until they can bury the shit out of it and hang something more incriminating on the Russians' heads," I continued.

  "They're already giving it the fake news treatment," Kaisall replied.

  "Good, good," I murmured. "So, we agree. Ten minutes at Will's place and then straight ahead to Jamaica."

  Kaisall shook his head. "While I usually advocate for post-mission downtime, that's not how this one is shaking out."

  When he didn't go on, I swung my gaze between them. "You've gotta be kidding me. No. There is no way in Satan's rose garden that I'm staying at my brother's house indefinitely. No fucking way."

  My brother was one of my best friends. The guy was awesome. But he didn't let anyone off the hook. He didn't let anyone sneak off with their shit and fix it up on their own, without him. That wasn't how fixers rolled. They fixed and they didn't let you out of their sight until they were satisfied the fix was going to stick.

  And his wife, god help me. Anything my brother didn't handle, she would. She'd kick my ass and then hug the shit out of me and make me promise to be careful with my remaining organs.

  Family was weird.

  "Come on, man. You'll love it." Kaisall shared another glance with April before looking back to me with a barely restrained smile. "It's not Jamaica but a house filled with screaming babies is pretty good too."

  "Just send me back to Russia," I grumbled.

  2

  Wes

  "What's your pain level?"

  I blinked at the doctor as he studied the wound on my flank. If this guy thought I was copping to anything more than mild discomfort while my brother leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, he was out of his damn mind. It didn't matter that the wallpaper was alive and my arms didn't seem connected to my body and I felt like I'd been fired out of an active volcano.

  "Not bad," I said as breezily as I could manage.

  "Save the bullshit, Wes," Will ordered.

  I didn't know when that motherfucker learned how to read minds but I flipped him off nonetheless. Rather, I flipped him off as best I could with my disconnected limb. Which was not at all, if I had to guess. "Yeah? When was the last time you were shot?"

  He shrugged. "Three, maybe four years ago."

  "Oh, fuck off," I grumbled.

  "This is productive," the doctor murmured, glancing over his shoulder at my brother. "Would you excuse us? I'd like to have a conversation with my patient."

  "Bro, I'm not your patient," I said, swatting his hand away from my side. "I just need to get to the islands. Nothing the sun and sand can't cure. Salt water is the best medicine."

  "I'm all for natural solutions but the sun and sand are not addressing the infection you've developed from the gunshot wound," he replied. "There's also the issue of the burns on your legs and several bruised bones."

  "Fuck that," I roared. "Pour some gin on it. I'll be fine." I pointed at the wall behind my brother. "Would you turn the wallpaper off? It's making me dizzy."

  "Can you sedate him, Nick? Just knock him out for a few days?" Will asked. "My parents are going to be here any minute and they're not prepared to see this. I cannot look after this fucking guy, my parents, and my wife and babies right now."

  "Don't forget about the dogs," I quipped. "There are dogs, right? Don't tell me I hallucinated all that barking. I don't know. Maybe Kaisall was the one barking. He's a fuckin' bloodhound."

  "Honestly, Will, I want to help you but this is not my area of expertise. I'm better qualified to assess your kids' neurological development than handle major trauma injuries. Let me call Stremmel and—"

  "No way in hell, Acevedo," my brother yelled. "I've seen enough of that guy for a year. Maybe two. You can handle one mouthy SEAL. This should be easy. You worked in a refugee camp in Africa, for fuck's sake."

  "I did," the doctor agreed. "But I specialize in kids and their brains." He pointed at me. "This is neither a kid nor a brain."

  "
Thanks for calling in the B-squad for me. Thanks," I said to my brother. Goddamn him for looking so smug and…upright. He made it seem like standing was easy and I hated him for that. "Seriously. Why would anyone choose that wallpaper?"

  Will shot a glimpse to his side and then back at me. "Wes. Buddy. There's nothing on the wall. It's light gray. Shannon said the color is called moondust or some shit like that."

  I stared at the flowers and fairies and mushrooms dancing behind his back. That wall was not gray. It wasn't. And all I needed was some penicillin and the sea. "I don't wanna see them," I said, my words fragmented and whiny. "I don't wanna see Mom and Dad right now. Tell them I went to the Caribbean to be a pirate."

  "You're welcome to do that," Will replied. "Truly. Go on with your swashbuckling self, Wes. Just drag your ass out of my guest room and pull on a puffy shirt, and I'll buy you a fucking ship."

  "You're supposed to steal the ship," I argued. "I'd expect you to know that." I blinked up at the doctor. He was pretty but there was no missing the wedding band on his left hand. "Have we met? I've heard your accent before."

  "Yes, at your sister's wedding. You also know my wife. Erin."

  "Oh, yeah. The redhead chick the Italian mafia put under their protection. Because that's totally normal." I tried to get a better look at him but his head wouldn't stay still. Or stop multiplying. "When did you guys get married? I wasn't invited. I don't think."

  A slight smile lifted his lips as he stabbed a syringe into a vial, slowly filling the barrel. "The night before your sister's wedding."

  "She doesn't make house calls with you?" I asked.

  "No, not when she's in the Philippines."

  "Damn," I murmured. "I like her. You, I'm not too sure about."

  "I like her too. This might burn a bit," he said as he tapped the syringe. "But it will hit you before you can count to ten."