Another glance between the men.
“Said he’s not ready to leave Pendragon.” Tristan leaned a hip against the table and folded his arms. “We’ve put out feelers to most of the guys who worked on the task force with us.”
That should have been a vote in their favor. But I was already tied too deeply to these men. No one at White Spring would trysetting me up with a local café owner. After I was there long enough, if a co-worker thought it was time to influence my social life, I’d find another job. The company was large enough I could bounce between teams or departments.
But here? With at least six people I’d slept on dirt floors with? With two who’d patched me up after taking a bullet? When people got inside your heart, you ended up paying for it, one way or another. I’d paid enough and wouldn’t risk it again.
The town wasn’t small in the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it way, but once this company grew, everyone would know them. And that’s where the risk lived. “Why Brenton, Michigan? Why aren’t you closer to a major center? New York? LA? Hell, DC?”
Tristan gestured for Arthur to explain. “Lansing has an airport where we can keep the jet?—”
“Thejet?”
Arthur nodded. “My father’s providing some seed money. And resources.”
Tristan’s irritating grin reappeared. “I think Uther?—”
“Don’t call him that.”
“Not in front of him, you mean.” Tristan winked. “I think he wants to keep a handy off-the-books team ready if the Pentagon says no to one of his projects.”
“We’re not beholden to him,” said Arthur, without his regular conviction.
“Until he cuts our power.”
“As I was saying,” Arthur continued, “Brenton is also under four hours from O’Hare and under two from Detroit Metro. Close to the Canadian border, and”—his lips tightened, as though holding back a smirk—“close to Tristan’s mom.”
“You’re jealous,” said Tristan.
“Momma’s boy,” taunted Arthur.
My stomach clenched, as it always did when they traded mom stories. Arthur’s mother was a complicated woman, butTristan’s mother? Rhonda had sent him packages whenever we were somewhere long enough for him to receive them. Not with treats or snacks everyone could pillage, but with photographs of artwork from her gallery, or little sculptures and puzzles he gave to local kids.
Time to change the subject. “Back to this job offer. What are you calling this place?”
Arthur exhaled in the specific way he did to express his dissatisfaction. “We’re working on the marketing angles.”
“Lance is pitching corporate-sounding names.” Tristan grinned. “Platinum. Sovereign. Something that screams, ‘We charge ridiculous rates.’”
I snorted. “Something that screams, ‘Totally not mercenaries, why do you ask?’”
“We’re not mercenaries.” Arthur countered, but his eyes crinkled at the corners.
“Leave that to your father?” Fuck, I was falling into old patterns and swapping jabs now. Barely half a day in a small town, and I was losing it.
Arthur frowned at me, but didn’t swipe back.
“My vote?” Tristan straightened and pointed directly at Arthur. “Round Table Security.”
Arthur groaned immediately. “Christ, not this again.”
“The knight thing?” I shook my head. “You two might have been born with those stupid names, but I’d like to go by Garrett occasionally.”
“Hey, we didn’t pick the names,” Tristan defended. “That was all?—”
“Fucking Merlin,” Arthur finished, with the exasperation of someone who had fought and lost this argument too many times.
We were originally assembled for Task Force Legacy, a CIA-backed operation designed to protect and secure ancient artifacts in the late 2010s. Northern Afghanistan was a troveof hidden wealth. Nearly thirty thousand archaeological sites had been identified, full of treasures from the Greco-Bactrian Empire, remnants of Silk Road trade, and hoards of ancient coins stamped with the faces of long-forgotten kings.
