Page 61 of Long Past Deadly

Quaid leaned to her. “I hate it when he calls me sir.”

“Miss Alanna.” He took her briefcase.

“I need to make a phone call to my FBI boss, Niles. Can we hold dinner?”

“As you wish. It’s not a problem. I’ll set you up in the dining room, if that’s acceptable? Are we having a working dinner?”

Quaid answered without hesitating. “No. We’ll eat in the kitchen, please. We both need to set this aside. It needs some thinking time. Security? Who is on property?”

“Patina and Tane. Miss Bailey checked in today and did a complete sweep, too.”

“Excellent.” Quaid led her to the dining room. With lights on, his War Table gleamed. “You polished it today.” He could smell the hint of lemon.

“Yes, sir.” Niles laid her briefcase on the edge. “Drinks and a quick appetizer?”

“Sure. Lani?”

“I need water, Niles.”

The man nodded.

“I’ll take the same and whatever appetizer you can whip up fast is fine.” Quaid moved to Lani’s side. “You need me? If not, I’ll go shower and leave you to your call.”

Her fingers stroked the dark wood, then traced the time-aged crack. She walked along the side of the table and studied the top. Heavy oak with simple design, thick legs, and a scarred, but polished surface, he’d reclaimed this relic from an old military depot. With history all the way back to World War I, the piece spoke to him of tradition and service. Niles had scoured thrift and antique outlets for chairs that fit. The table would seat twelve.

It fit nothing else in his house, but he’d bought it anyway. He owned expensive things because of the monied world he was born in. But the pieces he cared about – the table, the chairs on the balcony, the painting on the wall in his office, his old Marine footlocker in his closet – had nothing to do with money.

Alanna pulled a chair mid-table and settled into it with gentle grace, snapping her fingers for him to hand her the briefcase.

Tickled, he quickly handled her request. “At your command, princess.”

“As is fitting, knight.” She grinned, shooing him away with her hands. “Go, let me make this call so we can quit working.”

“Do either of us know how to do that?”

“We need to learn. I’ll take lessons from you if you’ll take lessons from me.”

“We’re doomed.”

“I can think of other things to learn.” She bit her lip, her face lightly flushing, and gathered her phone. “Go, quit distracting me.”

He went.

&&&&&&&&&&

QM International Situation Brief: 00:30:45 PST 12/19 – San Diego HQ. All locations secure. Security Level 3 remains active. All personnel limit information released to outside sources. Ϙ

What separates men who live with violence from men who become it?

Mackey mused over that thought while Delaney questioned the convenience store clerk and the smoke shop owner, both open at the midnight hour. Propped against the bumper of the QM SUV, Mac stayed motionless against the black, logoed, shadow of the vehicle and took a long survey of the area – the who, the where, and the dangerous hummed along with the buzz from the neon beer sign, a siren blocks away, and the weight of the ocean moisture in the air.

Alanna lived here at one point and that insulted the protector in him. The one thing he couldn’t do was automatically get these people to trust him, though. He had to earn it, like Delaney had living among them. So while Delaney searched the old stomping grounds, he chewed a toothpick and pondered the actions of two men who’d trained the same way he had. Mercer. Whit.

In his experience, the moral line between mission and killing was questionable in the heat of the moment and depended on survival. The line moved depending on the threat, the training, and the brotherhood commitment. For most, coming home with a sense of wrong sitting on your conscience was a byproduct of wars.

Whether it was service loyalty to the Army or a sense this FBI Agent deserved support, he remained focused and determined to find Whit no matter how long he had to search. Two years of constant Army training, four years as a Tier One counterterrorism warrior, then two more years working with Special Operations before getting out shaped many of his commitments. But collateral damage was a constant threat. Like the two teenage girls last night who had almost lost their lives.

One thing he had learned. Alanna had left her card with her phone number at certain businesses, searching for even one small crack in the silence wall that was street loyalty. She should have known better than to leave traceable exposure, but the agent was desperate. If his mother was missing, he’d do the same.