Page 9 of Duty Preserved

The DGSI team that had lost him showed up not long after. Three officers came around the corner at a jog with weapons drawn and pulled up short when they saw their runner facedown on the sidewalk, hands tied with what used to be a dress shirt.

The lead officer looked at me. Shirtless, breathing hard, a scrape on my forearm from the cobblestones. Then he looked at the runner. Then at the shirt binding his wrists. Then back at me. Something crossed his face that he had the good sense not to say out loud.

“We’ll take him from here.”

I stepped back. They hauled the runner up and replaced my improvised restraint with actual handcuffs. Then they walked him toward a vehicle at the end of the street. One of the officers held up my shirt between two fingers, considered it, and extended it out to me.

“Yours?”

“Keep it.” There was no way I was putting that thing back on my body.

I tapped the earpiece. “Andrew.”

“Heard you got him. You in one piece?”

I looked down. No shirt, just a scrape on my forearm, and my ribs were going to remind me about that elbow for a few days. “More or less. I’m ready for that pickup.”

The van was already close. It rounded the corner before I’d finished catching my breath. The side door slid open, and Andrew Volante, my Citadel teammate, leaned out, swept his eyes over me standing shirtless on a Paris sidewalk, and let out a low whistle.

“Nice. Le ol’ Chippendales disguise. Bold choice.” He tilted his head. “So, was it the guy or the girl who got you shirtless?”

“Both, technically.”

Andrew’s eyebrows went up. “That’s a story I need to hear.”

He reached behind his seat, dug through a go-bag, and tossed me a black T-shirt. I pulled it on and climbed into the van. Someone handed me a water bottle. I explained the vomit, and the ribbing commenced for another few blocks, but it had the easy, loose feel of a job well done. The kind of talk that only happened when nobody was hurt and everybody could afford to be stupid about it.

Gael Marchand, an old friend from NATO rotations years back, turned around from the front seat. “I owe you both. Seriously. This would have been a different night without Citadel.”

“You’d have managed,” Andrew said.

“Not like this.” Gael shook his head, then smiled. “One day, when I’m done with all this, maybe I should come work for you guys.”

“We’d take you,” I said.

“Careful,” he said in his thick accent. “I might hold you to that.”

The van dropped us at our staging hotel. We exchanged handshakes with Gael and the other agent, a few words about keeping in touch, and then it was just Andrew and me standing on the sidewalk.

Andrew pulled out his phone. “Ethan wanted us to check in when we were done.”

“Yeah.”

He dialed. Put it on speaker. Ethan Cross, our boss, picked up on the second ring.

“Paris wrapped clean?”

“Yep,” Andrew said. “Sixteen in custody. Gael’s happy. DGSI takes it from here.”

“Good.” His tone shifted. “On to Kenya. You’re flying out next week. I’ll send you the flight details once they’re finalized.”

“Copy.”

“Cole Braddock arrived there yesterday. He’ll have info for you when you arrive.” Ethan paused. “This mission is personal for me. I know it’s not going to be very exciting, but I need you guys to take responsibility for helping get these rangers set up to protect the wildlife on the preserve.”

The word sat on me before I could stop it. Responsibility.

I had no problem with that fucking word when it had to do with me. But being responsible for others ended in disaster.