Page 110 of Fixed Asset

“Okay.”

“Not being a dick, Cat.” He softened his tone. “But the man you knew is gone.”

I’d bet Shepherd Drexel was exactly the same person as Shawn Miller.

Now was not the time to tell him that.

“Got it, Shep,” I told him, even though I didn’t.

And God willing, I never would get it. Getting it would be to understand what it was like to be captured and tortured and witness the same happening to my team before they were executed in front of me. Only then would I truly comprehend what Shawn went through and why he’d needed to leave the name behind in a cave with his fallen brethren.

I continued on in silence.

Shep broke it. “Shep sounds all kinds of wrong coming from you, Sphynx.”

“I could call you Phantom, but you know Mason is a nosy bastard, and he’d recruit the rest of the guys to dig into my past and find the squadrons I worked with until they found a Phantom. Though, hate to tell you, but the name’s not very original. I’d bet there are like five hundred Phantoms out there between the Teams, the Unit, and the SF groups. Not to mention, Rangers love their cool nicks. I’m sure there are a bunch of Ranger Phantoms running around out there.”

I heard Shawn-slash-Phantom-slash-Shep chuckle.

In front of me the road forked. Before I could ask Shep which way to go, he told me, “Go right. The south street is a direct line in. Five hundred yards down there’s a stand of trees and a pathway between two houses to get to the beach. Head north and hold at the light-blue cabana. You’ll have a direct view of the yellow cinderblock boathouse where Pete is being held.”

“Do you have eyes on Jack and Mason?”

“Negative.”

Shit.

“How close are you?”

“I’m at your six, and close enough.”

That could mean anything. Shep was a sniper. He could be a mile away and he’d think he was close enough.

“Can you call them and tell—”

“Tried that. Jack’s not answering.”

Double shit.

He’s busy finding a way to get Pete out of a jam, I reminded myself.

I silently crept between the houses Shep had guided me to, careful not to trip over any of the children’s toys that were scattered in the sand and dirt. I hit the sandy shoreline and took off in a dead sprint to the blue hut that Shep had called a cabana, but it was more of a dilapidated structure that should’ve been demolished twenty years ago, if the half-missing roof was anything to go by.

“Movement at your eleven,” Shep called in.

I slowed to a walk, swung my rifle left—and stopped dead when I found myself on the business end of a rifle.

“Goddamnit.” A familiar growl came from the man holding the M4. “Sorry, Kitty Cat.”

Mason lowered his weapon.

I lowered mine and reported to Shep, “Found Mason.”

“Copy.”

“Who are you talking to?” Mason inquired.

I pointed to my ear. “Shep.”