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“Why is everyone on my ass?” she asked, not making a move to get up.
“Because you’re being such a bitch,” answered Pen, looking at her fingernails rather than at Tara. “I agree, it’s time to go.”
Aine didn’t care why, but Pen’s words made their friend stand when Quinn’s hadn’t.
Tara walked toward the door, but Pen came over and kissed Aine’s cheek. “I’d say we’d come back later, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“What’s wrong with her?” Aine whispered.
“Not sure, but I’ll see if I can find out.”
“What the hell?” said Ava once their two friends had left the room.
“Something’s up,” said Quinn, who was usually the first to say they should reserve judgment and the last to offer an opinion.
“She’s always been a bitch, but it seems like she’s gotten worse.”
Aine looked back and forth between her sister and Quinn. Both seemed concerned, but Aine wasn’t. She had her own problems to worry about, and she’d stopped caring what Tara thought about anything.
“Do you need to rest?” Ava asked, stroking her forehead.
Aine closed her eyes and nodded, wishing that Griffin would walk back in the door, take her in his arms, and tell her everything would be okay. Right now, something was telling her it wouldn’t be, and she hated the feeling of dread that had settled in her stomach when he left earlier.
“I’ll head out too, honey,” said Quinn. “You need your rest.”
“Close your eyes and sleep,” Ava said once Quinn was gone. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
She did as her sister suggested and closed her eyes. She turned her body away from her so Ava wouldn’t see her tears. If she asked, Aine wouldn’t have been able to tell her why she was crying.
—:—
Striker drove to the inn on Moonstone Beach, parked, went inside the room, and sat on the bed. He was exhausted physically, mentally, and emotionally.
A few hours ago, all he’d cared about was being by Aine’s side. He’d still feel that way if Ghafor was continuing to stockpile arms in Pakistan and hadn’t shown up in Colombia.
Knowing he might have to leave the country soon, Striker cursed the job he had always loved, but now grew to hate more with every mission. He got up and turned the shower’s water to scalding before climbing in.
On his way to the hospital, Striker called Merrigan.
“Did you hear Ghafor is back in Colombia?” he asked.
“I hadn’t. Why do you think he returned?”
“No idea, except the arms are shipping out too.”
“Do you want to talk to Doc?”
“I probably should. I’ll give him a call.”
“Not necessary, he’s right here.”
“What’s up?” Doc asked.
Striker told him what he’d just told Merrigan.
“How well do you know Jimenéz?”
“Not very. I met him years ago when he was a junior senator from New Mexico. Why?”
