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“Bodyguard for a Liechtenstein prince, he’s fourteen. There’s a request for a military physical therapist—special operations is a plus. And I have an extraction in Russia.”
The extraction is out of the question. Those jobs don’t take me more than a few days, and then it’s back to this apartment right after. Do I want to deal with a fourteen-year-old child? If I recall, teenagers are fucking annoying. I don’t plan on having children, so that’s a fuck no.
“Who’s requesting the physical therapist?”
Crawford cocks a brow. “Are you ever going to tell me your credentials? You presume to be qualified but being an EMT isn’t enough for some of these jobs.”
I chuckle. “It’s not like any doctor will willingly go work for them.”
He doesn’t need to know my background. Am I an EMT? Kind of. I got my junior EMT program certification at sixteen and volunteered for two years. I omit the junior part when I presume to be qualified. They don’t have to know that I studied premed at the Naval Academy only three years before I decided to become a SEAL.
After I retired from the SEALs, I went back to school. I finished my undergraduate degree but didn’t go back to study medicine. I have a doctorate in physical therapy and another in occupational therapy.
I’m fucking qualified. He just doesn’t need to know it.
“As long as they know I’m capable, it should be enough. Who needs a PT?” I insist.
“Ricardo Zamudio, the head of Los Zamudio Cruzes cartel.”
A cartel, huh? I don’t know if that’s a gig I want. I place my hands on the back of my neck, propping my feet on top of my desk. Decisions, decisions. Should I hang up the phone and try someone else?
“As I said, you can join me on my next mission. It’s an all-expenses-paid cruise.”
“I could use a cruise, but I’m going to pass—unless you’re willing to give me all the intel on the operation.”
His jaw tightens. “That’s not how I work.”
“Okay then, send me the medical records for the PT gig. I might take that one.”
He shakes his head, giving me a disappointed look. This guy thinks I’m a fucking idiot, but the fact is he doesn’t know shit about me. “Being a doctor doesn’t pay as much as the prince.”
Crawford doesn’t get that I don’t do this for the money. I have a hefty trust that could support ten families for at least two lifetimes. And maybe that’s the difference between the two of us. He’s hungry for money. I want to make things right.
Mom used to say a person can change the world with one act of kindness a day. Not sure if that’s true, but I want to believe that I can make a difference by using what I know to help others. Even though I’m no longer a Navy SEAL, I want to serve. Working for a cartel isn’t ideal, but if my job is to help someone recover from an injury while watching their backs, I can do it for a couple of months.
“That’s not your problem. Send me the information.”
“I don’t have much.”
“Send what you have, including the salary and accommodations.”
“They won’t tell me where they’re located until the contract is signed. If you want something safe, try the prince.”
I nod and wonder if this is for his protection or theirs. Tapping my temple a couple of times, I say, “Let me think about it, and I’ll get back to you.”
“I’ll be off the grid starting next week. Think fast.”
I wave a hand as if it doesn’t matter. He’s not the only person who can get me a contract. “You’ll hear from me if I don’t find something else.”
July 18th
This week has been a clusterfuck.
I haven’t found a contract and Sharon, my sister, needs my help. It’s ironic that she ignores me for years, but when she finds out her husband is cheating with the nanny, I’m the first person she reaches out to.
She’s married to a scumbag who kicked her and their children out of the house when Sharon tried to fire the nanny. My first instinct was to say no. Instead, I suggest she contact our father first. I’m not surprised that he refuses to help her. He claims it’s Sharon’s fault, and she should get out of her own fucking mess.
When I asked if her mother could help, she said my former stepmother wants her to fix her marriage.
