Page 12 of Dozer

The call disconnects and my townhouse falls silent. Dexter stretches lazily before hopping onto the bed beside me, completely unconcerned that my entire life has just changed.

Lucky cat. He has no idea. I stand, cross to the hallway, and pause in front of the glass case I avoided looking at earlier. This time... I look.

The folded American flag rests exactly where I placed it, beside it sits Ryan's challenge coin and his dog tags along with a photograph of the two of us at my college graduation.

I touch the edge of the frame with two fingers. "I've got this," I whisper.

Whether I'm talking to my brother... or myself... I'm not entirely sure.

I grab my go-bag from the hall closet and get to work packing everything I think I’ll need. First, my laptop and camera. Along with my forensic kit, my handgun and extra magazines. If someone is willing to kill to prevent the autopsy, I better be prepared. I make a quick call and arrange for my favorite pet sitter to look after Dexter. She’s a college student who lives next-door. She’s used to my last-minute jobs, as the DOD often had me jetting all over the place with short notice. She’s amazing with him, although she tends to give into him and brings catnip treats with her.

The familiar weight of anxiety while getting ready for a mission settles comfortably across my shoulders and for the first time in weeks, I feel useful again. I can’t help but smile as I throw my dinosaur shirt in my suitcase, just in case.

I don't know that within seventy-two hours someone will put a bounty on my head.

I don't know that I'll uncover a conspiracy capable of bringing powerful men to their knees.

I don't know that the quiet giant assigned to protect me will become the safest place I've ever known.

All I know is that Hunter asked for my help, and I've never once regretted saying yes to family.

Not even when it changes the course of my life forever.

CHAPTER 2

Dozer

Hunter's remote briefing room smells like burnt coffee and gun oil, same as always. There are worse smells. Way worse smells. I learned that in the Army.

Spartan Elite's headquarters is newer, bigger, and packed with enough technology to make a Pentagon contractor drool, but I feel more comfortable in this building. From the outside, it looks like an ordinary warehouse. Inside, it doesn't offer much more. That's intentional.

The room hasn't changed much since I started running missions with Spartan Elite. Matte-black walls, two monitors and one long conference table scarred by years of coffee cups, knives, and the occasional piece of equipment somebody dropped harder than necessary.

Hunter likes functional.

So do I.

I don't see much point in decorations or distractions. Nothing in this room exists unless it serves a purpose. And whenever we meet here, I know exactly what kind of mission I'm walking into. Off the books, completely off the books. The kind of operation that never makes it into Spartan Elite's official records. The kind where even our own staff won't know where we are, what we're doing, or why.

Those missions are usually the most interesting. They're also usually the hardest… and most dangerous.

There's no backup unless Hunter specifically puts it in place. No company resources to call on if things go sideways. No convenient paper trail explaining why we're there. If we get caught, Spartan Elite doesn't exist. If we fail, nobody is coming to clean up the mess. I like those odds more than I probably should.

Maybe because there's something brutally honest about them. There’s no room for pretending and no need to write a fictional mission brief designed to make an ugly operation sound respectable. All that is left is the barebones of the mission. Just a job that needs doing and men willing to do it.

I sit in the same chair I always use, my back to the wall, the door in my peripheral vision. Call it habit, or training, or survival… Some things become so ingrained that a man stops thinking about them and he just does them.

I glance at the clock.

Six minutes.

I've been here for six minutes, running the mission through my head. On the surface it seems easy enough. A simple body recovery with zero electronic trail and a secure transport to D.C.

I like simple. Simple keeps people alive. Complicated, gets people hurt. People get hurt when somebody misses a detail, they die when somebody misses two. The fewer the details, the less likely for failure. Doesn’t matter how many details there are, I don't miss any.

That's why Hunter called me in before anyone else. He stands at the head of the table; one hand braced against the surface while he scrolls through satellite images on the monitor. Hunter has a way of briefing a mission that makes you believe he already knows how it will end.

Not because he thinks he's smarter than everyone else, but because he's spent enough years watching good men die to know exactly how quickly a plan can go to hell. I've learned the same lesson.