“No.” His head was clearing a little now.

“And we have positive identification on Suzi Toussi and Dax Killian coming out of the Tambo River, lounging comfortably in the front seats, with no one else on board, and I’m guessing heading back to Ciudad del Este,” Dylan gave the report. “We’re going to need to talk to him.”

“Debrief him.”

“Find out what he’s been up to since he left the Army.”

“Maybe get him on board,” Creed said. It’s what they’d all been thinking since Dax Killian had shown up in Denver six months ago, working a job that had ended up involving one of their own. The guy was a legend, very skilled, and they all knew for a fact that he could steal a car blindfolded with one arm tied behind his back. He had chop-shop chops.

“Yeah. I’ve been talking to Grant.”

“Good.” SDF was always running just a little shorthanded it seemed lately, at least to Creed. The world needed saving eighteen times a day some weeks.

“So what can you tell me about Farrel?”

“I saw him.” Up close and personal.

“And?”

“And we need to bring him in. No assassination. And if the CIA sends anybody else after him, we need to take them out.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone.

“Okay then…got it.”

Yeah, Creed knew how the boss was suddenly feeling, gut-punched, and sick, and maybe elated, except he’d be too confused to get very far with that one, and edging up behind all that, moving in fast, like a frickin’ freight train, would be the anger.

Yeah, Creed knew all about it. What he didn’t know was what to do with all of it-except put each overwhelming emotion in a box, and put each box someplace where none of them would get mixed in together, because man, that was one toxic brew. Compartmentalization-it was the only way.

“We’ve got his girl,” Dylan said. “If we can’t find him, he’ll come to us.”

And they’d sure as hell better be damn good and ready for when that happened.

“Stay where you are,” Dylan continued. “We’re at the boat. The package is still in good shape, and we’ll be there in about five minutes. We’ll check the compound, rifle through Farrel’s house, steal everything we find, and then go see what happened to that gunboat.”

Hell.

“Sounds like a long night, boss.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll have you home before dawn.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Ciudad del Este

“Ouch.”

“That’s the last one.” Dax smoothed a small bandage over one of Suzi’s cuts. He’d paid double for super-service in this dump, so he’d had no qualms about letting her soak her heart out in the Posada Plaza’s bathtub, and now she was all warm and steamy and clean, and wrapped in a towel he couldn’t wait to take off of her, and this time it really wasn’t about sex.

He’d been in the bathtub with her, and he knew she was as exhausted as he was, which was bordering on dangerous. They’d moored Conroy Farrel’s ultra-expensive boat at the public docks, paid four kids to watch over it for the night, and eaten on the way back to the hotel.

All they had to do now was sleep.

“Come on, let’s get you into bed.”

Her hair was wet and stringy. Her makeup was long gone. She had a bruise the size of a pistol grip along her temple and cheekbone. She was almost trembling she was so tired and had so much emotion to work through-and she’d never been more beautiful to him in her life.

Yeah. He’d racked up a whole day and a half in her company, and somehow she was his, lock, stock, and barrel, one hundred percent, all his, the whole girl.

His.

Only his.

The rest of the world could go take a flying leap.

He’d moved furniture in front of the door, paid Marcella, Marceline, and the pimp at the front desk each a hundred bucks for security backup. He’d moved more furniture in front of the balcony doors, and he’d cocked, locked, and loaded every damn firearm they had between them.

Everything about this little oasis they were in said “Do Not Disturb.” And he expected the world to respect that for at least twelve hours.

Once he got her all tucked in and comfy, he got in on the other side and pulled her in close, letting her wrap her legs in with his and rest her head on his shoulder, and breathe on him and make him feel secure.

She was his.

“They look pretty comfortable.”

“Too damn comfortable.”

“Why in the hell did you make us work all night, if everybody else got to go to bed?”

Suzi heard the voices from a long distance, like maybe she was dreaming them, but then she realized she wasn’t dreaming.

She knew those voices, and with a soft groan for her aching body and her pounding head, she slowly opened her eyes to a narrow squint.

It was like old home week in room 519 of the Posada Plaza. Zach was leaning up against the open balcony door. Creed was sitting cross-legged on top of the table, eating something covered in sugar. Dylan had the chair, and Hawkins was sitting on top of the dresser closest to the bed.

“Looks like you won the fight, Suzi,” he said. “Good girl.”

“Thank you.” He was proud of her, she could tell, and it did her heart good.

There had been a time when she’d ruled these boys just by being beautiful, and a little sad, and sometimes, in private, a lot sad, until Hawkins had found a place for her.

She’d thought he was crazy at first. Her? Do work for General Grant? But the job had been perfect for her, to wine and dine her way through a series of embassy parties in Prague and let Buck know who talked to whom.

Piece of cake.

And now look at her. Five years later, she was getting the crap beaten out of her and still coming out on top.

“What’s wrong with Killian?” Dylan wanted to know. “You slip him a Mickey, or does he always sleep like that?”

She looked over at the man sound asleep in the bed with her. He was out like a light.

“He had a big day,” she said, shifting her attention back to the boss. “Two big days.”

“Thought he was tougher than that,” Zach said from over by the balcony.

“He’s gonna have to be tougher than that,” Creed said, and took another big bite of deep-fried doughnut.

“He’ll be fine,” she assured them, and for a moment, the room fell silent.

“You were with him,” Dylan finally said, breaking the silence. “What do you think?”

She knew who he was talking about, and it wasn’t Dax Killian.

“J.T.,” she said. “His memory is gone. He’s been tortured. It looks like many, many times. Half of his ring finger on his right hand is missing. He’s got scars on his face, his neck, his arms… probably everywhere, but that’s all I could see with him dressed.” The memory of how he looked played in her mind as she told the guys about Conroy Farrel, John Thomas Chronopolous, and it wasn’t until the tears ran down the side of her nose and pooled on her lips that she realized she was crying.

A pall had fallen over the room.

She understood. What she’d told them was awful, maybe even more awful than what they’d believed all these years.

“We’ve got his girl under lock and key,” Dylan said. “We’re taking her out of here with us, on a transport plane that leaves in two hours. I expect you and Dax to be on that plane. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” She got it. She’d just been given orders by the boss.

“We’ll debrief at Steele Street, before you go to Washington to see General Grant. That’s the way we work. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

He wasn’t Dylan anymore; if she wanted what she’d just earned the hard way, he was “sir.”

“Then get your boyfriend up, Suzi. We’ll see you at the airfield.”

“What about J.T.?” she asked. “What happens next?” She knew her guys, and this was far from over.