chair, the only sound to be heard was the quiet whisper of cold air feeding through the elaborate system of ductwork.
A situation?
Hell, it was a full-blown technodrama. Romeo and Juliet out of Indiana Jones.
At thirty-two, Greg Hunt was nearly eight years Hank’s junior. The man was brilliant, experienced, old enough and smart enough to avoid trouble of the female variety. This Anna of his must be something special. With three kids, yet.
He only hoped she was worth it. They’d left it with the understanding that Greg would consult with Sterling Churchill, Forrest Cunningham and Greg’s younger brother, Blake, who was into cloak-and-dagger stuff for the feds. All five men, Hank included, were ex-military. It was one of the things they had in common, besides being highly successful in their individual fields.
Hank had assured Greg of his support, both financial and otherwise. Talk of undertaking a mission brought back a rash of old memories. For the first time in years, Hank felt the familiar surge of excitement, as if he were back with the First Battalion of the 160th Special Ops, being briefed for another black SOF mission.
His career with the military had been the most rewarding period of his entire life. Never before or since had he felt so fully alive. He might even have made the service a permanent career except for the confluence of several events, including his father’s death, a crisis in the oil industry and the crash that had landed him in a Turkish hospital with a flock of surgeons squabbling over whether to do a chop job or try to patch up his mangled left leg.
The truth was, he missed it.
Hank had been eighteen when he’d enlisted. Reckless, resentful and still raw from his aborted marriage. Toting a redwood-size chip on his shoulder, he’d been determined to prove something—God knows what—to his old man.
Instead he’d proved something to himself. Now, some twenty-one years later, he knew who he was, what he was made of and what he was capable of achieving, either as a part of a team or on his own.
And none of it had anything to do with the fortune amassed by previous generations of Langleys.
Of the five people Hank trusted most in the world, four were ex-military and Cattleman’s Club members, like himself. The fifth person with whom he would trust his life was Romania Riley. Prim, scrappy Miss Manie, a woman who smelled like lavender and who could throw the fear of God into the club’s two-hundred-fifty-pound ex-marine chef with one look over the gold rim of her bifocals. The lady might drive him nuts on occasion, but she did it with the best intentions in the world.
As if his thoughts had summoned her, there came a familiar rap on his door. Hank managed to lower his feet a moment before Miss Manie marched into the room with that familiar look that invariably spelled trouble.
“Now, you’re not going to like what I’m about to tell you, but just listen and don’t interrupt until I’m done, all right?”
“If it’s about—”
“Hush. I haven’t even started yet.”
Hank hushed. When she was done, he decided she’d been right. He didn’t like it. Naturally he started arguing. “Look, just go ahead and take off as long as you need, you haven’t had a vacation in years. Your brother’s funeral last fall didn’t count. Just get me someone down from the main office before you go, okay? Helen will do just fine.”
“Helen’s not going to drive all the way from Midland every day just to—”
“She can put up in staff’s quarters for the duration.”
“What, and leave her family behind?”
“Helen’s got family?”
Manie shook her head, causing her bifocals to slide down her long, thin nose. “I declare, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you didn’t have a speck of decency in you. You don’t know doodle-squat about all the folks who work their fingers to the bone for you.”
“Maybe not, but I pay ‘em damned well. And I do know Helen can suck data out of a computer faster than anyone else on my payroll.”
“That may be, but did you know she has two sons and a husband, and teaches Sunday School at the First Baptist Church? Did you know—”
“Manie, get to the point. What does all this have to do with your niece?”
“Great-niece. She’s all the family I’ve got left in the world, poor little thing.”
When Manie put on her “poor lonesome me” act, it was time to take cover. “Fine. Or sorry, depending on your sentiments. Is the kid weaned yet? Do I need to hire a nanny?”
“Have you heard a single word I’ve said?”
“Enough to know you want me to baby-sit while you go up to Midland. Have you and Helen planned a big shopping spree or something?” The two women had kept in touch even after Helen had transferred to headquarters after Hank’s father’s death.
Manie made a sound that was part snort, part huff. He used to try to reproduce it as a kid, but he’d never been able to come close. “What I want is for you to listen,” she snapped. “Now, I’ve put off this surgery for—”
“Surgery! What surgery? You didn’t say anything about surgery!”
“I just did. Now hush up and listen.”
“What kind of surgery? I can fly you to Austin—”
“I don’t want you to fly me to Austin, I’ve got a perfectly good doctor in Midland, and she’s scheduled me for next Friday morning at seven, which gives Callie just enough time to get settled and learn how we do things around here.” She said it all without giving him a chance to get a word in, and then glared at him over her spectacles, daring him to argue.
“Callie?”
“My great-niece. I just finished telling you all about her, didn’t you hear a single word I said?”
He’d heard it all, only he was having trouble collating all the data. “Just back up a minute, will you? First, I want to know the name of your doctor. Next, I want to know exactly what she told you, and dammit, I want to know why you never mentioned it before. Hell, I thought you just wanted a vacation. How long have you known about this? Why didn’t you say something before now? Does it-” He scowled and shoved back the thick, gray-spangled hair that fell over his tanned forehead. “Here, sit down, take my chair. Want me to get you some water?” He hit the intercom button that connected him to his chefs office. “Mouse, send up a pot of tea and whatever the hell goes with tea. Crackers, cookies—whatever. It’s for Miss Manie. You know what she likes.”
Everyone knew what Miss Manie liked. She was an institution at the club. A roughneck’s kid his father had taken in out of the oil fields and raised like his own daughter. Outspoken, occasionally outrageous, she’d earned the respect of everyone in town, even the women she called floozies. They might not like her, but they sure as hell respected her.
“Now, tell me what this is all about.” He squatted before her. It damned near killed him, but he needed to see her eyes. Taking her knotty-fingered, blue-veined hands in his, he said, “Manie, sweetheart, level with me. I want to
