style="font-size:15px;"> He stopped, rocking back on the heels of his Italian leather boots. “Why?”
“We don’t have the manpower.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” Gabe made a quick notation on a page and set it to one side. “Taggart thinks he may finally have a lead on the elusive Ms. Bowen. Josh is going to be tied up with the Romero trial in Seattle for at least two weeks, and everyone else is either hip deep in the Dallas industrial espionage case or working the economic summit in London. That leaves me, and as much as I wouldn’t mind some field work, I’m needed here at the moment.”
Dominic studied his brother. To an outsider, Gabe would no doubt appear calm and dispassionate, an image deliberately encouraged by his choice of attire—a starched white shirt, rep tie and severe charcoal suit that just happened to be polar opposites of Dom’s own laid-back black slacks and green linen shirt. Only someone who knew him well—like a brother—would be likely to notice the sudden tension lining his mouth and shadowing his eyes.
But then, both Gabe and Taggart were wound pretty tight; Dom had long ago concluded that his two older brothers had spent way too much time in the line of duty—no doubt at the old man’s command—and had missed out on hanging loose and living a little.
Not him. Dom had decided early on that life was too short to spend his time all stressed out worrying about things that might never happen and bracing for every possible disaster. Besides, somebody had to keep Steele One and Steele Two from imploding, and while Taggart was most likely a lost cause, Dom still had hopes for Gabe.
His esteemed older brother just needed an occasional reminder that the world wouldn’t end if he enjoyed himself once in a while. Or—he thought as he planted himself in one of the luxe leather chairs facing Gabe’s desk—didn’t try to stand in the way of somebody else enjoying himself.
“Okay, so everybody’s busy,” Dom said, stretching out his long legs. “What’s that make me? The invisible man?”
Gabe frowned down at the paper before him. “You’re still recovering. It’s only been two months since the shooting. You need more time.”
“No, I don’t. I feel fine. Hell, I feel more than fine. What with physical therapy, working on my house and all the time I’ve spent out on the course at Fort Carson, I’m in the best shape of my life. For sure I’m in better shape than some desk-riding cowboys I know.”
Gabe stoically ignored the insult. “Forget it.”
Dom considered his brother’s dismissive tone and reminded himself he was no longer the brash, hell-raising teenager who’d once felt compelled to challenge Gabe’s “I’m-four-years-older-than-you” authority.
Okay, so his big brother had founded Steele Security and been the driving force in establishing its reputation as a top-notch organization that could handle anything from high-profile protection to undercover investigations to locating missing persons. But Dom, along with Gabe, Taggart and two more of the nine Steele brothers, had since contributed to the company’s growing prestige and were now full partners in the enterprise.
As such, he got a say in things, whether Gabe liked it or not. “I don’t think I want to forget about it,” he said evenly.
Gabe slowly set down his pen. Raising his head, he met Dom’s direct gaze with one of his own. “Let me guess. You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
Dom grinned. “Not a chance. So you might as well tell me what’s going on and get it over with.”
For a very long moment, Gabe continued to stare at him. Then he gave an exaggerated sigh. “Aw, hell. You always have been pigheaded.” Reaching over, he snagged a file folder off the top of a stack to his left, speaking even as he thumbed it open. “The client is Abigail Sommers. I did protection work for her when I was first getting started. She was born an Anson, as in the Anson Mining Group, and over the course of eighty-odd years she’s single-handedly increased what was already a pretty sizable family fortune. Along the way, she’s outlived four husbands and both of her children.
“According to the message she left on my voice mail, her only grandchild is being detained in San Timoteo, an island nation—”
“—in the southern Caribbean. Run for the past dozen years by a corrupt ex-army general, Manolo Condesta, who insists on being called El Presidente.” With a chiding look, Dom tipped back his chair and folded his hands behind his head. “I’ve been living in London the past few years, Gabe, not on the moon. I’m up to speed on all the banana republics. I don’t need a lesson in geography or world politics.”
Gabe’s stern mouth tipped up the faintest fraction. “Got it. Sorry.”
Dom shrugged it off. “So what’s the grandkid accused of?”
His brother glanced down at the file, even though Dom knew very well all the information was already securely lodged in his encyclopedic memory. “Rioting, assaulting a policeman, resisting arrest.”
He gave a nod of understanding. It was an old story—spoiled rich kid takes a trip to a foreign country, gets drunk or stoned and does something obnoxious that pisses off the local officials.
“I’m surprised I haven’t heard a word about it in the press. Usually they love this stuff.”
Gabe nodded. “True. But Condesta’s got an iron grip on info going out of San Timoteo. And due to some bad tabloid press decades ago, Abigail is rabid about protecting her privacy. Everyone who works for her in any capacity signs a nondisclosure contract.”
“Okay, but from what I’ve heard about El Presidente, he’ll let people go for the right dollar amount. With all the money Mrs. Sommers has, she must have government contacts who can help?”
“Officially, the U.S. government has no relations with San Tim since it’s been added to the terrorist watch list. Unofficially, they’ve done what they could.
“Problem is, Condesta keeps upping the ante. Abigail said that twice he’s set a price, twice she’s agreed to pay it. And twice he’s changed his mind just hours before the scheduled exchange and demanded more. The asking price is now at one million, with no end in sight, and in the meantime her granddaughter’s been held for over four weeks.”
“Not good,” Dom repeated. While young Miss Sommers most likely was being confined someplace that more closely resembled a country club than Alcatraz, the hard truth was that women were vulnerable in ways men were not. “So what does the client want from us? More negotiations? An extraction?”
“I don’t know. All she said in her message was that the situation was untenable and something had to be done.”
“She’s right about that. And as of now, I’m the guy to do it.”
“No.” The eldest Steele closed the file as if that settled the matter.
“Yes.” His voice for once not the least bit amused, Dom straightened, bringing his chair down with a thump. “I don’t need a babysitter, Gabe. What I need is some action. Because if I have to spend another week sitting on my ass doing nothing but counting snowflakes, I’m likely to go tear up some Third World country myself.”
“Dammit, Dom—”
