“—story that Jason McGregor has amnesia.”
“That’ll be up to Dr. Templeton to determine,” Tristan said smoothly. “She’ll be the one treating him. But the condition does occur. My own brother dealt with it once upon a time.” He smiled suddenly and lifted his beer mug in salute when he overheard Casey say something about him hosting the party. “Thank my wife, Hope,” Tristan announced loudly to the assembled guests. “Everyone knows she’s the brains behind this gig.”
Laughter and smiles followed as Hope Clay, easily as beautiful as women half her age, rolled her eyes and continued nudging wrapped gifts toward Casey and Jane.
Seth’s contribution to the effort had been a case of microbrew from some dinky little startup out in Arizona that Casey had a liking for. The fact that his coworker was marrying the owner of a bar and could get all the beer he wanted had already been laughed about.
“Whatever happened with your brother is one thing. But McGregor should be facing murder charges,” Seth told Tristan, not for the first time. “Not your hired shrink’s couch.”
His boss didn’t blink. On the surface, Tristan Clay was the brilliant mind that had started Cee-Vid as a little video gaming company several decades ago and built it into a hugely successful player in the world of consumer electronics and gaming. But more important, behind the company’s front, he was the number-two guy at Hollins-Winword, a secret organization with an even longer history of black ops and international security.
Cee-Vid, where Seth and Casey ostensibly worked, was pretty much a household name.
Hollins-Winword, though, was a closely guarded secret that not even the real employees of Cee-Vid knew about.
“Dr. Templeton isn’t my shrink,” Tristan said in a low voice. “She’s an impartial professional whose expertise and discretion were good enough to get this whole operation approved in the first place. She knows only what she needs to know about HW in order to do her job well.”
Seth’s fists curled, frustration ticking like a bomb inside his gut. “And how’s that supposed to help Jon and Manny?” They’d been McGregor’s partners up until the point when their bodies had been discovered in a Honduran hut six months ago. McGregor had been nowhere to be found until a few months later, and only then because he’d been picked up in Mississippi on some traffic stop. The Hollins-Winword agent had been using one of his known aliases.
It was the one kernel that kept sticking in Seth’s teeth. If McGregor hadn’t been using the alias, he would likely still be in the wind. And the field agent had never been a stupid man, even if Seth did consider him guilty of murdering his partners. “You think that’s going to help their grieving families? Knowing the person responsible is getting counseling?”
Tristan’s lips thinned. He took his responsibilities—both public and private—very seriously. “Their families will never know the entire truth about their deaths, whether or not Jason was responsible,” he said flatly. “And you know it. That’s a price everyone who signs on with us pays. Whether someone dies as a hero or not, the complete truth stays unsung. If it didn’t, we would’ve been out of business before you were a spark in your daddy’s eyes.”
Seth’s jaw went even tighter because he did know that. “When I signed on with the agency, there weren’t any people in my life to worry about me. Any people to lie to.” So that decision had been easy.
Jon, Manny and Jason, though, all had family. Parents. Siblings. And all of them believed the cover story. That their sons and brothers had been ex-pats cranking out a meager living as farmers in a tiny corner of Central America. They didn’t know they’d really been there to feed intel to the authorities about a local drug king who’d branched out into human trafficking. Not even Hollins-Winword’s considerable resources had been able to prove that their covers had been blown, a circumstance that would have laid their murders squarely on the drug king’s doorstep.
Instead, the entire situation was still surrounded with question marks even all these months later. The recent discovery that the drug king had also been funding suspected terrorists had only upped the stakes where McGregor was concerned.
“If your father hadn’t been killed when you were a pup, you wouldn’t have signed on with us?” Tristan’s gaze was steady. “You honestly believe that?”
Seth grimaced. His father’s unavenged death when he was eighteen still haunted him, though after twenty years, he mostly managed not to think about it.
Thankfully, Tristan left the subject of Seth’s dad alone. “We have bullets recovered from their bodies that we haven’t been able to trace back to a specific weapon, much less Jason’s. That’s it. That leaves us with his memories. Locked up in his head or willfully hidden away. When that question is resolved, then we’ll take our next step. In the meantime, we got him back from the Feds only by calling in a boatload of favors. I don’t want anything screwing it up or he’ll get yanked back under government detention for God knows how long while they figure out what to do with him, and we’ll lose any chance we’ve ever had of learning the truth of what really happened in Central America.”
“Maybe that’s where he belongs,” Seth said under his breath. “Whatever he ended up doing down there, he started out with two partners who were killed. And you’re harboring him in a comfy little safe house right here in Weaver.”
“You were friends with Jon and Manny—”
“Were being the operative word.”
Tristan set his mug on the chest-high fireplace mantel behind them, clamped his hand over Seth’s shoulder and guided him out of the room and to the front door. “Go home,” he advised quietly. “Get your head back on straight. The likelihood of there ever being a public court case about this situation is slim to none.” The federal government would never allow some things—such as their off-the-books arrangement with Hollins-Winword to handle some of their dirty work—to see the light of day.
“So he just walks,” Seth said between his teeth.
Tristan’s grip hardened. He was a good twenty-five years older than Seth, but there was little doubt the man could have taken Seth—former US Army Ranger or not—right to the ground if he so chose. At least, he could have done a good job trying. “If he’s innocent, yes.” Tristan lowered his hand. “You’ve got the choice, Seth. You want to leave the organization, say the word.”
“I could take everything I know to the media.”
Tristan snorted, his eyes filling with honest-to-God mirth. “Honor runs thicker in your veins than blood does, kid. Why else do you think I recruited you out of the Rangers?”
“There’s no honor in letting a man get away with murder.”
“He hasn’t gotten away with it yet, has he?” Tristan’s voice was smooth. “Until I got him transferred here to my watch, he was wearing leg irons in a military prison. But that cozy safe house you’re all pissed off about now still doesn’t unlock from the inside.” He pulled open the door.
The soft, feminine gasp that greeted them didn’t stump the older man for even a second as his face creased into a wide, welcoming smile. “Dr. Templeton. My wife was just wondering when you’d be arriving.” He stepped back, his arm wide in invitation. “Come in. Can’t have the maid of honor standing out on the front porch.”
Hayley Templeton stared back at them above
