Page 115 of Seal of Honor
He walked down a quiet side street and stopped in front of a house barricaded behind a high wall shrouded in tropical plants. There was a heavy gate with an intercom system and camera. All of it looked state-of-the-art.
He leaned in, pressed the button on the intercom, and waited. After a minute of silence, Quinn cleared his throat. “Harlan, it’s Travis Quinn. We spoke on the phone.”
A crackle of static was his only response. He stood there for another moment before the gate creaked open. Seth Harlan may be a recluse, but he had efficient security.
As Quinn walked through the gate, he found himself in a beautiful courtyard garden bathed in sunlight. He followed a winding stone path until he saw Seth sitting alone in the shade on a wooden porch. There was a rifle propped beside his seat within easy reach, and he held a bottle of beer loosely in his hand, the condensation dripping steadily onto the wooden boards beneath him.
Quinn froze for an instant as he took in the sight of Seth’s scarred face.
Jesus Christ.
He’d known the man had been brutalized, but seeing the extent of it firsthand was a shock to his system.
Half of Seth’s face was a patchwork of scars, an ugly web that stretched from his hairline to his chin, detailing every harrowing moment he’d endured as a prisoner of war. His hair had grown out haphazardly, scruffy and unkempt. His lone, piercingly blue eye locked onto Quinn—wide, wary, almost fearful. His other eye was glassy and vacant, the result of a crude interrogation technique that had cost him both his sight and his confidence.
“Didn’t think you’d actually show up,” he said finally. His voice was gruff and low, like he wasn’t used to using it.
Quinn eased himself into a chair across from Seth. He hadn’t known the man before the torture, but he’d read so many reports about Seth Harlan that he felt like he did.
Seth had once been an all-American kind of guy with a brilliant smile, a quick mind, and a quicker tongue. He’d made friends fast and easily. He was a bright light, the life of any party, a jokester who could keep spirits high even in the most dire of situations. He was the kind of man who inspired loyalty and camaraderie in his unit.
But the man before him now was a husk of that cheerful, charismatic Marine. He’d endured hell and had come out the other side broken and scarred. The light was gone, replaced with a palpable darkness that seemed to surround Seth like a storm cloud, and there was an air of fragility about him that was heartbreaking.
Quinn swallowed, forcing himself not to stare at those scars. “As I said on the phone, I’m here to offer you a job.”
Seth just grunted, raised his beer to his lips, and stared out across the courtyard to where a fat orange cat lay stretched out in the sun. There was a peacefulness here that Quinn hadn’t expected, considering the drunken revelry on Duval only a few blocks away.
“Don’t get why you want me,” Seth finally said, breaking their silence. “I’m a broken man, Quinn. Not fit for duty.”
“Everybody’s broken in some way.” And Quinn was the most broken of them all, but he didn’t voice that thought. Instead, he motioned toward the rifle propped beside Seth’s chair. “Can you still shoot?”
Seth’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Only need one eye to shoot.”
Quinn nodded, accepting the answer. Seth Harlan was a warrior, and warriors knew how to adapt. They could lose limbs, eyes, and even their sanity, but the instinct to survive was deeply ingrained.
“Then you’re not as unfit as you think.”
Seth looked at him again, his one good eye narrowed. “And what if I don’t want to be part of your team?”
“Then why did you apply?”
Seth remained silent, but he didn’t need to answer. Quinn knew why. It was the same reason he’d pushed Gabe so hard to form HORNET in the first place: The need for a team, a brotherhood. The need to serve a purpose, to fight for something bigger than himself. The need to prove he wasn’t broken.
“You applied because you’re tired of hiding,” Quinn answered for him. “You’re tired of being alone. You want to fight again, and we can help you do that.”
Seth looked away but didn’t respond.
Quinn took it as a good sign that he hadn’t been kicked out yet. He leaned back in his chair and let the silence stretch between them. He didn’t feel the need to fill it with words. If there was one thing he knew, it was that silence often accomplished more than any words could, especially when dealing with men like Seth Harlan.
The orange cat eventually sauntered over, rubbing its body against Seth’s scarred leg. He reached down, his fingers tangling in the fur, but he still didn’t speak, and Quinn didn’t push.
Either Seth would come around or he wouldn’t—it wasn’t Quinn’s place, or anyone else’s for that matter, to force him into a decision that he wasn’t ready for.
“Take your time, Harlan,” Quinn said finally and stood up. He took a card from his wallet and set it on the table between their chairs. “But also consider the opportunity you have here.”
Seth finally looked at him. “What kind of opportunity?”
“To get back what they took from you.”
