Page 7 of Seal of Honor
Quinn held his gaze a moment longer, then swore softly. “Yeah, you’re right. I know you’re right, but—shit. All right. Harlan’s out.” He turned back to Tuc. “The only man I haven’t been able to reach yet is the linguist, Jean-Luc Cavalier. Apparently, he lives in the middle of the bayou and has spotty cell service.”
“If you want him, you’d better find a way to get in touch,” Tuc said. “Because I already have a job for you. Zoeller and Zoeller Insurance Company recently contacted me on behalf of Bryson Van Amee. Have you heard of him?”
Gabe had. “He’s in imports and exports and does a lot of subcontracting for the military.”
“That’s right. Bryson was taken hostage this morning in Bogotá during a business trip. The FBI fears one of the guerrilla groups may be responsible.”
Gabe nodded. Wealthy American businessman plus Colombian paramilitary—yeah, the math added up, and the sum didn’t look good for Bryson Van Amee.
“The FBI is working with his wife, Chloe,” Tuc continued, “but Zoeller and Zoeller wants to free him before a ransom is paid, or else they’ll be liable for a hefty kidnap and ransom insurance payout.”
“Does the FBI know what Zoeller’s doing?” Gabe asked.
Tuc gave a thin smile. “What do you think?”
That’d be a big negative. Okay, he wasn’t all that crazy about working against the FBI—well, maybe “against” was too harsh a word since they all wanted the same results. Still. It somehow seemed a betrayal of his former career.
“I understand your hesitation,” Tuc said after the silence stretched too long on his end. “Believe me, I do. I had some bad moments when I went private. But I’d also like to point out that the FBI hasn’t sent a team in after him and isn’t planning to. They’re hoping to simply talk his abductors down or, if all else fails, pay the ransom. He’s not important enough to them. Even with his government contracts, he’s a small fish in the grand scheme of things, and Uncle Sam couldn’t care less about what happens to him. But that man’s damn important to his wife and kids, his sister, his company—and you’re his best chance at survival.”
Gabe considered it. He had two choices. Go wheels up, sneak in under the FBI’s nose, and bring Bryson Van Amee home to his family, or gimp back to his boring new job at the Pentagon, where he would forever be under the Admiral’s thumb.
Yeah. When put that way, there was really only one choice.
“Q, we have to get mobilization orders to the men,” Gabe said, his mind already working through the logistics. He checked his watch. “Tell them to be ready at—wait, do you have a plane for us?” he asked Tuc.
“Fueled and ready to go. You’ll also have helos and a HumInt pilot at your disposal here and in-country.”
“Perfect. We’ll need one to dig Cavalier out of his hole in the bayou.”
Tuc snorted. “Good luck with that.”
“Tell the men to be at their local airport for a 0400 pickup,” Gabe said to Quinn. “I’ll swing by Louisiana and grab Cavalier, then meet you at…” He trailed off.
“I have a private airstrip about forty miles outside New Orleans,” Tuc suggested. “My pilots all know where it is.”
“That works. Thanks. We’ll come up with a plan of attack once everyone is together and we have more intel, but we need to get moving.”
“On it,” Quinn said, already dialing. He tucked the cell phone between his shoulder and ear as he strode toward the relative privacy on the other side of the balcony. “Hey, Marcus, it’s Quinn…”
Tuc turned toward Gabe and held out a hand. “I’ll have all the information you need before you leave. Welcome to HumInt Consulting, Bristow.”
Gabe shook the offered hand. And tried to tell himself he hadn’t made a pact with the devil.
CHAPTER 3
NEW ORLEANS, LA
Jean-Luc Cavalier was drunk.
And naked, buried underneath a pile of equally drunk and naked women. Three women to be exact.
None of them moved when Gabe knocked on the wood doorframe of Cavalier’s shack, so he let himself in through the screen door.
“Cavalier.” Gabe nudged the guy’s head with his boot.
Jean-Luc mumbled something in French and palmed one woman’s ass, gave it a squeeze, then drifted back to sleep with a smile.
Jesus Christ. This is what his life had come to? Scraping a drunk linguist off the floor so that he had enough men for an op? He never would have found one of his SEAL teammates like this if they were waiting for a call to go wheels up.
