Page 75 of The Commander

Slow MacGyver, unfortunately. It’s not working very efficiently, and at this rate I’ll be here until 2055.

Or dead.

Quinn.

Did they kill her?

I heard the bullet moments before I lost consciousness. I can’t help feeling she was with me while I was unconscious, and if these fuckheads have turned me into some kind of spiritual psychic with the dead, I’ll kill them.

If she is still alive, I’m marrying her the moment I get her back in my arms. Whether she agrees or not. Regardless of the law. I’ll kidnap her and make her see sense.

I probably won’t.

My point is, if Quinn is alive—and I refuse to believe she’s dead—I’m not letting these gangster assholes take her from me.

Footsteps outside the door alert me, and I shove the metal into the pocket of my jeans, then lean against the wall.

The door unlocks, and two men walk in. The first one steps to the side, chewing on a toothpick and glances around the room, calm as a cucumber. Then he smiles at me like we’re in on the same joke.

If it’s the one where I skin him alive the moment I get free, he’s on the money.

The second man walks in with a confident swagger. If he’s not the El Jefe, or boss, then I’d be very surprised.

“¿Cómo te llamas?” he demands my name.

“Angus MacGyver,” I reply with a smirk, wondering if he was a fan of the show. Very few knew MacGyver’s first name, as it was kept a secret until the seventh season.

His face darkens.

Not a fan, then.

“You work for this BHS.”

I nod.

“You train the soldiers and police, interfering with our business.”

Illegal business. I don’t say that as it will probably get me dead faster than a cheeky TV reference.

I know what’s going to happen here. It’s textbook cartel. These dumb fucks think that if they hold me hostage, they can negotiate with the authorities to let them carry on with their business activities uninterrupted.

It’s a shit plan.

I hold no value. I’m not the son of a politician or world leader. But he’s searching for information to see if the stupid mook (me) his soldier dragged back here is something he can use.

Nope. Sorry, buddy. I’m just your everyday American civilian now.

He studies my jeans, sweater and sneakers, assessing me further. If he wants to know my net worth, I could tell him I own a three-bedroom house in Los Angeles, have a healthy 401K and about seven thousand dollars cash. I have a designer watch and a Ducati, but no one is negotiating shit with those.

But I’m not saying that, because I don’t want him to think I’m completely without valuable, then shoot me in the head and toss me in the ocean later in the week.

That would suck.

“You’ll be our guest tonight, then we will negotiate with your bosses tomorrow.”

Right on cue.

Unfortunately for him, it will be over by then. Josh and the boys won’t be happy when they learn I’m missing. It won’t take long.