Page 27 of Her Righteous Protector

Like calling a lawyer who was probably a centenarian.

“Okay, I’ll come back tomorrow,” Michael said with a huge smile.

Max headed to his kitchen and started the coffee. Even though he had showered last night, he still wanted another one. Sometimes it took three or four showers after a mission before he really felt clean again. This time, after all those hours in the cage, he might need a bath!

He went back to his bedroom where his phone was charging and checked all of the messages that he’d avoided while he’d been out of the country. Just how many people in the world sold insurance, anyway? And, how in the hell did he get on their calling lists?

He read the message from Gray Tyler, the lieutenant of the Black Dawn SEAL team out of Coronado, California. His wife would be lecturing in D.C. next month and he wanted to go out to dinner. Max sent a quick text back accepting the invitation, then went and got in the shower. By the time he was done the coffee was ready and he could face the day. First order of business? Call Elias Peterson. His letter was propped up against the empty fruit bowl on his kitchen table. By the tenth ring he was getting pretty damned frustrated—why in the hell wasn’t it going to voicemail?

“Peterson,” a loud cranky voice answered.

Hell, was he talking to a former Marine drill sergeant?

“My name is Max Hogan. I’m calling to speak with Elias Peterson.”

He heard the man take a deep breath. “You’ve got him. What took you so long to respond to my letter?”

“I’ve been out of the country,” Max started to explain.

“This is urgent. I had to hire an investigator, and they’re not cheap and it took over a month to find you. So now it’s a month and ten days. I need you in my office. We’ve pussy-footed around enough. I’ll see you in an hour.”

Max choked down a laugh.

Who was this cranky old man?

Then he sobered up as he remembered he was dealing with Meggie’s death.

“I live in Virginia.”

“Catch a plane. Be in my office by three o’clock,” he said firmly.

“Mr. Peterson, I’m so sorry to hear that Meghan died. But I don’t understand what any of this has to do with me. I only knew her for a short time and that was over five years ago.”

“You’re one of the beneficiaries in her will. I’m not able to go into details with you at this time, just come to my office.”

“Mr. Peterson, I can make it tomorrow, not today,” Max said reasonably.

“Today. You’re on East Coast time, here in Chicago it is central time. It’s eight in the morning where you are, you can make it. Call me when you get to O’Hare.”

He hung up.

Max shook his head and stretched. He debated how he felt about the old man’s orders, then he decided the old guy was a character. What’s more, this will thing had been bugging the shit out of him so he would definitely catch the soonest flight he could to Chicago.

* * *

It took Max a minute to find the right office in the old building. It was down the hall and around a corner. He didn’t know what to expect, but it sure wasn’t the dark wood paneling, the deep green carpeting, and the Persian rug set underneath an antique writing desk. Sitting at the desk was a woman with bright red hair who couldn’t be a day younger than sixty.

“Are you Mr. Hogan?” she asked.

“I am,” Max confirmed.

“My father was expecting you a half-hour ago,” she said. She waved her hand toward the inner door. “Show yourself in.”

Father? Just how old is Elias Peterson?

“Thank you,” Max smiled. He opened the door and found another beautifully appointed office where two people waited, a man behind a desk and a woman in a chair before it. The huge hand-carved desk dominated the office and made the old man sitting behind it look small.

Until he opened his mouth.