Page 32 of Tango

“Yes sir, I have already contacted D.C. P.D. and informed them of the situation. I called security at Harcourt Alabaster, and they were able to give me the license plate. If you see lights, let me know, and I’ll reach out to my contact again.”

Ethan was astonished by how no stone was left unturned, how they thought everything through, how creative they were, and how he felt like he had a team at his back, like when he was in the military.

That wasn’t something he’d experienced since his time with the 24th. Working for the Pickeridge Security Group, which let Ethan do close protection as an independent contractor, he’d lost the sense of cohesion and group purpose.

Now that Tango was graduating from the Cerberus program, he’d have more flexibility in where he lived. Soon, Ethan could find a good fit for his skills and temperament and sign a longer-term contract.

Switching on his blinker as he approached the emergency room entrance, Ethan glanced back at Tango and Mrs. Harcourt.

Clem gasped.

It was a death rattle with the accent of surprise.

Ethan turned to see something like out of a zombie movie.

Clem’s eyes popped open, and he rigidly folded himself upright.

Ethan shifted his focus between the road and Clem’s wild, bloodshot eyes and his sticking-up hair.

Clem’s focus landed on Ethan, then, quick as a rattlesnake, his hand shot out, grabbing Ethan’s neckline.

Ethan’s first instinct was to smash his fist into the guy’s face to make him let go.

But the car needed two hands.

And Clem’s brain looked like it was glitching, like he had no idea what he was doing.

Back at the mansion, Clem had nodded at Ethan, then he was pulling a dart from his neck. Clem’s reptilian brain might have marked Ethan as the survival threat.

Clem was obviously surging with adrenaline, and the only thing going for Ethan was that Clem’s body was tangled from being shoved around to make way.

Ethan stopped fighting the car and let it drift to the side until they were off the road. With his foot pumping the brakes, they rolled to a stop. Ethan threw the gear into park.

Moving his hand away from Ethan’s throat, down to his shoulder, Clem pressed Ethan against the door.

Ethan was afraid to do much to protect himself because he wasn’t sure how close to the cliff’s edge Clem’s system was functioning.

To Ethan’s trained eye, it looked like Clem was in the last throes of life, and this was his brain’s last grasp.

There was no arguing with the lizard brain. It had a singular function—survival.

Tango pressed her paws into the seat back, leaning in to see what was happening.

“Tango, leave it. Leave it.”

Tango stared at Ethan.

“Tango, sit. Wait.” Ethan leaned into Tango’s training. Right now he didn’t need Tango to go all protector-pooch on Clem.

The man had had a rough day.

“Osbourne. Sitrep.” Comms could hear the grunts and scramble. She’d know they’d stop moving just shy of their X. She wanted a situation report.

Smashed against the window with the broken glass and shards still lodged in the frame, Ethan could feel the saw-like edges slicing into his skin from shoulder to elbow and along his back as he struggled to hold Clem off him and come up with a strategy.

Slick, sticky blood painted the door and soaked into his shirt.

“Osbourne. Sitrep.”