Sweat trickled down his back as he pulled another bale of hay out of the back of the old pickup. The summer sun beat down on him, and he would have removed his shirt if he were doing anything but moving coarse, scratchy hay. Unfortunately, the hay wouldn’t move itself, and Chris had resigned himself to getting it all carried into the barn before he sought relief from the heat. Luckily, there were only a few bales left.
The horses nickered softly as he hauled the last bale inside, and Chris heaved a sigh of relief that the arduous task was completed. Outside, he immediately stripped off his sweat-soaked shirt and stuck his head under the faucet on the side of the house. Shaking out his wet hair, he welcomed the sting of the icy droplets as they splashed on his overheated skin. He stood and stretched, working the kinks out of his tired muscles.
Chris loved the feeling he gained from a hard day’s work. There was something satisfying about accomplishing something so simple, so tangible. Immersing himself in physical labor was the ultimate escape from the complications of life... and the parts of it he would rather forget.
As he made his way back to the house, Chris let his gaze wander over his property. After his wife and child had been killed four years earlier, he couldn’t bear living in the house he had shared with them. In fact, just the thought of staying in California was more than he could stand, so he had packed up and moved across the country. His uncle George had wanted to retire and move to Florida, so Chris had quit his job with the FBI, sold his house outside of LA, and bought his uncle’s property in Massachusetts.
It had once been a large dairy farm, but his uncle had replaced the old cow barns and grazing fields with horse stables and fruit orchards. There had been enough business from offering riding lessons and selling his produce to ensure a comfortable living for the older man, but as he aged, it became too much for him to do alone and too expensive to hire the additional help he would need to keep the place running. He had welcomed Chris’s offer and gladly retired to a condominium in Tampa.
Chris had always liked this place and its three hundred acres nestled up against the border of New Hampshire. It was quiet and far enough away from the bustle of the city to give him the peace he sought. Yet, within the space of an hour or two, he could be in the mountains of Vermont, New Hampshire, or New York, the unspoiled deep woods of Maine, the picturesque seashores of Cape Cod, or the unique urban sprawl that was Boston. As it was, though, he spent most of his time at home, caring for his horses and maintaining the small section of the orchards that he had kept for his own use.
There was plenty of room in the spacious and sturdy farmhouse – more than a single person needed, if truth be told, but he liked puttering around the quaint old structure. It was two stories tall, built in the Colonial style typical of the area, and had six bedrooms, three bathrooms, living room, dining room, den, and a huge kitchen. Chris found that he spent most of his time in the living room, where he had indulged in his love of technology by installing a big-screen television, a state-of-the-art stereo system, and a computer. He was no longer with the FBI, but was still an information junkie, tracking the news with interest, especially when the Bureau was involved.
All in all, he led a fairly quiet and uninteresting life, and while he was usually content with that, he had recently found himself growing restless. His wife’s parents had been wealthy and had left her a substantial inheritance after their deaths in a car accident, so he had no financial worries. But Chris often found himself longing for something he couldn’t put into words.
He had truly enjoyed his time with the FBI. Nothing had given him more satisfaction than putting criminals behind bars where they couldn’t hurt anyone else. But after Sarah and Adam had been killed by a bomb someone had placed in his son’s school – where his wife was also a teacher – Chris had no longer been able to perform his duties. He had sunk into a deep depression, and it had been all he could do to make himself get out of bed in the morning. Some days, he hadn’t even bothered. Finally, he had tendered his resignation and withdrawn from the world, retreating to this quiet haven.
Shaking himself out of his reverie with a sigh, Chris pushed through the screen door and entered the house, making a beeline for the kitchen, where he grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. Popping the top, he took a long draught and went back outside, dropping wearily into one of the old rocking chairs that sat there. The summer air was filled with the scents of grass, earth, flowers, and sunshine. It was late afternoon and the sun wouldn’t set for hours yet, but Chris was happy to just sit there with his beer and enjoy the quiet, hoping to push his troubled thoughts away.
His peace was shattered twenty minutes later by the steady thrum of an approaching helicopter. He watched lazily as it moved across the sky. It was not unusual to see aircraft in the vicinity. There were many small airports in the area, and a beautiful day like this often saw the skies filled with small planes and helicopters as pilots put in some flight hours. The helicopter drew closer, then began to descend, seemingly aiming for one of the empty paddocks near his house. Chris sat up and frowned, wondering who would be landing on his property.
Retired Admiral Orrin Travis looked around appreciatively as he stepped out of the helicopter. The place reminded him of the small farm where he had grown up in Maryland. He looked toward the house, smiling grimly when he spotted the tall blond standing on the porch. He wasn’t sure what kind of welcome he would receive, but started walking in that direction anyway. Travis was not easily intimidated and he had some business to discuss.
Chris watched the older man in the dark suit stroll toward him, his frown deepening when he recognized the distinguished features of his visitor. It had been many years since he had seen the man. His hair had more gray in it now and there were a few more wrinkles creasing his face, but Chris would have recognized him anywhere. The only question he had was: what the hell was his former commanding officer doing here?
Travis walked up to the porch and stopped, looking Chris in the eyes. “Chris.”
“Admiral,” Chris answered, nodding his head slightly.
Travis stifled a smile. Chris hadn’t changed much, acting as though a helicopter landing in his backyard was an everyday occurrence. “You have a nice place here.”
“Thank you,” Chris said.
Travis let his gaze linger on the view from the porch for a minute before returning it to Chris. “I have some business I’d like to discuss with you.”
Chris fought with himself, knowing that whatever his former C.O. had in mind, it was bound to be anything but peaceful, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready to complicate his life again. His curiosity finally got the better of him, though, and he let out a small sigh. “Come on inside.” He led the way into the house, stopping next to the kitchen. “Beer?”
“Please,” Travis replied.
Chris retrieved two beers from the refrigerator, removing both tops before carrying them into the living room. He handed one bottle to Travis and gestured toward the sofa.
Travis sipped from his bottle, studying the room around him and the man sitting opposite. He could tell Chris was curious, but the man would never admit it. His face was calm and his gaze as piercing as Travis remembered and he had to fight a smile. “So,” he began. “What are you up to these days?”
Chris raised an eyebrow at the question, but answered, “Taking care of the horses and drinking beer on my front porch.”
Travis nodded. “Not much of a challenge for someone with your skills.”
Chris shrugged. “I like it.”
Travis smiled at that. He had figured that Larabee wasn’t going to give an inch, and he actually found it encouraging. It meant that Chris still had some fire left in him. “I have a business proposition for you.”
“I’m retired,” Chris stated flatly.
Without acknowledging that statement, Travis continued. “I’m sure you’re aware of the growing incidence of terrorism throughout the world. In the wake of the World Trade Center tragedy, there’s been substantial interest in our being more... proactive in deterring such acts. I’ve been tasked with putting together a special counter-terrorism unit that will be able to work both inside the country and abroad.” He gave Chris a small smile. “I’d like you to head that unit.”
“Why me?” asked Chris, after a long pause.
“You were the best Seal team leader I ever had,” Travis said. “You have the right kind of leadership skills to run a unit like this. You’re unconventional and this kind of project is going to need someone who isn’t constrained by traditional thinking.”
Chris smiled wryly. “Admiral West called me a maverick.”
“He called you worse than that, if I remember correctly,” Travis said with a laugh.
“He didn’t like my methods.”
Travis snorted disgustedly. “He was an ass.”
Chris nearly choked on his beer at that comment.
“Terrorists don’t follow a rulebook,” Travis continued. “I need a ‘maverick’ at the helm if we expect to do any good at all. This will be a very unique and important undertaking and I want someone I can trust running things.”
Chris sighed and looked at his feet, absently picking at the label on his beer bottle. He couldn’t deny being tempted by the offer. Something long-buried was beginning to stir within him and he didn’t know if he was ready to let it out. Finally, he lifted his head and looked at Travis steadily. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Fair enough,” Travis said. “Give me a call when you decide.” He stood and handed Chris a business card.
Chris took the card and shook hands with one of the few men he had ever respected. “I’ll do that.”
Travis nodded and gestured outside. “I’d better not keep my pilot waiting. It’s been good seeing you again, Chris.”
“You too, sir.” Chris watched thoughtfully as the man left his house, wondering if – or when – he would be seeing the man again.
After tossing and turning most of the night, Chris finally gave up and got out of bed. He brewed a pot of coffee, and then went outside to his chair on the porch to watch the sunrise. Travis’ offer intrigued him and he would be lying to himself if he denied being tempted to take him up on it. He had been enjoying his simple, tranquil life for the past few years, but he had to admit to being a little tired of the monotony. Chris sighed. Maybe it was time to make a change... and maybe this job was what he needed to do that. Smiling ruefully to himself, Chris finished his coffee and went back inside.
Orrin Travis hung up the phone with a satisfied grin. He hadn’t expected Larabee to call back so quickly, but he was glad that he had. The sooner they could get the project rolling, the better he would like it. It hadn’t been much of a surprise that Chris had wanted to choose his own team, and Travis had no qualms about letting the man have his way. Larabee had always had good instincts when it came to people and he was sure the man would surround himself with the most capable teammates he could find.
Travis turned to gaze out the window. This project meant a lot to him. After his only son had been killed in a terrorist bombing in London, he had made it a personal goal to do whatever he could to put a stop to terrorist activities. The idea to form this unit had come about after many discussions with old friends from the military and intelligence communities. Despite their expertise, both of those groups were limited in the scope of what they could accomplish and in the amount of resources they could devote to the effort. What was needed was an independent unit focused solely on that task. After a lot of persuasion, he had secured a combination of government and private funding and had been given Congressional authority to establish his counter-terrorism unit, independent of any other government agency.
Travis stood and poured himself a brandy from the crystal decanter that sat on the small bar area on one side of his office. Smiling, he saluted himself in the mirror behind the bar, hoping like hell he knew what he had gotten himself into.
Chris walked into the bustling office and stopped, taking in the scene around him. Phones were ringing, keyboards clicking, and men and women in suits were diligently attacking the heaping piles of paperwork strewn across their cluttered desks. The walls were painted that uninspiring color he had always referred to as ‘government gray’, looking even more drab and boring under the harsh fluorescent lighting. He felt a pang of something he couldn’t name at the familiarity of the sight and shook his head to clear his thoughts. He had business to conduct.
Following the directions he had been given, Chris walked through the maze of desks until he arrived at a small office on the other side of the large open room. He had to smile at the sight that greeted him when he stepped up to the doorway.
“Goddamn stupid machine!” His shirtsleeves rolled up and his tie hanging crookedly, Buck Wilmington, cursed and slapped his hand against the side of the computer monitor.
“You think that’s gonna help?” Chris said with a grin as he leaned against the door jamb.
Buck’s head snapped up in surprise at the familiar voice. “Chris?” He jumped out of his chair and rushed toward his old friend, grabbing him in a bear hug. “Son of a bitch! How the hell are you?!”
“Buck,” Chris said with a wry grin, noticing the surreptitious glances being sent in their direction by some of the occupants of the outer office. “People are gonna talk.”
“Like I give a shit,” Buck snorted, grinning broadly. “You should know that about me by now.”
“Guess some things never change,” Chris said dryly.
Buck pulled away and gave his friend a once-over. “Damn, pard! It’s good to see you!”
“Good to be seen, Buck.”
“So what brings you to the urban jungle?” Buck asked, motioning Chris to a chair while he perched on the edge of his desk.
“Got some business to discuss with you,” Chris said.
Buck’s eyebrows lifted, disappearing beneath his unruly hair. “What kind of business?”
“A job offer, if you’re interested.”
Buck leaned back, his eyes widening in shock. Chris was offering him a job? He grinned. “Hell yeah, I’m interested.”
Before Chris could reply, they were interrupted by the ringing of Buck’s telephone.
“I’d better get that,” Buck said with a sigh. He picked up the phone and listened for a minute, his earlier jovial expression morphing into a frown. “Where?” he barked sharply into the phone, reaching for a pencil. Jotting something on a notepad, he nodded and said, “We’ll be there.” He dropped the phone back in its cradle and looked at Chris. “Got a situation... want to tag along?”
Chris merely smiled while Buck stood and grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. Just like old times.
It had taken them only fifteen minutes to reach the warehouse in one of the more decrepit waterfront areas of Los Angeles. Even from inside the car, Chris could hear the muffled gunfire coming from within the building.
“So what’s going down?” Chris asked as he and Buck jumped out of the car and took in the scene.
“We had an operation scheduled for tomorrow night, but the timetable got pushed up to today,” Buck said, pulling on his bulletproof vest. “It’s a drugs for guns deal. A bunch of nutball survivalist types out of Oregon managed to buy themselves a pile of heroin in Hong Kong and now they want to trade it with the local arms dealer for a few truckloads of weapons.”
“Crazies with guns is never a good combination,” Chris said, accepting the vest his friend handed him.
“No joke,” Buck said, checking his weapon and waving his men into position. “You packin’?”
“Nope,” Chris replied.
Buck reached into the car and popped open the glove compartment, pulling out a Beretta nine-millimeter pistol. “Use this one.”
Chris grinned and took the gun, gripping the weapon with a practiced ease that surprised the gregarious FBI agent.
“You kept in practice?”
“You bet,” Chris said. “Not a whole lot to do out in the boonies. Got my own range set up out in the field.”
Buck chuckled, then nodded his head toward the building. “Let’s go join the party.” After a brief radio conversation with the rest of the men on site, he and Chris jogged toward the building.
They were at a stalemate. Every time the agents attempted to advance on the building, they were driven back by gunfire. The bad guys seemed to have an endless supply of ammunition, which was not surprising, considering the large number of weapons that were supposed to be part of their deal. After some discussion, Buck and the other team leader decided they would need to send in the tear gas, since there was a danger that the criminals inside might decide to break out some heavier weaponry.
“What’s the plan?” Chris asked when Buck returned from talking with his agents.
“We’re gonna smoke ‘em out,” Buck answered. “Bastards have way too much hardware in there. The undercover guy said there were at least four rocket launchers on their list... with ammunition.”
“Jesus, that could do some serious damage,” Chris replied with a grimace.
“Yep,” Buck agreed soberly. They had just turned back toward the building, when the crack of a single shot stopped them in their tracks. “What the hell?” Buck said, ducking behind the nearest car.
“Up there.” Chris pointed to the roof of the warehouse, where a flash of sunlight on metal had caught his attention. “They got a sniper.”
Pressing his hand to the small microphone in his ear, Buck suddenly cursed. “They took out our sharpshooter – got him right through the vest. He called in that there was activity on the roof just before the shot.”
“They’re gonna fly right out of here,” a new voice said from behind them, speaking with a soft southwestern drawl.
Buck and Chris whirled around, staring at the man who had spoken. He was younger than either of them, and was dressed casually in faded jeans and an old leather jacket. His hair was long and tied back in a ponytail under a Texas Rangers baseball cap. Worn black combat boots and the faint outline of a Kevlar vest under his blue t-shirt were the only hints that he was anything but a bystander.
“Who the hell are you?” Buck demanded, lifting his gun to cover the stranger.
Chris didn’t move, but watched the man warily. Calm blue eyes met his and Chris had to smile at the lack of reaction the man was exhibiting to the weapon being pointed at his heart.
“I’ve been after Miller for six months,” the man said, ignoring Buck’s question. “He always keeps some of his boys on standby. Used a chopper to escape last time I had ‘im cornered.”
“Miller?” Chris looked at Buck for clarification.
“Preston Miller,” Buck answered without taking his eyes off of the newcomer. “He’s in charge of this little group of misfits.”
“Can a chopper land on that roof?” Chris asked Buck after considering the man’s words for a few minutes.
“Probably,” Buck said with a sigh.
The man nodded. “Sniper’s up there to cover the chopper when it shows up.”
Buck and Chris exchanged a look, then Buck nodded, lowering his gun. “Okay, cowboy. Tell us what you know.”
“You’re gonna need to take out the sniper,” the stranger began. “Ain’t no way you’ll get close s’long as he’s up there.”
“He’s that good?” Chris asked, curious.
“Yep,” the man answered. “Name’s Hartley. Ex-Special Forces. He’s Miller’s right hand man.”
“How do you know so much about these guys?” Chris asked, curious about this man.
The younger man shrugged and then grinned. “Pays to know the critters you’re huntin’.”
“Hunting?” Buck inquired. “You a cop?”
“Nah,” the man replied. “Private. Pick up bounties now and then. Miller jumped bail in Dallas eight months ago.”
Buck nodded, then sighed. “Well, we haven’t got anyone good enough to take the sniper out from that distance.” He pointed to the large expanse between the warehouse and the next nearest building, where their own sharpshooter had been stationed. “He already took out the only guy we had who could do it, and it’ll be a couple of hours before we can get another sharpshooter here.”
The man looked over at the building, squinting and tilting his head sideways before nodding to himself. Turning back to Buck, he said confidently, “I can take him from there.”
“Sorry, pal,” Buck said. “This is a federal operation. I can’t allow a civilian anywhere near it.”
“Ain’t a civilian,” the man said quietly as he pulled out his wallet.
Buck took the card handed to him and looked it over for a minute before returning it. “All that tells me is that your name is Vincent Tanner and that you’re a licensed bounty hunter. Doesn’t give you any authority here.”
“Your loss,” Tanner said with a shrug. “I’ll get ‘im later, if I have to, but I’d hate like hell to miss a chance like this.”
Chris watched his friend wrestle with his decision. He didn’t envy him. If he accepted Tanner’s offer and things went bad, he would be in a heap of trouble with his superiors. But missing out on the opportunity to put the bad guys away because he failed to utilize the resources at his disposal was an equally difficult pill to swallow.
Finally, Buck turned to the bounty hunter. “You sure you can do this?”
Tanner eyed him soberly. “Yep.”
Buck looked to Chris, who nodded as well, indicating that he believed the bounty hunter’s claim. With a grunt, Buck gestured to the position where his own sharpshooter had been stationed. “It’s all yours. Get a headset from Barnes – the guy in the tan pants over there.”
Tanner nodded again and turned to leave.
“Watch yourself,” Chris added. “They’re using armor-piercing rounds.”
The bounty hunter met his gaze and Chris felt an odd sense of connection with the man, almost as if he had known him for years. Grinning, Tanner turned away, heading for his post.
The standoff continued, with shots being fired sporadically by both sides, but the sniper on top of the building was too good and neatly kept the FBI agents at bay. Finally, after twenty minutes of silence, Buck received a radio call from Tanner.
“Wilmington,” Tanner called quietly. “Have your boys kick up a little fuss up front, get Hartley to pop up where I can see ‘im.”
Buck frowned and muttered, “Kid’s givin’ me orders, now.”
Chris chuckled. “But you’re gonna do it anyway.”
Buck glared at him, but ordered his men to ‘make a little noise.’ A rapid volley of gunfire from the agents brought a reply of shots from the sniper, all of which missed, since the agents had returned to their cover. A single shot ended the gunplay and silence reigned.
“Tanner?” Buck called into his microphone.
“Got him,” was the succinct reply.
“You sure?”
“Yep. He ain’t gonna bother you no more.”
Buck squinted up toward the roofline, but couldn’t see anything there. He keyed his mike again. “Morales, have your guys take a few more shots.”
The agents did as Buck had ordered, but there was no response from the roof.
“I’ll be damned,” Buck said wonderingly. “The son of a bitch did it.” With more enthusiasm, he started issuing the order to move in on the building.
“What about the sniper?” Morales, the other team leader inquired.
“He’s down,” Buck replied. “Let’s move in now before they get anyone else up there.”
Chris watched his old friend approvingly. Buck hadn’t lost his touch. He was still a damn good agent – one he would be glad to have by his side in battle. Chris smiled at the sparkle in his friend’s eye as he prepared to advance on the building.
“Just like old times,” Buck said, slapping his shoulder as he moved out from behind the car.
Chris followed, enjoying the rush of adrenaline that the situation had prompted. It had been a long time, but it felt right being here, fighting side by side with Buck. He knew he probably looked like a nut, charging into a gunfight with a huge grin on his face, but he didn’t care. He was where he belonged.
The agents rushed the building, exchanging fire with the men inside. The battle lasted for about fifteen minutes, but the militia men inside the building were finally subdued. Buck and his men were wrapping up the scene, when a cry of alarm came from inside the building. Chris and the other agents watched in horror as one of the hopeful weapons buyers emerged through the doorway, holding an agent in a choke hold, with a large-caliber gun to his head.
“Shit.” Chris muttered. Hostage situations were never good. He stayed where he was, watching as the drama unfolded. Buck and the other team leader approached the hostage-taker slowly, hands upraised so as not to provoke him. Chris wasn’t close enough to hear everything that was being said, but he figured the desperate man was bargaining for his freedom.
The negotiations continued for several minutes, the armed man growing more agitated by the moment as he argued with the agents. A sudden crack split the air and everyone froze where they stood. The gunman blinked and an expression of disbelief crossed his face before he slumped to the ground, a neat hole in the middle of his forehead.
Chris looked up to the building opposite and spotted Tanner standing there with his rifle. He gave him a brief wave, somehow knowing that the sharpshooter was looking at him and nodded to himself as Tanner disappeared from view.
“Hell of a shot,” Buck said softly from beside him.
Chris spared him a glance and said simply, “Yep.”
Buck slumped wearily against the car. “That’s the last of ‘em.” He gestured to the paddy wagon that was driving away with the last of the captured criminals.
“Not a bad day,” Chris remarked.
“Yeah. Would’a been better if Kowalski hadn’t got hit, though,” Buck replied, his expression darkening as he thought about his sharpshooter.
“How is he?” Chris asked sympathetically.
“Took a hit in the chest,” Buck said. “Won’t know anything for sure until later.”
“Sucks when your guys go down,” Chris commiserated.
“That it does, pard,” Buck said with a sigh. “Good thing Tanner came along. That boy sure can shoot.”
“Speak of the devil,” Chris said, nodding toward the man in question as he strolled toward them, a sniper rifle in his hands.
“Tanner,” Buck greeted him.
“Thought you might like your gun back,” Tanner said, handing over the rifle.
“Thanks,” Buck replied with a smile. “Sure glad you know how to use it.”
“Glad I could help,” Tanner said.
“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” Chris asked.
Tanner shrugged. “Marines.”
Chris and Buck traded glances, knowing there was more to the story, but realizing that was all they were going to get out of the reticent man.
“Well, I’d best be goin’,” Tanner said, turning to leave.
“Hey,” Buck said. “Let me buy you a drink. I owe you one for saving Tinsley, even though he’s a royal pain in the ass.”
“S’not necessary,” Tanner replied dismissively.
“Hell, it’s the least I can do,” Buck pleaded. “What d’ya say?”
Tanner shrugged and gave him a faint smile. “Reckon I’d be a fool to turn down a free beer.”
“Good,” Buck said cheerfully. “And I know just the place.”
“Let me guess,” Chris said with a grin. “Lots of cute waitresses in skimpy outfits, right?”
“Of course!” Buck looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “What could be better?”
“Some things never change,” Chris said, laughing aloud at the indignant expression on his old friend’s face.
“Why don’t you just follow us back to the office?” Buck suggested to Tanner, who was looking both amused and bewildered at the interplay between himself and Chris.
Tanner simply nodded and moved away with an easy, silent stride that spoke of strength and agility.
Buck looked at Chris, noting the thoughtful look on his face. “Uh-oh, I recognize that look. Should I be worried?”
Chris gave him a mysterious smile and shrugged nonchalantly as he pulled out his cell phone. “Maybe.”