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CHAPTER TWO
Trace’s phone rang and rang on the hotel-room nightstand. He fell asleep then ignored his alarm clock. Finally, the door banged.
Once. Twice.
A kick threw it off his hinges, and Trace grabbed the gun under his pillow and jumped up, ready to point and kill.
“Stand down, asshole.”
Two men stood next to his commanding officer.
“What the fuck?” He lowered his weapon. The two men glared. He didn’t recognize them. They eyed him up and down, assessing him, making him wish he’d slept in something besides boxer briefs.
“You missed check-in,” his commanding officer said, arms crossed.
He didn’t have a response for that, because he didn’t give a shit. Some things were more important, and that meant tracking down the fuckers who’d killed Michael.
The man who looked as if he went toe-to-toe with the devil on a regular basis stepped forward. “Trace Reeves?”
“Yeah?”
“The answer is ‘Yes, sir.’”
He tilted his head. “‘No, sir’ is coming from me. Fix my door, and I might consider not laying you on the ground.”
The man stepped closer. “Say again?”
“Fix the door, fucker.”
The man’s fist knocked his jaw faster than he expected for a guy with at least fifteen years on him. Trace jumped him, punches flying. Punch after punch met an equal retaliation. They hit the floor, destroying a table. Then they were rolling and falling, with head butts and throat shots. Blood flew, and anger made his body fight without thought processes.
The man pinned him against the wall. He pulled a gun and pressed it to Trace’s temple.Fuck. Trace tossed up his hands.
“I said stand down.” Sweat and blood covered the man’s face. Pure, 100 percent badass poured from him. “You have one chance. Listen closely.”
Trace dropped his hands when the man stepped back and holstered his weapon. “One chance for what?”
His CO stepped forward. “Everyone’s sorry about Michael, but it’s not an excuse. Missing check-ins. Disappearing without notice—”
“I have my reasons,” Trace growled.
“You’re a bad day away from dishonorable discharge and time in the brig.”
Trace dropped his gaze. He knew that. Fuck, he knew it. But it didn’t matter. Nothing did.
The dark-haired man wiped his nose. “You’re a good fighter, kid.”
“I know,” Trace said.
“You’ve got an attitude for shit, you pussy-face bitch.”
“What’s it to you?”
“My name’s Jared Westin, and I’m your only chance.” He pointed to the other man. “That’s Brock Gamble, Delta team leader for Titan Group.”
Well, hell. That got his attention. Titan was legendary. “Okay.” Trace bent over, grabbed a shirt, pulled it on, and then kicked on some shorts.
Brock nodded.