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“We’re recruiting.” Jared eyed him. “Twelve months of training and testing says you’re a smart fuck. Two years of combat operations says you’re a skilled operator. But you’re deteriorating, and no one wants anything to do with you.”
Trace coughed a bitter laugh. “I have my reasons.”
“I know what they are, and I don’t care.”
Brock stepped forward. “You want a spot on my team, you get a pass from Uncle Sam. Titan owns you.”
“No one owns me.”
Jared shook his head. “I would. But you’ll get your time to do what you need to for your brother. You work ghost jobs, and when you’re off, you’re off. I don’t care if you sift through desert sand or fuck pretty girls. I don’t care. But when I say work, you work.”
He belonged to no one. Not even the infamous Titan Group. “No.”
“Fine.” Jared turned and walked through the downed door. Brock followed, and neither turned back when two military police walked in.
His CO shook his head. “You’re AWOL, Reeves. You didn’t show up. Hell, you didn’t have permission to leave. Your ass should be in Afghanistan with your team. Not goddamn Germany.”
His muscles tensed. He could get past two MPs and a CO. He could fight and take them out, or die trying.
“Before you do anything stupid, there’s a dozen more of them outside the door. Choose wisely, Reeves.”
“Goddamn it.” He rubbed his face.
Jared Westin stepped back into the doorway. “You come with me now, you walk out unshackled.”
“Fuck!” Trace tore at his close-cropped hair. “Goddamn it.”
But there were no options. And it was Titan Group. Hell, Delta team was an urban legend, and he was being recruited for it? With time to continue his hunt without anyone asking questions?
He looked from the MPs to his CO and over to Jared Westin. “Fine. Titan. You own me.”