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I swallow to try to keep my voice even. I hate boats, and the open water. Traveling to Cuba with a greasy drug smuggler is about as appealing as using them. “I can take care of myself.”

Which we both know is true. From the time I was cast aside, I have been. Mona may have provided shelter and taught me how to provide for myself, but she is not my mother, nor has she ever tried to be.

She reaches into her purse and slides a burner phone across the bar. “Bring ten thousand.”

As I grab hold of the phone and deposit it into my own purse, she pushes back from the bar and slides off the stool. It takes all my control not to launch to my feet and beg her not to go.

“What do I do if Juan doesn’t show up?”

Her chest moves once. Twice. Three times. In rapid succession. She’s breathing too fast. Her pupils are wide, and in horror I recognize she’s as scared as I am.

Mona never shows fear. Is she finally concerned about my welfare? For two brief seconds, my hope soars—only to be obliterated when a cold smile replaces any genuine emotion on her face.

True to form, she walks away with three little words I’ve heard too many times to count: “Not my problem.”

Mick

From the corner of the bar, mugs of beer clink together, a splattering of laughter from a bunch of college kids mingles with Kenny Loggins on the jukebox, and as I wait, I catch the hint of buffalo wings as the waitress brings them out of the kitchen.

She smiles as she passes my table. Nice smile. An invitation. It’s the third one she’s given me in the twenty minutes I’ve been sitting here. She’s cute too. Blond. Curvy. Blue eyes. Natural. Just my type.

I curl my fist around my draft and avoid her gaze. Not interested. Not since the last blonde I met in a bar nearly cost me my life. As if falling for it wasn’t bad enough, the dressing down I received from my CO and the teasing I got from my friends would have been more than enough to keep my libido in check.

Two weeks of debriefs in D.C. with suits demanding answers I don’t have—and now they want to pin a medal on me for something I didn’t do.

Then there’s Hightower. The only reason I’m here, nursing a beer, instead of riding home in a flag-draped box. If Verity hadn’t cut the vest off me...

And now I’m chasing the woman who put it there. A con artist. A traitor. The last face I saw before everything went black.

In the corner, the laughter gets louder, and snatches of their crass conversation reach me, assaulting my eardrums and making me pity the waitress for having to serve them.

I take a long swig before I tap Hightower’s card on the table and try again to make sense of the bold white text stamped over the shiny black.

Humility before honor.

What’s that supposed to mean? Honor iseverything.No guts, no glory.

And the way Verity and Reese dealt with the situation was frickin’glorious.

A loud curse interrupts my thoughts and makes me look up. The waitress is apologizing for spilling a beer over one of the kids. He’s on his feet, and his face is splotching beet red.

“What’s the matter with you? I’m going to stink all afternoon.”

She blanches and swallows. “I’m sorry. You moved and knocked the tray out of my hands.”

Not satisfied with yelling at her in front of his pals, he threatens her. “Where’s the manager?”

Ah, crap. If there’s one thing I can’t tolerate, it’s an entitled bully. Sighing, I get to my feet and announce my presence. “What’s the problem?”

His eyes travel over me, and he steps back, his feet angling away from me. As the waitress scoots away to get fresh beer and napkins, one of his pals decides to get brave.

“Go kick rocks, man. This doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

My back straightens. “Yeah, it does, junior. You’re making a nuisance of yourselves.”

His chest puffs out, and he’s so wasted, he telegraphs his intention to take a swing so far in advance I only need to sidestep.

He stumbles and crashes into an empty table. Chairs clatter, and he curses as he collects himself off the floor. The head bully rounds the table, not as drunk as his pals but full of adrenaline and outrage.