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He preferred the adrenaline rush and the power of physically and mentally pushing himself.
He wouldn’t be pacing the hall that much longer.
The delegates were in their rooms, gathering their bags. Soon, they’d be loading up and heading back to the airport to fly to D.C. The group would spend their weekend overcoming jetlag before they were back in session.
Maybe he could grab some shuteye on the flight back.
The elevator dinged, and two of the DSS officers from the embassy stepped off, followed by Nomad’s teammate Havoc, who signaled him over.
The DSS walked to either end of the hall, somehow hitting all the squeaky floorboards along the way.
Nomad stopped in front of the elevator with a lift of his brow.
“Changing of the guard. Echo is heading to the embassy,” Havoc said in a tone that wouldn’t travel the halls and slip under the hotel door cracks.
Nomad followed Havoc onto the elevator. “This is about the delegates?”
“Someone sent up a bat signal.” Havoc pushed the starred button. “We’re jumping off in a new direction.”
They’d be turning on a dime.
Sudden pivots fit Nomad’s personality. He enjoyed the challenge. A little like the waltz that he grew up dancing at embassy events with his parents, “slow, slow, quick” was a good metaphor for his job. The change of balance, the constant redirection, never standing with the feet planted. And when one did it well, it seemed effortless and graceful.
The metaphor came readily because of the embassy setting he’d been working in and the memories of his youth that it pulled up for him, but he liked it.
Nomad was sure that wasn’t an easy call out of JSOC to redirect Echo. This must be a high-stakes event. If it ever came out that Echo was rerouted from their protective duties and something came at this legislative group, there would be hell to pay.
Yes, it had to be big. They’d know soon enough.
Hopefully, somebody had some gear they’d be handing out because Echo came to Türkiye with wool suits, not battle rattle.
***
When Nomad walked into the embassy’s SCIF—Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, where classified information could safely pass from one set of hands to another—T-Rex sent him an assessing look. “You good to go? We pushed you these last four days when it comes to sleep cycles.”
“I’m squared away.” Nomad moved into the room. “I don’t need much on a normal day.”
Master Chief T-Rex Landry was Echo’s number one—then there was Havoc, Nitro, and Jeopardy. Their second in command, a guy named Ty Newcomb, handled Rory—the team’s Tactical K9 who was both a nose and a bite on the job and a goofball when hanging with the team. He wasn’t just an amazing athlete and a force multiplier but a respected team member and good stress relief.
Nomad? He was, “Hey, new guy.”
And if the past defined the present, he would be for quite a while.
The men sat around a long table with a large screen connecting them to their support team back at Fort Liberty. Nomad found a place where he could easily see and pulled his notepad and pen from his bag.
“Gentlemen, we’re changing gears,” Colonel Watts said by way of greeting. “Keeping our principals out of the public eye served its purpose. The news cycle has moved on to the next topic. Our intelligence community believes that the Diplomatic Security Service can take over our duties regarding the legislators. Right now, JSOC needs you in the field.”
There was a shift in the room as the focus sharpened. The only sound was Rory panting under the table.
“We have an AWOL servicemember. Army. A Sergeant Daniel Poole. We believe that Poole is a traitor who committed espionage and has connections with terrorist activity imminently planned for American soil. We need to scoop him up for interrogation.” He turned his head to focus on T-Rex. “Master Chief, I’ve forwarded the intelligence package. It includes what we know of our target and our window.” Colonel Watts shifted his gaze to the whole team. “Intelligence has developed initial suggestions for how this might go down, but we’re leaving it up to you how you get the job done. We havetwo asks—that you don’t swing and miss and that there is zero footprint.”
“Yes, sir,” the men responded in unison.
“Where is this?” T-Rex asked.
“Syria.”
Arms crossed over chests, chins tucked in. That area was dry tinder. The tiniest of sparks could set off a conflagration that would be time and resource-heavy to put out.