Page 69 of The Soldier

I press the automatic door opener and climb behind the wheel of my silver A6 Audi. Also knows asmy baby.

Yes, I love powerful engines.

I grin as it roars to life, wishing that Trina was sitting next to me. I’d love to watch the expression on her face as she felt the fierce intensity through the seat.

Inside her pussy.

I head straight to Josh’s office when I get to Black Hawke headquarters and debrief in person.

“What did you do with Ahmad Al-Kharafi’s body?” Josh asks, looking up from the photo of the target’s deceased body thirty minutes later.

The one I shot.

“Colonel Rockingham is arranging for them all to be sent back to their governments.” I tell him, although I know he was expecting the answer.

It’s his job to ask, so I don’t bother addingas you know.

He nods, then leans back in his chair and studies me. “How’s the arm?”

“Just a scratch.”

“How is it really?”

“Deep. Looks like I’ll be on desk duty after all.” I sip my coffee and place it on the wooden desk between us. “Or reception. Whatever.”

He snorts. “Customer service isn’t your thing, Marshall. And Penny would quit, so no.”

I grin.

“And after?” he adds.

I rub the back of my head and choose my words carefully. “Yeah, I’m done with the desert. I’m sorry. If you don’t have any other positions for me I get it.”

“There was a reason I headhunted you, Adams. You should’ve been in Delta, we both know that. But I got a tip you bowed out.”

My brows shoot up. “From whom?”

Josh studies me, then simply replies, “I know people.”

“Who?” I demand. I didn’t speak to anyone about it, except my brother and I doubt it was him.

“People.” His tone says not to push it.

Fucking secretive bastard.

“Well, I accepted the job, but that doesn’t mean you’re obligated to keep me on. I’m not looking for charity.”

“Good because you aren’t getting any.” Josh tosses a white envelope on the desk between us.

I pick it up and stare back at him.

Josh lifts a brow, and I focus back, ripping it open.

The fuck?I glance up at him.

“Bonus. From the client. It’s yours.”

I toss it back. “No, it’s yours. Your name is on the door.”

---