Page 7 of Remade

“First of all, you do now,” he said pointedly. My stomach did that fluttery thing again, when I envisioned family reunions. “Second, no siblings or cousins or…?”

I shook my head. “I have an aunt—and she’s treated me better than I probably deserve, but we don’t have anything in common. She has her own life. Book clubs, Friendsgiving, Galentine’s, cruises with her girlfriends, a ton of work…and some freaking ferret society. She loves ferrets.” I felt no need to mention my alcoholic uncle. I hadn’t seen him in years.

Ryan lifted his brows and smirked. “Whatever floats her boat.”

Pretty much. I should definitely get better at reaching out, but Aunt Laura and I had our thing. We saw each other once a month for dinner. One evening of stilted conversation andawkward silences. It wasn’t her fault, and it wasn’t my fault. We were just so different.

“Would you mind if I start tellin’ people when I get home?” he asked. “I’m not sure I can keep my trap shut about your existence. Darius will have a field day about you becoming a Hillcroft operator.”

Shit, this was so bizarre. It was actually happening. All the Quinns were about to find out about me.

“Go ahead.” I wiped at my cheeks, hopefully for the last time. I hadn’t cried in probably two minutes, so that was great. “Why would Darius have a field day about this?”

“Because our love-hate relationship with Hillcroft runs deep,” he replied, amused. “I don’t mind these short stints. It’s a fantastic payday, and there’s always something that needs fixin’ around the house. But for Darius—this was his life for so many years. He jumped right into training back when previous military service wasn’t a requirement.” He paused as he pocketed his phone. “We both feel right at home with the shoot, shovel, and shut up policy, but it’s still a job that wears on you.”

Shoot, shovel, and shut up—that was funny. I liked that a whole lot too. And the more I got involved with Hillcroft operations, the more I realized how the US government liked to look the other way if it resulted in a problem being handled swiftly.

“I’m looking forward to working here,” I said. “Worst part of being in the Army was the…the rinse and repeat—you know? Every day looked the same. Drills here, rucks there, getting yelled at for no reason whatsoever, not being allowed to question a stupid decision—because that’s the way it is.”

Ryan grinned and shook his head. “Yeah, you sound like Darius and me. And so many others who work at Hillcroft. Plus, if one stint sucks, the next one is right around the corner.”

Exactly.

“Don’t be mistaken, though,” he went on. “There are pitfalls here too. The backbone of Hillcroft consists of security guys who guard freighters in the Gulf of Aden, mineral mining operations in Africa, and offshore oil rigs. At most, they go from Port A to Port B, fend off Chinese ‘tourists,’ and look out for environmentalists on a sabotage mission. They practically carry the agency, but it’s boring as fuck.”

My mouth twisted up, and I made a mental note. I’d had no idea—and I had read the great “History of Hillcroft,” starting with the two founders who’d met during the Congo Crisis in the early ’60s.

“You’re just full of useful information,” I said.

“Yeah…” He squinted and scratched his eyebrow. “I haven’t decided yet if that’s a good thing in your case. As your new favorite uncle, I’m inclined to want you safe—but if you’re anything like me and my brothers, it won’t matter what anyone says. You’re gonna do what you’re gonna do.”

My new favorite uncle, huh?

Holy crap, I didn’t know what to do with all this freaking happiness?—

Ryan’s expression suddenly changed. He went from carefree to hardened in a fraction of a second, and he pulled out an earpiece and inserted it in his ear.

“Don’t move,” he told me quietly. “We’re not alone. Keep looking at me and use your periphery to scan your right.”

I clenched my jaw, and just like that, my head cleared. I scanned my right side as well as I could as Ryan got in touch with the others, but I didn’t see any—wait, no, there. I saw something moving between the trees. One…two people?

“We need a heat signature reading in the northeastern sector, stat. Over,” he commanded. He nodded subtly at me. “I want you to casually lean back against the tree behind you and discreetly drop your sidearm on the ground. Make sure it’s concealed.”

I pulled off a fake smile and did as told, slowly unholstering my gun and kinda hoping it didn’t go off in the drop. It slid down and thumped against the root system, and I used my foot to subtly cover the gun with leaves.

“Roger,” Ryan responded. “When did they leave the van?”

“I can see two people so far,” I muttered under my breath. They were within firing range, forty yards or so—aw, crap. “Four people.”

“It’s the men from the van,” he answered. “One of them had a cell phone and took a call about half an hour ago. Then they walked out with their hands up and begged for freedom. We were tracking them, apparently—before they reached the main road.” He went quiet and nodded absently at whatever someone was saying. “Affirmative—visibly too. Across my back.”

What, his carbine? He had his M4 there.

The four men I could see weren’t coming any closer, and my mind raced to figure out why. And whose side were they on? I fully believed they could be pawns. They were probably in the country to send money back to their families, like they’d said, which begged the question. How loyal were they to their paycheck, so to speak? Were they ordered to make a move against us? Were they trying to reach us to ask for rescue?

“Get Beckett to calm the fuck down,” Ryan griped. “It’s a good plan. I’ll let him know. Out.”

“I need to study the way operators communicate more,” I muttered. “It makes zero sense.”

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