She lifted a shoulder.
He sighed. “We might be in big trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
“I told you my dad walked out when I was fourteen.”
She nodded.
“And then he was killed on that mission.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“My mom never recovered. Started drinking, then taking pills. My sister, Katie, tried to take care of her, but it was too much for a seventeen-year-old. She left home at eighteen, and that’s when the state pulled me out, sent me to live with my grandparents. It was... rough.”
He paused, swirling the wine in his glass. “I joined the military as soon as I turned eighteen. Told myself I was following in my father’s footsteps, but really I was just running away from a situation I couldn’t fix.”
“Did it help? The military?”
“Yeah. I found brothers in the SEALs. Men who understood that sometimes the only family that matters is the one you choose. And then Jones, Inc., became that family when I got out.” He met her eyes. “I’ll always be there for the people I care about. That’s not the problem.”
“Then what is?”
“The problem is that when I care too much, I stop thinking clearly. I make mistakes that get people killed.” He was quiet for a moment, then, “This isn’t my first rodeo in Thailand. I was here three years ago on a mission to free a journalist, some aid workers and a diplomat who’d been taken by the Burmese government.” He took a breath. “We had an operative. Narin Chen. Burmese-American. Small woman with fierce eyes and determination that reminded me of my sister. I trusted her judgment. Respected her courage.” He paused. “Maybe cared about her more than I should have.”
Chloe didn’t say anything, just waited.
“She told us the hostages had been moved to an abandoned monastery compound. No sentries, no patrols. Said she’d guide us in, make sure we got them out safely.” He took a sip of wine. “I believed her. Why wouldn’t I? Narin had never steered us wrong before.”
“But something went wrong.”
“The moment we entered the compound, shooting started from everywhere. Not military positions. Civilians screaming.” He grew quiet. “Narin’s voice came over the comms, desperate, telling us to get out. There were families there. Children.”
He looked away. “Turned out she’d been captured weeks earlier, forced to agree to feed us false intelligence under threat to her family. The hostages were never there. Just forty-three displaced villagers sheltering in the monastery.”
He had finished his wine.
“Six civilians died in the crossfire. Two of them children under ten.” He met her eyes. “And the worst part—Narin was executed by her own handlers for trying to warn us.”
“So in the end?—”
“In the end, if I hadn’t cared about her so much, if I’d been more objective, maybe I would have questioned her intel more carefully.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
“I spent three years convinced that getting too emotionally invested makes me a liability to the people I’m trying to protect.” He looked at her across the table. “So yeah, we’re a pair. You, worried that someone will get hurt protecting you. And me, worried that I can’t protect you enough.”
He lifted a shoulder, offered a wry smile.
She was quiet for a moment, turning her wineglass in her hands.
“By the way, my real name is Easton,” he said. “Easton Blackwood. Everyone calls me Skeet.”
“Easton.” She tried the name. He liked the way it sounded in her voice. “How’d you get Skeet?”
“My sister couldn’t pronounce Easton when she was little. Called me Easter, which turned into Skeeter, which got shortened to Skeet when one of the guys in basic training found out.”
“I like Easton.”