“Or her mother,” added Dylan Cruz, who’d served with the Navy SEALs.
“You got that right.”
If Quinn were married to Holly Andris, he’d want to get home, too. A former CIA officer, she could have been a movie star with that face. Aye, she was quality, so she was—both smart and bonnie.
She’s not Lilibet.
Elizabeth, with her sharp mind, strawberry-blond hair and sweet face, worked for Cobra, too, and that meant she was off limits. Cobra had strict rules about employees getting together. It was all a load of shite as far as Quinn was concerned. His kissing her square on her smart mouth posed no risk to operational security that he could see.
Still, it was probably for the better. At thirty-six, Quinn lived alone. It’s not that he didn’t want a woman in his life. Aye, he’d had his share of lovers and had hoped one day to have a family. But there was an ugliness inside him, proof that the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. No woman deserved that.
Quinn let the men’s conversation drift over him, unzipped his duffel, and began to unpack, tossing dirty clothes onto the floor and stowing his gear in his locker. Body armor. Safety glasses. Helmet. Night vision goggles. Knife in its ankle rig. His personal Browning Hi-Power pistol with loaded magazines. First-aid kit. Cook stove and fuel pellets. Emergency blanket. Mess kit. Enamel cup for tea. Tin of teabags.
He never went on a mission without tea. He wasn’t a barbarian.
He shoved his pistol back into the duffel along with his dirty laundry. Their duty weapons had been packed onto pallets when they’d left Kabul and would be taken to Cobra’s full-time armorer, who cleaned and inspected each firearm after every mission.
“McManus, you in?” Jones asked.
Quinn hadn’t been listening, but the single men always went out to their favorite bar to let off steam after an operation. “Aye, I’m up for gettin’ rat-arsed.”
Thor Isaksen, who’d served with Denmark’s Sirius Patrol, snorted. “Rat-arsed? You Scots have a million ways of sayingdrunk.”
Quinn couldn’t help but grin. “Aye, that we do.”
And you’re proud of that, are you?
Derek Tower, one of the co-owners of Cobra, a former Green Beret, entered the room wearing a tailored suit, a smile on his face. “Welcome back. Good work. I wish all assignments were this easy.”
Quinn was about to say he’d be bored out of his fucking mind if that were the case when his personal mobile phone rang.
Andrew Lewis.
Lewis had been Quinn’s lieutenant in his first few years with the SAS—Britain’s Special Air Service. He’d been a bloody good officer, and Quinn would have followed him straight into hell had he but asked.
Quinn answered. “Lewis, man, what’s happenin’?”
“I’m sorry to bring you bad news. Murray’s dead.”
“Jack Murray? Dead? Och, yer arse! He left me a message a few days back. I couldnae call him back because—”
“He was attacked two nights past in Glasgow, his throat slit. The police think it was a robbery. I know this must come as a shock. What an awful business. We’re all terribly upset. I wanted to tell you myself. I didn’t want you reading about this in the papers or finding out some other way. With social media and all—”
“Jack’s …dead?” The blood rushed from Quinn’s head, his ears ringing.
“He is, mate. I’m dreadfully sorry. I know how close you two were—the two Glaswegians in our unit. He was a good man, an outstanding soldier.”
“Aye, that he was.” Quinn swallowed. “When is the service?”
“I don’t know. The Procurator Fiscal has ruled the death a culpable homicide, and police are investigating. They won’t release his body until they’re certain they’ve got all the evidence. Some of us are pitching in to pay for military honors.”
“Count me in.”
Jack was dead.
Grief hit Quinn square in the chest. “Do they have any suspects?”
Jesus!