“Not that I’ve heard.”
Quinn thought of Jack’s wife and his two wee daughters, his throat growing tight. “How are Ava and the girls?”
“I went to see her this morning, offered my condolences. She’s managing as well as anyone can expect. Victim Support has been round to see her. I’m not sure the children understand. They’re quite young.”
“Aye, they are.”
Olivia was four. Isla wasn’t yet two.
They wouldn’t even remember their father.
“I’ve a few more calls to make. I’m terribly sorry, McManus.”
Quinn fought to push aside his shock and grief. “Thanks for lettin’ me know, man. That took balls. I’ll be there for the service.”
“Good man. Let me know when you get here.” Lewis ended the call.
Quinn sank to the bench, legless with shock and sick to his soul.
Jack was dead.
It took him a moment to realize that the room had fallen silent around him. He glanced about, saw that his fellow Cobra operatives were watching him.
Tower broke the silence. “Bad news?”
Somehow Quinn found the words to answer. “My best pal was killed two nights past—his throat slit. We served together for the better part of ten years. He’s got a wife and two wee ones.”
“Jesus.”
“God, I’m sorry, man.”
“Fuck.”
Quinn looked over, saw understanding on the men’s faces. Combat created a bond that was stronger than blood, a bond only someone who had served could understand. “I need to take some time.”
“Take all the time you need,” Tower said. “Don’t worry about paperwork. We’ll deal with it.”
“Thanks.”
Quinn was going home to Glasgow.
* * *
Elizabeth Shields was late joiningthe others at the Pony Express—the dive bar that served as the official Cobra hangout. What she really wanted was to go home, sink into a hot bath with a glass of wine, and then go to bed. She hadn’t slept much on the flight from Kabul and had spent most of the afternoon in an intel briefing with Cobra’s owners—Javier Corbray and Derek Tower—about a possible mission to Saudi Arabia.
But as one of the few women employed by Cobra, she couldn’t let the place turn into a boys’ club. When the men went out together, she went with them. She might be an intel analyst and not a fighter, but she was as much a part of the team as they were. She wouldn’t let them forget that.
She walked through the entrance, the steady rhythm of the Eagles’One of These Nightscoming from the juke box inside. “Hey, Evan.”
The big bouncer’s stern expression became a wide smile. “Hey, Elizabeth. Those losers you hang with are sitting at the bar.”
“Thanks.”
The guys weren’t hard to find. Taller and more muscular than most men, they moved with that swagger she’d come to associate with special forces operators. They were some of the best fighters in the world—and, yeah, they knew it.
She threaded her way through the crowded room and squeezed in next to Dylan, Thor, and Malik. “Hey, guys.”
She glanced around, looking for Quinn, but didn’t see him. With that beard and a head of thick, red hair, he stood out no matter where he was. The two of them danced together from time to time.