“Nothing like a personal cage fight, huh?” Deavers lifted his palms to surrender to Wulf. “You vouch for this snapper?”
“Absolutely.” Pulling himself back, Wulf sank into his seat. “She’s an old friend.”
Deavers raised his eyebrows, as if questioning Wulf’s sanity. “Another woman?”
“I’m her godfather. I taught her how to ride a bike.” And drive. And shoot. And mock Ivar.
“Sometimes I forget how old you...” He shook his head. “Wait a sec, another thing I keep forgetting. A Night Stalker brought this over.” From a desk drawer, Deavers pulled a plastic bag containing a tangle of silver and lapis jewelry. “They found it while repairing the bird we crashed. Didn’t Dostum give this to your doc?”
That casual phrase, your doc, flashed at Wulf’s heart like a tracer round. Along the way Theresa had become his in his mind, and apparently the team thought so too. Even if that was still fantasy, when this mission was over and he’d erased Wulf Wardsen, maybe he could reinvent himself as a man Theresa would welcome into her life. Maybe she’d become his doc.
Heavy in his hand, the jewelry embodied his time with Theresa. Her roommate had boxed and sent all her possessions to the States, so other than this bag, nothing tangible of her remained at Camp Caddie, not even a picture. And yet every day he was reminded of her countless times, whether by the scent of oranges or the sight of someone else’s ponytail across the mess hall.
“And this was addressed to me, but the letter inside is for you.”
Startled, Wulf looked up from the jewelry. He never received mail. Although he couldn’t recall Theresa’s handwriting, his gut said the block printing on the envelope wasn’t hers.
“Sorry I read it, but my name was on the outside. Guess someone didn’t want to be obvious you were getting a letter.”
The French stamps and multiple creases showed it had traveled hard, and the message was short and unsigned. Tell Wardsen to begin hunting for a lab in Morocco. The second page was a list of names—some with military ranks, others with country code abbreviations. He’d lay odds they were all affiliated with Black and Swan’s business.
“Not the lab we want, so I don’t copy.” Deavers raised his eyebrows. “Should I?”
He remembered the crushed tranquilizer he’d sent Ivar after the attack at Montebelli. He hadn’t heard from his brother about the analysis. Perhaps this was related, or perhaps it was a trap. Either way, he needed to talk to his brother.
“Thought you should hear about the operation from me.” Wulf paced the team’s deserted ready room while he waited through the extended silence. Next time he considered calling Ivar, he’d remind himself to sleep in wet concrete instead. Updates about the syringe contents and Theresa’s security had been polite and factual, but the courtesy heads-up about the planned raid on Black and Swan’s underground lab had provoked a beast.
“I forbid you to interfere further with Black and Swan.”
“Forbid?” Startled by his brother’s directness, Wulf halted. Somehow he’d imagined his brother would support him after what had happened to Theresa. “This is a military op. Last I checked you weren’t in my chain of command.”
Ivar didn’t respond to the sarcasm. “Isn’t the blood debt we owe your woman high enough? You want to add to it by involving others in this feud?”
“I want to end it. For good.” If he could ever acquire a permanent tattoo on his body, he’d ink a big red slash over a phone symbol.
“Attacking Unferth won’t achieve that. Perhaps you recall he’s immortal.” Ivar lectured without raising his voice, but each coldly dripped word sent Wulf’s blood pounding in his ears. “If I can’t stabilize the conflict you’ve incited, more people may be hurt. Or worse.”
His big brother, the man who had to control everything. Every damn thing. “We’re not moving tonight. You can chill. We’ll hit when the situation presents, so don’t get twisted.”
“Our disputes cannot harm mortals. That’s been our touchstone since Lord Beowulf.” Ivar continued as if Wulf hadn’t spoken. “He may demand to meet you for hólmgang.”
Wulf would relish the chance to enter the ring alone with the skald, but he doubted the bastard would choose the honorable method to settle a feud. It was becoming harder to keep his voice even, but he had to try to change his brother’s mind one more time. “My team is—”
“I said no.”
“I heard you.” Kicking a throw pillow into the wall didn’t relieve his frustration. “But the senator, Theresa, the drugs Unferth’s men tried on me, it’s—”
“My position means I must consider greater issues. Since the dragon killed Beowulf, we’ve prospered. We’ve stayed undiscovered. I won’t change our law, so you force me to contact Unferth to restore balance. Do not undermine my negotiations by damaging his corporation.”
“It’s not a corporation, it’s a criminal gang, and he’s a murderer, so your concern’s a little fucking misplaced.”
“In your army, you follow your commander’s orders, don’t you? In this, I am your leader.” Finally, Ivar’s voice rose louder and faster. “I order you to stop.”
Paradoxically, the rarity of hearing his brother vent partially defused Wulf’s anger, and he regretted the rift he knew was coming. “You’re my brother, Ivar son of Wonred, but if you interfere, you’re not my leader.”
“If you act against Unferth, I have no choice. I must banish you from our brethren—” maybe his voice cracked, but Wulf couldn’t be sure over a satellite-phone connection, “—as I would any other.”
“So be it. Goodbye, brother.” He disconnected without waiting for a response. The thirteen immortals were a shattered group, only Jurik and Bjorn worth their weight in beer. He couldn’t waste time regretting banishment from the company of Beowulf’s Vikings when he had a mission with his teammates, his true clan, the men who mattered to him.
“Yo, Theresa, car’s out front!” Downstairs, her stepbrother bellowed loudly enough to be heard in the cul-de-sac. Three days a week, he drove her to physical therapy at the Veterans Affairs hospital in East Orange. Her mother rode shotgun. The trip felt like a middle-school car pool, except Raymond hid a Glock in the glove box.
Zipping her army-logoed windbreaker, she settled onto her crutches. Her doctors had promised to fit her prosthetic today, presenting a new skill to master. She was supposed to be excited about having an advanced obstacle course to conquer and a fresh opportunity to exhibit leadership, but the goal felt as small and lonely as the childhood bed at the end of the hall.
Below her, Jeanne held Theresa’s Army Proud water bottle and dipped her head each time Theresa thumped down a stair. “Would it kill you to wear a new outfit instead of all that black and gray? Once, just once, what would it hurt?”
“Ma, I told you, this is my fitness uniform. Until they kick me out, I wear it.”