God. Had it really been ten years? It seemed like yesterday that he’d sat in a room much like this one and been assigned to work with Dray on a deep-cover op to observe a possible terror cell in Beirut. The mission: identify and report on the group’s target.
Easy peasy.
He and Drago had failed. Spectacularly. The cell had slipped away from them, made its way to a resort in Tel Aviv, and bombed a giant high-rise hotel, which had collapsed, 9/11-style. Over a thousand innocents had paid with their lives. He’d almost hung up his uniform after that disaster. His belly gurgled with nausea even now.
Only a dare from Drago had stopped him from resigning. It had been the last thing the bastard had said to him before they parted ways, hopefully never to see each other again. I dare you to stay in the Navy and keep your secret. I’ll bet you a buck you can’t do it.
Favian was speaking again. “…approximately nine days ago, Thorpe was spotted in Berlin, entering a brothel. Here he is leaving the establishment.” On the screen, more grainy imagery played, this time of Drago exiting a residential-looking building from the rear fire escape, fleeing on foot. Shot at night, the film looked to have been captured by some sort of surveillance drone.
Favian continued, “Shortly after Thorpe exited the facility, the body of a man named Fayez Khoury was discovered dead.”
The implication was obvious. Drago had killed Khoury.
“Who was Khoury?” Spencer asked.
“Yemeni national. We don’t know much about him.”
So, not on the CIA’s radar. Meaning the guy wasn’t a high-profile terrorist or a low-profile suspected terrorist. Why did the CIA want the guy dead, then?
Gray Hair leaned forward, abruptly tense. Here came the grenade tossed in the door, about to blow this antiseptic little briefing to hell. Spencer mentally girded himself. He was undoubtedly the unlucky bastard they’d chosen to jump on their grenade and suppress the damage.
Gray Hair said heavily, “Mr. Thorpe did not have permission to engage in wet work, let alone eliminate a foreign national.”
Boom. The blow to his gut was a painful punch. Drago had gone rogue, had he? Aww, Dray. What were you thinking? You knew these guys wouldn’t let you get away with murder.
Truth be told, he wasn’t that surprised. Drago always had been a rebel at heart. He hated rules, hated to be told what to do. He had a reckless, angry streak in him. It might be sexy as hell and make him a wickedly effective operative, but it landed Dray in trouble sometimes.
Like now.
The third man—what was his name? Akuba? Akaba?—spoke for the first time. “This incident has caused an international diplomatic flap with the German government, and the State Department is scrambling to cover its ass. They’re yelling at us to get control of our guy.”
Of course they were.
Gray Hair leaned forward. “Lieutenant Newman, do you believe you could make a successful approach to Mr. Thorpe?”
“To what end?” he replied sharply.
“A rendition order has been issued.”
Cripes.
Gray Hair continued, “Two field officers have already tried to execute the rendition, but neither succeeded in apprehending him.”
A glimmer of amusement flickered in his gut. Drago had a better nose for danger than just about anyone he’d ever met.
“Given that you know Thorpe and have a past work history with him, we’re hoping that maybe you can approach him and bring him in.”
Wow. CIA types didn’t often operate in the realm of hopes and maybes. They must really be desperate to have called him in like this. Particularly since Drago was likely to run screaming from the mere sight of him—or kill him.
Favian was speaking again. “Thorpe was last sighted a week ago in Beirut. At a bar called al-Mandolib.” He pushed several photographs across the table, and Spence picked them up.
Jesus H. Christ. The Mandolib? Surely it was no accident Drago had allowed himself to be spotted there. The guy might as well have sent him a personal freaking telegram inviting him to come play. Suddenly the timing of this assignment seemed a lot less like chance and a lot more like Drago Thorpe intervening in his life. But for what purpose? To save his career? Maybe save his life? Get back together with him? Surely not. Still, the Mandolib had to be a direct message to him. What the hell are you up to, Dray?
It had been their place….
It was a seedy local joint in a seedy neighborhood, dark, dirty, and not frequented by foreigners. He paused in front of the blacked-out windows, hand on the sticky iron door handle. Across the threshold of al-Mandolib lay a forbidden world, a tempting world he’d never before explored.
Drago had laughed at him and called him a hick when he’d confessed he’d never been to a gay bar, let alone a gay stripper bar. Then the bastard had dared him to come here, tonight. As if a brand-new baby SEAL could ever turn down a dare. It was a point of pride that came with the trident pin. Probably a stupid point of pride, but nonetheless, Dray had dared him.
Truth be told, he’d had a huge crush on Drago and had also been curious as hell about what he was missing by pointedly refusing to explore his sexuality.
He pulled the heavy door open and stepped into a vestibule no bigger than a phone booth. It was filled with the massive body of a bouncer who had to be six foot six and nearly that wide. The guy was bald, his tank top shirt baring massive shoulders covered in black hair and colorful tattoos. Dark, lascivious eyes gazed down his body, lingering in the region of his crotch, and then rose lazily to his face.
“Pretty boy,” the bouncer purred in heavily accented English. The bald head jerked in what Spencer took as permission to enter.
He ducked through black fake-velvet curtains and stepped into… Hell.
This was what Hell must look like.
Lurid red light illuminated the low-ceilinged, smoke-filled, piss-scented space. The joint was crammed with men. Young men, old men, middle-aged men, fat men, skinny men, bearded men, pretty men, ugly men—all talking and laughing, flirting and rubbing up against one another with an ease he envied fiercely. To be that comfortable in his own skin, in his own secret desires—
Nope. He had no idea what that was like.
It wasn’t that he was completely closeted. He’d made no secret of being gay to his family, and they’d been reassuringly casual about it. He’d even had a few boyfriends in college. But… the SEALs. He’d just gone operational on his first team, and he had no interest in testing the boundaries of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell with a bunch of guys trained to kill in silence and not get caught.
“Hey, Spence. You made it,” a gravel-filled voice rasped in his ear. “Didn’t think you had the cojones.”
Familiar fingers stroked lightly across his shoulders, and he lurched forward, hissing, “Seriously? Do you grope all of your coworkers?”
Drago brushed past him, laughing. “Don’t get your panties in a wad, Captain Purity.”
Drago guided him toward the bar, using his broad shoulders to elbow close enough to shout for two double shots of whiskey. Spencer took the marginally washed glass Drago held out to him and sipped cautiously. The booze was bad and cheap in al-Mandolib, but it flowed like water around them.
He scowled and reluctantly followed Drago’s muscular torso through the crowd, mentally chanting, Do not check out his ass. Do not check out his ass.