Devlin studied him. “We can get the team on it. Whatever support you need.”
“No. This is personal.”
“Everything’s personal,” Devlin said.
“I’m handling it.” The words came out sharper than Ronan intended. “Appreciate the offer, but it’s not necessary.”
Silence hung in the air, and for a moment, Ronan feared he’d have to make good on his threat. Then his friend nodded. “Fair enough. So long as you know I’ll always have your back.”
“Same.” That was the kind of friendship they had, which was probably why guilt was stabbing away at his insides, because he’d never once told Devlin about Sheldon Cartwright or Michelle or anything about what went down all those long years ago.
He caught Devlin’s eyes, saw the question brewing on his friend’s face, and quickly schooled his expression into blank professionalism. Then he grinned. “Still happily married? Not tired of Ellie yet?”
“Ass,” his friend shot back, but the retort was without heat. They both knew that Devlin was blissfully happy. Hell, he practically glowed.
When Ellie had first returned to Devlin’s life, Ronan had feared the worst. The woman was a former cop turned reporter, after all. And that was all kinds of danger, especially since Devlin was the central figure in a web of secrets involving dozens of people. To the world, Devlin was nothing more than the multi-billionaire behind the humanitarian Devlin Saint Foundation. The foundation was real enough, its mission important to Devlin and all the staff.
But another organization lurked in the shadows behind the foundation. Devlin had created Saint’s Angels to do good in a way that a humanitarian foundation couldn’t. The SA was Devlin’s passion and Ronan’s, too. And he’d worked as Devlin’s right hand from the beginning, taking the lead on numerous projects since Devlin had to be the front man for the legitimate foundation that worked hand-in-secret-hand with the shadowy one.
Where the Devlin Saint Foundation could finance rehabilitation programs for victims of trafficking, the ultra-secret Saint’s Angels could go after the criminals themselves. Could hunt them down. Could take them out. Could rid the world of its vermin in a way that sanctioned law enforcement could not.
Only a select few knew about the organization, or that Devlin himself was a billionaire vigilante who lived in the shadows, his gun as much of a weapon as his checkbook. Ronan was right there beside him, the Angels’ mission as important to him as it was to Devlin or anyone else on the worldwide, secret team.
Secret being the operative word.
Which was why Ronan had been less than enthusiastic when Devlin trusted Ellie and her two closest friends—Brandy and Lamar—with the secret.
Nowadays, Ronan would trust Ellie with his life. More than that, Ronan had to admit that he was a bit jealous of his friend. Not that Ronan was attracted to Ellie; he wasn’t. But he couldn’t deny the tug at his heart when he saw how happy the two of them were together.
He’d felt that kind of connection to a woman only twice in his life. The first in a past he’d worked hard to bury under a heart that had turned to stone. Or so he thought. Because recently, something dead inside him had started to bloom. Equal parts wonderful and terrifying.
But not something that he could or would cultivate.
Brandy Bradshaw might be temptation personified, but he knew better than to risk everything again. What was that saying? Once burned, twice shy.
He could rejoice in the fact that she’d become a friend. That he genuinely cared for her. That he’d always watch out for her.
But more than that?
Not now. Not ever.
And certainly not while Sheldon Cartwright was alive.
He realized he was looking at his hands, imagining Cartwright’s neck in his grip. He lowered them, then shifted his gaze up to meet Devlin’s curious eyes.
He cleared his throat. “Anyway, thanks again. I know it’s inconvenient. But like I said, everything’s taken care of. We’re pretty light right now.”
“Run me through it.”
“A few things we’re monitoring, but I don’t expect them to pop for at least a month. We’re still gathering intel.” He took Devlin through most of the list, addressing the details of missions from Texas to Nigeria to Bangladesh without missing a beat.
“All sounds good. That everything?”
“Not quite,” Ronan said. “I closed the matter for Colonel Seagrave.” He hoped he sounded casual. That mission had gone off without a hitch. But it had also changed everything.
Alexander Seagrave was the commander of the Western Division of the ultra-secret SOC, or Sensitive Operations Command, and he often used black ops money to hire Saint’s Angels for specific missions. This one had come in while Devlin was touring Europe with his bride. Identify and terminate the leader of a terrorist cell that was bankrolling their weapon purchases by kidnapping teenage girls to sell as sex slaves. Sadly, an all too familiar story.
Ronan had found him, followed him, and assassinated him. A sanctioned hit, but one that would blow back on Ronan if his finger on the trigger was ever known. The agency damn sure wouldn’t claim knowledge.
He wasn’t concerned about the risk. None of Saint’s Angels were. They’d joined the organization because they believed in its mission to make the world a better place despite going directly against the establishment’s rules.
Devlin had never shied away from telling Ronan about the horrors in his life that had led up to the decision to create the SA. His vile father and the people he’d hurt or killed. The empire in which Devlin had been raised. The lies he’d lived with.
Ronan knew all of Devlin’s shit; it was only fair that Ronan should tell Devlin what he’d learned on the Seagrave mission and why he had to take time off.
And yet he couldn’t say the horrible truth out loud. Because to do that would be to admit his role in Michelle’s death all those years ago. Not to mention his own shame in not avenging her back when he’d had the chance.
Later. After he’d made it right—at least as right as it could be with Michelle long in a grave. Later he’d tell his friend everything, but right now, he needed to focus. Because Sheldon Cartwright had resurfaced. And no way was Ronan missing the opportunity to hunt the son-of-a-bitch down and put a bullet through his brain.
He drew in a breath. “Like I said, everything’s running smoothly. And I won’t be gone long.”
“Good. And take as much time as you need. I was an ass earlier. I’d say it won’t happen again, but I hate lying to my best friend.”
Ronan managed a chuckle despite feeling that kick in the gut again. “Yeah, well, maybe one day I’ll tell you.”
“Or maybe you won’t.”
Some of the tension left his body. It was good to have a friend who understood him. He pushed up out of the chair.
“Heading out now?” Devlin asked, also rising.
“No. Flight’s at eight tonight. You?”
“Los Angeles tonight, then heading to New York at the crack of dawn tomorrow. And why don’t you just take one of the jets?” Devlin asked, referring to the charter fleet he personally owned, which was sometimes utilized by the Angels.
“Appreciate it, but I’m good.” Sheldon Cartwright was part of a different life. The final piece before Ronan could put the past behind him. Now wasn’t the time to start commingling his two worlds.