He laughed, as did Tanis, and even Nolan couldn’t help smiling. The man was right—he was about as damned handsome as Nolan had seen. Broad-shouldered, with that swagger common to operators and experienced soldiers, he’d be a catch to any woman in New Avalon. Any but Tanis, of course. Square-jawed was far from her type.
Lincoln opened his mouth to continue, but stopped and pressed a hand to his earpiece. “Damn, sorry about this, Tanis, but I’ve gotta jet. Duty calls.”
“We do as we must, right?” Tanis pulled the man into a back-slapping hug. “Stay frosty out there, Linc.”
“You, too, Cruella.” Lincoln’s voice held a note of familiarity that bordered on fondness. When he turned to Nolan, his blue eyes had darkened, his expression growing serious. “Keep her safe, Garrett.”
Nolan shook the man’s hand. “Always.”
With a two-fingered salute that was half-wave, Lincoln marched away and disappeared down one of the side hallways.
Nolan shot a questioning glance up at Tanis.
“We go way back, Linc and I,” Tanis replied. She hit the button for the elevator, which had been called to the fourth floor during the brief exchange between Tanis and Lincoln. “One of the best Ironhands I ever had the misfortune to work with. A damned good shot and cooler than frozen piss in a firefight.”
Nolan was about to ask why she didn’t work with him on whatever the “Ingram op” was, but let it be. Tanis had to have a reason for bringing him in to…whatever the hell this was.
A storm of questions whirled in his mind, but one look at Tanis’ face made it clear he wasn’t going to get any answers. Not from her, at least.
Yet as he and Tanis rode the elevator to the fifth floor in silence, he couldn’t help wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into. Tanis had offered him some opportunity—what, he didn’t know yet—and he’d accepted on the spot. He’d had enough of the aimless, meaningless life he’d been living since being medded out of the Silverguard.
I’ll find out what’s going on soon enough, he thought.
The elevator gave a cheerful ding as it arrived on the top floor and the doors slid open to reveal a black-armored, serious-looking man waiting for them outside. “He’s expecting you,” the man said without preamble.
Tanis grunted, nodded, and fell into step behind the man. Nolan wheeled along in their wake, following them along the balconied corridor toward a wooden door at the northeastern corner of the building. There, the man escorting them knocked and poked his head into the room. “Sir, they’re here.”
“Well, bring ‘em in!” came the answer from within.
The guard turned his helmeted head to Nolan and Tanis, stepped back, and gestured for them to enter.
Inside the room, a glass smart table and plush director’s chair stood along one wall, with a floor-to-ceiling glass window on the other wall offering an unobstructed view of the Frostbarren. Screens and holo-generators cluttered the rest of the office, displaying a wealth of data as diverse as that pictured on the screens in the atrium.
But that data proved far less interesting than the man seated behind the desk. White-haired, a thick, bushy beard trimmed close to his square jaw, he had a broad face and even broader shoulders beneath his winter fatigues, with tattooed arms and a barrel chest that put even Tanis to shame. When he stood, he towered over Tanis by fully half a foot, and his blue eyes fixed on Nolan with an intensity as cold and furious as the hailstorm rampaging through the distant Iceglades.
“Sir,” Tanis spoke in her no-nonsense military voice, “I know it’s unorthodox, but—”
The man silenced her with a chopping motion, but never took his eyes off Nolan. Nolan met the man’s gaze without hesitation. He’d stared down superior officers before. Yet the man’s enormous size and the ferocity blazing in his eyes left Nolan unnerved. No doubt about it, this man was definitely the one calling the shots at whatever the hell Sentry Division was.
“Tanis tells me you were a Silverguard, Garrett.” The man’s voice was deep, booming, and as intense as his stare. “What team?”
Nolan, however, didn’t cower. No one put the fear of holy retribution in a man quite like Master Sergeant Kane, and Nolan had survived enough run-ins with Warbeast Team’s commander—call sign Wyvern—to endure the man’s glower without buckling. “Due respect, but that’s classified.”
The man’s face didn’t shift, not so much as a muscle. He simply stared, his eyes drilling into Nolan like icy daggers. Long seconds passed before he spoke again. “What roles?”
“Sniper and squad designated marksman.” This, Nolan could answer without hesitation.
“One of the Silverguard’s best SDMs,” Tanis put in. “His speed shooting record’s still unbeaten.”
Nolan couldn’t help a smile at that; he’d half-expected some young buck to take his title in the four years since he set the record.
The white-haired man, however, didn’t smile. Nothing about his demeanor changed. The only shift at all was his gaze—it moved from Nolan to Tanis. “You sure about him?” he growled.
“I am.” Tanis straightened. “Few people I’d trust more to have my back if the situation goes pear-shaped.”
Nolan stifled his surprise. He hadn’t seen Tanis in more than a year, but she was vouching for him with such confidence? And for what, exactly? What sort of situation could go pear-shaped enough that she’d need a former Silverguard at her back? The short exchange left Nolan even more confused than he had been when Tanis first asked the question.
Again, a long moment of silence as the man regarded Nolan once more. Then a huge smile broke across his broad face and he stepped forward, thrusting out a thick-fingered hand. “Good enough for me. The name’s Dietrich Landon, Sentry Division director.”
Nolan shook. “Garrett, Nolan.”
Dietrich had a grip strong enough to crush metal, and he pumped Nolan’s hand with vigor. Etched into his forearm, the man bore the shield-and-serpent tattoo of the Imperial Assault Forces, with the added outline of a razorfang lizard—the symbol of a heavy gunner. Former IAF, now director of whatever Sentry Division was.
Nolan glanced at Tanis. “Mind telling me what the hell’s going on?”
Dietrich’s face fell, and he turned to Tanis. “What, you didn’t tell him? He doesn’t know why he’s here?”
Tanis shrugged. “I figured I’d let it come from you. You always were better at the pitch, Uncle D.”
Uncle? Nolan’s eyebrows rose as Tanis stepped forward and pulled the white-haired man into a bear hug.
“Ahh, kiddo, you say the nicest things!” Dietrich embraced Tanis, patting her back, then pulled away and turned to Nolan. “So, Nolan, Tanis here tells me you’ve fallen on some hard times after being medded out.” He swept his hand toward Nolan’s wheelchair—a gesture made bigger by his huge size. Nolan had been tall enough back when he could stand on two feet, but Dietrich would have stood a good four or five inches taller. “Shame, the way the Empire treats its vets. Especially the ones like you, the ones hurt in the line of fire.”
Nolan’s eyes narrowed. Tanis’ use of the word “pitch” had made him wary, and Dietrich’s tone made it clear the man was gearing up to try and sell him something.