“I will not compromise my brothers and sisters.” The covenant covered any and all circumstances. And if broken was punishable by death, Madeline had been quick to remind Oz back in the private chamber.
Archer’s voice came strong and true. “I will not compromise my brothers and sisters.”
“I will obey the creed.” Oz himself had written the “bible.” Every single person in this room had not only read it, but committed it to memory. Only when they could recite it forward and backward would they be inducted.
“I will obey the creed,” Archer repeated.
“I will live by the code of conduct.” This extended deeper yet into The Guard member’s personal life. If Archer repeated this vow, then he would no longer be his own man—he’d live, eat and fuck as The Guard would live, eat and fuck.
“I will live by the code of conduct.”
Oz nodded to him in approval. Then he turned to the congregation. “Our promise, friends. Please recite it with me. We will defend you even in death.” The joining of voices always hit him hard. He’d created this organization that went far beyond protecting, guarding or saving lives, and that they all joined as a family moved him. Words always fled when he tried to name the emotion. Maybe it really had to do with The Guard being the only family he’d ever have.
They continued, “Our beliefs are unshakeable. All that is ours is yours.”
Archer bowed his head. When he raised it again, his eyes burned.
Oz turned. “Roman, are we ready with the microchip?”
“Yes.”
When Oz walked to the wooden bench and small table, Archer followed. “Sit.”
Archer sank to the bench and rolled up the sleeve of his denim shirt with western embroidery on the pockets. The man could be so many different things, adopt countless personas, but right this minute he presented himself the way God had created him, and that in itself was beautiful.
Oz looked on as Roman set out a sterile cloth and the tools they would use to microchip him. Archer lay his bared forearm, palm up, on the table. Oz rubbed his thumb over the inside of his own wrist, where his chip nestled within muscle and sinew.
Roman inserted a small metal computer chip into a long metal instrument. “This contains everything you will ever need. Every door will be opened to you. All our stories can be shared through this. And we can track you in the event you ever need us. Or…if you ever betray us.”
Madeline sliced a look at Oz.
With the instrument poised over Archer’s arm, Roman paused to look into Archer’s eyes.
“I’m ready,” Archer drawled. “Do it.”
One quick thrust and the chip became buried in his arm, same as Oz’s and every man and woman in this church.
A drop of blood welled on Archer’s tanned skin, which Roman wiped away with an alcohol pad. He placed the smallest of bandages over the mark and stepped back.
“Please rise, Gabriel Archer. Welcome to The Guard. I am your Father now”—he waved to the witnesses—“and these are your brothers and sisters.”
Applause broke out.
* * * * *
Oz cradled his vodka martini and scanned the celebration taking place in front of him. Though the reception room hadn’t been decorated with tissue paper flowers or streamers, it mimicked the atmosphere of a wedding reception.
Roman sidled up to him, a bottle of the craft beer he preferred in his fist. Roman towered over Oz’s six-feet-two-inches by a good head. “Lots of celebrations going on. Why aren’t you playing poker?”
Oz grunted.
“Or maybe you feel like playing naked Twister, Father?”
Oz laughed. “Haven’t heard of naked Twister since high school. Would you want to play it with Lorna?”
They both looked to the powerhouse of a woman standing with a group, her back as broad as a man’s and just as filled out with muscle.
Roman lifted his beer to his lips. “I’ll pass on that. Just look at them all, though. How does it feel to know you made this possible, Oz?”
He shook his head. Thinking back to how it began always set him on the train tracks of thought he’d rather not follow. A general’s daughter kidnapped—and when Oz went looking, he’d found not only her but several other men’s missing daughters as well. Then months later, after 9-11, he’d gathered here in this abandoned church with some military buddies. What they’d done after the attack on the Pentagon hadn’t gone unnoticed by the government, but they weren’t exactly handed medals either.
After that, two tours in Iraq as a Navy SEAL put The Guard on hold for a while, but the minute he hit US soil again, Oz was back at it, creating his own version of a special ops team, which then morphed into a group numbering in the hundreds. How many people had The Guard saved? Hard to say, when some members had yet to report in today.
Like Lars.
A weight fell on his shoulders.
Roman picked up on his mood as usual. “You don’t believe Lars could turn?”
“He might have been born in Moscow, but his adoption papers make him a United States citizen. And that chip he carries makes him ours. No, I don’t buy for one second that he turned on us.”
“We can trace his steps. Oz, I hate to say it, but…I think you’ve got to cut the chip out of our brother. Let him go.” Roman’s dark gaze fell on him.
“Not yet.” Oz sipped his martini as if they discussed the April weather and not a man’s life. Not only would they take his chip—they’d take his life. Lars was one of his closest friends. Hell, he’d saved Oz’s ass twice. Without him, he’d be six feet under.
“I stand firm on this,” he said to Roman and drained his glass. “Talk to you later.” He moved into the crowd.
The party gained momentum, with people drinking more and laughing. The selection on the buffet began to dwindle as people filled their plates with prime rib and seafood. Oz grabbed himself a plate of shrimp and sat at a table in the back where he could watch everyone, plus had the added benefit of keeping his back to the wall.
Madeline started toward him, and he shooed her away. She detoured around the other side of the room and sat glaring at him.
I’ve had enough of her shit for one day. He peeled a shrimp and popped it into his mouth.
Someone got some tunes going over the church hall’s PA system, and soon the party seemed almost like a gathering of normal people. It reminded him a hell of a lot of a garden party he’d attended at his commanding officer’s home. Could that have been twenty years ago? No, eighteen. Just before the terrorist attacks of 9-11. Back when things still looked all fresh and rosy and innocent. Also, when a young and horny Navy officer like him found himself easily captivated.
He could still smell the flowers, thick and heady, releasing their scents into the night. And the fucking gorgeous girl he couldn’t keep his eyes off every single time her protective daddy brought her out to parade around.
Rose Kilbourn. The daughter of his CO and totally, completely fucking off-limits to a dick like him.
Still, he’d pursued her, unable to look the other way when she was looking back with the light in her sapphire blue eyes. It began with a stolen kiss. But he couldn’t control it, and soon the garden party had gone down in his personal little black history book when he stripped off her ball gown in her father’s gazebo and feasted on her juicy, young flesh.