“I hear you got this gig going. I’m going crazy coaching my nephew’s soccer team, driving my mother to doctors’ appointments, and trying to find work that doesn’t make me feel like a schoolboy. You understand?” Enemario held his arms out to the sides.
Every single one of the team nodded their heads. They’d all been there too.
“Bring your gear inside, anything that’s not safe out here in the beast. Geez, how the hell did you have something like that made?”
“Oh, this old thing?” Enemario said, pointing to his monster truck. “I had so many favors owed to me, and there are several body shops in Tijuana that used to help me when I was on the force in San Diego. We were a source of information for each other. I did as much to help those guys as I did people in California. I got this done for practically nothing. The only thing I had to do was to pay for the stretching and the framework. They don’t do that in Mexico. They bring that somewhere else. But I got it done. It rides like hell, like a semi would, but it sure does impress everybody who sees it.”
Brady realized it would be a little too conspicuous for them if Enemario brought this vehicle. He wasn’t so sure the man’s pride and joy was going to be able to be used. But Brady kept his mind open to it anyway. “So rig it up, bring your stuff inside, and let me show you where you can sleep, okay?”
Enemario waddled like the Michelin Man, huge bulging shoulders and hands that hung nearly to his short knees. The size of his upper torso did not match his lower torso, even though his legs were fully muscular. He would have made one hell of a wrestler, Brady thought.
The man pulled out a duty bag that probably weighed more than one hundred pounds, which told Brady he probably brought lots of gadgets and gear to show them. He followed the rest of them inside the house.
“Would you look at this?” Enemario said, searching the interior. “If I didn’t know better, I’d figure this was designed by a woman. This is not you, my friend.”
Both Riley and John shook their heads. John swore and turned around so he wouldn’t have to show Brady his features. Brady knew he was expected to growl, but he decided to just let Enemario have it straight, right in the solar plexus, but with words not his fist.
“As they all now know, I lived here for a time before I met—” He hesitated, because that little catch in the back of his throat popped up again. He coughed and apologized. “I’m not going to lie, Enemario. I talk to Maggie in my dreams. I see her here. You can say what you want, and I don’t give a damn, but her hand is in this house. I tried to make it a place she would want to come, and my sister reads all that shit about angels and vampires and crap, so maybe one of those characters will resurrect her, and she can come back as a ghost. I’d take her anyway I could. But no, this was all my doing. I sold the house in San Diego after she was gone.”
It was an awkward pause. A very awkward pause. Brady could see Enemario felt horrible about the communication.
“I’m sorry, man. Riley told me, and I didn’t think.”
“I’m used to it, but don’t do it again.”
And that was the thing—the thing about them all, Brady thought to himself. Being in the company of other warriors, other men, they understood things had to be left private. You had to trust your buddies enough to tell them the crap going on in your life, not to complain just so they’d know what you’re dealing with. Not every detail, of course, but you’d have to tell them, or they’d think you were batshit crazy. And even if you were, it was the right thing to do. Then after they knew they had stepped onto hallowed ground and had to wipe their feet off, they’d be on their best behavior.
That’s all there was too it. Simple plan, and everybody got along. And that’s how they were going to have to charge into battle.
Together.
That’s the way it always was, and that’s the way it always would be.
Even with all the warts and lumps of this little group, Brady finally felt he’d met his true family.
Chapter 6
Carter Livingston drove up in a brand-new Mercedes. He’d been a team guy for nearly fifteen years before he invented a piece of body armor and sold it to a large defense contractor for nearly two billion dollars. Born and raised in Mississippi, Carter had grown up repairing tractors and working on his family’s modest farm, but he was compelled to join the Special Forces and become a Navy Seal while watching the videos of the 9/11 terrorist attack. He just could not sit home, plow fields, and pretend it didn’t happen. Even though he didn’t know anyone in the Twin Towers that day, he had been outraged with the destruction, death, and turmoil it caused the entire New York area, the country, and the whole world.
Without a college education, his prospects were slim, since he didn’t have technical skill that could land him an important job, other than a farmhand. But he was one of the best mechanics that Brady had ever seen. He could fix anything. In fact, he could make anything and, just like Enemario, knew a lot about drone making.
The first thing Carter had done when he received the money from his invention was pay off the family farm. Then he helped his parents buy a few thousand acres beside it. Having gotten his family on their feet, he took his time and found several charities he donated anonymously to, with strict rules for how the charity operated and who the charity benefitted. He’d seen his share of organizations that only served those who ran the charities and wasn’t interested in supporting those selfish endeavors.
The Navy had been good to him, and even after he knew he was going to be coming into a fortune, he continued with the Teams until his enlistment was over.
Although it had been rumored he was a great connoisseur and lover of women, he had a secret that he guarded very safely. With his money, he could now do anything he wanted for the rest of his life. So when he got the call to right this one wrong he knew Brady wanted to take care of, he was all-in. In short, he missed putting his life on the line for important causes. And there wasn’t anything he hated more than somebody who enslaved women and children for their own gain.
The 6’4” handsome and extremely gentlemanly former warrior exited his Mercedes wearing a business suit and carrying an attaché case.
Brady didn’t know how to react. The last time he’d seen Carter was when they were knee deep in dust, trying to evacuate villagers who had been attacked after the team had gone through and cleared out several top gorilla leaders. He and Carter had walked the streets as the bodies of young children and women swung from several government building eaves in the hot sun. It was a scene straight out of hell.
Carter and Brady never had more than a few words to say to each other during their time on the Teams together, but it wasn’t their words that spoke. It was the actions they took that said everything they needed each other to know. If a radio was broken, Carter would fix it. If more supplies were needed, he knew where to go and find it. He could blend in any crowd. He spoke seven different languages, and he had an extreme hatred for bullies and people who threw their weight around, especially upper-level military, desk jockeys who put them in harm’s way without properly evaluating the real risks of the missions.
Carter had a tough time with their commanding officer, Lieutenant Roland Stanley, who outranked everyone, including Chief Rogers. Stanley made it very plain he wanted Carter out of the military, off of his Seal team, and accused him of making mistakes and being lazy on the job. The truth was Carter was never one to lick anybody’s boots. And Roland Stanley had a hair trigger, an emotional problem stemming from his insecurity as an officer. He constantly complained about not getting the respect he felt he was owed. The whole team knew he’d throw any of them under the bus just to prove he was more powerful.