“I’ll manage,” I mutter, though I don’t know how.
“Look, if you don’t want to stay in San Francisco after it’s all said and done, you can come back to Dublin. I miss having you there.”
“Even though I stole all your good clients because I’m that much better than you are?” I’ve always been good at using sarcasm and humor to steer conversations away from serious topics.
He chuckles, and the sound squeezes my heart because his laugh sounds like Ned’s laugh. “Something like that. Seriously, come.”
“Okay. I’ll think about it.” Though I’m not sure I want the drama of my last trip to Ireland. I’m definitely going somewhere. If it’s not Dublin, it’ll be somewhere else.
It’s obvious that it was Ned who made San Francisco feel like home, because now that he’s gone, I just want to get the hell away.
FOUR
SEBASTIAN
I spot my driver immediately—a stocky man with cropped gray hair, wearing a boxy black suit and holding a sign that reads CAL ENTERPRISES. An innocuous business name that’ll vanish from anyone’s memory two seconds after seeing it.
“Gregory White?”
I nod once. That’s the name on the passport I’m traveling with today. Almost as innocuous as CAL Enterprises. As are my blue jeans, white T-shirt, and unmarked baseball cap.
“Any checked baggage, sir?”
“No.” I sling my carry-on over my shoulder. I never bring enough to check luggage when I’m on a business trip, no matter how long. It slows me down when I need to be moving quickly and discreetly.
The man leads me out to a plain black town car with tinted windows. Nothing over the top. Again, ideal when you’re a person who needs to slip in and out of a city unnoticed.
I’m that person, most days of my life.
“How long have you been out?” Steve—the driver—asks, his shrewd eyes stealing a glance at me in the rearview mirror before settling on the stone house as we crest the hill. It’s designed to look like a Tuscan castle. From what I’ve seen in my travels, the architects built a commendable replica.
“Awhile.” I leave it at that, affixing my attention to the hills and valleys of Napa Valley grapevines ahead. It’s not too shocking that this ex-Marine senses my links to the military. Even though I’ve traded in my crew cut for something longer, more stylish, and I’ve shed my standard gear for civilian clothes, there’s something identifiable in all of us, especially the ones who’ve deployed, who’ve pulled triggers that stopped heartbeats. Our movements, our demeanor, the way certain sounds grip our attention, the way we can never truly relax. We all deal with it in different ways. We all let go in different ways.
But most of us never let go all the way.
“Did you and Mr. Bentley serve together in Afghanistan?”
Bentley obviously trusts this guy, to send him to the airport to collect me, to risk the two of us sitting in a car for the ninety-five-minute drive to his Napa vineyard, also his home. But Bentley also trusts me to keep our continued relationship under wraps—which makes the idea of bringing me right to his doorstep all the more strange. This is obviously highly classified. Or personal. Or both.
“No.”
That’s a lie, and thankfully the end to the questions, as the car snakes up the long driveway, the house growing proportionately until it looms over us. Bentley is already waiting at the heavy wood doors when the brakes squeak to a stop. The sight of his broad smile sparks a wave of nostalgia that I hadn’t expected. It’s been more than five years since I last saw him, our communication limited to brief conversations on burner phones and wire transfers to offshore accounts.
“It’s good to see you.” He clasps hands with me the moment I step out of the car, pulling me into a friendly hug. “How was your flight?”
“Long. My secretary will invoice you shortly.”
His deep chuckle rattles in my chest just like it did ten years ago, when I was an eighteen-year-old newly enlisted SEAL and he was a thirty-two-year-old officer. He’s in his early forties now. Once a trim and powerful man, time and wealth have obviously taken their toll on him, his muscles softer, his movements more relaxed.
Still, I wouldn’t want to piss him off.
“Come inside.”
The interior of Bentley’s estate is as ritzy as the outside. “Overcompensating for something?” I murmur casually, trailing him through a small courtyard within, shaded by high walls all around and decorated with flowers and shrubs and patio furniture.
His chuckle sounds again, even louder now that it echoes through the halls. “Eleanor would say that, but that’s because I divorced her before I made my first million.”
And he’s made many since as the founder of Alliance, a private security company that provides elite protection services to companies and governments, including our own. The contracts are worth tens of millions each—sometimes more—and rife with global media attention, with claims of everything from corruption to undue aggression against civilians in war-torn countries. Bentley pushes on, though, succeeding by continually sticking with his good intentions. Keeping people safe is a motto he lives and breathes every day, and America is a country he loves. He draws no lines when it comes to doing what needs to be done for the greater good. Things that our own government doesn’t want to get its hands dirty dealing with.
That’s why sometimes he needs me.
We go through another door and pass several staff members in various uniforms who smile and nod but otherwise remain part of the backdrop. “Have you been back to California since—”
“No.”
He nods but he doesn’t press it any further, reaching for the willowy, pale blonde who rounds the corner. She looks exactly like her pictures in the newspapers and magazines, the Finnish wife of an influential U.S. Navy SEAL officer turned businessman, who likes to dress in white to match her hair and throw cocktail parties.
“This is Tuuli.”
Her cheekbones protrude with a bold smile, her deep-set chestnut eyes flashing with interest as they size me up. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. . . .” she probes, her English perfect, trace amounts of her origin detectable. She’s been in California for only four years, when Bentley married and imported her, so I’m guessing she’s had the help of a linguistics trainer.
“White,” Bentley answers for me, not giving me a chance to use my real name. He obviously wants to keep his beautiful wife in the dark where I’m concerned.
If she senses any deception, it doesn’t show. “Well, I hope you’ll be staying with us, Mr. White? I can have a room made up for you.”
“I need to get back to San Francisco tonight. But thank you.” As nice as a few nights watching California put its vines to bed for the winter would be, I have big plans for a hole-in-the-wall motel that accepts cash payments and asks no questions.
Leaning in to plant a kiss on her cheek, Bentley murmurs, “I’ll come find you when we’re done.”
She looks at the diamond-encrusted watch that decorates her slender wrist. “Don’t forget that we have that dinner tonight, right?”
“I’ll be in my suit and waiting by the door at six p.m. sharp,” he promises before continuing on, forcing me to trail, Tuuli’s curious gaze on me as I pass. I wonder exactly how much he keeps from her. I wonder if she’d be looking at me like that—and inviting me to sleep under her roof—if she knew the kinds of things I’ve done for her husband.