the room where a team of tux-wearing waiters was setting up the table for seven. “That’s Harlan McClain. He used to play minor-league baseball, but he was special ops, too. The non-PC term for his job title was assassin.”
So, Parker had been right. “You did background checks on all the guests?”
Wade nodded, sipped his champagne. “Old habits.”
Parker snagged a glass of champagne from a waiter who was passing by. His throat was suddenly bone dry, and he was wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into. “I would have done the same if I’d known the guest list,” Parker mumbled.
“It took some doing to get it. From what I could find out, our host invited five of us, all former military. Each of us has specific areas of expertise.”
Interesting, since there were seven places being set with expensive china and real silver. Not just one fork, but four.
What the heck was he supposed to do with the other three?
And Parker obviously wasn’t the only one who felt that way. The assassin guy was eyeing them as if he might use them as weapons.
“The invitation should have said this was black tie,” Parker added. He was way underdressed in his khakis and dark blue shirt, but then the note as the bottom of the invitation had said Come as you are.
Right.
Bart Bellows was lucky that Parker hadn’t taken that to heart and shown up in Wranglers and mud-caked cowboy boots.
The other guests obviously hadn’t gotten the word about the hotel’s dress code either because like Parker, they all wore casual clothes and they all stuck out like sore thumbs.
“I know what you mean about the black tie,” Wade agreed. “I didn’t expect this.” The man made a sweeping glance around the lavish room.
Neither had Parker, though he had done a thorough background check on their host, Bart Bellows. However, in this case, background details didn’t tell the whole story. Parker was sure of that.
Wade tipped his head to the wiry dark-haired man across the room who was studying them as discreetly as Parker was studying him. “That’s Matteo Soarez from L.A. He worked in army covert ops. He specialized in infiltrating the enemy.”
Wade slid a glance at Parker. “I think you’re the only one here who actually got to protect people when you were in uniform.”
Well, Parker had been a bodyguard, of sorts. A combat rescue officer. The army sent him into situations where a captive needed to be extracted or when a VIP or team leader required extra protection.
Protection.
Now, that was also another complex word. He had three scars from bullet wounds that he’d gotten in the name of protecting others. The reminder had a bitter taste to it because Parker hadn’t been there to protect the one person who’d counted most.
His pregnant wife.
And because of it, he was now on some rat-wheel guilt trip ride that he wasn’t sure he could ever escape.
“The fifth guy is Nick Cavanaugh,” Wade continued. He angled his gaze toward the front of the room where the blond-haired man was doing exactly what they were doing—drinking champagne and trying to figure out what was going on here. “Army reconnaissance.”
Parker was betting like Wade that this Nick had gotten his hands on the guest list, as well. “So, what does a billionaire like Bart Bellows want with the likes of us?” Parker asked Wade.
“I’m not sure, but I think we’re about to find out.”
All the guests, including Parker, practically came to attention when the man in the motorized wheelchair rolled into the room from a side door.
Bart Bellows.
Thinning gray hair. Gray beard, too. Eyes so blue and intense that they seemed to pierce right through you.
Parker recognized the man from the numerous photos he’d found on the internet. There was no shortage of images and stories about the eccentric billionaire who was a Vietnam vet and former CIA agent.
However, most of the articles hadn’t had anything to do with Bart Bellows’s careers but rather his high-risk lifestyle. The man been a first-class adrenaline junkie—he’d done a stint as a race car driver for the NASCAR team he owned; he’d bungee jumped in the Grand Canyon: he’d parasailed over shark-infested waters in Australia.
In Parker’s mind, Bart lived like a man looking to die.
Well, Bart had, before that wheelchair and age had sidelined him and before his son had been killed in the Middle East by an IED. But Parker didn’t think it was his imagination that the old guy was still willing to take some ultimate risks.
Bart wasn’t alone. There was another man who followed along behind the wheelchair. Tall, imposing. Parker figured he was another military vet or maybe ex-CIA.
“Welcome,” Bart called out to them. He urged them closer with his motioning hand.
All of them, including Parker, began to stroll toward the fancy-set table. When he got closer, he saw there wasn’t just silverware and china, but at each place there was a PDA.
“Take a seat,” Bart invited. There was something surprising about his voice. It didn’t quite go with the weathered face and his wheelchair-bound body. There was strength in that voice. Strength too in the look he gave each of them.
It was almost…fatherly.
“In case you don’t know, I’m Bart Bellows, and this is Nolan Law, my right-hand man.” He hitched his thumb in the direction of the person who’d come in with him.
“Take a seat,” Bart repeated, and he wheeled himself to the head of the table.
Parker located his name tag. It was next to Wade’s. The others did the same, and one by one they all sat down. Parker didn’t know which was more intimidating—those four forks or the way they were eyeing each other. What he needed was more knives to cut the sudden tension in the room.
But Bart’s laughter did that.
“Gentlemen, this isn’t a funeral, so there’s no need to act like it’s one.” Bart turned that friendly gaze on Parker. “How’s your son, Captain McKenna?”
It took Parker a moment to answer. It’d been five years since anyone had addressed him by his army rank. And as for his son, Zach, it surprised him that this billionaire would even know his son’s name, much less bother to ask about the thirteen-year-old. Of course, Bart was probably aware of every last detail of Parker’s life.
Bart no doubt knew about Amy, her death and the unborn daughter who’d been buried with her.
Parker pushed those memories aside, or rather tried. Five years of practice hadn’t helped much with that. “My son’s doing good,” he lied.
Bart nodded and seemed a little disappointed that Parker hadn’t attempted the truth.
“We’ll talk more about that later,” Bart said practically in a whisper. “Maybe a change of scenery will make things better for both of you.” With that cryptic remark dangling in the air, Bart looked back at the others. “First though, I should probably tell you why I invited you here. Plain and simple, I need your help.”
“Help?” That came from Harlan, the assassin, and he practically growled it.
“Help,” Bart cheerfully clarified. “Actually, this is a job offer. I want all of you to work for me at Corps Security and Investigations. I’ll double whatever salary you’re getting now and will pay for all relocation costs for you and your families.”
No one said a word, but Parker could almost hear the mental mumbles. If it sounded too good to be true, it usually was.
“Yes, I did say double the pay,” Bart continued. “But