KANDAHAR AIRFIELD. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
“What the hell was that, Cruz?”
Monica shrugged, still not believing Ryan was actually here. The sight of him brought her back to that dusty saloon, back to those rowdy bikers and their haphazard attempt to scare her outside the ladies room. She had taken out their Alpha with a roundhouse to the side of the man’s right knee, but the rest of his gang had caught up to her by the bar while intimidated patrons parted like the Red Sea. In the time it took her to reach over the counter and grab a half-empty bottle of Cuervo Gold by the neck, Ryan had already swirled through the group and—
“Cruz!”
“Yeah, boss?”
Harwich exhaled. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Why? What did I do?”
“Really?”
“Don’t want to talk about it.”
“That shit doesn’t fly with me. Try again.”
It was Monica’s turn to exhale. “Fine, boss. Fine. Name’s Ryan Hunt. Former Delta sniper. Met him a year ago at a shooting class in Arizona. Caught me by surprise seeing him here is all. All right?”
He shook his head. “Not all right, Cruz. I don’t give a shit who you bang or don’t bang, just don’t mix business and pleasure on my watch again. Clear?”
“Crystal,” she said. “What are you going to do about their request to get paid first?”
“What I always do, Cruz.”
“And what’s that?”
“Light a fire under someone ass.”