He knew the love of family,the closeness of brotherhood, and deep anguished grief over losingsomeone.
No, he may not be betterthan the man across from him in body count, but he sure ashell was different. He clenched his jaw to control his anger andanguish. It was still so fresh.
So, as much as Ryandisliked him, he was there, not only because of the request of hissuperiors, but because of personal reasons. He took in a husheddeep breath to keep his emotions under control. His eyes went overPeter’s face again. There were old scars there, streaks of whitethat set them apart from normal skin color. He knew what knifescars looked like, having a few himself. It was said that it washis preferred weapon when dealing with those that got in his way.One looked as though it just missed his right eye, distorting thehair on his eyebrow, and must hurt like the devil when he got it.It ran halfway down his face to his jaw. The other was on the jutof his chin. He bet this man was a force to be reckoned with in aknife fight.
He flipped a photographaround and stuck a finger on it. “This was you?”
Ryan leaned forward andlooked at the photo. He then leaned back and met his eyes again.“Yes.”
“I heard about that in thepapers. A terrorist siege on an ambassador and his family in Iraq.No casualties?”
“Not on myside.”
“The other?”
“Fifty four.”
“Jesus Christ.” He staredat him in awe. “How many men took that building?”
“Including me—three.” Hekept his voice even and calm as if he were discussing theweather.
“I’ve seen enough. This isimpressive,” Peter finally admitted. He sprawled several morephotographs out in front of him to examine them better.“Really impressive.”
No shit, Ryan thought in response to his compliment. He already wasaware of that. There was no need to answer him because it wasn’tplaced in the context of a question. Honestly, he wasn’t a man ofmany words anyway. Besides, he already knew his history wasimpressive. He was the best of the best in his field, yet unknownin many circles, including Peter’s. It was that way for a reason.As for his new potential employer, again he was just letting himknow that he could get his hands on anything, including his past.It was a warning to him that he couldn’t have secrets.
However, if he thought torattle him a little, it didn’t work. He needed Peter to have thatfile. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been called upon, and he wouldn’thave his thick greedy fingers on it. Only he had to make it looklike Peter was able to obtain it without his knowledge and here theman was dangling it in front of him as if it was supposed to makehim understand how much power he had in those circles. Ryan had toresist from smiling cynically. Only if he knew it was censored andmodified to be used as bait. As soon as the information hit themarket, Ryan expected a phone call, and two days after it wasreleased he got one. Well, he got over a dozen, but Peter’s wasonly one he was after.
He took in a relaxed breathand looked out the window past Peter. It was a terrific view of theMiami skyline. The back, of the property, like the front, had anexpansive well-manicured garden. There was also a large swimmingpool. The mansion was set back from a private beach and had a highstone wall. It was a sin to have such privacy when the scenerywould be beautiful if opened up. Yet he understood the need for theprivacy. Peter being who he was had many enemies.
He’d been to Miami a fewtimes for jobs, but nothing permanent. He smiled to himself. Thewomen were beautiful though—shapely, but had a little less classthan he preferred. He honestly shouldn’t categorize them, but hehad a world of experience. He liked living overseas, mostly inFrance, his mother’s native country. They had a villa there thathad been in his family for generations. And the women, oh the women! There wassomething about French women; sassy, classy and beautiful. He alsohad an apartment in New York where he spent many months out of theyear for business. He almost smirked again. He was growing boredand his mind was wandering.
“I have men in my employthat don’t come near this type of training, and they are the bestaround,” Peter stated without lifting his head. Every time helooked through the file, he’d seen something new, and every time hewas just as impressed. He wanted the best, and he was pretty surehe’d gotten him.
If you thinkso. What he’d seen so far didn’t leave animpression. Ryan brought his eyes back to him but still never saidanything. He didn’t seem to expect him to. Peter was just talkingout loud letting him know that he knew a lot about him. His accentwas noticeable but not impeding to the point where someone couldn’tunderstand him. It wouldn’t matter, Ryan spoke Slavic and Chechenbesides French and English and a few others. As for his men, thatwas pride speaking. He’d sized them up when he came in. They weretypical Russian mercenaries, brutal war formed men, trained in thefield, so they lacked the discipline he had—and the brains. Theywere what he, and others of his expertise, referred to them as;meatheads. They were easy to find in the war torn country, inabundance, and therefore easy to replace, because well, theywere—easy to kill.
After another few minutesPeter shut the file, folded his hands together on top of the deskand met Ryan’s eyes, “I like what I see.”
Of course youdo. “Good.” Ryan said confidently. He knewfor a fact that none of the men that Peter employed had anythingnear his talents or his references. They were mere mercenaries, bigand brainless, but loyal, and although Ryan was fronting as one, hewas better. He was intelligent and tactical. He was trained by menthat were a dying breed, put through trials of extreme survival anddiscipline.
“There’s something I didnot see in your file. Have you ever protected a woman?”
“No. Not long term. Justrescue and recovery.” How hard could itbe?
Again, the barelydiscernable smile. “What’s your rate?” he said, finally getting tothe point.
“Five
