but in the Unit, everybody got a nickname. The colonel preferred Iceman, and that stuck for a while until he advanced through the ranks and started to put his own career in front of the men he commanded. That was when Jonathan hit on the alliterative Roleplay Rollins, and it stuck like Krazy Glue.
“Are you going to invite me to sit down?” the colonel asked.
“Only if you promise to leave soon.”
Venice got squirmy. “I’m going to leave you two alone.”
Jonathan stepped forward, beckoning her closer. “No, no, no. I want you here. When you’re dealing with Roleplay, witnesses are never a bad thing.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Rollins groaned.
“Say what’s on your mind,” Jonathan said. “Then get the hell out of here.”
“Fine,” Rollins said. “Boomer Nasbe’s family has been kidnapped by terrorists, and we need help getting them home.”
Rollins’s delivery had the feel of something he’d rehearsed, and it landed with all the force he’d no doubt intended. Boomer had been a rookie member of the Unit at the time Jonathan was leaving, and part of a different squadron, but the organization was small enough that everyone knew everyone else. Jonathan’s recollection of the kid was that of a hungry go-getter who could run forever and bench-press nearly three times his body weight. He’d heard through the grapevine that Boomer had pulled off some impressive heroics in Afghanistan.
Jonathan gestured for the sofas and chair over near the fireplace. “Have a seat,” he said. “You, too, Venice.” Answering Rollins’s unasked question, he added, “Think of her as my Miss Annabelle.” He referred to the still-sharp, still-impressive eighty-year-old who had been the commander’s secretary since the days when the Unit was first formed.
The colonel looked impressed. Miss Annabelle’s were tough shoes to fill.
Jonathan left the leather people-eaters to his guests while he took the wooden William and Mary rocker for himself. Years of parachute jumps, bullet wounds, and general abuse had made it difficult for him to get comfortable in soft furniture. Before sitting, he asked if anybody wanted something to drink, but no one did. JoeDog took up the patch of carpet next to the rocker.
“What happened?” Jonathan asked, crossing his legs.
“We don’t know, exactly,” Rollins said. “Have you been watching the news? They’re the family at the feet of the terrorists in the new video.”
Jonathan shot a look to Venice, who recognized her cue and stood immediately. “I’ll have it set up in the War Room in five minutes,” she said, walking toward the door in the office wall that led directly to their high-tech conference room.
“Bring Gail in, too,” Jonathan said.
“What about Boxers?”
Jonathan looked at Rollins, and then back. “Make sure he knows the colonel is here, and what the purpose of the meeting is. Leave it to him.”
Venice acknowledged the gravity of his tone with a twitch of her eyebrows, and then left them alone.
Without the buffer of a witness, Jonathan felt his hatred returning, and his ears turned hot.
“You can’t hold a grudge forever, Dig,” Rollins said.
Jonathan raised a forefinger in warning. “You don’t want to open that door. Not in here. Not on my turf.”
Rollins made a show of looking around. “It’s not as if it ruined your life. You seem to be doing okay.”
“I was rich the day I was born,” Jonathan said. “I give most of it away and I’d still never be able to spend it all. Not in ten lifetimes. It was never about making a living. It was about honor, and you proved you had none.”
Rollins did not rise to the bait. “We all have jobs to do. Not all of them are enjoyable. If you had done yours, you’d still be in the Unit.”
“I saved three lives that night.”
“But to do it, you took five lives that the NCA deemed more important than the ones you saved.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Jonathan spat. “Your whim is not the National Command Authority. We were in position, we’d taken four days to get there, and they were going to execute those kids.”
“I gave an abort order, and you ignored it.”
“It was a bogus order. You misunderstood it.”
“Jesus, Digger, do you want to go through the whole court-martial again? We can’t retry it, but even if we did, the fact will remain that you disobeyed an order.”
The door from the hallway flew open with enough force to make a dent in the wall it slammed into, and Boxers stormed into the office. Born as Brian Van de Meulebroeke, Boxers stood closer to seven feet than six, and likely bent the needle on most bathroom scales. When anyone that big moves that fast, you know that damage is going to be done. His eyes showed murder.
“Box, no!” Jonathan shouted as he shot to his feet. JoeDog slinked under the coffee table.
Rollins scrambled to rise from the depths of the sofa, but he never had a chance. Boxers closed the distance in five quick strides. He grabbed a fistful of Rollins’s shirt in one hand, and his hair with the other, and effortlessly lifted the colonel over the back of the sofa. He heaved him onto the floor with enough force to make two table lamps jump and tumble over.
“What did I tell you last time I saw you?” he shouted.
Rollins landed on his back, his head bouncing off the carpeted floor. He looked stunned. Or maybe terrified.
“Box!” Jonathan yelled. He’d never seen Big Guy this spun up. This homicidal. As he vaulted the back of the sofa to intervene, the conference room door flew open again.
Venice yelled. It wasn’t a scream, exactly, but rather a guttural expression of surprise.
Jonathan dove for his friend, catching him by his belt and pulling to restrain him.
Boxers whirled on Jonathan, his fist cocked. He was that far gone. When Jonathan winced-a full-force blow from Big Guy could be fatal-Boxers’ eyes changed. Horror replaced rage.
In the hallway, Rick Hare and Charlie Keeling-two of the full-time security guards at Security Solutions- appeared at the door, hands gripping their sidearms. What they saw was clearly not what they’d been expecting.
“Everything okay in here, Mr. G?” Rick asked. His eyes shifted to the various parties, trying to decipher it all.
Jonathan kept Boxers’ eye. “You okay?”
Big Guy whirled to Rollins, pointing two fingers like a weapon.
“Look at me, Box,” Jonathan said.
“I told him I’d kill him next time I saw him,” Boxers said.
The security guards stepped in to take positions around Rollins. With the bad guy identified, they knew who to target.
“And you damn near did,” Jonathan said. He smiled and winked.
Venice stood with her hands on her head, her mouth slack. “What is this?”
Jonathan held up a hand for silence as Gail Bonneville arrived in the doorway. Her hand was poised near the Glock on her hip, but then she relaxed. “Oh, there’s got to be a good story here,” she said.
With reinforcements in place, JoeDog felt secure enough to bark. Just once, as if to remind everyone that there was a four-legged killing machine in the room. The absurdity of it made Jonathan chuckle in spite of himself. He directed his attention to the security team. “Thanks, guys. We’re all okay here. Just a flash of anger.”
Rick Hare looked unconvinced. “You sure, boss?”
Jonathan nodded. “I’m always sure. Not always right, but always sure. How about you, Roleplay? Are you hurt?”
Colonel Rollins eyed Boxers with ill-disguised hatred as he rose to his feet and brushed himself off. The front panel of his shirt was torn at the buttons. “I’m fine,” he said.
The guards clearly sensed the tension, but they also understood their order to leave. “We’ll be at our posts,” Rick said. “Just give a shout if you need something.”
Jonathan smiled. “If anyone out there asks what happened, tell them that a bookcase fell over.”
Charlie Keeling touched two fingers to his brow as acknowledgment. Gail pulled away from the door to allow room for them to depart, and then asked Jonathan if she was to stay or leave.
