A hearty back slap bumped Jameson into the edge of the counter. “No need to reschedule this guy. I’m handling appointments today. Glad you made it, Jameson Tenney. Walker thinks a helluva lot of you. I’m Senior Agent Mark Houston, former USMC.”
“Yeah, well, Walker’s got brain damage,” Jameson bantered back. “Nice to meet you, sir. Sure sorry about your disability.”
Mark grunted.
“I didn’t know you were back from the hospital,” Mother told him. “How’s Kelsey?”
“She’s great. Wish you’d been there.”
“Justice couldn’t get away this morning or I would’ve been there.”
“Knowing Kelsey, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s gone home by then. You might want to call first.”
“Of course, I’ll call.”
Jameson got the distinct impression Mother was annoyed. Also, that Mark was built like a fullback. From the mellow bass coming out of him, he seemed open and easy and big, not someone petty who’d kick a person when they were already down.
Not that Jameson was down. He wasn’t. He had a good handle on his disability and his attitude. He’d never let his lack of sight become more than what it was, the loss of two excellent tools. Yes, being blind had been life altering, but so what? He was here today because he needed more than just a job. He needed his life back.
Mark grabbed onto Jameson’s hand, adeptly mashing the handle of his cane within their conjoined grip. “Damn glad you made it, Tenney.” He let go, but latched onto Jameson’s elbow next, directed him around Mother’s counter, then a few steps to the right, twelve to be exact, into what sounded like a short hallway. When they came to a halt, a knob to the left turned with the tiniest squeak.
“Six steps straight forward to the chair in front of my desk. Take a load off.”
Cues also helped. Jameson strode confidently into Mark’s office, his chin up while his stick tapped the layout of his way forward. Table to the right. The back of the wooden chair he’d mentioned was easy to find. Taking a seat, Jameson leaned his walking stick against Mark’s desk where he could easily reach it.
“So, Navy SEAL, huh?”
“Yes, sir. Five years in, five years ago. Sorry about that crack about you being disabled, but you were a Marine.”
“Still am,” Mark admitted easily as he leaned back in his chair on the other side of the desk. Jameson could tell. He heard joints cracking and boot heels pushing over nubby carpet. Outdoor carpet, excellent choice for high-traffic work areas. “Your record shows you earned a helluva lot of awards those five years in.”
“Awards don’t mean anything. You know that.”
“They tell a story though, don’t they? Heroism’s a hard thing to hide, and you were promoted early. That alone’s damned tough.”
There was nothing Jameson could say to that. ‘Thank you, sir,’ or ‘So’s stupidity,’ sure weren’t it. So he respectfully sealed his lips and let Mark get on with the interview.
He was leaning onto the top of his desk by then, into Jameson, which was a good sign. Not away from, which would’ve told an entirely different story. His fingers were interlocked, and he was breathing easy, probably had both elbows on the desk, too. “I’ve only got one question.”
“Yes, sir?” Jameson straightened in his chair and cocked his head, striving to sense if an upcoming bad attempt at humor, maybe a Helen Keller joke, or an easy let down, was headed his way. He’d heard them all before. Probably shouldn’t expect anything else, but it’d be nice to fit in again somewhere. The family a guy earned during combat tours was unlike any other, and Walker’d sounded so positive about this place and his new boss. He’d been kicked around a long time. All Jameson wanted was that same chance that Walker had. Redemption, damn it. The handicap did not make the man!
Mark cleared his throat. “When’s the best time to take a kill shot?”
Jameson blinked. Maybe this was his lucky day. “Most guys will tell you it’s the second your target steps into clear view, sir, but…” He swallowed hard. He had so damned much riding on the line. To have to walk back out this door, past the customer service desk, and get on the elevator with his head still held high, would suck. But his gut had always served him before, so he went with it again. “If you want my honest opinion, best scenario would be never. Optimum outcome would be for that terrorist to drop his weapon, raise both hands, turn himself in, and swear allegiance to something better than ISIL, or whichever asshat’s running the current shitshow. That way he could still contribute to his family. He could be a better man and heal his country instead of tearing it apart from the inside. And America’s sons and daughters could all come home.”
Dead. Silence.
Shit. The answer that sounded damned good when he’d said it, worried Jameson now. He couldn’t get a clear sense of Mark’s reaction. He’d slowed his breathing. Might even be holding his breath, the dog. Clever trick. Must have been a scout sniper in the Corps. Seconds dragged. But then—
“Shake my hand, you son of a bitch,” Mark growled. “You’re now working for the best damned employer on the Eastern Seaboard.” He didn’t hold back, just leaned across his desk, grabbed Jameson’s hand, and squeezed the ever-loving shit out of his fingers. Hurt so good!
“I am?” he asked to make sure he’d heard right. “I’m hired? Just like that?”
“Just like that,” Mark breathed as he ended the gripping congrats. “One word of advice, don’t call anyone around here sir, especially not Alex. He’ll rip you a new one if you do. Ember Dennison’s out today. She’s one of our three technical assistants, but Beau Villanueva’s just as good. I’ll introduce you when he gets in from the hospital, then to The TEAM when we’re through here.”
“Someone hurt?”
“Nope, Alex’s wife had a baby this morning, their first son together, that’s all. He won’t be in for
