Tripp cocked his head. “Do I know you?” he had to ask, as he manned up and gave that bone-cracking handshake his all. Whoa. Ky was no pushover, and those weren’t fluffy shoulder pads under that black FBI get-up. He was as strong as a fuckin’ ox. Plenty of upper body strength. Wide damned shoulders and a thick neck that looked like he power-lifted.
By then his two buddies had also circumvented their boss and were headed his way. Chase stood there with his feet spread and his hands on his hips, glaring as his team walked away from him. Well, let him glare. There was no I in this TEAM. Apparently, he hadn’t gotten the memo.
“Probably not, but you’re one of the guys who rescued me and a couple other soldiers outside of that private prison south of Kabul,” Eden’s husband declared proudly. “I was on my way to the USMC morgue, but I made sure I got the names of everyone who was there that night. You helped save my life, man. I was blind and beat to shit, b-b-but, d-d-damn…” Ky’s amber eyes brimmed and his lips pinched. “Thank you so g-g-gawddamned much for being there,” he stuttered. “I’m so d-d-damned glad to meet you in person.”
Tripp found himself pulled into a mighty, suffocating bro hug. He damned well recalled the barely alive Marine he and his team had found that ugly night outside Kabul. Army had never worked so well with the Corps as when both were on the same search and rescue missions. Tripp just wished he’d been the one who’d ended the sadistic bastard who’d operated the shithole Ky had escaped from. But someone else had the privilege of killing the Taliban banker. Scuttlebutt was that guy was one of the Taliban’s own snipers. Interesting.
“My husband was only on his way to the morgue until I convinced him to stay alive for me,” the pretty blonde added. Her arm looped through Ky’s cocked elbow. She patted the bulky biceps that stretched his black suit jacket sleeve to the max.
He beamed down at her. “Yes, you did, Eden. Sorry. I should tell you,” he said to Tripp, “we’re the FBI’s one and only psychic team, but—”
“But we can’t read shit off a gawddamned thing this bastard’s touched,” the behemoth who’d just joined Ky growled. “Agent Tate Higgins at your service. Ky’s told me a lot about that night. Good to finally meet you, McClane.” He reached a bear-sized hand forward, and Tripp expected another death match, the kind all former military exacted upon meeting members from a different service.
The rule was simple. Whoever blinked or whined first bought drinks for the house. Tripp had usually gotten drunk those times, but he wasn’t so sure about that outcome today. Tate was a big guy with large, work-roughened hands. Dark shaggy hair. Darkly tanned like most guys and gals who’d served too long in the Middle East. And a grip that wouldn’t quit.
But neither would Tripp. He gave until Tate’s ugly face cracked into a toothy grin. “You’re all right,” Tate muttered when he gave up the win. “Almost as good as your buddy there.”
Tripp had to glance at Jameson. “Him?”
Jameson lifted a shoulder, as usual, and said, “Krav Maga. I never lose, remember?”
Which made Tripp laugh. “Yeah, whatever.”
By then, the fourth agent had joined the FBI psychic threesome. He stuck out a much more slender, elegant hand and announced, “Agent Isaiah Zaroyin at your service. Pleased to meet you, Agent McClane. It’s a privilege to be able to work with you.”
So, this was that mad doctor’s son, huh? Tripp took hold of Zaroyin’s hand, surprised to find more physical strength in his grip than he’d expected. Zaroyin was the Christopher Reeves version of “Superman.” Tall, dark, and handsome. Slender, but strong in a better-looking package than Ky, Tate, or Tucker. And smart. Isaiah relinquished the handshake first and stepped back into line behind Ky and Eden. Guess he didn’t feel the need to prove he was bigger or better. But then, he’d never served in the military, either. Tripp could tell.
“So, you guys are all, what? Mind readers?” he asked, half-expecting one of them to reach over and pull a coin out of his ear.
Ky’s better-half smiled. “Some of us can read minds, yes,” Eden replied, her pretty green eyes twinkling with mischief. “But each of us came into the FBI with different psychic skills. Mine are more long distance, which is how I was able to reach out to Ky in Afghanistan from my home in Virginia. Tate has an affinity with most animals, and—”
“All except alligators and crocodiles,” he piped up. “Bears, dogs, and everyone else. Even snakes and birds. Just nothing left over from ‘Jurassic Park.’”
Interesting word-choice: Everyone else instead of anything else. Tate identified more closely with animals than people. Tripp liked him instantly.
“Eden and Isaiah are the only Level Tens in the States,” Director Chase bragged, now that he’d caught up with his people. “Isaiah’s got skills not even he can explain.”
Isaiah cleared his throat. “And Tucker’s skills are coming along just fine. He’s a fair mind reader and getting better every day.”
Tripp ran an appraising eye over the guy with the biggest ego. Tucker? A mind reader? He’d have to see that to believe it. Call him skeptical, but yeah. Not falling for all this BS.
He turned to Ky Winchester. “And what do you do?”
Ky shrugged and pointed to Eden. “I’m married. What do you think? I do whatever she tells me to do.”
That bought a few laughs and loosened the mood. Even Chase smiled.
“He reads people,” Eden explained. “Not their minds, their auras. He can tell you things about yourself you might not even know.”
I doubt that.
Her
