cell, announced that he was a colleague of Gabe’s brother Matthew at the CIA, and asked if he was really worth the $3 million ransom Jack had just paid his captors. When Gabe responded that he might not be, but the prisoner in the next cell who wanted to renounce his terrorist ways and reveal some particularly valuable secrets most certainly was, Jack did some quick thinking, scheming, and executing—in both a literal and figurative sense.
By “killing” both John G. Callahan and the recalcitrant terrorist and silencing some of their captors with bullets and others with cash, they had managed to protect the information in such a way that enabled the eventual apprehension of four sleeper cells on American soil and the disruption of terror plots that would have cost thousands of American lives.
Jack Davenport was a true unsung American hero. He was also Gabe Callahan’s best friend. Pam knew that, too, so he wasn’t too terribly surprised to hear the whoop whoop of helicopter blades on Christmas Day or to see Davenport land the bird on the helipad next to Eagle’s Way.
Just because he wasn’t surprised that his friend had come, however, didn’t mean he was happy to see him.
Gabe was in a full-fledged funk, and it had nothing to do with the fact that today was Christmas Day. Gabe hadn’t managed to get past the events of Christmas Eve.
A whole soup of emotions flavored his mood. Embarrassment. Anger. Guilt. Shame. Mortification. Guilt. Humiliation. Guilt. Guilt, and more guilt.
He couldn’t believe how he’d acted. He’d all but attacked Nic, ripping her clothes right off her body. He recalled the shock in her eyes. Her tears.
He was a sorry son of a bitch. What he’d done to her was unforgivable. It went against everything he believed, and the only saving grace was that she had responded enthusiastically.
He’d picked up the phone half a dozen times to call her and apologize. He’d picked up his car keys more times than that, thinking to do it in person. Each time he’d chickened out.
What could he say to excuse himself? He’d taken her like an animal, then told her to leave. He simply couldn’t find the words to express his sorrow and his shame.
Which meant he could add coward on top of the other charges stacked against him.
As he watched Davenport power down the bird, he tried to banish all thought of Nicole Sullivan from his mind. The last thing he needed was to spill those particular beans to Jack.
Knowing his friend, he went into the kitchen and put a pot of coffee on to brew. Jack strolled inside a few moments later, and as a way of saying hello, asked, “What do you have to eat in this shack?”
“How about a Denver omelet? Appropriate, wouldn’t you say?” Gabe was finally hungry himself.
“Excellent choice. I’ll chop peppers. You do the onions.”
As Gabe handed over bell peppers from the fridge, he decided that Jack Davenport must have been born giving orders. A tall man with movie-star looks—Jen used to say that he had no choice but to become a spy because he looked so much like a young Sean Connery—Jack was the definition of a leader of men. Brilliant, decisive, cold-blooded when the situation required, and loyal to a fault, Jack earned the respect of everyone who knew him. Gabe would gladly follow him into any battle.
After breakfast, he followed him into the great room, where Jack sat in an overstuffed easy chair, kicked off his shoes, and crossed his feet at the ankles atop an ottoman. He eyed the boxer, who hadn’t bothered to lift his head off the dog bed Gabe had added to the room’s decor. “Looks like I need to charge you a pet deposit. What’s his name? Lazy?”
“He’s a stray who won’t stay away. Not my place to name him.”
Davenport snorted, then sipped his coffee and sighed with satisfaction. “Eagle’s Way is one of my favorite houses. I should spend more time here.”
“How many houses do you have?”
“Four, domestically. If you count internationally, that brings it up to six.”
“That’s obscene.”
“Hey, you don’t have room to talk. You’re no pauper.”
“I don’t have six houses.”
Jack shrugged. “What can I say? It’s the life of an international playboy.”
Now it was Gabe’s turn to snort. Jack Davenport was the most dedicated, hardworking American patriot Gabe had ever known.
He wondered when Jack would get around to telling him why he’d come to Colorado on Christmas Day. He had no intention of asking. Experience had