Savage Son (James Reece #3) - Jack Carr Page 0,109
them so they may actually have the resources to pull off an attack, a rescue, or whatever you call it.”
Grant rubbed his angular chin, his eyes drifting toward the ceiling.
“Understood.”
“Do you, Grant? I want to make sure we are absolutely clear here. Your associates, they need to get rid of these Hastings people and make sure the bodies are never found. I don’t need the president getting all patriotic on me. No evidence.”
“That’s a bit harsh, Pyne, even for you.”
“I just want to avert World War III.”
“If they are still alive, I can assure you they will not be for long. It will be as if they never set foot in Russia.”
“Good.”
“My friends will not forget your discretion when your man is out of office.”
“I’m counting on that,” Pyne responded as he rose to leave. “Let’s do lunch one of these days.”
“Let’s do that.”
Absolute power.
CHAPTER 64
Kumba Ranch, Flathead Valley, Montana
AS REECE AND ELI approached the main house, the door swung open and Jonathan stepped onto the porch. A motley crew emerged and walked down to the circular gravel driveway. Reece almost choked up, seeing the men who had once been as close to him as brothers answer yet another call. This time it wasn’t for the country, it was for a man who had fought with them and offered them a way to transition from military service to the private sector while reconnecting with their families as part of the Warrior/Guardian program.
“Farkus,” Reece said, approaching a redhead who bore an unfortunate resemblance to the bully character in A Christmas Story. In special operations and aviation circles it was best to just accept your nickname and learn to live with it. The fact that he, like his Hollywood namesake, wore a permanent scowl only added to the legend. A native of Boston, Sean Fleming had been a RECCE team member at his last command. He’d specialized in Advanced Force Operations, inserting into denied or nonpermissive areas, performing reconnaissance missions to identify targets, threats, HLZs, DZs, potential avenues of approach, and escape and evasion corridors. As part of this specialized role, Farkus was a subject matter expert on free-fall parachuting. With thousands of jumps under his belt, he was a tremendous asset when it came to putting men onto a target from the air. Upon his retirement the previous summer, he had come to work for Raife’s outfitting business without hesitation to get some fresh air and figure out his next move.
Wearing Carhartts and a T-shirt from Tucson’s Trident Bar and Grill, Farkus spit into an empty beer bottle and smiled. “Looks like we’ll be jumping out of a perfectly good airplane tomorrow. As I recall, jumping is not your favorite activity.”
“Good memory,” Reece responded. If Reece never exited an aircraft with a parachute again it would be too soon. He preferred his feet remain firmly planted on the ground.
“Just follow me out the back as usual. Nothing to worry about.”
“Just gravity.” Reece smiled and moved on to the next man in line, slapping hands and embracing in a half man-hug.
“What’s up, Devan?” Reece asked, as he greeted the golden-haired, board-shorts-, flip-flop-, and tank-top-clad SEAL. Reece couldn’t remember ever having seen Devan without a smile. “How’s Edo doing?”
Edo sat obediently at his handler’s side awaiting a command. The Belgian Malinois had been Devan Blanding’s last multipurpose canine as part of the Naval Special Warfare canine program. When Devan was sidelined by an IED that almost killed him in Yemen, Edo never left his side. Knowing that, had he been killed, Edo would have been put down by a system ill equipped and not funded to run a retirement home for aging attack dogs, Devan found his purpose.
After consulting with Raife, Devan had packed up his 1976 Volkswagen Bus pop-top camper and headed to Whitefish. There he found a beautiful piece of property about twenty minutes outside of town that would allow him to build his dream, Devine K9s. He built a canine facility where he could train personal protection dogs, many for the high-net-worth clients of Raife’s program, as well as service dogs for citizens with impairments and disabilities. With Raife’s help he started a foundation called Rescue 22, named for the twenty-two veterans who took their own lives each day in the United States. He trained service and emotional support dogs for veterans dealing with PTSD, traumatic brain injury, and the physical and emotional trauma of combat. A separate section of the property was reserved for retired or transitioning military and