Midnight Kiss (Men of Midnight #7) - Lisa Marie Rice Page 0,32

that woman, Bard never had a long-term relationship, never married. Not even close. It was like he married the fucking Navy.

So Court was forced to campaign with a ghost son, unobtainable, invisible, legally banned from talking about what he actually did in the Navy.

Also — a son who hated his father.

Getting rid of that girl and her spawn was supposed to bring them closer together, but it hadn’t.

Bard just got angrier and angrier. More and more remote. Tougher and tougher.

To the point that Court was actually physically frightened at the thought of Bard realizing what he’d done all those years ago. Bard wouldn’t kill his own father, would he? Would he?

Court didn’t have an answer to that.

What was supposed to have cemented their relationship by getting an intrusive, trashy little money-grubber out of the way had turned into a mile-high wall that no matter what he did, Court couldn’t climb over.

Court was rich. Massively rich, though the wealth was mostly hidden. Still, he’d made it clear that Bard could be rich, too. Way way beyond anything a military career could bring. But Bard couldn’t be bought by the prospect of a loan or gifts from his father. He banked almost his entire salary. He lived a spartan life, bunking in the Bachelor Officers Quarters when he was Stateside, living in camps when he was deployed. He had no property to his name and completely ignored Court’s hints at leaving him property. There wasn’t anything Court could give him that Bard wanted.

He hadn’t even wanted a big military career. Bard should have been an admiral by now, and would have been if he’d made even a slight attempt to rise up. He hadn’t. He just stayed in the field well beyond what was expected of him.

Bard was also completely indifferent to his father’s campaign. Didn’t give a shit. Once Court lost his temper and alluded to the fact that one day soon he could be Bard’s Commander in Chief.

Bard had simply glared at him. “You’ll never be my Commander in Chief. Forget it. If you win the presidency, I’ll resign my commission and go to work for Black Inc.” Taking Bard completely out of the chain of command.

Black Inc was a powerful security company run by former SEAL Jacob Black. He and Bard had been friends forever. Court had tried recruiting Black’s company for an off-the-books job when he was DD at the CIA, but Black refused. And threatened to report him to the Congressional Oversight Committee.

Resnick and his crew hadn’t refused, which had been a stimulus for creating his own small army. His army never refused him anything.

“Is that all, sir?” Resnick’s voice was emotionless. If he’d noticed Court getting lost in his own head — which happened often when he thought of his son — he gave no sign.

“Yes. Get to Sacramento and call your men in if you need to. But only if you need them.”

Resnick stood. “Yessir.”

“Oh, and Resnick?”

“Sir?”

“Whoever you find that has a bearing on your mission, they are to be terminated. Especially the … main actor. This has to become a dead end. Are we clear?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

He turned and walked out the door.

Court’s head suddenly fell forward as if too heavy for his neck. The past had reached out, a raging torrent he thought was underground, but which had punched its way through to the surface. It would carry him away if he wasn’t careful. He blew out a shaky breath, staring at the ground for a long, long time.

There was no margin for mistakes now.

Portland

They did what they’d done the previous day only in reverse.

Hope was in her super-secret spy getup — big floppy hat with the secret lights under the brim, funky high-tech sunglasses, a wad of toilet paper inside her sneaker to change the gait — and instructions to keep your head down. That last had been said a billion times by Luke, as if she were unable to process a four-word instruction.

One last thing, Luke had said. Keep your hands palms-down. Satellite photos were astonishingly high resolution these days and a really good shot of a finger would give you a fingerprint as sharp as dipping it in ink and rolling it over the police blotter.

It was hard to keep your head down, particularly when your floppy hat brim dipped down beneath your eyeline, basically giving you a view of your sneakered feet and not much else.

Plus, she was dragging the wheelie and carrying her backpack. It was clear to her