“Yes, it is.”

“Do you have any regrets?” I ask, peering over at him. His lips flatline, the stiffness returns, and I hate I asked the question. “Not liking Santa Barbara?” I ask in a lighter tone.

“No. I like it here. Seventy-two and sunny, what’s not to like?” The muscles along his jaw soften once again. “I like what we’re doing at Arrow. No two days are the same. I make my own decisions. I don’t go into situations knowing half the story.” He swallows and glances down at me. “I get plenty of outdoor time. We’re near the ocean. Live next door to my best friend.”

“Erik?”

“No, Erik lives in Napa. He’s a close friend. As is our other partner, Kairi. She also lives up north. But Trevor, he’s like a brother.” And he just sent him off on a dangerous assignment.

“Is everything okay in Damascus?”

Ryan’s eye twitches, and his chest heaves upward. The muscles along his jaw tense. “Trevor texted earlier. Our buddy is going to lose his leg.”

“Shit.”

His bottom lip shifts, and his chin juts up. “Yeah. Shit.” We turn back into my driveway. “Shrapnel from an explosion. But we’ll make sure he gets the best medical care. And everything he needs when he gets home.”

“That’s important to you, isn’t it?”

“Hell yeah, it is. Military doesn’t always do that. Supposed to, but…” He looks away. I have heard stories about healthcare in the US. Back home, healthcare is available for all. I haven’t gotten sick yet, so I don’t know what it is like over here. But those stories do concern me. I have health insurance with my job, so I should be okay.

It is hard for me to understand how a country as wealthy as the United States doesn’t offer healthcare to its citizens. Seems to me all the money dumped into insurance should go to actual healthcare, and that would solve the problem. Whenever you bring in a middleman, issues are going to arise. Of course, I suppose, the other side, the foreign side, always seems odd, no matter which side of the border you’re on.

I unlock my front door, and Ryan’s hand covers the doorknob. He pushes the door wide, his arm held out, holding the door for Trace and me to pass.

Ryan sits down on my sofa as I bend to detach Trace’s leash and give him a good scratch behind his ears.

“Ryland sent over some background information.” His thumb scrolls on his screen. “He says Larry Reyes has been on the ATF’s radar for years.”

“Who is he?”

“One of the men who visited Jack Sullivan’s house regularly. He’s an executive at Sullivan Arms.”

The photograph he shows me is of a relatively young Hispanic businessman with black hair, thick black eyebrows, and tan skin. My stomach curls in on itself. I’ve studied all the American acronyms, but I want to be certain.

“And ATF is…?”

“Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives.”