“I was on a temporary assignment in a small country you probably haven’t even heard of.”

Seriously? “Try me.”

“You don’t need to know those details. This isn’t public knowledge, so don’t share with anyone.”

Mackenzie sat forward to focus on this story only a privileged few knew.

“I was an RSO on a PSD.”

“Excuse me, English please.”

“Right. RSO stands for regional security officer. Here in the States, we’re called DS SA—diplomatic security special agent. Overseas it’s RSO. We’re assigned to US embassies and consulates all over the world on a PSD—Protective Security Detail team. Regardless of where we serve, we have atypical assignments.”

“You mean, you do regular special agent stuff plus more than a regular federal agent?”

Surprise lit his eyes, and he rewarded her with a crooked, dimpled smile. “Exactly.”

Alex sat up and angled his head as if listening to a noise in the house. Or outside. Mackenzie heard nothing except for continued dripping and a few buzzing insects. He relaxed. False alarm. Then he focused his attention on her again.

“I was assigned a team, the AXLE Team 3-5. All teams were designated AXLE with numbers assigned.”

“Is that the real name?”

Half his cheek hitched again. “No. I’m changing the names to protect the innocent. To protect you. I ran high-profile missions into what I’ll term an unsecured zone.”

She almost wished she hadn’t asked, because it seemed that by telling the story, the pain in his eyes had increased. If only she could comfort him in some way. She longed to reach over and cup his cheek, somehow wash away the pain.

“High-profile details took us into high-threat regions.”

“The unsecured zone.”

“You’re listening.”

“Of course.”

“It means driving an armored Suburban mounted with large ECMs—”

“Wait. What’s an ECM?”

“Electronic countermeasures—it’s used in presidential and vice-presidential motorcades, or in the case of transporting high-profile assets. It should counter any IEDs or rocket-propelled grenades—anything that’s a guided attack, it’ll jam and can change jamming frequency depending on the range.”

His frown deepened.

What had happened? And why was he choosing to share this specific story with her? But she wanted to know more. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Thanks for explaining.”

“You’re welcome.” He shuddered slightly. She might have missed it if she hadn’t been so focused on him.

“Our teams included just one DS agent or RSO, and the rest were a mix of military guys and private security guys, who were usually ex-military. Marines. Army Rangers. All experienced in combat. Oh, and a medic. I’m getting ahead of myself. As the AIC—agent in charge—I had the sole responsibility for the protectees, the high-profile passengers. I gathered all the details, coordinated all the points of contact. Everything. I didn’t like transporting people into unsecure regions. No one did. But sometimes it happened. Those were the most intense trips. I reviewed and rereviewed the routes. Instructed the protectees how to get into the Suburban and where to sit.”