Gabe motioned with his cup. “Drink it. It’ll put hair on your chest.”

“I’m Polynesian. We don’t do that hair-on-the-chest bullshit.”

The trickle of amusement was unexpected and brought back memories. They used to tease Bull about his smooth skin…back when Gabe, Caz, and Hawk had counted each newly sprouted hair on their skinny chests. Gabe raised an eyebrow. “Just out of curiosity, did you happen to notice your skull is also bare as a baby’s butt?”

“No, really?” Bull ran his hand over his shaved scalp and looked appalled.

Caz laughed and glanced at Gabe. “Shocked me, too.”

“He accused me of having a midlife crisis.” Obviously unconcerned, Bull grinned and stroked his trim goatee.

Gabe noticed the black beard had speckles of gray. Gray hair—already. In the hospital, Gabe had noticed a few streaks in his own hair. Then again, he’d hit the thirty mark a couple years past.

But thirty wasn’t that old. “Midlife, my ass. So what’s this about my mail?”

“Here, old man.” Smirking, Caz passed over a few letters along with a manila envelope. “We stopped by the PO box on the way here.”

After glancing through the junk mail, Gabe opened the big envelope and withdrew a sheaf of papers. The signature on the first page gave him a jolt. “From Mako?”

“His lawyer had orders to mail these last month,” Bull said. “It’s about Rescue.”

Mako’d chosen the tiny town because he had an old Vietnam War buddy there. Although having a friend nearby had helped his PTSD, the sarge’d never stopped bitching about living close to people. He’d been a survivalist to the bone, a prepper before the word was ever coined.

Gabe swallowed his grief and read the short handwritten letter.

My boys,

The greatest pride I have in my life is you four, and if I did nothing else worthwhile in my life, getting you out of LA and into Alaska was worth everything.

Gabe blinked as his eyes burned.

I learned the hard way that, after leaving the military, a man can get lost. That he needs to either fight for something or build something. My inheritance to you is this—a new mission. Welcome to Rescue. Guess what, men. You now own half of the town.

Death has been part of your lives. Time to create something instead. Bring this town back to life.

That’s an order.

What the hell? They owned part of Rescue?

Unsettled, Gabe read the letter again.

Located a couple of hours from Anchorage, the mountain town had started life as a roadhouse and general store for the 1890s gold rush miners. Rescue grew again when the McNally Ski Resort opened mid-twentieth century. But, a decade ago, the resort closed, leaving Rescue to die.

“How exactly did the sarge figure we could revive the town?” Gabe looked up.