There was the smile he wanted. He kissed her, then leaned back against the seat.

But what was he going to do in Alaska? He wasn’t a pilot. And the last thing Dodge needed was another bossy brother around.

Rest. Right. He took her hand and stared at the palm trees, the ocean as it combed the beach. He didn’t hate it here.

Dodge’s words roamed through his head as they drove into the driveway, bordered thickly with palms. “And now you’re a different kind of warrior. No longer a mercenary, but a soldier for the Lord. At his command.”

Right.

Lord, what do you want me to do?

Logan pulled up behind a small army of black SUVs in the drive.

“What’s going on?” Ranger asked as Logan put the car in park.

“You’ll see,” Logan said.

Colt followed Ranger out of the car, turned and helped Tae out, and then followed Logan and Dodge into the house.

They walked past a gauntlet of security guys, dressed in suits, wearing coms and shoulder holsters. Colt wished for his uniform, or at least long pants.

Especially when he emerged to the main room and spotted Ham standing in a suit, dress shirt, and tie.

“Where’s the funeral?” Ranger said.

Ham nodded toward the patio.

Colt followed his gesture and spotted Pete Sutton, also dressed in a suit, his jacket unbuttoned, his tie caught in the wind, his hands in his pockets, nodding to a man with his back to them. That man also wore a suit.

A fist was starting to form in his chest.

“You’re needed outside,” Ham said.

“All of us?” Dodge asked.

“Just Colt and Taylor. For now.”

Hmm. Okay.

“Maybe I should, uh, change first?” Colt said, looking at his attire. Grimy shirt, cargo shorts. He might even smell a little. Or a lot.

“Now,” Ham said.

Colt took Tae’s hand and they headed outside.

Pete looked up as Colt closed the sliding glass door. A beautiful day soared overhead, the sky brushed with wispy clouds, the heat tempered by last night’s storm.

More men in suits were stationed around the yard.

Colt walked out slowly. “Hey Pete, what’s up?”

And then the man talking to Pete turned. Good-looking, dark hair with gray on the sides, a disarming smile. The presidential pin on his suit lapel. “Sergeant Major Kingston?”

What?

President Isaac White had always reminded Colt of George Clooney in a way, and he couldn’t get that comparison out of his mind as he straightened to attention, letting go of Tae’s hand. “Sir.”

“I hear you’re to thank for stopping a terrorist attack on our soil.” He held out his hand.

Colt met it. “It wasn’t all me, sir.” He glanced at Tae.

Her eyes had widened.

“I talked to Ham and Pete and they told me about your role. The country owes you a debt of gratitude.”