“I don’t need it.” Jared smirked. “I’d call over to Sixteen Hundred Penn Ave and buzz the president if I gave a damn about protocol, which I don’t.”

Brock crossed his arms. “We don’t have a plan.”

“Do what we did before, but finish the job this time.” Why am I explaining myself?

Brock countered, “You’re recovering and aren’t thinking clearly.”

No shit. “If you want to keep your paychecks coming, you’ll be ready to move out.”

Jared stormed out of the room, not caring about the opinions behind him. The clack, clack, clack of Thelma, his bulldog, followed him from the war room to his office. Now there was some loyalty. That dog could eat the carpet, the drywall, and the silverware off his kitchen table, but she always knew when to fall in line and come along.

The secure door closed behind them, making him wish Sugar was standing there, too. Intense eyes that distracted him. Lips that gave him wet dreams. And one killer body. From tits to ass, that woman had it going on. Besides that fun-land of a figure, she nipped at his pissed-off personality, tossing grenade-style sass and a smile that knocked him senseless. He hated it. Sugar was IED-dangerous. One misstep, and kaboom.

They both knew it. Both avoided the other. Apparently, to the detriment of learning, she’d hightailed it to hell’s playground.

Jared’s phone buzzed. He swiped the handset to his ear, didn’t listen, and then grumbled. “The only thing I want to hear is, ‘Wheels up in thirty.’”

***

Chewing on cinnamon sticks was a nasty habit. But Kip Pearson embraced the god-awful taste. Since his childhood, the scent had always soothed his agitation, though the damn bark turned his mouth the color of Indian clay and chased away the ladies.

Twenty minutes were left until he had major explaining to do, and that shit was for the grunts.

Working for GSI’s Internal Affairs Division meant he didn’t have to deal with the headache of following the rules. He only enforced them as he saw fit. That was why he loved carrying on with the IA routine, and that title meant he didn’t need to sit in his truck, contemplating where to tell his boss to shove it.

Kip glanced in the mirror, wiping orange spittle from the corners of his mouth, and then opened the truck door. He flicked the spit-covered spice stick like a cigarette butt and ignored the guard on the way in to GSI’s main headquarters.

Growling at people in the halls, he swung open the pompous doors, emblazoned with “Buck Baer.”