And he was rich.
Fantastically rich, and not a penny of it had come from his old man. When your father had spent years ignoring you—except for the times he told you that you’d never amount to anything—that was one hell of a fine achievement.
What had made Matthew rich was Knight, Knight and Knight: Risk Management Specialists, the company he’d founded with his brothers. A year apart in age, they shared the same tough history.
A mother who’d died when they were young. A power-hungry father. Teenage rebellion, a few semesters of college followed by Special Forces and the Agency. Life became one long adrenaline rush. Danger and beautiful women became Matthew’s drugs of choice, though the women never lasted.
A warrior never let his emotions control him.
“¿Otra cerveza, señor?”
Matthew looked up and nodded. The beer was the only thing he still liked about Cartagena.
Five years ago, the Agency had partnered him with an undercover DEA agent and sent them here to infiltrate a drug cartel. Their cover was that they were lovers, looking for some money to set themselves up. They weren’t, but Alita liked to tease him and say if she ever got into men, Matthew would be at the top of the list. And he’d say, yeah, yeah, promises, promises…
Somebody sold them out.
Four armed men snatched them off the street and drove them to a falling-down shack in the jungle. They beat Matthew until he lost consciousness. When he came to, he and Alita were tied to chairs.
Now you will learn how a man gives a woman pleasure, gringo, one of their abductors said, sending all four into gales of laughter.
Alita showed the courage of a lioness. Matthew fought the ropes that bound him but he was helpless to stop what happened.
When it was over, two of the killers dragged Alita’s body outside. The third went with them, saying he needed to take a piss after such hard work. One man remained to guard Matt. He grinned, showed a mouthful of brown teeth and said he was going to prepare for the next round of fun.
He was bent over two lines of white powder just as Matthew finally freed his wrists.
“Hey, amigo,” he said softly.
The man turned and came toward him. In an instant, Matthew had his hand over the man’s mouth and his arm around his neck. One quick twist and he was dead.
He killed two of the others with the dead man’s weapon but only wounded the fourth. The guy ran into the jungle. Fine, Matthew thought coldly. A jaguar would make a feast of his flesh before the day ended.
He had other things to do.
Like burying Alita.
It was tough, not because it was difficult to scratch a grave in the fecund soil but because his eyes kept blurring with tears.
Standing over her grave, he vowed to avenge her.
He drove their abductors’car back to Cartagena, then to Bogotá. The embassy spook-in-residence debriefed him, expressed regret…and told him there would be no search for the killer who’d gotten away. When Matt demanded answers, his boss ordered him back to Washington.
Sheer luck had Cam and Alex in D.C., too. Over a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue, the brothers shared their disillusionment with the Agency.
Risk Management Specialists was born. Based in Dallas, the Knights provided their clients with solutions to difficult problems—solutions that were always moral if not exactly legal.
The Agency, and Colombia, became a memory…
Until now. Until Matthew’s father asked him to meet an old friend with a problem. As a favor, he said.
Avery, asking a favor? Cam’s recent brush with death had changed things. Matthew didn’t entirely trust the change. Still, he’d agreed to the meeting. He’d listen to the guy’s problem, maybe offer some advice. No way was he going to take on some
thing that would keep him—
A man was coming toward him. Matthew took in the salient features. North American. Early forties. Good physical shape. Undoubtedly military, though he was in civvies.
“Matthew Knight?”