Page 9 of Surge

“What’re you doing here? Haven’t seen you since . . .” Garrett swallowed at the memory.

“Yeah.” The same heaviness hit Zim’s face. “It’s been too long, Boss.”

“I’m not your boss anymore, remember?” He punched Zim’s shoulder.

He rubbed his shoulder like he’d been hurt. “You’ll always be ‘Boss’ to me.”

Pulling out his wallet, Garrett shook his head.

Zim pointed at the cashier as they ambled over to order. “I already ate, but yours is on me tonight.”

“Nothin’ doing.”

“Hey.” Zim jutted his jaw. “You saved my life. It’s the least I can do.”

The reminder silenced Garrett’s argument. With a smile at the hostess, he ordered the pulled pork sandwich basket from the menu. “With fries and a Dr. Pepper. And banana pudding.” It was fundraising day, after all. As she rang it up and loaded a tray, he leaned on the counter and eyeballed his buddy. “You saved my behind too. But I won’t argue a free meal.” He stuffed his wallet back in his pocket.

“Good. Because I got your six. Always.”

“It’s what we do.” Garrett took the tray of food and soda. “What’re you doing in Hill Country?”

“Visiting my great-grandpa. We don’t expect too many more summers with him. He has some of the best Iwo Jima stories. He was craving some Fox’s brisket, so I came.” Zim grinned. “A friend of mine told me you live here, so I hoped you’d drop in on the first day of the fundraiser. You were always complaining there was no good barbecue around Coronado.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Garrett lifted his tray of food and thanked Zim for it. “Tell your great-grandfather ‘hey’ from your Navy brother, okay?”

“He’ll love that.”

Garrett looked for a place to sit.

“Uh, Boss, have some time to chat?”

He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “Do I get to eat first?”

Zim lifted his palms in surrender. “I’d never get between you and your barbecue.”

“You always were the smart one.” Garrett stopped at a trough that served as the condiment station.

“I was glad to hear you still have my back.”

Garrett piled pickles and onions on his pulled pork and peered sidelong at his buddy. “That sounds like a setup if I ever heard one.”

“We need help.” Zim motioned him toward the back of the restaurant.

We? Garrett had a bad feeling about this, but he trailed his buddy. They’d negotiated some tables when his gaze collided with a man sitting in a booth. Unmistakable long, crooked nose.Son of a . . .He stopped short. “Caldwell.”

Lounging like he had all day and owned the place—that alone was enough to tick Garrett off—the CIA operative gave a cockeyed nod. “Walker.”

Garrett glared at Zim. “What is this?”

Caldwell stood and extended his hand. “Nice to see you.” The man’s narrow, arrogant face made him look like he was in pain.

Not trusting himself to play nice, Garrett clenched his jaw and declined the handshake. Reminded himself he was holding a tray of food and a soda. Which he badly wanted to shove in the guy’s face.

“Walker, please.” Caldwell motioned to the booth. “We need to talk.”

“Boss—G-Garrett.” The stammering betrayed Zim’s nerves. He shifted his weight. “Remember the device we brought out of Djibouti after the . . .” His buddy’s rushed words were almost inaudible.

Garrett dropped his tray on the table and shoved it over, then he slid onto the bench across from Caldwell. “What about it?”