He hesitated beside Callan, then decided the risk was worth it and offered his hand again. This time, it was accepted, but Callan pulled him down and whispered, “I don’t care what you do to my mind. I won’t forget. When I heard my wife and my little Sarah screaming for help from my burning van and all I could do was watch and listen to them, I promised that I would kill the person responsible. I keep my promises, Dade.”
Dade decided to match the intensity of Callan’s stare then suddenly wished he had not. What he saw in those muddy-green eyes frightened him. Way in the back was a hideous, fanged creature gathering stones and sharpening sticks. He saw Death.
The grip on Dade’s hand relaxed slightly. He fought the urge to pull back his hand and wipe the perspiration off his forehead and barely prevented himself from clearing his throat before speaking. He could not remember any other point in his eleven-year career being so rattled within such a short period of time. But he did manage to keep his eyes locked on Callan’s. “Not this time, Mr. Callan. You won’t remember any promises you make in this life.”
“When my chopper went down behind enemy lines in Bolivia, I promised my front-seat that I would get him home safely. He’s now running his own investment firm in Charleston, and from what I saw when my family and I visited last summer, he’s doing better than just okay. Past, present, or future, Dade, Morgan’s ass is mine.”