Protecting His Kidnapped Family: Southern Soldiers of Fortune Book Two

to figure out all the suppressed anger at his mother’s death, and the constant butting heads with his dad had just added to his willingness to pound on someone else.
Thankfully, twelve years in the Navy—with eight of them as a SEAL—had given him an outlet for the rage until he no longer had to channel it. The type of bond he had formed with his teammates had given him the emotional support he hadn’t realized he needed until his confidence grew with each successful mission and the vise squeezing his chest disappeared.
“You’re probably right. This town’s going to have the same opinion of me as before.” Chance drove his fingers through his messy hair still slick with sweat. “I can’t say I want to stay, but I didn’t exactly have enough time to figure out what comes next when I retired. Dad’s health nosedived even before I landed on this doorstep, and I’ve been focused on that ever since.” He eyed his brothers. “Harris only has bereavement leave, but what about you, Lee? What are you going to do now?”
Lee sneered. “I doubt Springwell has a need for a useless sniper in SWAT—not that we’re big enough to even have a dedicated unit.” He swished his hand over his high-and-tight shorn head. “Nothing’s holding me here, but I have no clue where to go.”
“You’re not useless,” Harris snapped, rounding on Lee. “You’ve still got the skills no matter what the Army says.”
“Agreed.” Chance jabbed a finger at the youngest brother. Lee’s unit had dubbed him “Puma” after his eye color and the way the large cat was also a solitary killer, hunting its prey just like a sniper, stalking its target with patience and strategy. “Your vision may not meet Ranger qualifications anymore, but I’d bet my life if I slapped a rifle in your hands, you’d nail the center of a bull’s eye with ease.”
Lee’s chin jutted mulishly, but he didn’t say a word. Instead, he sauntered into the kitchen and opened the door into the single-car garage. “How’s this coming?”
Getting the message to back off, Chance stepped into the sweltering garage and his muscles loosened at the sight before him. A black 1967 Ford Shelby Mustang sat with its hood propped up, facing the garage door. His father had found the classic muscle car in an auction years ago, but had never gotten it running. The body was in pristine condition but whoever owned it before didn’t know jack about engines. To be fair, their dad hadn’t had much of a clue either. In their family, Chance was the only one who really knew what he was doing under a hood.
“I think I might be close to getting it started.” Chance fingered the blanket he had spread along the fender to keep it from getting dinged by tools or parts. Working on the car had given him a modicum of peace the past week. A much-needed outlet after watching his father die, then all the fallout of dealing with notifying banks, companies, insurance, etcetera while planning the funeral. “In fact, the carburetor I ordered should be in today at the shop.” He picked up a wrench off the multi-colored quilt. “I took a risk and ordered a much cheaper one that’s supposed to be equivalent to the original Holley. Not ideal, but I wanted to keep my savings instead of blowing it on original parts.”
“The shop, huh?” Harris asked, his voice sing-songy.
Chance stiffened.
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