By the time Colonel Richards extended the invitation to dinner, he, Brent, and Madigan were the only ones left in the Pentagon’s subbasement. After they’d arrived back in Washington, the rest of the team had gone home. But Brent had wanted to press on, with Madigan’s social life—if she had one—a casualty of his desire to finish the consult and head back to his own little part of Texas. The colonel kept a modest home in Arlington, on Twelfth Street North, just minutes from his office. He shared the four-bedroom home with a woman who could have been a middle-aged angel for the warm smile she’d bestowed on Brent when he stepped through the door, as well as for the sumptuous dinner that was served him. From what he could gather, having the colonel home this early was an uncommon occurrence, and for some reason she seemed to think that Brent had something to do with it. And as he assumed that was why she’d gone to the trouble to make ribs, he wasn’t going to dissuade her of that notion.
