The hotel overlooked the sea.
Gio and his nonnino ran past her, and she glanced back. A wall of gray sea roared toward shore, foaming, hungry, gobbling everything in its path. It hit the sailboats at anchor beyond the docks like they might be toys, scooping them up, swamping them. Spray filled the air and she could already taste the death.
She sprinted up the hill, passing Gio and his grandfather, flinging herself into the coffee shop.
People were hurt, bleeding, crying. She spotted the Americans. Harley was wrapping a cloth around the hand of one of the girls.
“Tsunami!” Jenny shouted and Harley looked at her.
She turned to a barista. “Stairs—where are your stairs?”
He pointed to a door in the back, and Jenny pushed Gio and his grandfather toward it. “Go, go!”
Already the thunder had turned deafening and water crashed into the open, broken windows of the cafe.
She sprinted up the stairs, followed by the screaming patrons fighting to get up as water flooded the ground floor. Jenny looked down as she hit the second floor and spotted the water rising on the lower level stairs. Harley was at the bottom, pulling people in.
So much like Orion.
Two apartments were on the second floor, and she banged on the doors as she ran by. “Get out!”
She ran up to the third floor. Someone had already opened the door to the terrace and she ran out, past spilled planters and toppled furniture, all covered in ash.
She cupped her hands over her eyes and watched the sea erupt in fury, tearing at apartments, taking down trees.
Their building shivered, but it was protected by the buildings around it, the higher altitude.
People were crying—the two American women holding hands, staring at the sea, then the mountain.
Harley came up beside her, breathing hard. “We got everyone out. Thank you.”
She nodded but didn’t really see him. Because behind him, along the shore, she watched an apartment building as it surrendered, collapsed into the sea in a foamy splash.
Oh.
No.
An entire building.
“Are you okay?”
“My boyfriend is in a seaside hotel on the second floor.” She searched the horizon. “The one with the green umbrellas.”
“There’s no way to get there.”
“I need to try.” And then, as she watched, the umbrellas on the roof began to shake and . . .
The hotel fell into the sea.
No . . . wait—what?
Her legs nearly buckled.
“Jenny, just breathe.”
She fled to the trash can . . .
Now, Harley crouched in front of her. “Hey. Can I get you anything?”
She shook her head, emptied. Numb.
“Maybe he got out,” Harley said. His expression betrayed worry.
Gio came over to her. “My nonnino wants to thank you.”
Right. Okay. Because what else was she going to do?
She got up and Gio led her over to the old man, now seated on a chair, breathing hard.
She crouched in front of him. Focus. Move forward. “Hi. Are you okay?”
Gio translated.
The man pressed his chest but nodded. “Grazie.” He clamped his hand on Gio’s shoulder. A tear spilled down his face, and he wiped it away.
“You’re welcome,” she said, and glanced at Gio. “What’s your grandfather’s name?”
“Marcello.”
“Marcello, you have a brave grandson.”
Gio translated and Marcello smiled.
Then, to her horror, he groaned and doubled over, holding his chest.
Oh no. “Gio, ask him where it hurts.”
The boy translated. Marcello made a face.
“He says it’s just his blood pressure.”
Maybe angina. Maybe not. “Let’s get him down on the ground. Loosen his clothing.”
Harley had come over. “What’s going on?”
“He might be having a heart attack. Gio, ask him if he has any medicine he takes.”
Harley translated instead. “Yes, but it’s at his house.”
“Do we have any aspirin?”
“I do!” said one of the women. “But it’s in my pack . . .”
Jenny got up. “Stay with him,” she said to Harley. “Loosen his clothes and if he stops breathing—”
“Where do you think you’re going?” Harley hit his feet and followed her.
She ignored him. “What does your pack look like?” she said to the woman.
“It’s orange. It’s got my name—Angie Hunter—on a tag. And—oh, a green ribbon—”
“You’re not going down there,” Harley said.
“Marcello needs his aspirin.”
“Hey—no!” Harley stood in front of her. “You are not going down there—”
“I absolutely am going down there. I’m getting Angie’s orange backpack and I’m only telling you once to step back, pal. I know I don’t look like it, but I served in Afghanistan alongside special forces, and trust me when I say I’m giving you just one warning.”
Harley’s eyes widened. “Okay. Um.” He glanced at his friends, back to her. “If this is some kind of psychotic break—”
“I’m a psychologist, for Pete’s sake, and right now, I need to do something. Okay?” And she might be scaring herself, but she couldn’t . . . oh. She pressed her hands to her gut, fighting the words in her head.
Why didn’t I just say yes to Orion? Tell him she loved him, and that if he wanted a family, then . . . well, she’d just figure it out. They could adopt. Or maybe . . . maybe the doctors were wrong.
Whatever. Wow, she’d been stupid, and the rush of it nearly made her cry out.
Instead, she drew in a breath and met Harley’s green eyes.
Orion had green eyes.
Stop. “Listen, I’m a climber and a swimmer and I’ll be fine. Hopefully the pack is still there. I’ll go look, and if not, then I’ll be right back—”
“I’m coming with you.”
Yes, okay. Because maybe, like her, he needed something to do also. “C’mon.”
The stairwell was only filled to the bottom four steps, the water dark and gritty, debris swirling in a mass. She stood at the edge of the water and peered into the shop.
Wood, Styrofoam, plaster, foam, rubber, clothing, even plastic dishes filled the room. However, near the corner, a pile of clothing, purses, and yes . . . an orange backpack.
“I’m going in.”
“I’m right behind you.”
She gasped as she plunged into the chilly water. It came up past her waist, and she clung to the bar as she worked her way over to the corner. The current hit the wall, then rushed away, rocketing water throughout the tiny cafe. Harley pushed a piece of wood away from her.
The pack was caught in a debris pile, near the back, past a cauldron of water.
“Be careful,” Harley said as she neared it.
“I got—”
The current grabbed her.
Swept her feet out from under her. She went under, the water collapsing over her head.
Something whacked her, she opened her mouth, managed to swallow water, scraped her foot on the bottom but fell before she could right herself.
No. Not like this—
Hands hauled her up. Pushed her against the bar.
She clung to it, coughing.
“You okay?” Harley said.
She was a stupid fool. Headstrong, thoughtless, cruel . . . and she began to weep as she coughed.
Harley stood there, his hand on her back.
She bowed her head into her hands. “He asked me to marry him, and I said no.” Her breath washboarded in. “I said no!”
Harley said nothing, just nodded.
She looked at him. And maybe it was because he was a stranger. And so terribly reminded her of Orion. And because her regret, more than the water, was drowning her. “Because I had an abortion when
I was nineteen and there were complications.” She looked at him. “The doctor said that I probably can’t have kids. But Orion loves kids. And I didn’t even think about that when we first met—we were overseas in Afghanistan, and having a family was the furthest thing from my mind. I mean, who thinks of having kids while you’re in a war zone, right?”
Harley nodded, lifted a shoulder.
“And then we found each other again and I . . .” She closed her eyes. “I was so selfish. I was so . . . stupid. I was . . .” Her breaths caught again.
Somewhere in there, Harley’s arms went around her and he held her in the swirling mass of filthy, lethal water.
She didn’t know when she came back to herself but, finally, “I’m sorry, I’m so—”
“Stop. Just stop. It’s okay.”
She looked up at him. He wore concern in his eyes.
“I’m sorry I’m so unraveled.”
“Tsunamis do that to people.” He gave her a small smile. Then he reached around her and snagged the orange pack, providentially dislodged from the pile of debris. “Let’s go.”
She followed him back up the stairs, out of the darkness.
Marcello was sitting up, breathing better, but Harley dug through Angie’s backpack anyway and found the aspirin. Marcello chewed a couple.
Jenny went over to the railing and stared at the space where the hotel had been. And right then, Scarlett’s question found her, the one she’d asked in DC.
The one that really mattered.
“What are you so afraid of?”
This. She was afraid of this.
The moment when God took away her happy ending.
Because she didn’t deserve one.
I’m so sorry, Ry. Jenny sank down on the floor of the terrace, brought her knees up, curled her hands around them, and wept.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HE WAS REALLY HURT.
Ham leaned against the wall of the dark pizza place, listening to Signe’s breathing, watching as the world outside turned dark with the smoke off the mountain, trying not to move.
He’d broken his wrist, he was sure of it. Every time he moved it, a flash of pain spiked up his arm and consumed his entire body.
So, that was fun.
He hadn’t noticed the gash on his leg until he stopped running. Now, it burned, and his blood was probably swimming with bacteria.
He needed a hospital. Or at least a splint and a shot of penicillin.
Never mind the fact that in the back of his mind, he kept seeing their hotel vanish into the sea.
Please let Orion and Jenny not have returned to the hotel. He’d tried his cell phone a couple times, but the towers were down and that only fueled the frustration buzzing through his body.
He needed to be on his feet doing something.
But sitting here with Signe was . . . well, maybe an answered prayer.
Please, God, keep her from running from me. Please help her to trust me.
In fact, he’d spent the last hour simply praying as the building shook around them. Please protect us. Protect Orion and Jenny. Protect Aggie and restore us as a family.
So maybe, right now, not moving was the exact right action. In fact, he’d willingly stay here forever, enduring the pain if it meant keeping Signe safe.
He ran his hand over the funny scar on her upper arm, the one she’d gotten while building the tree house near the river when they were thirteen. A nail he’d half pounded in the tree stuck out and she’d snagged it, hopping down to the ground.
A thick, bumpy scar that had probably long since blended into her skin. But he knew it was there.
Her words kept reverberating through him. “Because I haven’t endured everything I’ve gone through for the last ten years to fail at this. To let Pavel Tsarnaev take more, take everything from me.”
His imagination was having a field day.
Oh yes, he really hurt.
Another tremor reverberated through the stone floor of the restaurant.
“That’s the third aftershock.” Signe leaned away from him.
He barely restrained himself from tugging her back.
She got up. “I’m going to see if I can find us something to eat.”
“Sig . . .”
She walked over to the kitchen area and opened a refrigerator. “There’s leftover pizza in here.”
“I’m dying here. I know it’s only going to kill me, but . . . what did Tsarnaev take from you?”
She had come over to the long bar that separated the kitchen from the cafe, holding something wrapped in parchment. The shadows hid her face, but her tone was clear. “Ham . . . I—”
“Did he hurt you?”
She was quiet. And he knew—he just knew.
“Did he rape you?”
Paper crinkled as she opened the parchment. “It’s a margherita pizza.”
“Signe!”
“What do you think, Ham? It was a terrorist camp.” She didn’t raise her voice, just kept it small and even, as if she were giving a sit-rep.
Though he’d suspected it, the words punched him, right into the center of his chest.
He struggled to breathe. Lord, give me the right response—
“It just happened once. Right after I arrived. Once Tsarnaev realized I was pregnant, he didn’t touch me again.”
He didn’t know what to say to that.
She came over carrying the pizza in the parchment and set it down in front of him, sat down cross-legged.
He couldn’t possibly eat.
“We never talked about it, but he might have thought Aggie was his.”
Right. Then, wait— “Aggie protected you from him, didn’t she? As long as he thought she was his, then you weren’t in danger.”
She picked up a piece of pizza.
“Signe . . . what aren’t you telling me?”
She took a bite, set the pizza down. “Nothing you need to know.”
Except . . . “Signe, if he thought you were the mother of his child, then . . . did he marry you?”
“As his wife I had access to so much. His private quarters, he took me on business trips, he—”
“You married him?”
Oh, he didn’t mean to let the horror leak in, but—
“Are you familiar at all with Sharia law? If I didn’t, he would have accused me of adultery—”
“He raped you.”
She flinched, and he felt like he’d hit her.
“Oh Signe, I’m sorry.” He scrubbed his hands down his face. “The thought of you married to that . . .” He didn’t say the rest, but inside, he was screaming.
“I didn’t have a choice, Ham. In order to be exonerated I had to produce four male witnesses to the crime. Right. Not a chance. So, it was either marry him, or I was going to be flogged. Maybe even executed.”
He might be ill right here on the floor.
“I realize my stupid choices.” She picked up her pizza, then put it back down. “But once I got there, I had to go all in. Which meant . . . I had to be Pavel’s wife.”
Pavel. “You’re my wife.”
Silence.
He looked away from her, out to the street where the day was darkening.
Oh, he should have gone after her into that bunker. Never stopped looking for her. He gritted his jaw, his eyes burning. But everything inside him was ripping asunder.
You’re my wife.
Clearly not anymore.
“Ham, I know you were hoping that maybe we could put things back together. Be a family. But . . .”
“What else did he take from you?” He didn’t know why, but for some reason, he knew that wasn’t all. “To let Pavel Tsarnaev take more, take everything from me.”
“I think we need to get out of here—”
“What, Signe!”
She stared at him, her jaw hard. “He took my son, okay?”
What?
She got up and paced away from him, standing at the cracked picture window.
; Ham had nothing, the words stripped right out of him. She had a son.
She ran her hands down her face, then pressed them to the window, and the old Ham, the one who always, always came to her aid, wanted to go to her. To hold her.
But he also wanted to hit something, to rage with the roil of heat inside him. She had a child with a terrorist?
“He was born a year after Aggie. His name is Ruslan.” She turned around to face him, folded her arms, her face hard. “When he was six, Pavel sent him to live with relatives in eastern Russia. Said he was safer there. I haven’t seen him in three years.”
Ham just stared at her, not sure what was worse—not knowing you had a child and missing ten years of her life or . . .
Or knowing your child was growing up without you.
“I get pictures of him every year. Sometimes a phone call, but I have no idea where he is.”
He pushed to his feet, biting back a groan.
“Sit down!” She came over to him. “Your leg is still bleeding.”
He looked down to see a puddle where his leg had been resting.
She pulled a red checkered tablecloth from the floor and bit it, tearing a long swath from it. “Let me wrap that.”
And wow, they were alike with the need to keep moving, fix something, do anything to push back the hurt.
He stayed quiet as she doctored him, aware that he knew so very little of her life now.
So very . . . wait.
He stilled. If Pavel had her son, did he also have control over her?
The kind of control that would make a woman sacrifice her life . . . or betray her country?
He studied Signe. She’d long since lost her head scarf, her face sooty and dirty. She wore stress in lines around her eyes, and her lips had thinned.
But she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
He had no doubt that Pavel Tsarnaev had fallen in love with her. But love didn’t trump ideology.
What if Tsarnaev wasn’t dead, as she said. And what if the information she wanted to give Ham also contained a virus or something that could compromise the security of the US? Ham didn’t want to think that way, but he’d been a special operator for over a decade. He was trained to look for danger.
“You need stitches.”
The Price of Valor Page 13