Hot SEAL, Rusty Nail (SEALs In Paradise)

by Teresa J. Reasor

  “We need to bug out. Once they calm down they’ll start looking through every building, and they’ll have an army to do it.” The neighbors hadn’t seen them come in, but chances were they heard the shot and would recognize where it came from.

  While Connor unhooked the tripod from the sniper rifle and stuffed it in his pack, D.B. reported back to their base.

  “Extraction team will meet us three blocks west and pick us up.” D.B. reached for his pack and his MP-5 machine gun.

  After tossing the sleeping bag into the closet, Connor scanned the room for any further evidence of their occupancy. The table and two chairs sat in the middle of the room atop a rug, worn threadbare in spots and stained black in others.

  The dirt and dust on the floor had been disturbed, but nothing else.

  Connor slung the rifle on his left arm, drew his sidearm, and cracked the door. Finding the hall empty, he slipped out. D.B. followed.

  Their boots on the stairs sounded too loud as they double-timed it down and out the back door. The sun was setting when they cut down the narrow alley that ran behind the buildings, leapfrogging from one obstacle and shadow to the next.

  A long row of apartments and stores was attached, and Connor felt a nervous rush of claustrophobia. They were trapped between the buildings like fish in a barrel. At the first narrow alley leading out of the corridor, he darted through it to the main street, where he holstered his weapon, then pulled the dark blue baseball cap from his jacket pocket and put it on.

  They reached the pickup point too early. Their jeans and jackets blended in with the other people on the street, but their weapons didn’t. They hung back, leaning against the side of a dilapidated apartment building with stucco peeling from it like blistered skin.

  “One of us is going to have to slide out onto the street so they can see us,” Connor said. “One of these people is going to call someone, and they’ll be all over us.”

  D. B. handed off his MP-5. “I’ll do it. With my coloring, I can pass for a native.”

  He did have the dark hair and eyes and the olive complexion of the general population. He was fluent in the language as well.

  Connor hung the MP-5 over his right shoulder. D.B. walked out on the street and leaned back against the face of the apartment building. A white van slowed in front of him and the side door slid open. D. B. turned to beckon to him and drew his sidearm, his attention focused on something behind Connor.

  Connor wheeled around, bringing up the MP-5. As the first bullet hit him high in the chest, he was pulling the trigger, spraying the two men with answering fire. The two went down, but so did he, the wind knocked out of him, his pack saving him from hitting his head. Encumbered by too many weapons, he rolled to his right side in an attempt to scramble up and run for the van. He got one leg under him, but the other didn’t seem to want to cooperate.

  More men raced toward him from the corner of the alley, and he squeezed off another round of fire, sending them dodging back behind the building.

  D.B. and one of the Salvadorian soldiers working with them grabbed Connor under the arms and dragged him toward the van and inside. The door slid shut, and the van screeched off as it raced down the narrow street. They all hunkered down as bullets peppered the back of the vehicle.

  D. B. jerked Connor’s shirt open and pulled his vest aside. “It didn’t go through.”

  But the bullet that hit him in the thigh had. He focused on trying to start breathing again while the Salvadorian soldier cut open his pants leg and put pressure on the wound.

  Screaming pain shot up his thigh to his hip, and he glanced down to see how bad it was. He was bleeding like a stuck pig. The sight made him nauseous, so he closed his eyes.

  D.B.’s voice held a note of urgency as he radioed command.

  CHAPTER 15

  “Have you heard from him yet?” Bernie asked, as she did every morning since Connor’s last phone call three weeks before. It had been the longest seven weeks of Sloane’s life. Forty-nine days of long, sleepless nights.

  He called when he landed in San Diego. Called that night, after he’d “gotten his gear squared away.” Called when he went wheels up the next day. That’s what he called it, “wheels up.” Then the call outside the café….

  “No. I haven’t heard from him. His father, Toby, called me. He hasn’t heard from him either. He told me no news is good news.”

  “How can a guy just walk away and not even call his father to let him know he’s okay? Are you sure this guy isn’t scamming you and just stringing you along? I mean, there are computers on board ships. He could send an email.”

  This wasn’t the first time Bernie had asked, and once again she said, “He’s not where he can call, Bernie. He isn’t allowed to tell me—or anyone else—where he is.”

  “Why is it the military is so damn…?” Bernie trailed off. “Sloane?” She lowered herself into one of the chairs in front of the desk.

  Sloane tried to keep her expression under control.

  “He isn’t just a Chief Petty Officer in the Navy, is he?”

  Sloane remained silent for a long moment, pretending to read the contract Bernie had put on her desk, stalling for a moment. She wouldn’t break her promise to Connor. But she had to say something. “You know how privilege works, Bernie.”

  “Shit!” Bernie breathed. She stared off into space for a few seconds. “Leave it to you to find the handsomest, hunkiest guy in Hilton Head, only to have him run off to Timbuktu on some secret mission.”

  “He’ll call me when he’s back.” She tried to sound as confidence as she could. Though after another three weeks, it was hard to keep the faith. After all, they’d only been together five…almost six…days. But they both wanted more. She had to believe that. She did believe it. He’d been so tender at the airport when he kissed her goodbye. And he called her instead of his father from…Timbuktu.

  “When might that be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The phone rang, and Bernie reached for it. “Sloane Bianchi’s office. This is Bernie speaking.” She remained silent for a moment. “Yes, Mr. Johnson.” She hung up and looked up to meet Sloane’s inquiring gaze. “Mr. Johnson wants to speak to you in his office.”

  The two of them just looked at each other for a long moment. “He didn’t say what he wants to talk to me about?”

  Bernie shook her head.

  “Someone at another firm may have said something to him about receiving my resume.” Shit! Or he could have discovered she was arranging meetings with the other lawyers in the office in preparation for leaving. Just in case.

  She didn’t have anything else to lose. But if she was going to be fired, she’d unload all the dirt she’d discovered about Reed before she left. “Whatever happens, Bernie, I want you to do what’s right for your family. If staying here and working with one of the other lawyers is it, do it.”

  “It may be nothing, Sloane.”

  “Maybe, but just in case—”

  She realized as she walked down to the Johnson’s office that she no longer felt nervous about meeting with him. It would be a relief to put it behind her.

  Jona was at her desk, and smiled when Sloane came into the office. Her fireplug build, short, curly gray hair, and easy smile projected the image of grandmotherly kindness. In reality she had been Johnson’s secretary for nearly twenty years and was probably tough as nails, but never acted it. “Hello, Ms. Bianchi. He’s taking a call right now, but as soon as he’s done, you can go in. If you’ll have a seat, I’ll let you know when he’s off.”

  Sloane took a seat in one of the large leather chairs.

  “Can I get you anything?” Jona asked.

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “How was your vacation?”

  Sloane’s smile felt bittersweet. “It was good. I learned how to scuba dive.” Her eyes stung, and she blinked. Connor had been so patient, with a sense of humor. It was then she’d realized what kind of SEAL he was. How could he walk awa
y from that?

  If something happened to him…it would be the biggest regret of her life if they didn’t get to finish what they started.

  “That sounds scary.” Jona’s comment brought her back to the present.

  “It was a little, but my instructor was top-notch, and I felt safe with him.”

  “I bet that helped.”

  “Yes, it did. I’ve decided that I’m going to try something I haven’t ever done before every month from now on.”

  Jona dropped her chin to look over her glasses. “That doesn’t mean you’re going to go bungee jumping off skyscrapers or anything, does it?”

  “I don’t think bungee jumping will be on my list. But skydiving might.” Connor would have parachuted out of planes in his job.

  Jona gave a shudder. “Maybe just a helicopter ride instead.” She glanced at the phone. “Mr. Johnson is off now.” She pressed a button on the base, lifted the receiver, and told Johnson that Sloane was waiting. “You can go right in, Ms. Bianchi.”

  “Thanks, Jona.”

  Sloane wiped her sweaty hands on the sides of her skirt as she approached the door, tapped it, then opened it and walked in.

  Clay Johnson rose from behind his desk and stepped around it to greet her. Though in his late fifties, his silver gray hair was thick, and his build lean and athletic. She’d been told he played golf and tennis each once a week. “How are you, Sloane?”

  “I’m fine, sir.” She scanned Johnson’s expression in an attempt to read his mood.

  “Please have a seat.”

  She smoothed her skirt over her knees, though her attention remained on him.

  “I wanted to call you in and personally tell you how impressed I’ve been with your work. Especially on the Olson case.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re a valued member of our firm, Sloane.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I realize how uncomfortable it must be for you for Reed to return to work here.”

  Then why did you hire him back?

  When she didn’t comment, he moved on.

  “You’ve behaved with a great deal of professionalism, and we appreciate it.”

  She remained silent.

  “I have a very big favor to ask of you.”

  “Yes sir?”

  “I’d like you to bring Reed on as backup counsel for some of your newer clients. At the moment he hasn’t very many, and it will free you up to give your more established clients more attention.”

  She’d known this moment would come. Prayed it wouldn’t, but knew it would. “I can’t in good conscience do that, sir.”

  “I know you and Reed had a tumultuous end to your relationship.”

  “It has nothing to do with our ended relationship, sir.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What does it have to do with, then?”

  “When Reed was here before, and while I worked seventy-hour weeks to ensure I built my client list, he didn’t bring in his own clients, sir. He depended on the overflow for his income.”

  “He lived with me for two years. And spent more time out on the golf course or playing poker, shoring up his relationship with your son, than he did networking or pursuing his career. What that tells me, sir, is that he’s lazy.

  “If you had a daughter, sir, he’d have chosen a very different route to success, as he attempted to do with his last position at Hunt, Franklin, and Schumer. Which ultimately went south when Mr. Franklin’s daughter caught him in their pool house with another woman during a party.”

  “How did you find out about that?”

  “I spoke with two people very close to the situation That aside, sir, he wasn’t released from his contract with their firm because of the indiscretion in the pool house, but for ethics violations, because he slept with a client and then tried to pressure her into changing her accounts from another attorney. He threatened to tell her husband if she didn’t. She marched in and told the bosses about it.”

  “When did you hear about this?”

  “When I returned from vacation. I worked from what was said, and traced a pattern of behavior to several other people with whom he’s used similar methods. He’s a con man, sir. All charm and smiles and out for an easy way into billable hours.”

  His silence stretched, though his expression remained neutral. She decided she wouldn’t sit down at a card table with him for the world.

  “Everything you’ve told me…do you have proof, or is it all rumor?”

  “I trust the sources who gave me the information.” She balled her hands into fists to still their shaking. “You can call it all rumor, but with the firm’s reputation at stake, if there’s any truth there…it would be worth making certain, wouldn’t it, sir?

  When Johnson remained silent, she said, “But until I’m sure of his…trustworthiness…I really don’t feel comfortable having Mr. Alexander work with my clients. It’s my duty to protect their interests. Placing them with someone I don’t trust… I couldn’t do that in good conscience, sir.”

  He brushed his already perfect hair back with a distracted gesture. “I appreciate you bringing your concerns to my attention, Sloane.”

  When his silence stretched again, she said, “Perhaps you can allow Mr. Alexander the opportunity to work with you, sir. You mentored me so well on the Olson trial this past year, I’m sure he could benefit from the same attention, and you could observe the quality of his work.”

  “I see your point. Perhaps he would.” The blandness of his expression was almost frightening. “I think that will be all, Sloane.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Relieved to have the conversation over, she rushed to leave, then hesitated at the door. Spoke without turning to look at him. “Mr. Johnson…if there’s an issue here I’m unaware of…you have the weight of the entire firm behind you, sir.”

  She wasted no time in exiting his office, and was trembling as she hurried down the hall toward her own. As she passed Reed’s office, he stepped to the door and called her name.

  She would have kept going, but out of concern that he might follow her and cause a stir in front of other clients, she stopped and half turned, but didn’t look at him.

  “I hope you’re going to be professional about our working together, Sloane.”

  “I have been professional. I’ve stayed the hell away from you, and I’d suggest you do the same with me.”

  His phone rang, and he darted to his desk to answer it.

  Sloane beat a path to her own office, beckoning to Bernie as she passed her.

  Bernie’s eyes were sharp, searching, as she entered the inner office and shut the door.

  “Johnson was going to put him in charge of my newest clients and force me to work with him.”

  “But you changed his mind.”

  “For the time being.” She took a deep breath to try and calm herself. “I didn’t let him know I’ve introduced them all to some of the other attorneys in the office and already paired them up to take over, should I have to leave.”

  “And you dished the dirt?”

  “He was so quiet. I think he was stunned. I laid it on thick about how I’ve brought most of my clients into the firm myself and they deserve the highest level of service we could give them. I planted the seed about Reed’s ethics violations, and how he might want to dig around some himself. Then I suggested Reed could be a better attorney if he mentored him as he had me.”

  Bernie burst out laughing. “Oh my God! That was perfect. Inspired, even.”

  “It may stand up, or it may not.”

  “What will you do if it doesn’t, Sloane?”

  “I can’t work with Reed, Bernie. I don’t trust him. He’ll find a way to destroy my reputation, steal my clients, or bill them more than they should have to pay. I’ll send out a letter warning all of them to stay clear of him if he forces my hand. And I’ll find a way to take him down.”

  Anger tightened her jaw. “He’s a con artist. He took me for more than my af
fection. He used me. I supported him for nearly two years while he paid next to nothing in expenses. He said he had loans to pay off. But he always seemed to have money for drinks with the guys or their poker night.

  “The only smart thing I did was not loan him money. And he was smart enough not to ask. I won’t let him fleece our clients.” She glanced away as reaction set in and she began to tear up.

  And his last and lowest blow was using her inability to have children as his excuse for dumping her. And she was grateful, because by doing that he’d truly killed any feeling she had for him.

  Bernie hugged her, and she clung for a moment.

  “Why don’t I screen your calls for a few minutes so you can sit quietly and shake this off. You’ve gotten the worst of it behind you. Also, you have twenty minutes before your appointment with Mrs. Sawyer.”

  Sloane settled at her desk and took deep, relaxing breaths. Bernie was right. She needed to pull it together.

  She longed to hear Connor’s voice, to talk to him, and be nourished by the confidence he projected.

  To know he was okay. The unknown was wreaking havoc with her nerves.

  She needed to feel him next to her in bed, to have his arms around her.

  And she might never have that. For all his promises, he might come home and not even call. Or he might not make it home. If that happened…

  Would Toby call and let her know? Surely he would.

  All those things weighed on her at night, when she was alone. Not knowing if he was okay was the worst.

  She had to put all this aside and face her next client. Nausea rolled over her, she broke out in a cold sweat, and she rushed to the bathroom. The soup she’d eaten for lunch came up in a rush, and she heaved for several more minutes until there was nothing left.

  She shivered as she pushed to her feet and rinsed her mouth. Tearing off a strip of paper towels from the dispenser, she folded and wet them, pressing the pad to the back of her neck while she fished in the bag she kept in the vanity for a toothbrush and toothpaste.

  By the time Mrs. Sawyer showed up, whatever made her ill had passed, and she was able to greet her with a semblance of professional decorum.