Only then did she look up at him. “I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry you think it wouldn’t work,” she finally said. “You know, I knew most of what you were going to say before you even said it. And I was going to pretend to agree with you. You know, ‘Yeah, you’re right, it would never work, different personalities, different worlds, different lives, whatever.’ But to hell with my pride. Because the truth is, I don’t agree with you. I think it would work. We would work. I think we’d be great together. Last night could be just the beginning and I’m…saddened that you think otherwise.”
Crash didn’t say anything. He didn’t even look at her.
Nell bolstered the very last of her rapidly fading courage and tossed the final shred of her pride out the door. “Can’t we at least try?” Her voice broke slightly—her final humiliation.
Crash didn’t speak, and again she found the courage to go on.
“Can’t we see what happens? Take it one day at a time?”
He looked up at her, but his eyes were so distant, it was as if he wasn’t quite all there.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m not looking for any kind of a relationship at all right now. I was wrong to give in to this attraction between us. I wanted the comfort and the instant gratification, and the real truth is, I used you, Nell. That’s all last night was. You came along, and I took what you offered. There’s nothing for us to try. There’s nothing more to happen.”
Nell stood up, trying desperately to hide her hurt. “Well,” she said. “I guess that clears that up.”
“It’s my fault, and I am sorry.”
She cleared her throat as she moved toward the door. “No,” she said. “I knew last night…I mean, it was clear that’s what it was. Comfort, I mean. It was that way for me, too, sort of, at first anyway, and…I was just hoping…Billy, it’s not your fault.”
She opened the door and stepped into the hall. Crash hadn’t moved. She wasn’t even sure if he’d blinked.
“Happy New Year,” she said quietly, and shut the door behind her.
CHAPTER NINE
A year later
SOMEONE OPENED FIRE.
Someone opened fire, and the world went into slow motion.
Crash saw Jake pushed back by the force of the gunshots, arms spread, face caught in a terrible grimace as an explosion of bright red blood bloomed on the front of his shirt.
Crash heard his own voice shouting, saw Chief Pierson fall as well, and felt the slap as a bullet hit his arm. His years of training kicked in and he reacted, rolling down onto the office floor, taking cover and returning fire.
He shut part of his brain down as he always did in a firefight. He couldn’t afford to think in terms of human beings when he was spraying lead around a room. He couldn’t afford to feel anything at all.
He analyzed dispassionately as he evaded and struck back. Jake had pulled out the compact handgun he always wore under his left arm, and even though the glimpse Crash had had of the other man’s chest wound made him little more than a still-breathing dead man, the admiral somehow found the strength to pull himself to cover, and to fight back.
There could be as few as one and as many as three possible shooters.
Crash noted emotionlessly that his captain, Mike Lovett, and Chief Steve Pierson, a SEAL known as the Possum, were undeniably dead as he efficiently took down one of the shooters.
Not a man. A shooter. The enemy.
At least two other weapons still hiccuped and stuttered.
He could hear the rush of blood in his ears as he tipped what had once been Daisy’s favorite table on its side and used it as a shield to work his way around to an angle where he could try to take out another of the shooters.
Not men. Shooters.
In the same way, Mike and the Poss weren’t his teammates anymore. They were KIAs. Killed in action. Casualties.
Crash could do nothing for them now. But Jake wasn’t dead yet. And if Crash could eliminate the last of the shooters, just maybe Jake could be saved….
Crash wanted Jake to live. He wanted that with a ferocious burst of emotion that he immediately pushed away. Detach. He had to detach more completely. Emotion made his hands shake and skewed his perception. Emotion could get him killed.
He separated himself cleanly from the man who wanted to rage and grieve over the deaths of his teammates. He set himself apart from the man who was near frantic from wanting to rush to Jake’s side, to stanch the older man’s wounds, to force him to fight to stay alive.
Crash felt clarity kick in as he looked at himself from the outside. He felt his senses sharpen, felt time slow even further. He knew the last of the shooters was circling the room, looking for a chance to finish off Jake, and then take Crash out, as well.
One heartbeat.
He could hear the sound of the admiral’s FInCOM security team, shouting as they pounded on the outside of the locked office door.
Two heartbeats.
He could hear the almost inaudible scuff as the shooter moved into position. There was only one left now, and he was going for the admiral first. Crash knew that without a doubt.
Three heartbeats.
He could hear Jake struggling for breath. Crash knew, also dispassionately, that Jake’s wounds had made at least one lung collapse. If he didn’t get medical help soon, the man was definitely going o die.
Four heartbeats.
Another scuff, and Crash was able to pinpoint precisely where the shooter was.
He jumped and fired in one smooth motion.
And the last shooter was no longer a threat.
“Billy?” Jake’s voice was breathy and weak.
With a pop and a skip as jarring as a needle sliding across a phonograph record, the world once again moved at real time.
“I’m still here.” Crash was instantly at his old friend’s side.
“What the hell happened…?”
Jake’s shirtfront was drenched with blood. “That’s just what I was going to ask you,” Crash replied as he gently tore the shirt to reveal the wound. Dear, sweet Mary, with an injury like this, it was a miracle Jake had clung to life as long as he had.
“Someone…wants me…dead.”
“Apparently.” Crash had been trained as a medic—all SEALs were—but first aid wasn’t going to cut it here. His voice shook despite his determination to maintain his usual deadpan calm. “Sir, I need to get you help.”
Jake clutched Crash’s shirt, his eyes glazed with pain. “You need…to listen. Just sent you…file…incriminating evidence…last year’s snafu in Southeast Asia…six months ago… You were…there. Remember?”
“Yes,” Crash said. “I remember.” A civil war had started in a tiny island nation when two rival drug lords had pitted their armies against each other. “Two of our marines were killed—Jake, please, we can talk about this on the way to the hospital.”
But Jake wouldn’t let him go. “The military action…was instigated by an American…a U.S. navy commander.”
“What? Who?”
The door burst open and Jake’s security team swarmed inside the room.
“I need an ambulance now!” the security chief bellowed after just one look at the admiral.
“Don’t know…who,” Jake gasped. “Some…kind of…cover-up. Kid, I’m counting…on you…”
“Jake, don’t die!” Crash was pushed back, out of the way, as a team of paramedics surrounded the admiral.
Please, God, let him make it.
“For God’s sake, what happened?”
Crash turned to find Commander Tom Foster, Jake’s security chief, standing behind him. He took a deep breath and let it out in a rush of air. When he spoke, his voice was calm again. “I don’t know.”
“How the hell could you not know what happened?”
He didn’t let himself react, didn’t let himself get angry. The man was understandably shaken and upset. Crash could relate. Now that the shooting was over, his own hands were shaking and he was dizzy. H
e hunkered down, sliding his back against the wall of Jake’s private office as he lowered his rear end all the way to the floor.
He realized then that his arm was bleeding pretty profusely, and had been since the battle had started. He’d lost quite a bit of blood. He set down his weapon and applied pressure with his other hand. For the first time since he was hit, he noticed the searing pain. He looked up. “I didn’t see who fired the first shots,” he said evenly.
He turned to watch as the paramedics carried Jake from the room. Please, let him make it.
The security chief swore. “Who would want to kill Admiral Robinson?”
Crash shook his head. He didn’t know that either. But he sure as hell was going to find out.
DEX LANCASTER kissed her good-night.
Nell knew from his eyes, and from the gentle heat of his lips, that he was hoping that she would ask him to come inside.
It wasn’t that outrageous a hope. They’d had dinner seven or eight times now, and she honestly liked him.
He lowered his head to kiss her again, but she turned her head and his mouth only brushed her cheek.
She liked him, but she wasn’t ready for this.
She forced a smile as she unlocked the door. “Thanks again for dinner.”
He nodded, resignation and amusement in his blue eyes. “I’ll call you.” He started down the steps, his long overcoat fanning out behind him like an elegant cape, but then he stopped, turning back to look up at her. “You know, I’m not in any real big hurry either, so take as long as you need. I’ve decided that I’m not going to let you scare me off.” With a quick salute, he was gone.
Nell smiled ruefully as she locked her door behind her, turning on the light in the entryway of her house. The single women in her exercise class would have been lining up for a chance to invite a man like Dexter Lancaster into their homes.
What was wrong with her, anyway?
She had just about everything she’d ever wanted. A house of her own. A great job. A handsome, intelligent, warmhearted man who wanted to spend time with her.
Thanks to the money Daisy Owen had bequeathed her, she’d bought her own house, free and clear—a drafty old Victorian monster with prehistoric plumbing and ancient wiring that still ran on a fuse box. Nell was fixing the place up, little by little.
And she’d found a new job that she really loved, working part-time for the legendary screen actress, Amie Cardoza. Amie had had most of her successes on film in the seventies and eighties, but as she approached and then passed middle age, the better roles had disappeared, and she’d turned to the stage. She’d started an equity theater in the heart of Washington, D.C., her hometown. She’d really needed a personal assistant—the theater company was still struggling and Amie was becoming politically active, as well.
Dex had introduced Nell to Amie, and Nell had liked the famous actress instantly. She was outspoken and funny and passionate—much like Daisy in many ways. With the life of her theater hanging by a thread, Amie couldn’t afford to pay as much as Daisy had, but Nell didn’t mind. She’d used the remainder of the money from Daisy to make investments that were already making her a profit. With that, and her house fully paid for, Nell was more than happy to be able to work for someone she admired and respected at a little bit less than the going rate.
She’d only been with Amie for the past four months, but her days had settled into a comfortable routine. On Monday mornings, she’d work at the actress’s home, dealing with her day-to-day household affairs. On Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons, they’d meet at the theater. Thursdays and Fridays depended on what additional projects Amie had going. And there was always something additional going.
Dex often dropped in. He was a member of an organization called Volunteer Lawyers for the Arts, and he did pro bono work for the theater. Although he was older than the men Nell had dated in the past, she liked him. And when he’d asked her out to dinner several months ago, she couldn’t think of a single reason why she shouldn’t go.
It had been almost a year since her last romantic entanglement. Or rather, her last non-romantic entanglement. She’d tangled, so to speak, with Crash Hawken, a man she should have accepted as a friend. Instead, she’d pushed for more, and she’d lost that friendship.
Crash had never called her. He’d never even dropped her a postcard in response to the letters she’d written. When she’d spoken to Jake and asked, he’d told her the SEAL had been spending a great deal of time out of the country. Jake had also told her very clearly that if she were waiting for Crash to come back, she shouldn’t hold her breath.
Well, she wasn’t holding her breath. But sometimes, when her guard was down, she still dreamed about the man.
And even now, the nearly year-old memory of his kisses was stronger and more powerful than the two-minute-old memory of Dex’s lips.
Nell briefly closed her eyes, willing that particular memory away. She refused to waste her time consciously letting her thoughts stray in that direction. It was bad enough when she did it subconsciously.
She hung her coat in the front closet and went into the kitchen to fix herself a cup of tea.
The next time Dex asked her out to dinner, she’d invite him in. She had been wrong. It was time. It was definitely time to exorcise some old ghosts.
The phone rang, and she glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was eleven. It had to be Amie with something urgent she’d forgotten about—something that needed to be done first thing in the morning.
“Hello?”
“Thank God you’re home!” It was Amie. “Turn on the TV right now!”
Nell reached for the power button on the little black-and-white set that sat on her kitchen counter. “What channel? Is there something on the news about the theater?”
“Cable channel four. It’s not the theater. Nell, my God, it’s something about that man you used to work for—that Admiral Robinson?”
“There’s…a commercial playing on channel four.”
“They showed one of those previews,” Amie imitated a TV announcer’s voice. “‘Coming up at eleven.’ They said something about an assassination!”
“What?” The commercial ended. “Wait, wait, it’s on!”
The credits rolled endlessly and finally a news anchor gazed seriously into the camera. “Tonight’s top story—Navy spokesmen have released confirmation that a gun battle raged three nights ago at the home of U.S. Navy Admiral Jacob Robinson, injuring the admiral and killing several others. Early reports indicate that four or five people are dead. All are believed to be members of the admiral’s security team. Let’s go to Holly Mathers, downtown.”
Nell couldn’t breathe. A gun battle. At the farm?
The picture changed to a chilled-looking young woman, standing outside a brightly lit building. “Thanks, Chuck. I’m here outside of the Northside Hospital. A number of additional statements have just been released, the first and most tragic of which is that Jake Robinson has not survived. I repeat, the fifty-one-year-old U.S. Navy admiral was declared dead from gunshot wounds to the chest, here at Northside just one hour ago.”
“Oh, my God.” Nell reached blindly behind her for a chair, but couldn’t find one, and sank down onto the kitchen floor instead. Jake was dead. How could Jake be dead?
“Navy spokesmen have stated that the suspected assassin is in custody, also here at Northside Hospital,” the reporter continued, “where it’s speculated that he was being treated for minor wounds. They have not yet released the name of this man, nor the names of the men—apparently a team of Navy SEALs—who gave their lives attempting to protect Robinson.”
Navy SEALs. Nell went hot and then cold. Please dear God, don’t let Crash be dead, too.
She wasn’t aware she had spoken aloud until Amie’s voice asked. “Crash? Who’s Crash?”
Nell was still holding the phone, the line open. “Amie, I’m sorry. I have to go. This is…terrible. I’ve got to go and…”
What? What could she do
?
“I’m so sorry, sweetie. I know how much you liked Jake. Do you want me to come out there?”
“No, Amie, I have to…” Call someone. She had to call someone and find out if Crash was one of the men who had died today at the farm.
“I won’t expect to see you for the next few days. Take as much time as you need, all right?”
Nell didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She just pressed the power button on the cordless phone.
She tried to think. Tried to remember the names of Jake’s high-powered friends—people she’d called both to tell about the change in wedding plans, and then about Daisy’s death. There were several other admirals that Jake knew quite well. And what was the name of that FInCOM security commander. Tom something. He’d come out to the farm a few times to double-check the security fence….
On the television, the reporter was talking with the anchor, discussing Jake’s career in Vietnam, his long-term relationship with popular artist Daisy Owen, their marriage and her relatively recent death.
The reporter touched her earpiece. “I’m sorry,” she said, interrupting the anchor in midsentence. “We’ve just received word that the alleged assassin, the man believed to be responsible for Admiral Jake Robinson’s murder and the murders of at least five members of his security team, is being brought out of the hospital, being transferred to FInCOM Headquarters to await arraignment.”
The camera jiggled sickeningly as the cameraman rushed to get into position. The hospital doors opened, and a crowd of police and other uniformed men came out.
Nell got to her knees, still holding the telephone as she moved closer to the TV set, wanting a glimpse of the face of the man who had killed her friend.
That man was in the center of the crowd, his long, dark hair parted in the middle and hanging slackly down to his shoulders. The picture was still wobbling, though, and Nell could see little more than the pale blur of his face.
“Admiral Stonegate!” the reporter called to one of the men in the crowd. “Admiral Stonegate, sir! Can you identify this man for our viewers?”
The camera zoomed in on the murder suspect, and the cordless phone dropped out of Nell’s hands and clattered on the kitchen floor.
Tall, Dark and Dangerous Vol 1: Tall, Dark and FearlessTall, Dark and Devastating Page 136