by Cindy Gerard
“Pull up past him if you can!” Bobby yelled, still hanging out of the window.
The moment Coop pulled ahead, Bobby fired into the driver’s-side windshield. The HiLux spun around, then rear-ended the tango car behind them, putting an end to that threat as well.
Bobby dropped back inside the car and quickly replaced his empty mag with a full one.
“We’ve got to get off this street,” Brown said. “It’s too wide. We’re easy targets.”
“Working on it,” Jones said from the car ahead of them. “I think . . . yeah. Narrow side street two blocks ahead. Sharp right.” No sooner had he said it than Jones cranked the lead car into a hard right, gunned it, and disappeared between the buildings.
“Hoo-ah!” Coop braked and swung the wheel right. “Shit! No brakes!” he yelled, attempting to correct the suddenly out-of-control vehicle.
“Brace!” Bobby yelled, as the passenger side of the Mazda went airborne.
The little car zigzagged several yards on two wheels at a wobbly forty-five-degree angle, before the laws of physics kicked in. He hung on as they flipped over and over and over, the world upending to the sound of metal screeching against pavement and the scent of gasoline filling the air.
No! he thought as he lay crumpled inside the wrecked Mazda. I’m not dying here!
Flames erupted close by, and smoke rushed into his lungs. Slicing pain consumed his chest and shoulder.
As he felt his world fade, he saw Meir’s face.
I love you.
And there was Talia, crying as he lay there bleeding, dying.
Oh, God. How am I going to tell them I’m dead?
41
“You’re not dead! Boom! Get with the program and help me, damn it!”
Coop. Yelling at him? What the hell? And what was with all the gunfire? And the smoke?
“We’re going to have to lug him to the Chrysler. On three. Lift.”
That was Brown.
And then he was airborne, and fuuuuucuccckkkkk. The mother of all pain ripped through his shoulder.
Everything went black again.
* * *
Bobby came to with plugged ears, a raging headache, and the unmistakable sound of whining jet engines.
He worked his jaw until his ears popped. Then he looked around, feeling a little muzzy-headed. Yeah, he was in the jet. He started to reach for his seat belt and gasped when a knife blade of pain dug into his left shoulder. When he could breathe again without sweating, he took stock of himself.
Someone had covered him with a blanket. Beneath it, he’d been stripped down to his boxers. A white gauze bandage covered his right hand; another one wrapped around his bicep. His right arm was in a sling, the shoulder tightly bandaged.
Then he realized he was on oxygen. That soaked it; he wanted some answers.
He craned his neck so he could see out into the aisles. Everyone appeared to be asleep. Coop, Brown, Santos, Reed, and the rest of them.
He felt a presence behind him and looked up.
Carlyle smiled at him. “See, you aren’t dead.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” His tongue felt thick and desert-dry.
“You thought you were a goner.”
“What are you talking about?”
Carlyle actually looked sympathetic. “Let’s start with this. Do you know your name?”
“What the hell kind of question is that?”
“Just answer.”
“Bobby Taggart,” he grumbled.
“What’s the date?”
He had to think a minute, but it finally came. “July twenty-four—twenty-fifth?”
“Close enough. How many fingers?”
“Three. Now, for God’s sake, tell me what’s going on.”
“Do you remember being on an op in Syria?”
“Of course. We got this guy out of Damascus.” He stopped cold. “We did get him out, didn’t we?”
Carlyle nodded. “We did. He’s on board with us. What’s the last thing you remember?”
That took a little thought. “We were taking heavy fire. Trying to outrun the tangos. Hmmm . . . why don’t I remember what happened next?”
“Most likely because I’ve got you pretty well dosed with morphine. When the haze clears, everything will probably come back. Or it won’t.”
“Thanks. That really cleared it up for me. In the meantime, can you fill me in?”
Carlyle sat down across the aisle, then gave him the CliffsNotes version.
“And none of our guys was hurt?”
“Cuts and bruises. Coop sprained his ankle, which I’m sure you’ll take heat over, since he was lugging you away from a burning car at the time. You dislocated your shoulder again—if you hadn’t already figured that out. But according to you, you died.”
“Huh.” If he dug hard enough, he could probably pull much of what Carlyle had just told him out of his memory. Right now, however, his head hurt too much. And he felt dog-tired.
“Why don’t you get some sleep?”
“Do I really need this thing?” He pointed to the oxygen tubing.
“Yeah, you inhaled a lot of smoke. The oxygen should be making it easier for you to breathe.”
“Any chance I could get some water? I’m bone-dry.”
“Sure. Be right back.”
By the time Carlyle returned, however, Bobby was sound asleep again.
* * *
“When can I get out of here?”
A serene-faced nurse wearing a powder-blue uniform and whisper-soft shoes smiled up from the notes she’d been typing into a laptop. “That will be up to the doctor, Mr. Taggart.”
Bobby shifted and winced. “Is there any way you could find out what’s taking so long with those X-rays?”
She finished typing and smiled again—the smile he was sure she reserved for cranky patients. “Busy night in the ER. I’m sure they’re working as fast as they can.” She walked to his side, checked his water, and fluffed his pillow. “Is there anything you need before I go?”
“A get-out-of-jail-free card?” he grumbled.
“You keep that sense of humor, Mr. Taggart,” she said with another dry smile. “You’ll be healed up in no time.”
He scowled as she walked out of the room. He was hungry, he was tired, and he was sore from being poked and prodded and moved and . . . crap. This place was turning him into a whiny baby.
He closed his eyes. He hated hospitals. He didn’t do well on the disabled list, either, and he had a feeling Nate would bench him for a lot longer than he had the first time he’d dislocated the damn shoulder. If the doctors started talking surgery . . . Man, he didn’t even want to go there.
When he opened his eyes again, a whopping three minutes had passed. “Time does fly,” he muttered to the hospital walls.
After six long hours of waiting, he wanted out of this place. It was almost ten p.m. He wanted to get to Talia. There were things he needed to say to her, things they both needed to hear. And he missed Meir so much!
He didn’t have a phone, and except for Nurse Cheerful, he hadn’t had anyone to talk to since Coop had limped into his room on crutches. That had been two hours ago. Coop was home now, and no doubt Rhonda was babying him like a puppy.
Then he heard footsteps in the hall. They stopped outside his door.
Finally!
Be the doctor, be the doctor, be the doc—
But it was Talia, and he wondered if his elevated heartbeat sent the monitors racing.
She stood hesitantly in the open door, her dark eyes wide, her face filled with anxiety. “Is it okay if I come in?”
“Yes. Please. I’m dying of boredom here. How did you know where to find me? And what are you doing here this late?”
She rushed to the side of the bed. “Rhonda c
alled. She told me that you’d been injured and they’d taken you straight to the hospital when you landed. Are you in pain?”
“Nah,” he lied, then made the huge mistake of trying to move, and molten fire burned through his shoulder. “I’m just . . . a little banged up.”
“A little banged up?” She looked horrified. “You look terrible. And you’re on oxygen.”
“As a precaution, that’s all. I inhaled a little smoke. They’re double-covering the bases.”
Unconvinced, she stared at his bandaged shoulder.
“Dislocated,” he said, before she asked. “Carlyle was able to put it back in place. Not a big deal. It’s happened before.”
He didn’t want to talk about his injuries. He wanted to talk about something much more important. But when she spun around and walked to the window, his alarm meter flipped on.
She was quiet for so long, something was clearly wrong. And when she lowered her head and brought a hand to her mouth, he realized she was crying.
“Talia? What’s happening?”
She shook her head, still wouldn’t face him.
His first thought brought sheer panic. “Meir? Is something wrong with Meir?”
“No,” she said quickly. “Meir’s fine.”
“You’re okay?”
Her laugh didn’t sound happy. “I’m okay.”
“Then for God’s sake, what is it? This can’t be about me. I told you, I’m okay.”
She turned around, swiping the tears from her face. “This is precisely about you. I didn’t know what I’d find when I got here. I was so afraid—”
“I’m sorry.” He cut her off, hating to see her this way. “I’m sorry you got worked up over nothing. I’m sorry you came all the way over here for no reason.”
Her reaction was sluggish, like watching someone take a punch in slow motion. He didn’t get it, but her transition from anxiety to calm detachment was gut-wrenching.
“Of course,” she said, her face now expressionless, and her tone suddenly measured. “I don’t have any reason to be upset. It’s not like you haven’t warned me.”
“Warned you? Warned you about what?”
“Look. I shouldn’t have come. I’ll let you rest. I’m glad . . . that you’re all right.”
“Why shouldn’t you have come?” he demanded.
“Because I don’t have the right. I’m not your wife. I’m not your lover. And other than sharing Meir, I have no reason to be in your life.” She turned and walked toward the door.
“Talia. Wait.”
She didn’t look back as she kept on walking.
He couldn’t let her go—not like this.
He ripped the oxygen tube off his face. Grunting through the pain, he managed to sit up and slide his legs over the side of the bed. His head started spinning, and he started keeling toward the floor face-first.
“Mr. Taggart!” Nurse Cheerful to the rescue.
She rushed to the bed, caught him around the waist, and set him right. “What are you doing out of bed?”
He let her help him sit back down.
What I’m doing is failing—miserably, he thought, as she settled him back against the pillows. “I want to see the doctor, now. If he’s not here in five minutes, I’m checking myself out. Clear?”
“I wouldn’t advise that,” she said, holding his hard gaze.
“Five minutes,” he repeated, checked the time on the wall clock, and then closed his eyes.
* * *
Her hands shook so hard Talia could barely fit the key into the ignition of her dad’s Taurus. For long moments, she sat in the hospital parking garage, staring at the concrete wall in front of her.
I’m sorry you came all the way over here for no reason.
His words had hit her like a bucket of ice. No reason . . . no reason . . .
He didn’t consider her a factor in his life, other than being Meir’s mother. He was never going to get past the harm she’d done. No matter how much she hoped, how often she told herself he just needed time, it wasn’t going to happen.
If she’d given it even a moment’s thought, she’d have realized she had no business rushing over here. If he’d wanted her here, he’d have called her. He’d have asked her to come.
That was what people did when they were hurt or in trouble. They called the ones they loved, reached out to the people who were important in their lives.
But he hadn’t called. And she hadn’t thought. Her fear for him had rolled right over the fact.
She lowered her head to the steering wheel. He’d been surprised to see her, not pleased. Polite but not forthcoming about his injuries. You didn’t lie to people you loved. You didn’t cover. Not to someone important.
She lifted her head, refusing to give in to the tears. She’d shed enough over him. It was time she realized once and for all that he’d never find it in himself to forgive her.
With a deep breath, she started the car, then pulled out of the lot.
It was time to let him go. For Meir’s sake, they would find a balance—but that was as far as things between them would ever go.
42
Bobby knew Talia’s bedroom was at the front of the house, northeast corner. He stood outside on the freshly cut lawn at midnight, listening to his taxi drive off into the night and hoping like hell that the rock he was about to pitch wouldn’t break the windowpane. The first one he’d thrown had hardly made a sound.
The doc had finally shown up, ordered one more X-ray, then pronounced him fit enough for release. He sent him home with antibiotics for the minor cuts and burns, pain pills for the shoulder, and an order to follow up with his own physician in a week or so.
“Go home. Stay there. Get some rest,” were his parting words.
So far, he was zero for three on following doctor’s orders.
He was about to haul back and chuck the stone when the light went on in Talia’s bedroom.
The window slid open. “What are you doing?” she half whispered, half scolded. She must have heard his first attempt after all.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
She hesitated for a moment, then shook her head as if she couldn’t believe what she was about to do, and disappeared. A few seconds later, the front porch light came on.
Then she was there. Opening the front door, slipping outside. And God, oh, God, did she look pretty. It was July, and it was hot. She wore a pale pink clingy tank top and loose boxer-type shorts. Her feet and legs were bare. Her long, thick hair fell across one side of her face and past her shoulders.
“Do you know how beautiful you are?” he asked, walking up the path to the porch.
“Are you medicated?” she asked, eyeing him carefully.
He grinned. “Maybe. But only a little.”
She crossed her arms protectively over her breasts. “Which would explain why you’re here at this time of night.”
He held her gaze in the porch light. “It’s the only place I wanted to be.”
He hated that she looked so guarded, so unsure. She was one of the strongest women he’d ever met, yet he was the reason she felt such vulnerability.
“Can we sit?” he asked softly. “Talk for a little bit?”
She leaned back against the closed door. “Shouldn’t you be in bed? You can sleep in the guest room if you want.”
“I can sleep later. I need to talk to you.” She had no response, so he nudged her a little. “But right now, I really need to sit down, or you’re going to end up calling a crane to get me up off the ground.”
“Oh, God.” She rushed down the sidewalk in her bare feet, lifted his good arm over her shoulder, and wrapped her arm around his waist. “Can you make it into the house?”
“Let’s go to the love seat first. It�
�s closer.”
She helped him up the three steps, then walked him across the wooden porch floor toward the white wicker love seat with its soft floral cushions. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yup.” He caught her hand when she moved toward a nearby chair. “Sit by me.”
She looked down at their joined hands before reluctantly easing down beside him. “If this is about my little scene at the hospital, you don’t have to try to—”
“Make you feel better?” he interrupted. He shook his head. “That’s not the reason I’m here. Wait. That’s not entirely true. I am here to make you feel better—I hope. But not for the reason you think.”
“You’re talking in riddles.”
He was so tired. His shoulder throbbed like a heartbeat. But he knew he couldn’t sleep until he said what he’d come here to say. “You know what they say about some guys. ‘He’s a man of action, not words.’ Well, that’s me. I get things done. With action. The words part? Not so much. At least, not most of the time. But I’ve got things I want to tell you. Have to tell you. And I’m so afraid I’ll screw it up.”
Her eyes softened. “You’re doing fine so far,” she said, before looking away.
He watched her profile in the porch light. Strong. Beautifully defined. “You know what I thought the first time I saw you?”
Her brows furrowed. “We’re playing twenty questions?”
He gave her a look.
She looked down at their joined hands. “Okay. What did you think when you first saw me?”
“I thought, now, there’s a distraction that could get me killed.” It didn’t take much to conjure up that memory and the instant attraction that had shot through his chest. “Yet I couldn’t stay away. Now here I am, living proof that I was wrong about you.”
“Not entirely,” she said, seemingly enthralled with their hands. “I almost did get you killed.”
“No, what you did was save me. Twice.”
“Yeah, well, it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”
Because she gave him a little smile, he felt encouraged. “What was the first thing you thought when you saw me?”
“I thought this was about you talking.”