“The moment you expressed an interest in joining the Navy,” Morrissey answered, his expression earnest. “You came to the Kennedy on your own. It was like manna from heaven. Rob saw it as a sign. He asked me to guide you. Told me you were considering becoming an interrogator. He’d been good to me. He’s a big reason I’m on the Joint Chiefs today. My career shot through the roof because of his intel. I felt I owed it to him.”
It was so masterfully manipulative, so Machiavellian, so quintessentially Robert Wyatt, Sam could do nothing but sit there in stunned awe. She’d inaccurately assumed all those decisions were her own, had been proud to tell him about her choices. Naturally, Rob Wyatt had been directing the scenes. And now, even from the grave, her father still had a hand in her fate. Sam stood up shakily, needing to move, the restless, pent-up, angry energy she’d been living with making her bristle.
“For what it’s worth—I genuinely grew to care for you—especially after Rob died,” Morrissey told her. “That affection is real. You were a superstar all on your own. The best protégé I could have ever asked for.”
Sam limped to the bar. She poured herself a measure of bourbon and swallowed it down in one gulp, relishing the burn, needing the distraction, the relief of a different kind of pain.
A superstar, huh? she thought bitterly. “I was a second-generation weapon,” she said, pouring another glass of bourbon. “Primed by my father, then perfected by you into a predator.”
Sam knocked back the second bourbon, her eyes watering, her heart heaving with emotion.
“All the interrogations, the torture, the PSYOPs—that was a sign of your affection?” she asked, her voice turning cold as she turned around slowly. “I killed dozens of people. I tortured hundreds of others—for you. I did it for you.”
Morrissey’s expression morphed from remorseful to stoic. “They were your choices—your proclivities, Samantha. I just took what was already there. You were always your father’s daughter—only smarter, crueler, and infinitely more complicated,” he stated de facto. “No one forced you to serve your country.”
“You manipulated me,” she hissed, furious. “I should kill you, you sick bastard.”
“You could try,” Morrissey answered, eyes narrowing, “But that doesn’t change anything, Sam. Your father came to me. He provided me with intelligence of his own volition. You came to me too. You became one of the most vicious and effective psychological interrogators I have ever seen. I just helped you along—but truly, you were already there. Those are the facts.”
“Did you have Rob and Ryland killed, Rolly?” Grant interrupted in a low voice. Her uncle’s big, rangy frame was deceptively relaxed. He reminded her of a coiled pit viper, the warning in his tone as distinctive as a rattlesnake.
“No, sir. I did not.” Morrissey met Grant’s eyes, his gaze steadfast and unflinching, even though he knew he was looking down the wrong end of a loaded barrel. “In fact, the night Rob was killed, he had a trip scheduled the next day. Believe it or not, we had a fragile peace going on with the Taliban before 9/11. Rob was helping to negotiate their consent for a U.S.-supported oil and gas pipeline to be built across Afghanistan from Turkmenistan. Had he succeeded, that could have changed everything.”
“Your father’s death hurt all of us, Samantha.” Morrissey stood and crossed the room toward her. He didn’t try to touch her. He was too astute for that. “The only reason I never told you any of this was because he swore me to secrecy when it came to his family.” He turned to look at Grant. “That included you.”
“He was worried about blowback,” Grant deduced, his expression altering from angry to sad and troubled.
“It happened anyway,” she whispered, realizing there was a certain ironic truth to it. It was exactly what she would have done. Hell, it was exactly what she had done.
“That’s the only reason why we looked into it,” Morrissey told them with a grim face. “But we found nothing related to his work with us. It was a senseless, stupid, awful accident, and I’m sorry, Samantha. I’m truly sorry for all of it. But the United States Government had nothing to do with Rob or Ryland’s death, and that’s the unsatisfying, bald-faced truth.”
*
April—Same Time
Wyatt Ranch, Texas
J A C K
“I worry about you, Gianni. You’re in love with a woman who’s angry enough to set the world on fire and with the means to do it,” his father told him as they stood side by side on the porch.
“Good thing I like playing with fire,” Jack replied with a sardonic smile.
His father looked at him like he was nuts. And maybe he was, a little.
“Gianni, this is the kind of woman who values revenge over her own safety,” his father continued. “She’s going to go down in flames, and she’s going to take you with her.”
“I can think of worse ways to go.”
“You need to take this seriously, Gianni.”
“No, Dad, you need to take this seriously.” Jack turned. He saw his own reflection in the eyes of his father. “I let you drive a wedge between me and Samantha months ago, and that was my fault. You used my respect for your judgment and our closeness to impose your own concerns and hesitations, but I’m the one who allowed it. I’m the one who accepted the file. I’m the one who read it. And now I’m suffering all the consequences of her mistrust and skepticism that I deserve. But that doesn’t change the fact that she’s the one I choose. She is the one I want.”
His father crossed his arms. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but you made better decisions about women when you’re being led around by your cock. You’ve become a masochist. This woman will ruin you.”
“So you keep saying.”
“Jack, please, see sense,” his father pleaded.
Jack didn’t bother telling him that he’d lost all interest in the kind of women he’d been chasing before and after Samantha—beautiful, glittering creatures who were light and delicate as spun silk. No, he wanted Samantha’s dark, passionate, demanding power. He wanted her anger, the way she burned, the fearlessness with which she fought and sacrificed to protect her ideals, her family, her team. Perhaps he’d become a masochist like his father claimed, because Jack loved the way she made him work for every moment of intimacy. He cherished how he was the only one she’d let in when she was vulnerable—the only one she’d let hold and rub her back, touch her scars. He liked that he was her weakness. Because she was his.
“If this is what being ruined feels like, I’ll take it,” Jack replied. He handed his father a USB drive.
“What’s this?” his father asked, finger tapping on the drive.
“Everything I’ve got on Lightner.”
“Including his whereabouts?”
“Possibly,” he answered with a light shrug.
Sandro frowned. “You told me you knew where he was.”
Jack smiled, leaning against a column. “I might have embellished that a bit.” He had no intention of telling his father were Lightner was until Samantha’s team had completed their mission, and he suspected his father knew it too.
Sandro gripped the USB like he was going to squeeze out the electronics out of the end. “You lied, Gianni.”
“I bluffed. Just like you taught me,” Jack replied blithely. “You don’t play your hand. You play the man across from you. You taught me that—remember?”
“Rompere i miei coglione?”36 his father asked, incredulous.
“To warn you,” Jack answered succinctly. “Don’t get between me and Samantha again. I love you, Dad. I would do almost anything for you and mom. But when it comes to this woman—stay the fuck out of it.”
Chapter 19
April—Evening
Wyatt Ranch, Texas
S A M A N T H A
Admiral Morrissey and Sandro Roman didn’t stay for dinner. Their invitation was revoked the moment Grant called Alejo to escort them to one of the ranch SUVs with strict instructions to drive them back to the a
ir strip where their jet was waiting to take them back to D.C.
Neither man argued the decision. Sandro, the consummate politician, didn’t cajole or coax. Instead, he surprised her by kissing her gently on the cheek and whispering, “Take care of him, cara.”
Then Morrissey stood in front of her, a man she’d once revered, his eyes sad, but his expression as stolid as the military he served. “I’m sorry, Commander Wyatt,” he told her, calling her by her former title as an obvious sign of respect.
It was too little, too late, after what she’d learned.
“I am too, Admiral.” Sam inclined her head, awash in so many emotions, she couldn’t really begin to sort them all out. She watched silently as the cloud of dust swirled behind the red glow of the SUV’s tail lights, lost in her thoughts as Jack stood to one side of her, Uncle Grant on the other.
When Hannah opened the porch door to tell them dinner was ready, Samantha limped off the porch, heading to the barns instead.
“Tesoro—” Jack started.
Grant stopped him with a quietly said, “Let her go. She needs to be alone for a spell.”
The emotions hit her like a barrage—too much, too fast. Like the other night when she’d let herself be overcome by the tsunami of emotion she’d held at bay for too long, tonight, her feelings threatened to drive her off the rails—make her do something she’d regret.
Sam wanted to rage.
She wanted to hurt.
She wanted to scream.
But the worst thing was she wanted to do all of this with the one person in the world who wasn’t available to her anymore. And maybe he’d never really been available to her at all.
Had she ever known her father? Her father had lied to everyone—even Uncle Grant. That by itself was nearly inconceivable to her. Grant and her father had been so close. Like brothers. He’d trusted Grant with his family, his ranch, his secrets…except for the biggest secret of all.
The sick thing, the twisted and truly sad thing, was that Morrissey was right—her father had turned her into a more lethal version of himself. He’d taken everything he knew about gamesmanship and how to win a battle and taught her exactly how to be the most dangerous adversary in the room. Samantha’s shining skill set included making men bleed and bringing their worst fears to life. She had a law degree she’d only ever used to bend the rules to her favor and a PhD in breaking people down to the most pathetic and loathsome versions of themselves. And that was just her professional life.
Her love life was much better. After all, she’d driven the first man she ever loved off to another continent and the second man who’d ever loved her into despair so bleak, he’d had to check himself into rehab.
You’re poison, Samantha. Just like your daddy.
She limped into the ranch’s gym, a sleek facility that had been designed to nestle seamlessly in with the barns. Half of it was a dojo lined with mirrored walls, the other half weights, cardio machines, boxing bags, and now some of the specialized equipment her physio required. There were a couple members of her security detail in there, doing pad work as classic rock pounding out from the hidden speakers.
“May I have the room please?” She didn’t wait for them to comply as she slipped off her shoes and bowed in front of the tatami mat, wearing nothing but her leggings and a soft tunic. She didn’t bother with wearing her gi. The music was cut immediately, followed by the metallic clang of weights being put away and the soft shuffle of sneakers on the floor as she was left alone in the space.
Sam moved across the mat toward the hanging display holding long wooden bokken training weapons and shorter shoto swords she favored. Sam picked two weapons made of fine white oak, the handles a little worn from use over the years. She’d trained with these since she was little, so much so that when she wielded the swords in her hands, flipping them fast like lethal batons, they felt like extensions of her arms. She went through the suburi and iaido drills, a set of exercises to warm up her hands, wrists, and arms while she practiced her cutting, thrusting, and parrying.
Without the help of her cane, her balance was challenged, so Sam took her time, trying to turn off her thoughts and her feelings as she relinquished herself over to the relief of habit, as if she were driving home at the end of a particularly awful day, only to look up and wonder how she’d made it home.
Time passed. In that moment, there was nothing but the movement and the sound of her breathing, the soft whoosh of the swords swiping and cutting through air. She distanced herself from everything as she worked to lose herself in the rhythm. But she couldn’t quite relinquish the gnawing hurt, the painful resentment, or the heat of her anger.
They were your choices, Samantha—your proclivities. Morrissey’s voice echoed in her mind. I just took what was already there and fashioned it.
Sam swung her arm, slicing down the imaginary torso in front of her, cutting it clean in half.
Would her life have been any different? Was she always destined to do what she’d done? Would she have made the same decisions, given the chance to do it all over again?
She stabbed hard, jerking the blade up, then down, eviscerating the memory, disemboweling the intentions.
Morrissey’s words returned unbidden: You are your father’s daughter, Samantha—only smarter, crueler, and infinitely more complicated.
She spun, one sword high in the air, coming down swiftly as she imagined cutting the head off the monster. But was she that monster?
“You’d feel a shitload better if you let go and lost your temper on somebody who could fight back, Wyatt,” Alejo drawled from behind her.
She stopped as he kicked off his flip-flops and bowed before stepping onto the mat. He wore workout pants and a black t-shirt, like he’d come here planning to take her on.
“I don’t lose control,” she answered tightly. “Losing control leads to mistakes, and I can’t afford any of those right now.”
“Then you must have amnesia, because you’ve lost your shit on me plenty of times,” Alejo countered, a knowing gleam in his eyes.
“That was college, when we were still kids.” She shook her head, lowering her swords. “I don’t have that luxury anymore.”
His mouth curled as he rounded her on the mat, circling slowly. “Well, consider yourself lucky tonight, because I’m about to give you the luxury.”
Alejandro lunged at her fast, like a predator, and Sam stepped back, blocking his attempt with the short sword, more out of habit than heat. But he took advantage of her momentary surprise, to parry the block, locking onto her wrist and jerking her forward. They stared at each other, breathing hard. She read his intent a split second before he made the move, intending to tug her down to the ground. Just before she lost her balance, Sam swung her second sword down hard and fast, the wood snapping into the thick muscles connecting his shoulder and his neck. He grunted, releasing her to roll sideways, eyes narrowing.
“Not bad, for a cripple,” he told her, coming up again in a low crouch.
“What the hell are you doing?” Her heart was jack-hammering in her chest. “I could have really hurt you, you dumb fuck!”
“Dare you to try,” he taunted, widening his stance as he moved around her again.
“You should wear padding if we do this,” she warned, her swords up.
“Why?” he smirked. “You hit like a girl, Wyatt.”
That did it.
Sam advanced on him faster than she should have, fueled by temper and adrenaline, her long sword swinging down hard from top right to bottom left. Alejandro stepped sideways, his hand slipping in to grip the hilt of the bokken and direct the wooden blade downward. Sam used her free hand to whack him hard and fast in the head with the shorter sword, making him wince as he sucked a hissing breath.
“That’ll leave a mark,” she sneered. “You’re damn right I hit like a girl, jackass.”
Alejandro released his grip and she shifted away, limping back. Her back was on fire from the strain of movement, but she wasn
’t backing down. Not now.
“That the best you got?” Alejandro razzed as he rounded on her again.
“Come a little closer and find out.” Her eyes narrowed.
Alejandro advanced fast. But he surprised her by dropping low and sweeping her feet out from under her. She wasn’t swift enough to prevent the fall, so she rolled into it, taking the worst of it on her side, though the jarring drop smarted like a bitch. Sam sensed him coming before she saw him, and she swung her long sword up and out, nailing him in the knee.
“Owww!” he howled. “Fuck this shit—give me that!” he grabbed the wooden sword before she could draw it back and tossed it off the mat, out of reach.
Sam paid him back by jabbing him hard in the ribs. He caught the wooden blade of her sword, and they tussled over it for a moment until he managed to drag it from her. There was no way she could stand or get away without getting stabbed by her own shoto, so she launched herself at him, hooking her arm around his injured knee and pulling him down with the momentum. Sam managed to throw his balance with the element of surprise and reach for the sword. Alejo took the hit on his shoulder, then elbowed her swiftly in the face, knocking her head to the side, sharp pain reverberating through her skull and pissing her off more.
Sam retaliated by punching him hard with the hilt of the shoto before digging it up under his ribs. Alejandro dropped backwards with a grunt, and Sam crawled over him, breathing hard. Her knees bracketed his waist as she let loose, driven hard by anger and adrenaline, punching his face once, twice, three times before he managed to curl up like a lobster and block the hits with his forearms. He snaked a palm around the back of her neck and dragged her down to his chest, making the already frayed nerve endings in her back sing in agony. Alejo hooked a leg around her foot and flipped them both over, pinning her arms down to the mat.
“Feel better yet?” he panted, his cheeks and nose already swelling from her hits.
Sam couldn’t combat his upper body strength, not on her best day and definitely not injured, so she tucked her legs in and wedged her feet into the ridges of his hips, shoving him back with a mighty heave just as her palm came up in a strike to his mouth, making his head snap back as he grunted.
Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three Page 33