by Hill, Teresa
Betsy bit her lip and asked Dani to sit down.
There had been an incident on a train in Germany. A man with a gun, maybe a terrorist, maybe not. Two U.S. soldiers had tried to stop it. Had stopped it. But one was injured and one was dead.
Dani shook her head. “It’s not him. What are the odds? There are so many U.S. soldiers based in Germany or who travel through there. It’s not him.”
Betsy nodded and told her to check her phone for messages he would have left her.
Dani tried to get up and couldn’t, so Betsy went to find her phone.
It was dead. It hadn’t worked in Greece. She’d let it die and never remembered to charge it. The wait for it to get enough power to turn on seemed interminable. Dani’s hand shook as she held onto the phone and waited.
Betsy brought Dani’s laptop, so she could check her e-mail, but there was nothing from Aaron.
But why would there be? Aaron would call or text. He’d said to call or text. She’d agreed, but hadn’t done it before falling asleep. He must be so worried about her.
They left the news on. No names yet of the soldiers, pending notification of their families. But they were both Navy.
That fact sliced through Dani like a knife.
Still, that didn’t mean anything.
She hit the On button on her phone every few seconds, and the phone dinged, looked like it was going to power up, then went dead again. She couldn’t stop trying to turn it on. It felt like a year passed before it finally powered up.
She and Betsy watched as it searched for a signal and her text message icon showed up.
Yes! Aaron.
Voice messages, too.
She listened to them first.
Hey, Dani. I’ve never hated leaving anyone as much as I hated to let you get on that plane. It hasn’t been five minutes. I’m still at your gate, I guess hoping that you’ll get off the plane and come back to me, even though I know you can’t. Four more months away from you sounds like hell, and I know we have some details up in the air, like making sure we end up in the same city. Your job and the year-long contract you signed. Where I’ll end up stationed, once I’m back. Whether I’ll stay in the Navy or get out. God, we didn’t even talk about that, but we’ll work it out. Everything will be fine. We’ll be together, and nothing will ever tear us apart.
I didn’t know I could feel as much for someone as I do for you. I’ve never felt as close to someone, never really got what it meant to have a woman I could count on for anything, someone I knew would always be by my side. Right from the first letter you sent me, everything clicked. I knew you were it for me. I love you so damned much.
Listen, we have some things to talk about, some things to work out … But it’ll be okay. I know it.
Damn, they’re calling my flight. I’ve got to go. With the time difference and travel times, I’m not sure when I’ll get to talk to you again. Just know I’ve still got the biggest grin on my face, just thinking about you.
We’ll come back to Greece one day, back to that same island, maybe stay at that same place. I want to give you the whole world. Just … I’ve got to make this flight and get my ass back to base. Call me when you get home, and maybe dream of me. I’ll be dreaming of you.
The message ended with a beep.
He was fine, at the airport getting ready to get on his plane.
She saved the message, just because, and clicked to hear the next one.
But it was Betsy, asking Dani to call if she found out anything about her plane being late and saying she couldn’t wait to hear about the trip. The text messages were Betsy, too, saying she was at the airport, then at baggage claim.
No texts, no more voice messages from Aaron.
It didn’t mean anything, Dani told herself. He’d told her not to worry. When a sailor was heading back to his unit, he flew stand-by, sometimes in very non-direct ways, never knowing for sure when he’d arrive at his destination. Aaron had given himself forty-eight hours to make the entire journey before he had to report for duty.
But Dani knew.
She felt sick, like she was already coming to pieces. She gripped her phone with one hand, and clutched Betsy’s with the other. They flipped TV channels, searching for someone to finally give them the two sailors’ names.
Someone gave ages. One was young, early twenties maybe. Aaron could easily pass for that, though he was twenty-five. Blondish hair and a beautiful smile. Oh, God.
One of them had tackled the gunman, frightened passengers said. He was so brave, saved them all.
He was a Navy SEAL, shot, in serious condition but expected to live.
Dani never heard his name.
Hours later, bleary-eyed and nearly crazy with worry, she finally saw Aaron.
His photo, one that looked like it was taken from a military ID, popped up on the TV. He looked so young, so proud.
She put her hand up to the TV screen, wishing she could reach through it and touch him one more time.
He’d been on the train, and he was dead.
Chapter One
Layton, Felder, Bach & Moore
Attorneys-at-Law
58 East 42nd Street, Suite 1800
New York, New York 10016
Mace Daughtry
7205 Sandbar Condominiums
Virginia Beach, Va., 23456
Senior Chief Daughtry,
As the executor of the estate of the late Mr. Harold Hopewell, whose Last Will and Testament was entered into probate in the Surrogate’s Court, New York County, State of New York, I write to inform you of certain assets bequeathed to you pursuant to Mr. Hopewell’s Last Will and Testament.
Please contact me at your earliest convenience to arrangements for the delivery of your bequest.
Kind regards,
Frederick Bach, Esquire
* * *
Mace
Half-asleep on his feet, U.S. Navy SEAL Mace Daughtry sank onto a wooden bench in front of his cage — the equipment locker where he stowed his gear — at the base in Little Creek, Virginia. He was filthy, had sand in every crevice in his body, still hadn’t caught up on his sleep despite being on a plane for the last fourteen hours, was starving and smelled really bad.
But he had some expensive gear to secure before he headed for a hot shower, clean clothes, a couple of beers and a steak dinner, in that order, and then he wanted his own bed.
Shaking his head to rouse himself, he got to his feet and started shedding gear. He’d barely begun when a buddy from another platoon yelled out.
“Hey, Mace, Commander Taylor’s looking to climb up your ass. What the hell did you do this time?”
“Nothing,” Mace yelled back, too tired for this. He hadn’t done a damned thing he shouldn’t have, but the look on his friend’s face was no joke. “You really don’t know what it’s about?”
“He said something about a pain-in-the-ass lawyer.”
His buddies who’d come off the plane with him laughed and gave him shit.
“No way that scam artist got to the commander,” Mace said.
He’d been getting crazy letters for months, first at his condo, and then to his Navy address at the base, outlining some scam trying to tell him he was rich, that some guy he’d never heard of and certainly never met had left him millions of dollars.
Which was insane.
Which was why he’d ignored the whole thing.
He believed the letters like he believed e-mails about a Nigerian prince, who had millions in a bank somewhere and desperately needed his help to get the money out, would split the money with Mace, if only Mace would send the guy five grand to prove … whatever.
But civilians couldn’t consult a handy roster of Navy SEALS, where they were stationed, which team they were with, which platoon, and this was getting creepy.
“Hey, I’m telling you, Commander Taylor put the word out that he expects you to haul ass to his office as soon as you hit the ground today.”
More snickers, whoops of
laughter and insults came from the guys. If it wasn’t a scam, it had to be an epic prank. The guys were always messing with each other.
“Anybody want to tell me anything?” Mace yelled. “I really don’t want to go stink up the commander’s office, which is what I’d do right now.”
They shouted out what they wanted him to buy them. Motorcycles, muscle cars, boats, trips to the classiest strip joints in the world.
“Come on, you jokers.” He couldn’t see the end game to this prank. Did someone think he’d start spending this money he didn’t have and would never get?
But the commander was the man in charge of SEAL Team 8. Mace wanted no part of a pissed-off SEAL team leader. One of his buddies offered to make sure all his gear was cleaned and locked away, and off Mace went.
He must have smelled as bad as he feared, because he hadn’t said a word, had barely crossed the threshold into the office, when Commander Taylor looked up from whatever he was doing, curled up his nose and grimaced. He held up a hand to stop Mace. “Close enough.”
“Sorry, Sir. I got your message. Didn’t sound like I should take the time to clean up first. Is there a problem?”
“Do you know a Frederick Bach, Esquire?”
Mace groaned.
“Right,” Commander Taylor said. “Apparently, you’ve been ignoring his letters. Guy must have some serious pull, because he called a certain member of the Senate Armed Services Committee, who called … I don’t know. The damned Secretary of the Navy? Who called a certain Rear Admiral, who called Captain Barnes, who called me, asking where you were and what the hell was wrong with you, that you were ignoring this man.”
“Holy shit,” Mace said.
“Exactly. Capt. Barnes and I, and I suspect the Rear Admiral, the Secretary and the Senator, do not want to ever hear another word about you, this lawyer and whatever the hell he wants with you. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir. I’ll take care of it.”
“I assume you have his number?”
“Uhh.” Had he thrown away all the letters? Maybe. Maybe not.
“Un-fucking-believable.” Commander Taylor handed a slip of paper to Mace.
Which was how Mace ended up outside the building calling a Manhattan area code and for the first time speaking, supposedly, to Frederick Bach, Esquire.
“Mr. Daughtry? I was starting to wonder if you truly existed.”
“Sorry about that. I just … I don’t know any billionaires, especially ones who’d leave me a few million dollars. This has got to be a mistake.”
“You are Senior Chief Petty Officer Martin Alexander Daughtry, son of Marion and Martin Daughtry Sr., born just outside of Austin, Texas, enlisted in the U.S. Navy at age nineteen, currently assigned to SEAL Team 8, Little Creek, Virginia?”
That damned near blew Mace’s mind. If this was a joke, it was the most elaborate one ever, going all the way up to Commander Taylor and now someone in New York.
The guy even knew his real name was Martin.
Nobody had ever called him Martin, even his family back in Texas.
He’d been Mace ever since an unfortunate incident while celebrating his graduation from BUD/S SEAL training.
“Mr. Daughtry?” the lawyer said again.
“That’s me. But I still don’t know any old, dead, rich guys from New York.”
“You were on a Deutsche Bahn ICE train just outside Munich ten months ago when a gunman opened fire and shot six people, including you, before you took him down and saved the lives of the other people on the train?”
Oh, that. He closed his eyes against the memory. He still had nightmares about that day.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I was on the train.”
“My client, Mr. Harold Hopewell, was sitting next to you. He said you and he shared a table and a cup of coffee at the train station before you boarded, and when the gunman opened fire, you shoved him to the floor and shielded him with your own body.”
“Harold? Old guy in a faded green jacket and scuffed-up shoes? Loved to read books about World War II? That guy was a billionaire?”
“Yes. He wasn’t obvious with his money. He didn’t like people to make a fuss over him. He wanted to be treated like everyone else. He said it made it easier to make friends during his travels.”
“I’ll be damned.” Mace had paid for the old man’s coffee, worried he might be short on money, and wondered if he could convince the man to let Mace buy him a meal. “Nice guy, but I wasn’t doing a human-shield thing. He was between me and the gunman, blocking my view. I shoved the old man behind me because I needed to get eyes on the shooter.”
You couldn’t take out a guy if you didn’t know where he was.
“Whatever your reason, Mr. Hopewell insisted that you saved his life and many others that day. He wanted to thank you by offering you a generous inheritance from his estate and to ask for your help in a certain matter.”
“My help?” There it was. “Knew there had to be a catch, if this was real.”
“Mr. Daughtry, it’s not what you think. There are no conditions. I assure you, Mr. Hopewell was a real person and a billionaire who has left you a great deal of money. It’s not a joke, not a scam. Find a computer. Google him, if that’s what you need to do. And then call me back, or … Never mind. Don’t call me. Are you currently in Virginia? Will you be there for the next forty-eight hours?”
“Yes, I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”
“Good. I’ll book a flight and let you know when to expect me.”
“Wait. One more question. This … non-condition of my inheritance? This request? What is it, exactly?”
The lawyer sighed heavily. “Before he died, Mr. Hopewell intended to find a certain young woman, to express his condolences and ensure that she, also, was taken care of and had all the resources she needed, but finding her proved to be more difficult than reaching you, even. He thought your connections might bring you more success than he or I had.”
“My connections? You called the Secretary of the Navy.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Please, don’t do that again.”
“Don’t make me, Mr. Daughtry.”
Shit.
Who was this guy?
“As I was saying, I believe your connections with the military, and perhaps to the American Ambassador to Germany and the German Chancellor’s office, will prove useful.”
He’d met the Ambassador and the Chancellor. He’d even met the President of the United States and shaken the man’s hand, as he’d put a medal around Mace’s neck. Mace hated medals. They tended to be passed out after somebody died.
“You need me to use an Ambassador and the German Chancellor to find a woman?” Mace had a bad feeling he knew what was coming.
The lawyer had serious connections. But the German Chancellor had called Mace a hero to her entire country and said she was forever in his debt. He did have serious favors he could call in there, if he ever needed to. Maybe even more than a man who could get a Senator and an Admiral on the phone.
“I’m seeking a certain young widow,” the lawyer said, “whose husband — Navy Lt. Aaron Carson — died that day on the train. Mr. Hopewell said you and he made a promise to look after her.”
That’s what Mace was afraid of.
This was about the widow, a woman he’d let down in the worst way, one he’d ignored and felt too guilty to face.
Chapter Two
Mace
The military turned obscenely young women into widows.
The one Mace needed to find was only twenty-four, Dani Carson, a school teacher.
Except he couldn’t find a twenty-four-year-old teacher named Dani Carson. Neither could the lawyer, Frederick Bach, and that guy had serious pull. Even more puzzling, no Dani Carson was listed as a military widow. She should have been. She had benefits due to her as the spouse of a deceased serviceman. Mace called in some favors and confirmed what Bach’s sources had already told him, that Aaron Carson’s
Navy personnel file listed him as single.
That was odd.
In the brief time Mace and Carson spent together over coffee at the train station, getting married was all the lieutenant had wanted to talk about. The kid seemed crazy in love. He’d pulled out his phone and showed Mace and Harold photos of the wedding ceremony.
Mace had been exhausted, coming off his own leave, during which he took a great trip hiking through the Alps with an old friend from the SEAL teams, but he’d tried to show at least a polite interest in Lieutenant Carson’s story and his photos. Mace remembered thinking the girl was pretty and that both of them looked so happy.
Gorgeous spot for a wedding. They stood on an outcrop of rocks with the Mediterranean Sea below and behind them, and it looked like it was just the two of them and the older man performing the ceremony. If a man was going take the plunge, that would be the way to go. No big fuss. Nothing that took tons of planning time.
They looked really young to be getting married. Life could be so fucking hard. He remembered hoping that when their lives got that way, Lieutenant Carson and his new wife would be able to handle it.
Mace had never imagined that something so awful would show up so soon, with their marriage less than twenty-four hours old.
He had thought about guiltily of Lieutenant Carson’s girl over the past ten months. He should have looked her up months ago. He’d been in the hospital in Munich for five days afterward, then at Walter Reed in Maryland. Later, he spent some time in Virginia rehabbing from his injuries before he was slotted into a deploying unit to replace another injured guy.
But it was all excuses, which Mace seldom allowed himself. He could have made the time to find her. He should have.
He’d told himself she’d be okay. Devastated, but okay. The military took care of the widows and families of deceased service members.
Except, according to the military, she wasn’t Lt. Carson’s widow.
Mace was pissed. If some stupid paperwork mix-up left Lt. Carson’s widow all alone in her grief, he was going to roast someone’s ass on a spit.