by Hill, Teresa
“You were cold — ”
“So, come with me and help keep me warm.” She grabbed the shorts he’d pulled out of his gym bag for her and tugged them on. When she went to get out of the truck, he picked her up instead and carried her back to Aaron’s grave.
She sat back down where she’d been when he’d found her, cross-legged on the ground, the headstone against her side. Mace sat at her other side. It seemed fitting, her being between these two men, reaching out to say goodbye to one and turning to her present, her future, with the other.
She put one hand flat against Aaron’s name etched in the stone and with her other hand, held onto Mace’s.
“I’ll never forget you,” she told Aaron as she traced the letters of his name. “You left me with amazing memories. You made me believe in so many wonderful things I thought I’d never have, even though you did seem too good to be true. And in the time we were together, you made me so happy.”
She let her tears fall, and they weren’t the tears of a sad, broken woman. She was lucky to have known and been loved by the man he’d been.
“I’m sorry you only had twenty-five years. It wasn’t fair. I’m not sure you realized how unfair life could be, until yours was taken away. I hope you’re happy now. I hope you’re at peace.”
Her hand lingered over his name. For a moment, the stone seemed to grow warm, and it almost seemed like touching Aaron after they’d spent the day in the strong Greek sun.
Aaron, she thought. Part of me will always love you.
Then she dropped her hand and turned back to Mace, who was waiting with such patience, such kindness and, she thought, love.
Carefully, he wiped away her tears and gave her a sad smile.
“I need to say some things to you, too,” she told him.
He nodded, his gaze steady. She thought he looked resigned to whatever was coming and realized he thought she didn’t love him.
She smiled. “Thank you for coming to find me. Not just today, but back at the bar that night. And for insisting I was wrong about Aaron and the marriage. I can’t imagine what it would have been like to have to go through life thinking he’d betrayed me that way. I thought I couldn’t trust myself to know when someone was telling me the truth or lying to me. I don’t see how I would have ever felt truly safe with anyone else.”
He squeezed her hand. “I’m glad for anything that makes this easier for you.”
“You are such a good man. You’re so good to me. I was in such a bad place, and I really didn’t care whether I got out of it or not. You changed all that. You never gave up on me. I’m grateful.”
He flinched at the word. “Dani, you don’t owe me anything.”
“Of course, I do. I owe you everything. You saved me — ”
“No. When Aaron died, I made a promise to myself — ”
“Mace, this has been more than you keeping a promise. I feel that. I know it. I love you, and I think you love me, too.”
She got to watch as he took in the words. He blinked, stared at her, as moisture filled his eyes. “Of course, I do. I love you so much it terrifies me.”
“I’m scared, too. Of how much I feel for you. Of losing you.”
“I can’t lose you.” He pressed a quick, hard kiss to her lips.
“But there’s more,” he said. “You never let me tell you what happened that day on the train, and I’m afraid that once you know … You have to know the truth.”
“Okay. Tell me. Right now. Right here.”
* * *
Munich Main Train Station
Munich, Germany
Feeling like he’d been traveling forever and was still nowhere near his destination, U.S. Navy Senior Chief Petty Officer Mace Daughtry collapsed into a chair at a crowded cafe, ready to main-line coffee to get him through until he caught the next train to Mannheim. Another train to Landstuhl, hop on a military transport plane, and he’d be back in the States, eventually.
With his back to the wall — his preferred space anywhere — he did a quick scan of the area — force of habit — and leaned back in his chair, trying to keep his eyes open. On the last day of leave before he had to head back to base, he and his friend and former teammate had stayed up a little too late last night laughing and catching up.
The small table he’d found was one of the few empty ones in the train station. He leaned back in his chair and finally closed his eyes, trying to look not-so-much unfriendly as exhausted and hoping to be left alone.
He got maybe eight minutes before a man speaking German with an American accent asked if he might join Mace at his table.
Mace opened his eyes and found an older, casually dressed man smiling down at him. Mace smiled and nodded toward a vacant chair. “Of course.”
“Ahh, an American.” The man held out his hand before he took the seat. “Harold Hopewell.”
“Mace Daughtry.” They shook.
“A Texan?” the man guessed.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d be happy to never see anything of Dallas again in my life. All big roads and buildings, concrete and asphalt everywhere. But the Texas Hill Country? All green with those easy, sloping hills? Especially in the spring? That’s a beautiful place.”
“Yes, it is. That’s where I grew up.” Mace tried not to show the twinge in his heart. He missed Texas, but he seldom went back, even though his whole family was there.
“Left it to be a soldier?”
“Sailor,” Mace said, because a Navy man wasn’t a soldier, no matter how many civilians thought a soldier was someone in any branch of the service. “What gave me away?”
“I was behind you in line waiting to order. The way you walk. The way you kept scanning the room.”
So, he was an observant man. “What do you do, Mr. Hopewell?”
“Harold, please. I sit at a desk, stare at a computer, read reports, try to get out of as many meetings as I can. I escape as often as I can to travel. It’s much more interesting.”
“I hear you on that,” Mace agreed.
They chatted for a few more minutes. The old guy was interesting, a real World War II buff, knew his stuff, too. Mace couldn’t quite make sense of Harold. He dressed comfortably, modestly, but was a seasoned traveler. How did the guy find the money for all those trips? Maybe travel was his single luxury.
They still had twenty minutes to go before they needed to catch their train — they’d figured out that they’d be on the same one as far as Mannheim — when Harold invited a third man to join them, a baby-faced lieutenant named Aaron Carson. Mace gave up all hope of being able to close his eyes and sleep.
They did another round of introductions. Mace nodded deferentially to the kid, because he was an officer. The kid did the same to Mace, because he was a Senior Chief. In the Navy, people respected the chiefs. They were the ones who got things done.
Mace didn’t advertise the fact that he was a SEAL. People had all sorts of misconceptions about them these days. He was just a man doing his job. It was a hard one at times, but he loved it. He worked with the smartest, toughest, best people in the world.
But when Mace mentioned his home base — Little Creek, Virginia — and Carson asked about Mace’s unit — Mace answered. The baby lieutenant’s eyes got even bigger.
Harold chuckled. “Here’s to an interesting life for both of you. Now, lieutenant, what’s got you looking so happy today?”
The kid told them all about how he just got married — that morning — right before his leave ended and he had to send his girl back home. He went on and on about the amazing Dani, a newly graduated teacher. Mace made sure he smiled and nodded at all the right places and glanced appreciatively at the photos on the young man’s phone.
And made sure he didn’t say what he was thinking — that the kid was crazy to marry so young. He was heading back to Saudi Arabia for another four months. If he stayed in the Navy, he’d have many more deployments in his future. Young wife, all those long separations. With them knowing e
ach other less than a year, Mace didn’t hold out much hope for a long, happy life together. He’d seen too many military couples tear each other apart before they finally ended things.
But the kid was obviously thrilled. His young wife looked sweet and happy, too. Maybe they’d beat the odds.
Mace loved women. All sorts of women. He enjoyed them, could find something to appreciate in nearly every one he’d ever met. He’d found a couple he’d thought maybe — just maybe — he wanted to keep. But one way or another, it had never worked out. Plus, a woman would always take a back seat to Mace’s job, and that wasn’t fair to any woman. If a man was going to marry her, she deserved to come first in his life.
So, he’d never taken that step. Maybe he never would.
It was unfortunate, but it wasn’t a gaping wound in his heart or an urgent need to remedy. His life was good. He was happy. He had no trouble finding a woman when he wanted to spend some time with one, although he’d been done with tag-chasers and SEAL groupies years ago. He was more of a serial hook-up guy, usually for a few months at a time.
Even when he wasn’t deployed, he had long days and traveled for training exercises. If a woman could understand that, be happy to see him when he was available and be enthusiastic in the sack, they’d have a good time together before his next deployment.
He didn’t ask any woman to wait for him anymore. It was too hard on them. It was stressful, frustrating and lonely, and made some of them way too needy. So Mace didn’t do it. He broke things off and got on a plane. It worked for him. He started the whole process over again the next time he came home.
When Mace and Harold headed off to board their train, they found out Lt. Carson was taking the same one, too. He and Mace were both headed to the big U.S. base in Landstuhl, Germany, to catch military transports. Mace hoped to ditch both men aboard the train, so he could sleep, but it didn’t work out that way. He took a window seat in the middle of one of the cars, and Harold took the aisle seat next to him.
As Mace took a sweep of his surroundings, he noted Lt. Carson ended up on the aisle in the first row of seats in the car. Next to him was a guy who looked like he’d eaten something that disagreed with him. At least he was in the row closest to the bathroom.
Mace heard Farsi being spoken by two women behind him and noted where they were. A young man and woman who seemed to be arguing softly, a typical couple’s disagreement. He hoped it didn’t turn loud.
No babies in this car. No, wait. One baby. Right in front of him. In his row on the opposite side of the car was a family with two little kids who were speaking French like natives. He’d found that French children in public places were much quieter and more well-behaved than American children. He didn’t dislike kids or babies. He just preferred not to be in enclosed spaces with them for extended periods of time, especially when he was hoping to sleep.
Satisfied that he’d seen everything he needed to on the train car, Mace leaned back and closed his eyes as the train pulled out of the station. It was one of the bullet trains, top speed about one hundred and eighty-six miles per hour. Mace liked to go fast, especially when it got him to his destination faster.
He would never sleep deeply in a public place like this, but he didn’t need to in order to rest. He drifted, tired but happy, relaxed, thinking about how great it had been climbing in the Austrian Alps with his former teammate. The air had been so clear, crisp and cool, the mountains enough to challenge even him. His friend was doing well, working as an independent security contractor.
A sound — faint, but one that didn’t belong on a train — was the first sign of potential trouble. Mace opened his eyes and turned his head toward what he thought he heard — the distinctive click of a bolt moving into place on an AK-47 as someone prepares to fire.
Scanning the train car in front of him, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. A few people sleeping, a few with headphones or earbuds, some looking at their tablets or phones, including Lt. Carson.
Had Mace drifted off and dreamed the sound? It was possible, although he didn’t think so.
He scanned the car in front of him again, sure that the sound had come from that direction. Out of the corner of Mace’s eye, he saw someone come out of the bathroom. Carson dropped his phone and jumped out of his seat. Mere seconds later, Mace heard the first shots.
He shoved Harold to the floor at Mace’s own feet, then dived for the floor where Harold’s feet had been. Mace needed to be able to see, and for that, he needed to be closest to the aisle. It felt like a long pause before the screams started. Harold grunted, gasped. Mace feared he’d hurt the old man.
At the front of the car, just outside the bathroom door, stood the man Mace thought might have had food poisoning. Nope. He’d blown that call all to hell. The guy must have been sweating because he was nervous. Now he had an automatic rifle in his hands.
He wasn’t firing now. Instead, he was shoving Lt. Carson away. The kid must have jumped at the guy the second he saw the AK-47, either acting purely on instinct or being incredibly brave. The shots Mace heard must have gone into Carson at nearly point-blank range. Carson went down, the force of the shots and the gunman’s shove sending the kid twisting around and to the floor. He ended up on his belly. Blood seeped out from beneath his body.
Fuck.
Mace glanced up at the gunman, who had an eerie grin on his face and a dazed look in his eyes as he stared down at Carson. It was chaos in the train car. Some people were frozen in their seats and screaming, some took cover behind seats and on the floor, a few scrambled over the backs of seats trying to reach the door at the back that led out of this car and into the next one.
“Stop!” the gunman yelled in German, then heavily accented English. He fired toward the back of the car.
Two people in the doorway screamed in pain and fell to the floor. No one else tried to crawl over them to escape. Instead, they dived for cover behind the last row of seats.
Mace dug out his phone — he knew his worked internationally — and pushed it into Harold’s hands. “Dial 110 and tell them there’s a gunman on our train. The bullet train that left Munich at 1:35 headed for Mannheim.”
Harold’s hands shook, but he took the phone and nodded.
Mace looked back toward the front of the train, his gaze stalling on Lt. Carson. He was lying half on his side, half on his belly, maybe because he was trying to move to cover. He was looking right at Mace, a haunting expression of fear on his face and, Mace thought, begging for help.
“Don’t move,” Mace mouthed to him, hoping Carson was lucid enough to understand.
Moving would only call attention to him. Carson was better playing dead.
It looked like he was lying on the side of his body where the bullets had entered, and weight of his body was putting pressure on the wounds. That was good. An AK-47 at close range really tore up a body. Carson must have taken only glancing blows. It didn’t look like he was bleeding that badly, unless it was internally. Mace told himself worry too much about Carson. He had a whole trainload of people to help.
His first scan of passengers had told him he and Carson were probably the only military personnel in the car. If help was coming, it was coming from Mace.
He needed the gunman to point the gun far enough away to give Mace a chance with a flying leap. If he could get to the gunman without being shot first, Mace could take the guy down. He hoped this gunman was the only one, that this wasn’t a coordinated attack by multiple shooters.
In Mace’s row on the other side of the aisle, the French dad pressed his two kids against the floor at the outer edge of the train car, the mom’s body wrapped around them, the dad’s around her. Good for him, shielding his family as best he could.
He kept darting his eyes from Mace’s to the back of the car. He wanted to try to escape with his family.
“No,” Mace said as emphatically as he could in a whisper. “Stay down.”
Train seats wouldn’t do much to stop fire from an AK-47, but
cover was cover. You didn’t give it up, especially when the gunman had fired at people trying to leave, but had stopped firing now.
Mace reached into his pocket and drew out the only weapon he had — a knife he carried with him when he went climbing. It was small and lightweight but strong, and Mace knew exactly where to use it to stop an assailant.
He looked to Harold, who was whispering into Mace’s phone. “Police?” Mace asked.
Harold nodded.
“How long?”
Harold shrugged and mouthed back, “Still trying to pinpoint our location.”
Fuck.
Mace didn’t know where they were. He glanced out the opposite window hoping to see buildings that indicated they were in a city, but there was nothing but blue sky. They were in a rural area and as far from help as possible.
Back to the gunman. He still looked confused, dazed. He was muttering quietly to himself and pacing back and forth. The AK was pointed up, but that did Mace no good. This was a double-decker train, and they were in the lower car. There were people above them.
Back to Lt. Carson. Still not an overly alarming amount of blood seeping out from his belly. He did look less alert than before. Maybe it was the loss of blood. Maybe pain, shock. As his gaze locked on Mace’s, Carson slowly stretched out his hand toward Mace.
Mace steeled himself against his need to slip out from behind his cover, grab Carson’s hand and try to drag him behind a seat. Any sudden move anyone made would likely result in a spray of bullets that would kill the ones who moved and who knew how many other people in the train car. Any movement at all, no matter how slow, might result in the same thing. Carson was lucky he’d moved his arm and hand without the gunman noticing.
Again, Mace mouthed his message to Carson. “Don’t move. Stay still. Give me a chance to stop this. Then I’ll help you.”
He wasn’t sure how much of that got through. Carson looked like he was trying to understand, but didn’t. It was gut-wrenching. Twenty-five years old, Mace remembered, married less than twenty-four hours, young, sweet-looking school-teacher wife.