After all, both Kelsey and Joy had been fighters, even if one of them had lost her battle.
“We are thinking of postponing our contract with NBR-X,” Kelsey said. The traitor.
“Then it’s settled.”
Glo drew in a breath. Yes. Settled. She didn’t have the energy to argue.
And Tate would be safe on his ranch.
She tightened her mouth but nodded.
The doctor came out of the room. “He’s awake and asking for you all.”
“Is he going to be okay, doc?” This from Knox, who’d been standing away, texting on his cell phone.
“Yeah. He’s tough. I didn’t know he was an ex-Ranger.”
It was news to her, too. Which showed her just how little she actually knew about Tate.
Knox nodded. “He’s been out for about five years.”
“I served with a number of Rangers during Operation Desert Shield. Those guys don’t know how to fail.”
“Let me talk to him alone,” she said to Knox.
He gave her a grim nod.
She pushed into the room, her throat thick.
Tate sat up in the bed, sipping on water. He set the cup on the tray when he saw her. His mouth cracked up into a wry smile. “How you doing, Fight Club?”
His tease bounced off her. She slid onto the bed, this time near his free hand. Took it in both hands and pulled it to her chest. “Tate, I…” She drew a breath, not sure how to tell him—
His smile vanished. “Glo, first—I know I scared you. I’m sorry—I’m so sorry. I don’t know how Slava found me. I thought we’d be okay. That I could slip away without the Bratva knowing I’d been in town. I made a mistake. It won’t happen again, I promise.”
Her eyes were filling, and he let her hand go, reached up and touched her cheek. “I hate seeing this bruise on you.”
She nodded. “Tate…this is bad.”
“I know, babe. But I’ll be okay and back to work in no time. I know we probably need to talk about that kiss…” And now he offered a dangerous, rakish smile, despite his injuries.
That kiss. Her gaze flickered down to his mouth, back to his eyes. No, no, no…
“Tate—”
“Okay, wait. Listen. I need to tell you—thanks for not leaving me. I know I kept yelling at you to run, but…you saved my life. Thank you for staying.”
She might be ill. Because she was going to run. Far and away.
Glo closed her eyes, tears cutting down her cheeks, and of course he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her into the well of his chest, pocketing her right next to his beating heart.
Probably in the only place that wasn’t bruised.
Yet.
Tate was never letting Glo out of his arms again.
No, he was going to stay right here, clinging to her, holding her as she quietly fell apart on his chest.
He’d really scared her.
No, he’d scared them both, because everything inside him screamed when Slava slammed his fist into her face, and all Tate could think in that moment was what if Slava, after killing him, turned his fists on Glo?
What if he did to her what he’d done to Raquel?
Tate had lost his calm then, the ability to think through the scenario, find the advantage.
The panic had turned him desperate and helpless. He’d tossed the fight over in his head a thousand times on the way to the hospital, as he waited for surgery. Conjured up moves and angles and ways to take Slava down.
None of them included Knox intervening, but yeah, he’d never been so glad to see his brother than when Knox saved his life.
Of course Knox saved his life. Because that’s what Knox did. Showed up.
The guy was such a freakin’ hero.
But it seemed that Tate had gotten the girl anyway, because Glo lifted her head, her eyes reddened, her cheeks wet, and met his gaze.
He searched her face, longing to lean up and kiss her.
Second chances, right here in his arms.
Now she searched his face, as if trying to sort out what had happened. “I’ll be okay, Glo…”
But she was shaking her head, so much pain on her face he could weep— “What is it?”
She leaned away and whisked her hands across her cheeks. “I just…” She sighed then, sadness in her eyes that…
Wait.
No…
“Glo…,” he started, a fist closing in his chest. He reached out for her, but she slid away, out of his reach, and now his breathing started to cut off. “Babe—”
“I’m going back to Nashville with my mother.”
Oh. He blinked at that. Well, probably that wasn’t a terrible idea, because Senator Jackson had a small militia of security. They could watch the grounds, the events, and Tate would watch Glo.
Well, at least when he was able to get out of the bed. So yeah, he could use a little help maybe.
What he really wanted, however, was to lock her inside this room until he could move without his eyes rolling back into his head.
But that wasn’t fair to Glo—she had a career, commitments, and—
“The Belles are going off the road for a few months, and my mother is ramping up her presidential campaign, so…”
He was nodding, all good here. “It’ll just take me a couple weeks to get up to speed here, Glo. It’s not a problem—”
“You’re fired, Tate.” She backed away and clasped her hands over her chest, as if to hold herself together, and he nearly scrambled out of bed, thin hospital gown and all, to reach her. “You need to go home.”
Only after a second did her words land on him, settle in.
Huh?
His expression must have betrayed the craziness of her words, because she nodded. “It’s too dangerous for you to stay with me.”
“I agree! The Bryant League means business, and even if they didn’t show up last night at your event doesn’t mean they’re not going to make good on their threats.”
“And I don’t want you in the middle of that.”
He blinked at her. “It’s…I’m paid to be in the middle of that. It’s my job.”
“Which is why I’m firing you.”
He drew in a breath. Slow down. This didn’t have to be a disaster. “Fine. I’ll come with you to Nashville—”
“No. Knox wants you to go home. You need to be somewhere where people can take care of you—”
“I don’t need anyone to take care of me!” He was shouting and didn’t care. “I’m fine—trust me, I’ve been hurt worse than this, and I got out of it just fine.”
He hadn’t told her much about his past, and for a second, she flinched. “When you were a Ranger?”
He drew in a breath, then nodded. “My leg was broken, I was trapped in a village surrounded by insurgents, and I still managed to fight my way out. I’m not going back to Montana while you’re in danger in Nashville, for Pete’s sake.”
“I won’t be in danger. I’ll be at home. Attending fundraisers that are well protected.”
Fundraisers? He must have worn an incredulous expression, because she drew in a breath. “My mother is running for president, Tate. That’s a family project.”
“You can’t stand your mother.”
Oh, not the right thing to say, because her lips pursed. “She needs me.”
He knew very little, really, of the bad blood between Glo and her mother, but he knew it involved the death of her sister, Joy. And a separation of her parents when she was in her teens. But Glo was loyal to the bone, and if her mother needed her, then Glo showed up.
Just like she didn’t run to save her own life.
But, “Glo. Don’t fire me. Please. I…” He sighed, swallowed, and didn’t care that he might be pleading. “I know I scared you, but I promise I’ll be as good as new in a few days, and…listen, I have connections. Ways to know if the Bryant League is targeting you, and where.”
But he was losing her, tears raking down her face, and he sort of wanted to cry
too. “Glo—c’mon. We have something. It’s good between us. And…” But his words only seemed to make it worse, because she was backing away, shaking her head.
“I’m sorry, Tate. I already lost one man I loved to war. And I know this is domestic terrorism, not war, but it feels the same. I’ll still lose you, and I can’t do this again. I can’t…I’m sorry.”
Then she turned and nearly fled the room, leaving him chained by an IV and his blood pressure cuff to the bed. “Glo!”
He bit back a curse and ripped the cuff from his arm. The nurse had doped him up again, and the meds had already kicked in because he knew his movements would have really hurt. But not worse than losing Glo.
He was peeling off the tape of the IV when—
“What kind of connections?”
He looked up. Reba Jackson had come in and closed the door behind her.
He frowned.
“Ways to know where the Bryant League might be targeting us next?”
“My sister. She’s in the CIA. She can help me track them down, chart their movements. We can get ahead of these guys, stop them before another bomb goes off.”
She drew in a breath, as if considering his words.
“I’ve seen up close what these guys do. I know what to look for.” And if he had to, he’d pull out his final card—his brother Ford, active duty Navy SEAL. Not that Ford could probably help, but it added some oomph to the Marshall family résumé.
And yeah, Tate would call him if he had to.
Reba stepped up to the bed. “It’s plain that you have feelings for my daughter, Tate.”
He didn’t move, because she looked none too happy with that statement, her mouth pursed.
“But I will admit that perhaps you can help my team keep us safe.”
He made to add to his case, but she held up her hand. “But my daughter fired you, I believe.”
Oh, what was she—
“So if you join our protection team, it will be under my purview.”
Yeah, he knew what was coming next.
“Which means you need to keep your…affections for Gloria to yourself.”
Yeah, well, she had affections for him too.
But he nodded. No problem, ma’am. Because they just had to get clear of this threat and maybe Glo would see that she didn’t need to be afraid.
He wasn’t going to die.
Senator Jackson seemed unconvinced, so he held out his hand to her. “I promise to keep my distance from Glo. As long as I get to make sure she’s safe.”
Reba raised one sculpted eyebrow. “You can do that? Stand on the sidelines, watching her back as she attends parties, speeches, and events?”
“Ma’am, I can do anything if it means keeping Glo safe.” His hand remained outstretched.
“Even if she’s on someone else’s arm?”
He frowned but forced it away. Hardly. Glo wouldn’t…
Something about Reba’s expression slid a cold trickle through him.
Still, he nodded slowly. “I’ll keep her alive. No matter what.”
“And use your CIA connections to find out about the Bryant League.”
“That too.” Please, Ruby Jane, don’t kill him. But she had been the one to offer help when she discovered the domestic terrorist group was targeting Senator Jackson.
“You even look at my daughter with anything more than a professional gleam in your eye, Mr. Marshall, and I’ll not only fire you but make sure your professional security career goes down in flames.”
Now he raised an eyebrow. But gave another slow nod.
She took his hand. “Get better. I’ll see you in Nashville.”
He let her go, then leaned back into the pillow as she left.
The door opened again, and this time Knox came in, glancing back at the retreating senator. “You all right?”
Tate frowned at him, and Knox lifted a shoulder. “I heard what was going to go down in the hallway. If it makes you feel any better, Glo’s a mess. She came out of the room crying, and now she and Kelsey are going back to the hotel to pack.”
“It doesn’t, thanks.”
“Sorry, Tate. But maybe Senator Jackson is right. Glo is…she’s in the public eye, and…” Knox made a face. “And you’re…”
“What—?” Tate snarled.
“A mess, bro.”
That shut Tate down. At least for a moment. Because yeah, Knox had to bring up the fact that he’d nearly gotten Glo killed.
Just like Raquel.
And Jammas.
And okay, maybe this was a bad idea.
But Slava and his ilk weren’t going to follow him to Nashville. And Tate did know what he was doing.
Most of the time, at least, when his brain wasn’t suffering from the aftereffects of kissing Glo. He’d simply been off his guard.
So yeah, he meant every one of his words to Senator Jackson. He’d keep his hands, his mind, and his heart away from Glo.
If that’s what it cost to keep her alive, he’d gladly pay it.
“I know I’m a mess. So get me out of here, so I can get home, get better, and get to Nashville and back to work. Glo might have fired me, but her mother just rehired me.”
Knox frowned.
“C’mon. Have you not met me?” Tate gave a smile and pulled down the neck of his hospital gown, revealing the ink across his chest. Surrender is not a Ranger word. “This is far from over.”
Knox shook his head. But a slight smile tipped his lips. “Senator Jackson doesn’t know what kind of trouble she’s hired on.”
“She’s about to find out.”
“There is movement in the compound, Charlie Three.”
The voice in Ford Marshall’s ear could save his life.
Steady, soft, the kind of voice that crept through him and found his bones, settled a steel surety in him that calmed his heartbeat, even here in the desolation of South Yemen.
“Confirmed, Operations.”
Sweat bathed his entire body, but he was fully kitted up in battle rattle, sweat pouring into his ears, and he smelled like the local wildlife. He’d been dug into his position under a fig tree, surrounded by scrub brush and thorn trees, for nearly two hours.
They were all waiting for the terrorists in the Yemeni compound below to go to bed. For the go-word from Ops sitting at their FOB—forward operation base—on the USS San Antonio out in the Gulf of Aden.
Their Black Hawk hidden in the valley not far away.
They’d sat on their hands, waiting on a dusty, rocky hillside while the night deepened around them with the smells of lamb cooking in tandoors, saltah stewing on open fires, and saluf—flatbread—baking in a clay oven.
“I’m so hungry I could eat a goat,” said Cruz. Their sniper’s voice came through the earphones built into Ford’s helmet.
Not the voice he wanted to hear, but Scarlett—or rather, Petty Officer Second Class Hathaway, assigned as combat services support to their unit—was monitoring the drone that scoped the area, as well as keeping the Black Hawk waiting to swoop in for exfil updated.
And now he had her in his brain, thanks. The last thing he should be thinking about was Scarlett’s short brown hair with those red highlights gleaming like copper when the hot Middle Eastern sun hit it, and those big brown eyes that never missed anything, including tangos—terrorists—who might creep up and kill him or any of the other operators on his team.
No, not the kind of thoughts he should be having anytime about a fellow sailor. Especially one who he outranked.
His eyes burned, so dry his eyelids were nearly glued open, although that could also be from fatigue. And the frustration of watching Martha Garrety, American nurse and current kidnap victim, being dragged from the main house by the three young Yemeni men who’d decided not to kill the missionary nurse but take her captive and do—yeah, he couldn’t let his brain go there.
He watched them emerge into the compound through his helmet-mounted NVGs—night vision goggles—and with everything insid
e him wanted to squeeze off a round into their black-and-white keffiyehs. But orders were to not awaken the entire compound.
Not start an international incident.
Just to extract Martha alive.
Apparently, it didn’t matter that the militant group AQAP, an offshoot of Al-Qaeda, was headed by Nasir al-Rimi. Whoever had taken her had also gunned down her husband—probably right in front of her eyes—and another nurse serving with Medical Mission International. This was the second attack on the MMI organization—the first had been a Lebanese militant who carried a gun into a Baptist hospital like it might be an infant and opened fire.
Every other mission organization in this part of the world—and especially Yemen—had bugged out when the US government issued a warning.
Not Martha and her cohorts.
Now Martha was paying the price for her dedication. Helpless, probably violated—although he’d heard that the ultrazealous left the infidel women alone—and definitely terrified.
The team went quiet around him as Martha was dragged into the open, fell, and was kicked.
Ford heard a curse from Nez, their master chief. “Give me a good word here, Marsh.”
“Still waiting on the order, boss.”
“Please,” Cruz said.
“Anytime,” hissed Sonny, their explosives expert from Chicago, in position outside the back wall of the compound with Kenny C, their weapons specialist, poised to scale the wall for the snatch and grab.
Twenty feet above Ford to the west, Levi—from Minnesota—made a strangled, odd sound as one of the men hauled Martha up and slapped her.
“Operations, we need something, now,” Ford said softly into his mic.
Yeah, time to finish this, bring Martha home.
Bring him home. Because he was so close to the end of his deployment, he could nearly taste the chalupa that Cruz had promised them from his backyard smoker in Coronado.
Ford had one of the tangos between the grids of his MK11, Leupold Vari-X Mil Dot rifle scope.
“Hold, Charlie Three,” Scarlett said.
Only her voice kept him from lining up his MK11 for a head shot.
“According to our drone, they’re leading her to an outside hut near the compound wall.”
“We don’t need a drone to see that,” he whispered.
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