Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  Dear God. She'd actually seen excitement in Joe's eyes. He was excited because something was finally going to happen. He was ready. And willing. Willing to risk his life...

  Her mouth felt dry. She tried to moisten her lips with her tongue, but it didn't help.

  Dear God, don't let him die. "Joe," she said, but then couldn't speak.

  He touched his ear, the sign that he had heard her.

  She could hear Blue's unmistakable accent, and the voices of Cowboy and Harvard as the three men tried to outguess the assassin.

  Cowboy was on the roof of the theater with high-powered binoculars and a long-range, high-powered rifle of his own. He did a visual sweep of the two lower roofs, reporting in contin­uously. No one was up there. No one was still up there.

  "Windows in the offices don't open," Kevin Laughton said, from his seat next to Veronica. "Repeat, windows do not open."

  "I'm watching 'em anyway," Cowboy said.

  "You're wasting time," Laughton said. "And manpower. We could use you down in the crowd."

  "The hell I'm wasting time," Cowboy muttered. "And if you think this shooter's going to be standing in the crowd, you're dumber than the average Fink."

  On-screen, Joe was still talking to the governor and his aides. "The theater and these arts buildings are very beautiful," he said. "All these windows—it's quite impressive, really. Do they open?"

  "The windows?" the governor asked. "Oh, no. No, these buildings are all climate controlled, of course."

  "Ah," Joe said in Tedric's funny accent. "So if someone inside absolutely needed some fresh air, they'd have to have a glass cutter, yes?"

  The governor looked slightly taken aback, but then he laughed. "Well, yes," he said. "I suppose so."

  "Roger that, Mr. Cat," Cowboy said. "My thoughts ex­actly. Court-martial me if you have to, FInCOM, but I'm watching those windows."

  "Okay," Veronica heard Blue say. "They're coming out to the stage. Let's be ready. You, too, Cat."

  "Shall we go to the stage?" the governor asked Joe.

  Joe nodded. "I'm ready," he said with a smile.

  He was so calm. He was walking out there to be a target, and he was smiling. Veronica could barely breathe.

  Two of the FInCOM agents opened the doors that led to the courtyard. Outside, a band began to play.

  "Joe," Veronica said again. Dear Lord, if she didn't tell him now, she might never get another chance He touched his ear again. He heard her.

  "Joe, I have to tell you... I love you."

  Joe stepped outside into the sunshine, and the heat and brightness exploded around him. But it wasn't all from the sun. In fact, most of it was coming from inside him, from the cen­ter of his chest, from his very heart.

  She loved him. Ronnie loved him.

  He laughed. Ronnie loved him. And she'd just announced it to everyone who was working on this operation.

  "Hell, Ronnie, don't go telling him that now," Blue's scolding voice sounded over Joe's earphone. "Cat's gotta concentrate. Come on, Joe, keep your eyes open."

  "I'm sorry," Veronica said. She sounded so small, so lost.

  Joe touched his ear, trying to tell her that he'd heard her, wishing there was a way he could say he loved her, too. He touched his chest, his heart, with one hand, hoping that she'd see and understand his silent message.

  And then he climbed the stairs to the stage.

  "Come on, Cat," Blue's voice said. "Stop grinning like a damn fool and get to work."

  Work.

  His training clicked in, and Joe was instantly focused. Damn, with this warm sensation in his heart, he was better than fo­cused. Veronica loved him, and he was damn near superhu­man.

  He checked the stage to make sure the cover zones were where FInCOM had said they would be.

  The podium was reinforced, and it would act as a shield— provided, of course, that the shooter didn't have armor-piercing bullets. Down behind the back of the stage was also shielded. There was a flimsy metal railing to keep people from falling off the platform, but that could be jumped over easily. The stage was only about eight feet from the ground.

  Joe scanned the crowd. About six hundred people. Five dif­ferent TV cameras, some of them rolling live for the twelve o'clock news. He knew with an uncanny certainty that the as­sassin wouldn't fire until he stepped up to the podium.

  "Roof is still clear," Cowboy announced. "No movement at the windows. Shoot, FInCOM, maybe you better keep watch­ing that crowd. I got nothing yet."

  Joe sat in a folding chair as the governor approached the podium.

  "We're going to make this dedication ceremony as quick as possible," the governor said, "so we can get inside that air-conditioned lobby and have some lemonade."

  The crowd applauded.

  Veronica's heart was in her throat. Joe was sitting there, just sitting there, as if there weren't any threat to his life.

  "Without further ado," the governor continued, "I'd like to introduce our special guest, Crown Prince Tedric of Ustan-zia."

  The sound of the crowd's applause masked the continuous comments of the SEALs and the FInCOM agents. On Veron­ica's video screen, Joe stood, raising both hands to quiet the crowd.

  "Thank you," he said into the microphone. "Thank you very much. It's an honor to be here today."

  "I still got zip on either roof," Cowboy said. "No move­ment near the windows, either. I'm starting to think these tan­gos don't know a good setup when they see—"

  A shot rang out.

  One of the big glass windows in the front of the theater shattered into a million pieces.

  The crowd screamed and scattered.

  "Joe!" Veronica gripped the table in front of her, leaning closer to the screen, praying harder than she'd ever prayed in her life.

  He was gone, she couldn't see him. Had he ducked behind the podium, or fallen, struck by the bullet?

  On her headphones, she could hear all three SEALs report­ing in, all talking at once. The roofs were still clear, no shooter visible at the windows.

  Beside her, Kevin Laughton had rocketed out of his seat. "What do you mean, you don't know where that came from?" he was shouting over the chaos. "A shot was fired—it had to come from somewhere!"

  "Do we need an ambulance?" another voice asked. "Re­peat, is medical assistance needed?"

  Another shot, another broken window.

  "God damn," Laughton said. "Where the hell is he shoot­ing from?"

  Joe heard the second shot, felt the impact of the bullet as it hit the stage, and knew. The assassin was behind him. Inside the theater. And with all of the shielding facing out, away from the theater, Joe was a damn sitting duck. It was amazing he was still alive. That second shot should have killed him.

  It should have, but it hadn't. The son of a bitch had missed.

  Joe dove off the stage headfirst, gun drawn, shouting in­structions to his men and to the FInCOM agents who were surrounding him. Cowboy was on the roof of the theater, for God's sake. They could cut the shooter off, nail the bastard.

  Inside the surveillance van, the video monitors went blank. Power was gone. Lord, what was happening out there? Veron­ica had heard Joe's voice. He was alive, thank God. He hadn't been killed. Yet.

  The gunman was inside the theater. Upper balcony, above the lobby, came the reports. The back door was surrounded, they had the assassin cornered.

  Veronica stood, pushing past Kevin Laughton and opening the door of the van. She could see the theater, see the two shattered windows. She could see the FInCOM agents crouched near the front of the theater. She could see three figures, scal­ing the outside of the theater, climbing up to the roof.

  God in heaven, it was Joe and two of his SEALs.

  Veronica lowered her mouthpiece into place. She hadn't wanted to speak before this, afraid she'd only add to the con­fusion, but this...

  "Joe, what are you doing?" she said into the microphone. "You're the target! You're supposed to get to safety!"

  "W
e need radio silence," Blue's voice commanded. "Right now. Except for reports of tango's location."

  "Joe!" Veronica cried.

  One of the FInCOM agents leaned out the van door. "I can't cut this line," he said to Veronica, "so unless you're quiet, I’m going to have to take your headset."

  Veronica shut her mouth, watching as a tiny figure—Cow­boy—helped Joe and the rest of his team up onto the theater roof.

  Up on the roof, Joe looked around. There was one door, leading to stairs that would take them down.

  You all right? Cowboy hand-signaled to Joe.

  Fine, he signaled back.

  The gunman surely had a radio, and was probably monitor­ing their spoken conversation. From this point on, the SEALs would communicate only with hand signals and sign language. No use tipping the gunman off by letting him know they were coming.

  Harvard had an extra HK submachine gun, and he handed it to Joe with a tight smile.

  Another shot rang out.

  "Agent down," came West's voice over Joe's earphone. "Oh, man, we need a medic!"

  "T's location stable," said another voice. "Holding steady in the lobby balcony."

  "Get that injured man out of the line of fire," Laughton commanded.

  "He's dead," West reported, his normally dispassionate voice shaken. "Freeman's dead. The bastard plugged him through the eye. The sonuvabitch—-"

  Let's go, Joe signaled to his men. I'm on point.

  Blue gestured to himself. He wanted to lead the way instead. But Joe shook his head.

  Soundlessly he opened the door and started down the stairs.

  Another shot.

  More chaos. Another agent was hit with unerring accuracy.

  "Stay down," Laughton ordered his men. "This guy's a sharpshooter and he's here for the long haul. Let's get our own shooters in position."

  Silently, with deadly stealth, fingers on the triggers of their submachine guns, the SEALs moved down the stairs.

  Veronica paced. She hadn't heard Joe's voice in many long minutes. She could no longer see any movement on the roof.

  "One of the cameras is back on," someone said from inside the surveillance van, and she went back in to see.

  Sure enough, the video camera that had been dropped and left on the stage had come back to life. It now showed a side­ways and somewhat foggy picture of the theater lobby. Behind the reflections in the remaining glass windows, Veronica could see the shadowy shape of the assassin on the upper balcony.

  It was quiet. No one was moving. No one was talking. Then...

  "FInCOM shooters, hold your fire." It was Joe's voice, loud and clear, over the radio.

  Veronica felt herself sway, and she groped for her seat. Joe and his SEALs were somewhere near the gunman—in range of the FInCOM agent's guns. Please, God, keep him safe, she prayed.

  A door burst open. She heard it more than she saw it on the shadowy video screen.

  The gunman turned, firing a machine gun rather than his ri­fle. But there was no one there.

  Another door opened, on the other side of the balcony, but the gunman had already moved. Using some sort of rope, he swung himself over the edge and down to the first floor.

  Veronica saw Joe before the gunman did.

  He was standing in the lobby, gun aimed at the man scurry­ing down the rope. She knew it was Joe from his gleaming white jacket. The three other SEALs were dressed in dull brown.

  "Hold it right there, pal," she heard Joe say over her head­phones. "We can end this game one of two ways. We can ei­ther take you out of here in a body bag, or you can drop your weapons right now and we'll all live to see tomorrow."

  The gunman was frozen, unmoving, halfway down the rope as he stared at Joe.

  Then he moved. But he didn't drop his gun, he brought it up, fast, aimed directly toward Joe's head.

  The sound of gunfire over the radio was deafening.

  The gunman jumped to the ground—or did he fall? Who had been hit? And where was Joe... ?

  "Joe!" Veronica couldn't keep silent another second as she leaned closer to the blurry screen.

  "Do you need medical assistance?" a voice asked over the headphones.

  "Alpha Squad, check in," Blue's voice ordered. "McCoy."

  "Becker."

  "Jones."

  "Catalanotto," Joe's familiar, husky voice said. "We're all clear. No need of a medic, FInCOM."

  Veronica closed her eyes and rested her head on her arms on the tabletop.

  "This stupid sonuvabitch just made himself a martyr for the cause," Joe's voice said into her ear.

  Joe was alive. It was all over, and Joe was alive.

  This time.

  Chapter 18

  It was after nine o'clock in the evening—twenty-one hundred hours—before Veronica's phone rang.

  She'd been busy all afternoon and evening with meetings and debriefings. She'd worked with Ambassador Freder and Sen­ator McKinley, scheduling the remainder of Prince Tedric's tour. A report had come in from FInCOM that made them all breathe easier. The assassin had been ID'd as Salustiano Var­gas—Diosdado's former right-hand man. Former. Apparently the two terrorists had parted ways, and Vargas was no longer connected with the Cloud of Death. He had been acting on his own. Why? No one seemed to know. At least not yet. At any rate, Vargas was dead. He'd be giving them no answers.

  But now that the assassin was no longer a threat, the ambas­sador and senator wanted to get the tour back on track. Tedric was flying in from the District of Columbia. He would meet them all in Seattle in the morning, where they would board a cruise ship to Alaska. They would finish the tour with a flour­ish.

  Security would return to near normal. Two or three Fin COM agents would remain, but everyone else, including the SEALs— including Joe—would go home.

  At dinnertime, Veronica had searched for Joe, but was told he was in high-level security debriefings. She returned to her room to pack, but couldn't stop thinking. What if he didn't get finished before morning? Sometimes those meetings went on ail night. What if she didn't see him before she had to leave...?

  But then, at nine o'clock, the phone rang. Veronica closed her eyes, then picked it up. "Hello?"

  "Yo, Ronnie."

  "Joe." Where are you? When will you be here? She clamped her mouth tightly shut over those words. She didn't own him. She may have given her feelings away this morning when she'd told him—and the entire world—that she loved him, but she could stake no claim on his time or his life.

  "Have you had dinner yet?" he asked.

  "No, I was..." Waiting for you. "I wasn't hungry."

  "Think you'll be hungry in about twenty minutes?" he asked.

  "Hungry for what?" She tried to make her voice sound light, teasing, but her heart felt heavy. No matter how she ap­proached this relationship, the conclusion she kept coming to was that it wasn't going to work out. Tomorrow they were both heading in different directions, and that would be it. All that was left was tonight. She'd been so worried earlier that she wasn't going to get to spend this final night with Joe. But now she couldn't help but think that it might be easier to simply say goodbye over the phone.

  "Ow," he said, laughter in his voice. "You kill me, lady. But I meant are you hungry for food. Like, you and me—the real me, no disguises—going out somewhere for dinner." He paused. "In public. Like to a restaurant." He paused again, then laughed. "God, am I smooth, or what? I'm trying to ask you out to dinner, Ron. What do ya say?"

  He didn't give her time to answer. "I'm still downtown," he continued, "but I can catch a cab and make it up to the hotel in about fifteen or twenty minutes. Wear that black dress, okay? We'll go up to Camelback Mountain. Mac says there's a great restaurant at the resort there. There's a band and danc­ing, and a terrific view of the city."

  "But-"

  "Oh, yes. There's a cab pulling up, right outside. Gotta run, babe. Get dressed—I'll be right there."

  "But I don't want to go out. It's our last night—maybe f
or­ever—and I want to spend it alone with you," Veronica said to the dead phone line.

  She slowly hung up the phone.

  She had one more night with Joe. One more night to last the rest of her life. One more night to burn her imprint perma­nently into his memory.

  Hmm.

  Veronica picked up the phone and dialed room service. Joe wanted dinner and dancing and a view of the city? The view from this room wasn't too shabby. And the four-star restau­rant in this hotel delivered food to the rooms. As for danc­ing...

  Holding the telephone in one hand, Veronica crossed to the stereo that was attached to the entertainment center. Yes, there was a tape deck. She smiled.

  For the first time, Joe actually knocked on her door rather than picking the lock and letting himself in.

  With the long skirt of her black silk dress shushing about her legs, Veronica crossed to the hotel-room door and flung it open and herself into his arms. "Lord, I've waited all day to do this," she said. "You scared me to death this morning."

  Having his arms around her felt so good. And when his lips met hers, she felt herself start to melt and she wrapped her own arms more tightly around his neck. Her fingers laced through his hair and—

  Veronica pulled back.

  His long hair was gone. Joe had cut his hair. Short. Really short. She looked at him, really looked at him for the first time since she'd opened her hotel-suite door. He was wearing a na­val dress uniform. It was dark blue with rows and rows and rows of medals and ribbons on his left breast. He wore a white hat on his head, and he took it off, holding it almost awk­wardly in his hands. His dark eyes were slightly sheepish as he watched her take in his haircut. His hair had been buzz cut around his ears and at the back. The top and front were slightly longer—just long enough so that a lock of dark hair fell for­ward over his forehead.

  He smiled ruefully. "The barber went a little overboard," he said. "I don't usually wear it quite this short and..." He closed his eyes, shaking his head. "Damn, you hate it."

  Veronica touched his arm, shaking her own head. "No," she said. "No, I don't hate it..." But she didn't like it, either. Not that he looked bad. In fact, he didn't. If anything, his short cut made his lean face more handsome than ever. But it also made him look harder, tougher, unforgiving—dangerous on an en­tirely new level. He looked like exactly what he was—a highly trained, highly competent special-forces officer. She couldn't help but be reminded that he was a man who risked his life as a matter of course. And that was what Veronica didn't like. "It suits you," she told him.