Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  Frisco wanted to cry. Instead he laughed, his voice harsh. "Yeah, and teaching's right up my alley, right? I certainly fit the old adage—'Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach.'"

  She flinched as if he had struck her. "Is that really what you think about teachers? About me?"

  "It wouldn't be an adage if there weren't some truth to it."

  "Here's another adage for you—-"Those who are taught, do. Those who teach, shape the future." Her eyes blazed. "I teach because I care about the future. And children are the future of this world."

  "Well, maybe I don't care about the future," he shot back. "Maybe I don't give a damn about anything any­more."

  She raised her chin. "I know that's not true. You care about Tasha. And I know, even though you won't admit it, that you care about me."

  "You're as hopeless as I was when it comes to wishful thinking," he lied, wanting to push her over the edge, needing her to get mad enough to walk away, wanting her to stay forever, and knowing that she never would. How could she? He was nothing now, nobody, no one. "It's typical. You only see what you want to see. You moved to San Fe­lipe from Malibu, thinking you're going to save the world by teaching underprivileged kids all about American his­tory, when what those kids really need to learn is how to get through another day without some kid from the rival gang gunning them down when they walk to the store.

  "You took one look at me and figured maybe I was worth saving, too. But just like the kids in your school, I don't need what you're teaching."

  Her voice shook. "You're so wrong. You need it more than anyone I've ever met."

  He shrugged. "So stick around, then. I guess the great sex is worth putting up with your preaching."

  Mia looked dazed, and he knew he'd dealt their relation­ship the death blow. When she stood up, blinking back a fresh flood of tears, her face was a stony mask.

  "You're right," she said, her voice trembling only slightly. "I don't know who you are. I thought I did, but..." She shook her head. "I thought you were a SEAL. I thought you didn't quit. But you have, haven't you? Life isn't working out exactly the way you planned it, so you're ready to give up and be bitter and angry and collect disability pay while you drink away the rest of your life, sitting on your couch in your lousy condominium, feeling sorry for your­self."

  Frisco nodded, twisting his lips into a sad imitation of a smile. "That's right. That just about sums up my big plans for my exciting future."

  She didn't even say goodbye. She just walked out the door.

  Chapter 15

  “Yo, Navy, was that Mia I saw heading west, driving like she was behind the wheel of the Batmobile?"

  Frisco looked up grimly from the peanut butter and jelly sandwich he was making for Natasha as Thomas King pushed open the screen door.

  "Hey, Martian girl," the lanky teenager greeted Tash with one of his rare smiles.

  "Thomas!" Tasha launched herself at the kid and im­mediately burst into tears. "Frisco yelled and yelled at Mia, and she went away!"

  Thomas staggered back under the sudden unexpected weight of the little girl, but he managed to shift her into a position easier to hold on to. His dark eyes sought confir­mation from Frisco over the top of Tasha's head. "Is that right?"

  Frisco had to look away. "In a nutshell."

  "I didn't want Mia to go," Tasha wailed. "And now she'll never come back!"

  Thomas shook his head in disgust. "Oh, perfect. I come up here thinking I'm the one bearing bad news, and it turns out you guys have already done yourselves in without any Suzanne Brochnann outside help." He turned to the little girl still wailing in his arms. "You. Martian. Turn off the siren. Stop thinking only about yourself, and start thinking about Uncle Navy over here. If Ms. S. doesn't come back, he'll be the big loser, not you."

  To Frisco's surprise, Tasha actually stopped crying.

  "And you, Navy. Check yourself into a hospital, man. It's time to get your head examined." Thomas lowered Tasha to the floor and picked up the plate that held her lunch. "This yours?" he asked her.

  She nodded.

  "Good," Thomas said, handing it to her. "Go sit on that funny-looking swing on the porch while you eat this. I need to talk to Uncle Crazy here, all right?"

  Tasha's lips were set at heavy pout, but she followed the teenager's order. As the screen door closed behind her, Thomas turned back to Frisco.

  But instead of berating him about Mia's AWOL status, Thomas said, "Your friend Lucky gave me a call. Appar­ently something came up. Said to tell you he's out of the picture until 2200 hours tomorrow night—whenever the hell that is. I mean, ten o'clock is ten o'clock—there's no need to get cute."

  Frisco nodded. "It's just as well—I'm going to need to find someone to take care of Tash, now that..." Mia's gone. He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

  "I don't know what went down between you two," Thomas said, reaching into the bag of bread and pulling out two slices and laying them directly onto the counter. He pulled the peanut butter jar closer and began spreading the chunky spread onto the bread, "but you oughta know that Ms. S. doesn't hang out with just anyone. I've known her for four years, and as far as I know, there's only been one other guy besides you that she's said good-night to after breakfast, if you know what I mean. She's been selective, Uncle Fool, and she's selected you."

  Frisco closed his eyes. "I don't want to hear this."

  "Plugging your fingers in your ears so that you can't hear it doesn't change the truth, my man," Thomas told him, 10Frisco'sKid adding a thick layer of sweet, sticky strawberry jam to his sandwich. "I don't know what she told you, but she wouldn't've let you get so close if she didn't love you, with a capital L. I don't know what the hell you did to make her fall for you, but you'll be the biggest ass in the world if you don't take advantage of—"

  Frisco's temper frayed. "I'm not going to stand here and be lectured by some kid!"

  Thomas took a bite of his sandwich and chewed it thoughtfully as he gazed at Frisco. "Why are you always so angry, Navy?" he finally asked. "You know, I used to be just like you. I used to live and breathe anger. I thought it was the only way to stay alive. I was the meanest son of a bitch on the block. I didn't join a gang because I didn't need a gang—everyone was scared of me. I was tough enough to go solo. And I was on an express bus straight to hell. But you know what? I got lucky. I got the new teacher for his­tory the year I was fifteen. I was six months away from dropping out, and Ms. S. did something no one ever did before. She looked me in the eye and somehow saw through all that anger, down to who I was underneath."

  Thomas gestured at Frisco with his sandwich. "I remem­ber, it was the day I pulled a knife on her. She told me to put the blade away and never bring it back to school again. She said I hid behind anger because / was the one who was scared—scared that everyone was right, that I was worth­less and good for nothing.

  "I mocked her, but she just smiled. She told me that she'd seen some of my test scores, and from what she saw, not only was I going to graduate from high school, but I was going to be valedictorian." He shook his head. "She didn't give up on me, and when I turned sixteen, I kind of just kept putting off dropping out. I kept telling myself that I'd stay for another week, cause of the free lunches." He looked at Frisco. "If I hadn't lucked out and had Ms. Summerton for a teacher, I would've ended up in jail. Or dead."

  "Why are you telling me this?"

  "Because you don't seem to realize what was directly un­der your nose, Uncle Blindman."

  Frisco used his crutches to propel himself away from the kitchen counter, his movements jerky. "I do know. You're wrong."

  "Maybe. But one thing I'm right about is whatever it is you're scared of, whatever you're hiding under your anger, it's nothing compared to the fear you should be feeling about losing Ms. Mia Summerton. Be afraid of that, Navy, be very afraid."

  Frisco sat on the couch, with his back to the cabinet that held enough whiskey to sink a ship.

  It wouldn't take
much. All he had to do was pull himself to his feet, set his crutches in place and then he'd be stand­ing in front of that very same cabinet. The door would pop open with a pull of one hand...

  Thomas and Natasha were down at the lake, not due to return until late afternoon, when they were all scheduled to leave for San Felipe. But right now there was no one around to protest. And by the time they returned, it would be too late. By then, Frisco wouldn't give a damn what anyone thought, what anyone said.

  Not even little Tasha with her accusing blue eyes.

  He closed his eyes. He would welcome the oblivion that a bottle of whiskey would bring. It would erase the picture he had in his mind of Mia's face right before she walked out the door.

  He'd needed to tell her the truth. Instead he'd insulted her avocation and made it seem as if their relationship had been based purely on sex.

  Why? Because he was so damned afraid that she would leave.

  In fact, he knew Mia would leave. So he'd pushed her away before she could leave on her own initiative.

  Very clever. He prophesied his own doom, and then went and made damn sure it happened. Self-sabotage, it was called in all the psychology textbooks.

  Savagely Frisco pulled himself to his feet and set his crutches underneath his arms.

  *** Mia pulled her car over the side of the road, swearing like a sailor.

  She couldn't believe that she'd allowed herself to fall into such a classic trap. It had been years since she'd made this kind of mistake.

  For the past few years, she'd been successful—she'd been able to work with and get through to the toughest, hardest cases in the high school. And she'd been able to do that by being thick-skinned.

  She'd looked countless angry, hurt, and painfully fright­ened young men and women in the eyes. She'd let all of their harsh, insulting, sometimes shockingly rude words bounce off of her. She'd met their outbursts with calm and their verbal assaults with an untouchable neutrality. They couldn't hurt her if she didn't let them.

  But somehow she'd let Alan Francisco hurt her.

  Somehow she'd forgotten how to remain neutral in the face of this man's anger and pain.

  And, God, he was in so much pain.

  Mia closed her eyes against the sudden vision of him on the night they'd taken Tasha to the hospital. She'd seen him sitting on his bed, bent over from pain and grief, hands covering his face as he wept.

  This morning Alan's darkest fears had been realized. He'd admitted—both to himself and to her—that he wasn't ever going to get his old life back. He wasn't going to be a SEAL again. At least not a SEAL on active duty. He'd come face-to-face with a harsh reality that had to have shattered the last of his dreams, crushed out the final flicker of his hope.

  Mia knew Alan didn't love her. But if ever there was a time that he needed her, it was now.

  And she'd let his angry words hurt her.

  She'd run away.

  She'd left him alone and on the edge—with only a five-year-old child and several dozens of bottles of whiskey for comfort.

  Mia turned her car around.

  Frisco staled at the bottle and the glass he'd set out on the kitchen counter.

  It was a rich, inviting amber color, with an instantly fa­miliar aroma.

  All he had to do was pick up the glass and he'd crawl into that bottle for the rest of the afternoon—maybe even for the rest of his life. He'd forget everything that he wasn't, ev­erything that he couldn't be. And when he woke up, dizzy and sick, when he came eye to eye with what he'd become, well, he'd just have another drink. And another and an­other until once again he reached oblivion.

  All he had to do was pick up that glass and he'd fulfill his family legacy. He'd be one of those good-for-nothing Fran­cisco boys again. Not that they'd know any better, people had said, the way the father sits around drinking himself into an early grave—

  That was his future now, too. Angry. Alcoholic.

  Alone.

  Mia's face flashed in his mind. He could see her beauti­ful hazel eyes, her funny smile. The hurt on her face as she walked out the door.

  He gripped the edge of the counter, trying to push the image away, trying not to want what he knew he couldn't have.

  And when he looked up, there was that glass and that bottle, still sitting on the counter in front of him.

  Hey, why fight destiny? He was pegged to follow this path right from the start. Yeah, he'd temporarily escaped by joining the Navy, but now he was back where he'd started. Back where he belonged.

  At least he'd had the integrity to know that Mia didn't deserve to spend her life in his personal hell. At least he had that much up on his old man.

  Man, he loved her. Pain burned his stomach, his chest-rising up into his throat like bile.

  He reached for the glass, wanting to wash away the taste, wanting not to care, not to need, not to feel.

  / thought you were a SEAL. I thought you didn't quit.

  Mia might as well have been standing in the room with him, her words echoed so loudly in his head.

  "I'm not a SEAL anymore," he answered her ghostly presence.

  You'll always be a SEAL. You were when you were eleven years old. You will be when you die.

  The problem was, he'd already died. He'd died five years ago—he was just too stubborn and stupid to know it at the time. He'd lost his life when he'd lost his future. And now he'd lost Mia.

  By choice, he reminded himself. He'd had a choice about that.

  You do have a future. It's just not the one you thought you'd have back when you were a boy.

  Some future. Broken. Angry. Less than whole.

  / know you're going to do whatever it takes to feel whole again. I know you'll make the right choices.

  Choices. What choices did he have now?

  Drink the whiskey in this glass. Polish off the rest of the bottle. Kill himself slowly with alcohol the way his old man had. Spend the rest of his miserable life in limbo, drunk in his living room, with only the television for company.

  He didn't want that.

  You're strong, you're tough, you're creative—you can adapt.

  Adapt. That's what being a SEAL had been all about. Sea, air or land, he'd learned to adapt to the environment, adapt to the country and the culture. Make changes to his method of operation. Break rules and conventions. Learn to make do.

  But adapt to this? Adapt to forever walking with a cane? Adapt to knowing he would remain forever in the rear, away from the front lines and the action?

  It would be so hard. It would be the hardest thing he'd ever done in his entire life. Whereas it would be so damn easy just to give up.

  It would've been easy to give up during Hell Week, too, when he'd done the grueling final training to become a SEAL. He'd had the strength to keep going when all around him strong men were walking away. He'd endured the physical and psychological hardships.

  Could he endure this, too?

  / know you’ll make the right choice.

  And he did have a choice, didn't he? Despite what he'd thought, it came down to the very basic of choices.

  To die.

  Or to live.

  Not just to be or not to be, but rather to do or not to do. To take charge or to lie back and quit.

  But dammit, Mia was right. He was a SEAL, and SEALs didn't quit.

  Alan Francisco looked down at the whiskey in his hand. He turned and threw it into the sink where the glass shat­tered and the whiskey trickled down the drain.

  He chose life.

  Mia's car bounced as she took the potholed dirt road much too fast.

  She wasn't far now. Just another few miles until the turnoff that would lead directly to the cabin.

  Determinedly, she wiped the last traces of her tears from her face. When she walked back in there, when she looked Alan in the eye, he was going to see only her calm offer of comfort and understanding. His angry words couldn't hurt her because she wouldn't let them. It would take more than that to drive her a
way.

  She slowed as she rounded a curve, seeing a flash of sun­light on metal up ahead of her.

  It was another car, heading directly toward her, going much too fast.

  Mia hit the brakes and pulled as far to the right as she could, scraping the side of a tree as the other car went into a skid.

  She watched it plunge down a sloping embankment, plowing through the underbrush and coming to a sudden jarring stop as it hit a tree.

  Mia scrambled to unfasten her seat belt, fumbling in her haste to get out of her car and down to the wreck.

  It was almost entirely hidden in the thick growth, but she could hear someone crying. She pushed away branches to get to the driver's side door, yanking it open.

  Blood. There was blood on the man's forehead and face, but he was moving and...

  Dwayne Bell. The man in the driver's seat was Dwayne Bell. He recognized her at the exact moment she recognized him.

  "Well, now, it's the girlfriend. Isn't this convenient," he said in his thick Louisiana drawl. He reached up to wipe the blood from his eyes and face.

  Natasha. The crying sound came from Natasha. What was she doing here... ?

  "Dammit, I think I must've hit my head on the wind­shield," Dwayne said.

  Mia wanted to back away, to run, but Natasha was belted into the front seat. Mia couldn't simply just leave her there. But maybe Dwayne had hit his head hard enough to make him groggy.... Maybe he wouldn't notice if...

  Mia quickly went around to the other side of the car. Tasha already had her seat belt unfastened and was up and in Mia's arms as soon as the door was opened.

  "Are you okay?" she asked, smoothing back Tasha's hair from her face.

  The little girl nodded, eyes wide. "Dwayne hit Thomas," she told Mia, tears still streaming down her face. "He fell down and was all bloody. Dwayne made him dead."

  Thomas... ? Dead? No...

  "I screamed and screamed for Thomas to help me—" Tasha hiccuped "—but he wouldn't get up and Frisco couldn't hear me and Dwayne took me in his car."

  Thomas was unconscious maybe, but not dead. Please God, not dead. Not Thomas King—

  Moving quickly, Mia carried Natasha around the car and up the embankment, praying Dwayne was too dizzy to no­tice, hoping that if she didn't turn around to check, he wouldn't—