"Come on," Harvard said. "The real-estate agent is waiting for us inside."
PJ. went through the house in a daze. It was bigger than she'd thought from the outside, with a fireplace in the living room, a kitchen that rivaled Harvard's mom's and three good-size bedrooms.
There was a deck off the dining room, and as she stepped outside, she realized the house overlooked the ocean.
Harvard leaned on the rail, gazing at the changing colors of the sea.
"I've already qualified for a mortgage, so if you like it, we should make an offer today," he told her. "It's not going to be on the market too much longer."
P J. couldn't speak. Her heart was in the way, in her throat.
He misinterpreted her silence.
"I like it," he said. "But if you don't think so, that's okay. Or maybe I'm moving too fast—I have the tendency to do that, and—" He broke off, swearing. "I am moving too fast. We haven't even talked about getting married—not since we were out in the real world. For all I know, you weren't really serious and..."
PJ. finally found her voice. "I was dead serious."
Harvard smiled. "Yeah?" he said. "Well, that's good, because I was, too, you know."
PJ. looked pointedly around. "Obviously."
He pulled her closer. "Look, whether it's this house we share or some other—or none whatsoever, hell, we could live in hotels for the rest of our lives—that's not important. What's important is that we're together as often as we can be." He looked around and shrugged helplessly. "I don't know what I was thinking. Your office is in D.C. Why would you want a house in San Diego?"
"I might want one in San Diego if I'm going to work in San Diego. I found out there's an opening in the San Diego field office."
"Really?"
P.J. laughed at his expression. "Yeah. And don't worry— I'll still be able to work as Kevin Laughton's official SEAL liaison and adviser." She turned to look at the house. "So you really love this place, huh? You think we could make it into a real home?"
He wrapped his arms around her. "I really love you, and like I said, it honestly doesn't matter to me where we live. Whenever I'm with you, I feel as if I've come home."
P.J. looked at the house, at the ocean, at the flowers growing everywhere in the little yard, at the man who was both warrior and poet who stood before her.
Her lover.
Her husband.
Her life.
"This'll do just about perfectly." She smiled at him. "Welcome home."
END
6 - It Came Upon A Midnight Clear (1998)
For Tom Magness
(1960-1979)
I never had the chance to tell you that I'm glad I didn't miss the dance.
Prologue
Crash Hawken shaved in the men's room.
He'd been keeping vigil at the hospital in Washington, D.C., for two days running, and his heavy stubble, along with his long hair and the bandage on his arm, made him look even more dangerous than he usually did.
He'd left only to change the shirt he'd been wearing— the one that had been stained with Admiral Jake Robinson's blood—and to access a computer file that Jake had sent him electronically, mere hours before he had been gunned down in his own home.
Gunned down in his own home... Even though Crash had been there, even though he'd taken part in the firefight, even though he'd been wounded himself, it still seemed so unbelievable.
Crash had thought that last year's dismal holiday season had been about as bad as it could get.
He'd been wrong.
He was going to have to call Nell, tell her Jake had been wounded. She'd want to know. She deserved to know. And Crash could use a reason to hear her voice again. Maybe even see her. With a rush of despair, he realized something he'd been hiding from himself for months—he wanted to see her. God, he wanted so badly to see Nell's smile.
The men's room door opened as Crash rinsed the disposable razor he'd picked up in the hospital commissary. He glanced into the mirror, and directly into Tom Foster's scowling face.
What were the odds that the Federal Intelligence Commission commander had only come in to take a leak?
Slim to none.
Crash nodded at the man.
"What I don't understand," Foster said, as if the conversation they'd started two nights ago had never been interrupted, "is how you could be the last man standing in a room with five-and-a-half dead men, and not know what happened."
Crash put the plastic protective cap on over the razor's blade. "I didn't see who fired the first shot," he said evenly. "All I saw was Jake getting hit. After that, I know exactly what happened." He turned to face Foster. "I took out the shooters who were trying to finish Jake off."
Shooters. Not men. They'd lost their identities and become nothing more than targets when they'd opened fire on Jake Robinson. And like targets in a shooting range, Crash had efficiently and methodically taken them out.
"Who would want to assassinate the admiral?"
Crash shook his head and gave the same answer he'd given Tom two days earlier. "I don't know."
It wasn't a lie. He didn't know. Not for sure. But he had a file full of information that was going to help him find the man who had orchestrated this assassination attempt. Jake had fought both pain and rapidly fading consciousness to make sure he had understood there was a connection between this attempt on his life and that top-secret, encoded file Crash had received that very same morning.
"Come on, Lieutenant. Surely you can at least make a guess."
"I'm sorry, sir, I've never found it useful to speculate in situations like this."
"Three of the men you brought into Admiral Robinson's house were operating under false names and identifications. Were you aware of that?"
Crash met the man's angry gaze steadily. "I feel sick about that, sir. I made the mistake of trusting my captain."
"Oh, so now it's your captain's fault."
Crash fought a burst of his own anger. Getting mad wouldn't do anyone any good. He knew that from the countless times he'd been in battle. Emotion not only made his hands shake, but it altered his perceptions as well. In a battle situation, emotion could get him killed. And Foster was clearly here to do battle. Crash had to detach. Separate. Distance himself.
He made himself feel nothing. "I didn't say that." His voice was quiet and calm.
"Whoever shot Robinson wouldn't have gotten past his security fence without your help. You brought them in, Hawken. You're responsible for this."
Crash held himself very still. "I'm aware of that." They—whoever they were—had used him to get inside Jake's home. Whoever had set this up had known of his personal connection to the admiral.
He'd barely been three hours stateside, three hours off the Air Force transport he'd taken back to D.C. when Captain Lovett had called him into his office, asking if he'd be interested in taking part in a special team providing backup security at Admiral Robinson's request.
Crash had believed this team's job was to protect the admiral, when in fact there'd been a different, covert goal. Assassination.
He should have known something was wrong. He should have stopped it before it even started.
He was responsible.
"Excuse me, sir." He had to check on Jake's condition. He had to sit in the waiting area and hope to hear continuous reports of his longtime mentor's improvement, starting with news of the admiral finally being moved out of ICU. He had to use the time to mentally sort through all the information Jake had passed to him in that file. And then he had to go out and hunt down the man who had used him to get to Jake.
But Tom Foster blocked the door. "I have a few more questions, if you don't mind, Lieutenant. You've worked with SEAL Team Twelve for how long?"
"On and off for close to eight years," Crash replied.
"And during those eight years, you occasionally worked closely with Admiral Robinson on assignments that were not standard SEAL missions, did you not?"
"You don't have to say. We know you worked with Robinson as part of the so-called Gray Group."
Crash chose his words carefully. "I don't see how that has any real relevance to your investigation, sir."
"This is information FInCOM has received from naval intelligence," Foster told him. "You're not giving away anything we don't already know."
"FInCOM takes part in its share of covert operations,"
Crash said, trying to sound reasonable. "You'll understand that whether I am or am not a part of the Gray Group is not something I'm able to talk freely about."
Reasonable wasn't on the list of adjectives Tom Foster was working with today. His voice rose and he took a threatening step forward. “An admiral has been shot. This is not the time to conceal any information whatsoever."
Crash held his ground. "I'm sorry, sir. I've already given you and the other investigators all the information I'm able to provide. The names of the deceased, as I knew them. An account of my conversation with Captain Lovett that afternoon. An account of the events that led to one of the men in the team opening fire upon the admiral—"
"What exactly is your reason for concealing information, Lieutenant?" Foster's neck was turning purple.
"I'm concealing nothing." Except for the shocking information Jake had sent him in a top-secret, high-level security-clearance file.
If Crash wanted to get to the bottom of this—and he did—it wouldn't help to go public with all that Jake had told him. Besides, Crash had to treat the information in that file with exactly the same care and secrecy as he treated every other file Jake had ever sent him. And that meant that even if he wanted to, he couldn't talk about it with anyone—except his Commander-in-Chief, the President of the United States.
"We know that Jake Robinson sent you some kind of information file on the morning of the shooting," Foster informed him tightly. "I will need you to turn that file over to me as soon as possible."
Crash met the man's gaze steadily. "I'm sorry, sir. You know as well as I do that even if I did have access to this alleged file from Admiral Robinson, I wouldn't be able to reveal its contents to you. The status of all of the work I did for the admiral was 'need to know.' My orders were to report back to Jake and to Jake only."
"I order you to hand over that file, Lieutenant."
"I'm sorry, Commander Foster. Even if I had such a file, I'm afraid you don't have the clearance rating necessary to make such a demand." He stepped dangerously close to the shorter man and lowered his voice. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to see how Jake's doing."
Foster stepped aside, pushing open the door with one hand. "Your concern for Robinson is heartwarming. At least, it would be if we didn't have indisputable evidence that proves you were the man who fired those first shots into Admiral Robinson's chest."
Crash heard the words Foster said, but they didn't make sense. The crowd of men standing outside the bathroom door didn't make sense, either. There were uniformed cops, both local and state police, as well as dark-suited FInCOM agents, and several officers from the shore patrol.
They were obviously waiting for someone.
Him.
Crash looked at Foster, the meaning of his words becoming clear. "You think I'm—"
"We don't think it, we know it." Foster smiled tightly. "Ballistic reports are in."
"Are you Lt. William R. Hawken, sir?" The shore-patrol officer who stepped forward was tall and young and hu-morlessly earnest.
"Yes," Crash replied. "I'm Hawken."
"By the way, the bullet taken from your arm was fired from Captain Lovett's weapon," Foster told him.
Crash felt sick, but he didn't let his reaction show. His captain had tried to kill him. His captain had been a part of the conspiracy.
"Lt. William R. Hawken, sir," the shore-patrol officer droned, "you are under arrest."
Crash stood very, very still.
"The ballistic report also shows that your weapon fired the bullets that were found in four of the five other dead men, as well as those removed from the admiral," Foster told him tightly. "Does that information by any chance clear up your foggy memory of who fired the first shots?"
"You have the right to remain silent," the shore-patrol officer chanted. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney—"
This was impossible. Bullets from his weapon...? That wasn't the way it had happened. He looked into the blandly serious eyes of the young officer. “What exactly am I being charged with?"
The young officer cleared his throat. "Sir. You have been charged with conspiracy, treason, and the murder of a United States Navy Admiral."
Murder?
Crash's entire world tilted.
"Admiral Robinson's wounds proved fatal one hour ago," Tom Foster announced. "The admiral is dead."
Crash closed his eyes. Jake was dead.
Disassociate. Detach. Separate.
The shore-patrol officer slipped handcuffs onto Crash's wrists, but Crash didn't feel a thing.
"Aren't you going to say anything to defend yourself?" Foster asked.
Crash didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Jake was dead.
He was completely numb as they led him from the hospital, out to a waiting car. There were news cameras everywhere, aimed at him. Crash didn't even try to hide his face.
He was helped into the car, someone pushing down his head to keep him from hitting it on the frame. Jake was dead. Jake was dead, and Crash should have been able to prevent it. He should have been faster. He should have been smarter. He should have paid attention to the feeling he'd had that something wasn't right.
Crash stared out through the rain-speckled window of the car as the driver pulled out into the wet December night. He tried to get his brain to work, tried to start picking apart the information Jake had sent him in that file—the information that was recorded just as completely and precisely in his head.
Crash was no longer simply going to find the man responsible for shooting and killing Jake Robinson. He was going to find him, hunt him down and destroy him.
He had no doubt he'd succeed—or die trying.
Dear, sweet Mary. And he'd thought last Christmas had been the absolute pits.
Chapter 1
One year earlier It was only two days after Thanksgiving, but the city streets were already decked with wreaths and bows and Christmas lights.
The cheery colors and festive sparkle seemed to mock Nell Burns as she drove through the city. She'd come into Washington, D.C. that morning to do a number of errands. Get a new supply of watercolor paper and paint for Daisy. Stop at the health food store and get more of that nasty seaweed stuff. Pick up the admiral's dress uniform from the dry cleaners near the Pentagon. It had been a week since Jake had been in to town, and it looked as if it would be a while before he returned.
Nell had saved the hardest, most unpleasant task for last. But now there was no avoiding it.
She double-checked the address she'd scribbled on a Post-it note, slowing as she drove past the high-rise building that bore the same number.
There was a parking spot open, right on the street, and she slipped into it, turning off her engine and pulling up the brake.
But instead of getting out of her car, Nell sat there.
What on earth was she going to say?
It was bad enough that in just a few minutes she was going to be knocking on William Hawken's door. In the two years since she'd started working as Daisy Owen's personal assistant, she'd met the enigmatic Navy SEAL that her boss thought of as a surrogate son exactly four times.
And each time he'd taken her breath away.
It wasn't so much that he was handsome....
Actually, it was
exactly that he was handsome. He was incredibly, darkly, mysteriously, broodingly, gorgeously handsome. He had the kind of cheekbones that epic poems were written about and a nose that advertised an aristocratic ancestry. And his eyes... Steely gray and heart-stoppingly intense, the force of his gaze was nearly palpable. When he'd looked at her, she'd felt as if he could see right through her, as if he could read her mind.
His lips reminded her of those old gothic romances she'd read when she was younger. He had decidedly cruel lips. Upon seeing them, she'd suddenly realized that rather odd descriptive phrase made perfect sense. His lips were gracefully shaped, but thin and tight, particularly since his default expression was not a smile.
In fact, Nell couldn't remember ever having seen William Hawken smile.
His friends, or at least the members of his SEAL team— she wasn't sure if a man that broodingly quiet actually had any friends—called him "Crash."
Daisy had told her that Billy Hawken had been given that nickname when he was training to become a SEAL. His partner in training had jokingly started calling him Crash because of Hawken's ability to move silently at all times. In the same manner in which a very, very large man might be nicknamed "Mouse" or "Flea," Billy Hawken had ever after been known as Crash.
There was no way, no way, Nell would ever consider becoming involved with a man—no matter how disgustingly handsome and intriguing—whose work associates called him "Crash."
There was also no way she would ever consider becoming involved with a Navy SEAL. From what Nell understood, SEAL was synonymous with superman. The acronym itself stood for Sea, Air and Land, and SEALs were trained to operate with skill and efficiency in all three environments. Direct descendants from the UDTs or Underwater Demolition Teams of World War II, SEALs were experts in everything from gathering information to blowing things up.
They were Special Forces warriors who used unconventional methods and worked in small seven- or eight-man teams. Admiral Jake Robinson had been a SEAL in Vietnam. The stories he'd told were enough to convince Nell that becoming involved with a man like Crash would be sheer insanity.
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