Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  Crash stopped talking. Nell gave him several beats of silence just to make sure he really was done. Then she spoke. "I can't believe what I'm hearing."

  She really was a lousy actor. First she'd sounded too outraged, too over-the-top, and now she sounded too mat­ter-of-fact. She wanted this guy to believe that she was intensely angry with Crash, not that she was bipolar.

  Anger, anger. How did people look and act when they were angry?

  More specifically, how did they look and act when they were angry with Crash?

  Nell had quite a bit of personal experience to draw on in that department.

  Over the past year, she'd spent a good amount of time angry as hell at herself, and angry at him, as well.

  Why hadn't he at least scribbled a two-line postcard, acknowledging her existence? “Dear Nell, got your letters, no longer interested in being your friend. Crash. P.S. Thanks for the sex. It was nice."

  Nice. He'd actually used that horribly insipid word to describe what they'd done that incredible, amazing, one-hundred-million-times-better-than-nice night.

  Nell had been too emotionally overwhelmed to react at the time. But she'd had plenty of time to smolder in outrage since then.

  She invoked those feelings now, and shot a lethal look in Crash's direction. "I can not believe what you just said." Her voice had just the slightest hint of an angry quiver. Nice. Nice. He thought making love to her had been nice. "You're actually planning to sell out to these scum­bags?"

  "I don't see too many choices here." Crash made him­self sound wound tight with tension. "So just shut the hell up and keep watch."

  Shut the hell up? The words were so un-Crash-like, Nell took a step backwards in surprise before she caught herself.

  "No, I won't shut up," she shot back at him. "Maybe you don't have a choice, but—"

  He stood up. "Don't push me." The expression on his face was positively menacing. His eyes looked washed out and nearly white—and flatly, soullessly empty.

  Nell faltered, unable to remember what she was supposed to say next, frozen by the coldness of his gaze. It was as if nothing was there, as if nothing was inside him. She'd seen him look this way before—at Daisy's wake and fu­neral. She remembered thinking then that he may have been able to walk and talk, but his heart was barely beating.

  Had it been an act back then, too, or was he really able to shut down so completely upon command?

  He turned back to Sheldon. "You give up the com­mander's name, and seventy-five thousand of that money is—"

  "What about Jake Robinson?" That was what she was supposed to say.

  "Excuse us for a minute, Sheldon." Crash took her arm, and pulled her roughly toward the bathroom.

  He didn't turn on the bathroom light because there was a fan attached, and he didn't want it to drown out their whispered words. Part of the plan was for Sheldon to be able to hear what they were saying.

  "I thought you wanted to stay alive," he hissed through clenched teeth.

  The tiny bathroom was barely large enough for both of them. Even though she had pulled her arm free from his grasp, they were still forced to stand uncomfortably close. She rubbed the place where his fingers had dug into her arm.

  "I'm sorry about that," Crash said almost soundlessly. "I had to make it look real. Did I hurt you?" Concern warmed his eyes, bringing him back to life.

  He cared. Something surged in her chest, in her stomach, and just like that, her anger faded. Because just like that, she understood why he hadn't returned her letters.

  As much as she professed to want only to be friends, deep inside she wanted more.

  She'd given that truth away on the morning she'd begged him to give their relationship a try.

  He'd known that, and he'd also known that if he'd writ­ten to her, or if he'd called, his letters and phone calls would have kept alive the tiny seed of hope buried deep inside of her—the seed of hope that still fluttered to life at something so trivial as a flare of concern in his eyes.

  God, she was pathetic.

  She was pathetic, and he smelled so good, so familiar. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and bury her face in his shirt. It wouldn't have taken much—just a step for­ward an inch or two.

  Instead, she jammed her hands in the front pockets of her jeans and shook her head, no. “I thought you wanted to get back at the bastard who killed Jake Robinson!" she whispered loudly enough for the man in the other room to overhear.

  "Yeah, well, I changed my mind," he told her. "I de­cided I'd rather take the money and run. Disappear in Hong Kong."

  "Hong Kong? Who said anything about going to Hong Kong?" Nell lowered her voice. "Do you think he's buy­ing this?"

  Crash shook his head. He didn't know. All he knew for certain was that it had been too damn long since he'd kissed this woman. She was really getting into this game they were playing. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright, making her impossibly attractive. He tried to put more space between them, but his back was already against the wall—there was nowhere else to go.

  "No way am I letting you drag me to Hong Kong!" she continued. "You promised me—"

  He cut her off. "I promised you nothing. What—do you think just because we got it on that suddenly you own me?"

  Nell took a step back and bumped into the side of the tub. Crash caught her even as she reached for him, and for one brief moment, she was in his arms again. But he forced himself to release her, forced himself to step back.

  What was wrong with him? True, bringing up the issue of sex would make their arguing more realistic, but it was definitely dangerous ground. And the words he'd spoken couldn't have been farther from the truth. They'd got it on, indeed, but then she'd let him go. Even the letters she'd written to him had been carefully worded. There was no question—she didn't have any expectations or demands.

  Some of the sparkle had left her eyes as she looked up at him. "Oh, was that what you'd call what we did?" she said in a rough stage whisper loud enough for Sheldon to hear. "Getting it on? I think it's got to last longer than two-and-a-half minutes to be called anything other than 'getting off.' As in you getting off and me faking it so that you won't feel bad."

  She was making it up. Crash knew that everything she was saying was based on some fictional joining. But still, he couldn't help but wonder.

  The night they'd spent together had been over pretty quickly. He hadn't even managed to carry her all the way to the bed. But the way she had seemed to shatter in his arms—that couldn't have been faked, could it?

  Something, some of his doubt, must have flickered in his eyes because Nell reached out to touch the side of his face. "How could you forget how incredibly perfect it was?" she asked almost inaudibly.

  She lightly touched his lips with one finger, her eyes filled with heat from her memories of that night. But then her gaze met his and she pulled her hand away as if she had been burned. "Sorry. I know I shouldn't have...sorry."

  "Just do what I say and keep your mouth shut," Crash harshly ordered her for Sheldon's benefit. "Don't make me wish I'd let Sarkowski shoot you."

  He abruptly turned and went out of the room, afraid if he didn't leave he'd end up doing something incredibly stupid, like kiss her. Or admit that he hadn't forgotten. He'd tried to forget, God knows he had. But his memories of the night they'd spent together were ones he knew he'd take to his grave.

  She stayed in the bathroom as he sat down again across from Sheldon.

  "Women are always trouble," the gunman told him.

  "It's nothing I can't handle," Crash replied tersely.

  Nell slunk out of the bathroom then, her body language much like a dog with its tail between its legs. Despite ev­erything she'd said to the contrary, she was good at acting. Unless her kicked-puppy look was the result of him reject­ing her again. It was on a much smaller scale this time, but his lack of response to her nearly silent words was a rejec­tion of sorts.

  Nell reached the other side of the room and, ju
st as they'd planned, she bolted for the door, throwing it open and running out into the darkness of the night.

  Sheldon snorted. "Yeah, right, man, you can really han­dle her."

  Crash checked to see that the gunman was still securely tied to the chair and then he went after Nell, slamming the door behind him. He didn't have far to go—she was waiting for him right outside the door.

  "You should gag me," she whispered quietly. "Because if this was real, you better believe that I would scream. And if you just covered my mouth with your hand, I'd have to bite you."

  "I don't have anything to gag you with." Of course, if this was real, if he were desperate, he'd use one of his socks. He didn't think she'd go for that, though.

  Nell pulled the tail of her shirt out from her jeans. "Tear off a piece of this."

  Crash took out his knife to cut through the seam. And then, as the fabric tore with a rending sound, Nell met his eyes.

  He knew she was thinking the exact same thing that he was—that this was actually kind of kinky. With the under­current of sexual tension that seemed to follow them around, the idea of him tearing her shirt to gag her, with the intention of dragging her back into the motel room and tying her up...

  She gave him a smile that was half embarrassed and half filled with excited energy as he put his knife away. Damned if she wasn't getting into this.

  "You got the juice?" he asked. She'd poured some of it into a plastic baggie back in the car.

  "I put it under the bed that's farthest from the door. Remember, when you knock me onto the ground, let me crawl under the bed to get it. Give me a minute to stick it under my shirt."

  "How?" Crash asked. "I'm going to tie your hands be­hind your back. I thought you were going to have it on you now."

  "Are you kidding? And have it open too early?" His news slowed her down, but it didn't stop her. "Well, you're just going to have to do it. When you grab me to pull me out from under the bed, stick it up under my shirt."

  "I can't believe we're doing this. If this actually works, I'm going to be amazed."

  Nell smiled at him. "Prepare to be amazed," she said. “Come on. Let's make this look real." She took off, run­ning out into the parking lot.

  Crash sighed, and went after her. He caught her in less than four steps and grabbed her around the waist, swinging her up and into his arms. She was harder to hold on to than he'd thought, though—she was fighting him.

  "Nell, take it easy! I don't want to hurt you," he hissed.

  She took a deep breath and opened her mouth, and he knew without a single doubt that she was going to scream. Talk about taking role-playing a little too seriously. He wadded up the fabric from her shirt and put it in her mouth, trying really hard to be careful. She bit his fingers and he swore.

  He all but kicked the motel room door open and did kick it closed behind them, swearing again as one of her legs came dangerously close to making him sing soprano for a week. He flung her onto the bed, flipping her onto her stom­ach, and holding her hands behind her back.

  He had to sit on her as he tied her wrists together, resting nearly his full weight upon her after she tried to kick him again. Dammit, she was actually trying to kick him in the balls.

  He cursed as he tied her, choosing words he couldn't remember using in years, and she was trying to get free, kicking and wriggling beneath him like a wild woman.

  Her torn-off shirt rode up, exposing the pale smoothness of her back and making him feel like a total degenerate. How could this possibly turn him on?

  But this was just a game. He wasn't trying to hurt her— in fact, he was trying to do the opposite. He was tying her up using knots that she'd be able to slip out of. He was taking care that the roughness of the rope didn't abrade the soft skin of her wrists.

  It was the sight and feel of Nell beneath him on a bed, his body pressed against hers, that was making him heat up. It wasn't the ropes or the struggle—that wasn't real. But Nell was real. Dear God, she was incredibly real.

  He grabbed another rope from his bag and tied her feet, also with slipknots, aware that Sheldon Sarkowski was watching, disgust in his eyes.

  He lifted Nell up, depositing her on the floor as gently as he could while making it look to Sarkowski as if he'd damn near thrown her there.

  As she said she would, she immediately began wriggling, rolling all the way under the bed. She was smart—she didn't leave a leg or a foot sticking out for him to grab. He had to lift up the dust ruffle and crawl halfway under him­self just to pull her out.

  There, just where she said it was, was a thin plastic bag­gie, closed with a twist-tie like a little balloon, filled both with air and tomato juice, ready to be popped. Of all the absurd ideas he'd ever tried, this one had to take the cake.

  Nell had rolled onto her back, and he grabbed the baggie, careful not to pop it, and thrust it up, underneath her shirt. He hooked part of the loose plastic around the front clasp of her bra, trying to ignore the sensation of his fingers brushing against her smooth, warm skin. God, why was he doing this?

  Because there was a .001 percent chance that it would work. As ridiculous as it was, it could work. People often saw what they expected to see, and as long as Sarkowski didn't have too acute a sense of smell, he wouldn't see tomato juice spilling out onto Nell's shirt, he'd see blood.

  Crash hauled Nell out from under the bed, making it look as if he'd hit her hard enough across the face to make her lie still, dazed from the blow.

  He stood up then, straightening his combat vest and quickly running his fingers through his hair, putting himself back into order. He drew his weapon from his holster, and sat down across from Sarkowski as if none of that had happened.

  "I want the commander's name," Crash said, "and I want it now. My patience is gone."

  "Sorry, pal." Sarkowski shook his head. "The best I can do for you is to pass along your message about the two hundred and fifty thousand. But you're not dealing from a position of strength here. Unless you can guarantee the girl's silence as well as your own, my employer isn't going to consider paying that price."

  "I can guarantee the girl's silence."

  The gunman laughed derisively. "Yeah, right."

  Crash didn't blink. He didn't move a muscle in his face. He simply turned and discharged his weapon, aiming di­rectly at Nell's chest.

  She rolled back, as if from the force of the bullet, and then fell forward. She struggled briefly against the ropes that held her and then was still.

  Crash took a deep breath, but all he could smell was the pizza—its box left open on the top of the TV set.

  He watched Sarkowski's face as a red stain slowly ap­peared from beneath Nell's body. The gunman had lifted his heavy eyelids higher than usual, and when he turned to look at Crash, there was wariness in his eyes.

  Crash set his weapon in his lap, the barrel pointed ca­sually in the other man's direction. "I want to know the commander's name," he said again. "Now."

  Sarkowski was searching his eyes for any sign of re­morse, any hint of emotion, and Crash purposely kept his face devoid of expression, his eyes flat and cold and filled with absolutely nothing. From the gunman's perspective, he had no heart, no soul—and absolutely no problem with doubling the current body count.

  "Kill me and you've got nothing," Sarkowski blustered. "You'll never know who I work for then.”

  But he spoke a little too quickly, his anxiety giving a little too much of an edge to his voice.

  "That would only be a temporary problem," Crash pointed out. "I'd just have to wait for the commander to send someone else after me. Chances are that guy will talk. And if not him, then maybe the next. It doesn't matter to me. Time's one thing I've got plenty of." He lifted his weapon with the same kind of blase casualness that he'd pointed it at Nell and aimed directly at Sarkowski's fore­head.

  "Wait," Sarkowski said. "I think we can make some kind of a deal."

  Jackpot.

  Nell didn't move. Crash couldn't even tell
that she was breathing, but he knew that she was smiling.

  Chapter 14

  The motel window was dark as Crash pulled back into the parking lot.

  A string of blinking Christmas lights had slipped from the edge of the roof, drooping pathetically across the front of the motel. The artificial tree visible through the lobby window listed to the left, its branches sagging under the weight of garish decorations.

  Christmas was a grim undertaking here at this fleabag motel in the middle of nowhere. The festive trappings had all been brought out, but there was nothing merry about them. There was no hope, just resignation. Another season of bills that couldn't be paid and dreams that couldn't come true.

  Somehow it all seemed appropriate.

  Crash was exhausted. It had taken him longer than he'd hoped to find another motel in which to deposit Sheldon Sarkowski.

  He'd planned to take Sarkowski out to the state park and leave him locked in the men's room, but the two men had made a deal of sorts. Sheldon had been bought by the prom­ise of a cut of the blackmail money and the hope that if he gave up his employer's name, Crash wouldn't kill him.

  The deal was bogus, of course. Crash had no intention of taking any money from the commander who had engi­neered Jake Robinson's death. His goal was still—and had always been—justice.

  But Sheldon thought they were a team now. And team members didn't lock other team members in a freezing-cold men's room. Instead, Crash had taken the highway, going nearly twenty miles back in the direction they'd come be­fore finding another appropriately ancient motel. And once inside, he'd handcuffed Sheldon to the radiator in the bath­room. He'd even apologized before tapping him on the side of the head with the butt of his handgun.

  His apology was accepted. Sheldon would have done the very same thing to him. They were supposed to be team­mates now, but unlike members of a SEAL Team, they didn't fully trust each other.