Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  Bobby raised his MP-4, and, firing a single burst, shot the alarm bell right off the wall. The silence seemed only to emphasize Zoe's absence.

  "McCoy and I'll hold Bozo and his clowns here," Cap­tain Joe Catalanotto of Alpha Squad volunteered. "We've got another team already inside the gate coming up to meet us, but it might be a good idea to use Vincent as a hostage, guaranteeing our safety out of here."

  "I've got a sit-rep if you want one, Admiral," Harvard said.

  Jake didn't have a headset, but the other men did. "Any casualties?"

  "None so far." Harvard corrected himself. "Besides Zoe." He cleared his throat. "The other teams have run into some opposition, but not a lot. A couple of men have locked themselves in one of the storage sheds. And we had a sniper on the roof with the lousiest aim in the Western Hemisphere. He's been taken care of."

  Jake looked at the captain. "These dirtwads are going to be charged with treason, conspiracy and murder. If they so much as look at you funny," he ordered, "shoot them."

  "With pleasure."

  Wes stepped forward. “Admiral, I want to bring to your attention the fact that there's a raftload of smoke coming from Vincent's quarters."

  Smoke.

  It was rolling out the door, already thick against the high ceiling of the hallway.

  Holding his shotgun at the ready, Jake pushed through the door into Christopher's outer office. The smoke was even thicker in there.

  He braced himself as he made a quick visual sweep of the room, but there was no sign of Zoe, no broken body bleeding on the floor.

  The door to Christopher's private office was hanging on its hinges. The smoke seemed to be coming from there. Covering his face with one arm, Jake again took the point.

  Zoe wasn't in Christopher's private office, either.

  The smoke was coming from behind the door to Chris­topher's inner chamber.

  Hope hit Jake hard in the chest, taking his breath away.

  Somehow Zoe had survived. Somehow she'd gotten in here, found the Triple X and was now...burning it?

  But Harvard had told him they'd recovered the missing canisters, and Lucky had seen Zoe....

  Die? Or fall? And what exactly had been inside those canisters Lieutenant Jones had recovered? No one besides Zoe would be able to identify whether or not it actually was the Trip X.

  The door to the inner chamber was locked, and Jake pounded on it. "Zoe! It's me! It's Jake—open up!"

  Harvard was beside him, compassion in his eyes. "Sir, I don't—"

  "She's in there!" Jake was sure of it. But the smoke was in there, as well. And just standing out here was making him choke and cough.

  This door was as heavily reinforced as the other. The lock was a piece of junk, but it would take too many pre­cious minutes to pick it. If Zoe was in there, she'd been breathing in the smoke for quite some time. If she was in there, she was dying.

  Jake hadn't been able to do a damn thing when Daisy had died. He hadn't been able to fight her cancer, to wrestle it to the ground and even try to save her life.

  But he sure as hell could try to save Zoe.

  "Stand back," Jake ordered, tossing the shotgun to Bob and taking the last of his C-4 from his pocket. It wouldn't take much, just a little around the lock. He lit the fuse, moved behind Vincent's desk and...

  Boom.

  The door swung open, and smoke billowed out, chok­ingly thick, coming from a garbage can that flamed atop a huge conference table.

  Jake was the only man without a gas mask but the first one inside. He couldn't see a damned thing, but if Zoe were in here, she'd be on the ground.

  He found her in the corner. She'd torn nearly half the carpeting off the floor, yanking and pulling it on top of her to create a small pocket of air for herself.

  She was unconscious and streaked with blood from a bullet wound on her arm and soot from the fire. But she was still breathing.

  She was still alive.

  Jake didn't pretend that he wasn't crying as he carried her out of there.

  "She's alive!" Wes was practically running in circles around him.

  Harvard followed him, too, taking off his gas mask as they hit the fresher air in the hallway. "Sir, we intercepted six canisters of what we thought was the Triple X outside the gates. But it sure looks as if Zoe thinks she's found the chemicals right here. There are six coffee cans in there, three empty. I think that's what she was burning."

  "Stay with the rest of it, Senior," Jake ordered him. "Don't let it out of your sight." He raised his voice. "I need to get Zoe down to the medics now. Let's get this sideshow moving!"

  With Vincent and his men in handcuffs, Bobby's shotgun aimed at the CRO leader's head, and with the rest of the SEALs surrounding Jake and Zoe, they went down the stairs and into the yard without mishap.

  FInCOM had arrived, and as the dark-suited agents read Christopher Vincent his rights, Jake carried Zoe through the hole he'd blown in the fence to a waiting ambulance.

  The medic gestured to a cot inside the vehicle. "You can put her there, sir."

  "No," Jake said.

  The medic looked at him in surprise.

  Jake smiled to soften his words. "No, you see, I'm...I'm not going to let her go."

  "Ever?"

  He looked down to see Zoe's eyes had opened. Her voice was whispery from a throat that must've been raw from all the smoke she'd inhaled. Her hair hung in strings from her French braid, and her face was streaked with soot and blood. He was certain he'd never seen her look more beau­tiful.

  "No," he told her. "Not ever."

  The medic was about twenty years old and trying as hard as he could not to listen as he gently slipped several thin tubes from an oxygen tank into Zoe's nose.

  "Give us a minute," Jake said to him. "Will you, pal?"

  The medic faded back. Or maybe he didn't. Maybe Jake just stopped seeing him as he lost himself in the depths of Zoe's eyes.

  He touched her then, her face, her hair, her throat, unable to keep his eyes from filling again with tears. "I thought you died," he told her quietly. "Lieutenant O'Donlon saw Vincent shoot you, and...we all thought he'd killed you, Zo."

  "Oh, Jake," she whispered.

  "But then you really could've died," he said. "What the hell were you doing, starting a fire in a room without ven­tilation?"

  "I was doing my job," she said quietly. "And I trusted that you'd do yours and come get me out of there. I took a gamble that this teamwork thing would pay off." She smiled. "I won."

  "Yeah," Jake said. "I did, too."

  "I think this would be a really great time for you to kiss me," she said.

  Jake laughed and kissed her. "I love you, Zoe."

  She shook her head. "Oh, Jake, I don't need you to say that."

  "Yeah, but I need to say it," he said. "I thought I would never get a chance to. I thought..." He had to clear his throat before he could go on. "Zoe, I would be honored if you would agree to make this craziness legal and stay Zoe Robinson. You see, I'm too old to—"

  "Jake, how can you ask me to marry you—in a com pletely half-assed way, might I add—and then in the same breath claim to be too old—"

  "You want to let me finish? I am too old. I'm too old not to learn from the past. I didn't expect to outlive Daisy," Jake told her. "And let's face it, babe, your job being what it is, it's entirely possible that I could outlive you, too. I had a taste of that today, and it was pretty damn sobering. The truth is, neither of us can possibly know how much time we'll have together. And we're both of us too old to waste another precious second of it."

  Tears were leaving clean tracks in the soot on her face. For a tough operator, Zoe cried more than just about anyone he'd ever met. He kissed her. "Marry me." He kissed her again, longer this time. "I want you to be my friend and my lover and my wife for however long forever lasts." He smiled at her. "How was that? Not quite so half-assed that time?"

  She was smiling through her tears. "That was...in­spirational. And ve
ry persuasive." She laughed. "Not that I particularly needed persuading."

  "If that's a yes," Jake said, "it's very half-assed."

  Zoe laughed. "Yes," she said. "It's a yes."

  Jake lost himself in the sweetness of her lips. He'd thought she'd been taken from him. He'd lived an entire wretched lifetime in that endless fifteen minutes in which he'd believed she was dead. He loved this woman com­pletely. But there would be people who looked at them and wondered, people who wouldn't understand.

  "I have to be really honest with you," he said, looking into her dark brown eyes. "There's a big difference in our ages, and nothing we do or say is going to change that. I know you don't care, and I don't care anymore, either. But people—my colleagues—are going to look at me and look at you and think I'm getting away with something here."

  Zoe reached up and touched his face. ' 'Your colleagues and friends are going to look at me and think I'm a poor substitute for Daisy."

  "You are," Jake told her. "But then again, Daisy would be a tremendously poor substitute for you." He kissed her hand. "I'm not looking for a replacement for Daisy. There's no such thing. I'll always love her—it's important you know that because she's part of my past. But there's room in my heart for both the past and the future. And babe, you're my future."

  There was so much love in her eyes as she looked at him he nearly started crying again.

  "I love you," she said.

  Jake smiled. "I know."

  Epilogue

  You all right?" Billy Hawken asked.

  "Yeah," Jake said as the limousine pulled up to the church.

  He looked at the kid. Kid. Jeez. The kid was a Navy SEAL with the somewhat dangerous-sounding nickname of Crash. The kid was also older than Zoe. The kid hadn't been a kid in fifteen years. Heck, even back when Billy was ten, he hadn't really been a kid. He was still far too serious, far too intense—except when he was with Nell, his wife.

  Jake had heard the two of them giggling together until nearly two last night, up in the guest bedroom. Crash Haw-ken—giggling. Whoever would've thought it possible?

  "Are you okay with this, kid?" he asked as they got out of the car. Kid. Jeez. Old habits died hard.

  Billy didn't hesitate. "I am. Completely," he said. He smiled. "Zoe looks at you the way Nell looks at me. I'm happy for you, Jake."

  "I love her," Jake told the young man who was the closest thing to a son he'd ever had, the young man to whom Daisy was the closest thing to a mother he'd ever had.

  "I know," Billy said. "I've seen the way you look at her, too."

  "This isn't just a...a second-best kind of thing." Jake felt the need to explain. "Zoe and me, I mean. But that doesn't mean that Daisy wasn't—and isn't—first, too. God, does that make any sense at all?"

  Billy hugged him. "Yeah, Jake," he said. "You know, I had a dream about Daisy last night. She was having lunch with William Shakespeare. It was weird, but nice. One of those dreams where you wake up and feel really good."

  "Shakespeare, huh?" Jake laughed. "Cool."

  "Yeah." Billy motioned toward the church. "You want to go in?"

  "Yeah," Jake said. "Come on, kid. Let's go get me married." He put his arm around Billy's shoulders, and together they walked up the stairs.

  Zoe was a vision.

  Walking toward him, down the aisle of the church, on her father's arm.

  Sergeant Matthew Lange, USMC, Retired.

  Matt seemed like a really nice guy, a straightforward, honest guy. He seemed genuinely pleased that Zoe was marrying Jake. Lisa Lange, Zoe's mother, was also honestly happy for her daughter. They were good people, solid peo­ple.

  It was kind of cool, actually. He'd never had in-laws before.

  His children had a chance of knowing at least one set of their grandparents.

  His children.

  Zoe smiled into his eyes as she took her place beside him, and he couldn't help but think about last night. While Billy and Nell had been giggling in the guest bedroom, Jake and Zoe had been sharing their own secrets.

  Such as the fact that Zoe wanted his baby. Enough to retire from her job as a field agent—at least temporarily.

  It hadn't been an easy decision to make. She was good at what she did. And the Agency would miss her, badly.

  Jake suspected her decision was at least partly based on the fact that she knew how badly he wanted children. Daisy had been unable, and found the adoption process too pain­ful, and...

  He'd tried to convince Zoe that he would be okay with whatever decision she came to, but the truth was, his bio­logical clock was ticking. Sure, he could father a baby when he was sixty-five, but how long would he be around to take care of that child?

  Last night, she'd come to him with the ultimate wedding gift. And last night, they just may have created a small miracle.

  Jake took her hand.

  And as he promised Zoe all that he could promise her, he smiled.

  "I love you," he whispered as he bent to kiss his bride.

  Zoe smiled, too. She knew.

  8 - Identity: Unknown (1999)

  Chapter 1

  ”hey, hey, hey there, Mission Man! How ya doin', baby? Rise and shine! That's my man—open those eyes. It's definitely the a.m. and in the a.m. here at the First Church Shelter, we go from horizontal to vertical."

  Pain. His entire world had turned into a trinity of pain, bright lights and an incredibly persistent voice. He tried to turn away, tried to burrow down into the hard mattress of the cot, but hands shook him—gently at first, then harder.

  "Yo, Mish. I know it's early, man, but we've got to get these beds cleaned up and put away. We're serving up a nice warm breakfast along with an A.A. meeting in just a few minutes. Why don't you give it a try? Sit and listen, even if your stomach can't handle the chow."

  A.A. Alcoholics Anonymous. Could it possibly be a hangover that was making him feel as if he'd been hit by a tank? He tried to identify the sour taste in his mouth but couldn't. It was only bitter. He opened his eyes again, and again his head felt split in two. But this time he clenched his teeth, forcing his eyes to focus on a smiling, cheerful, weather-beaten African-American face.

  "I knew you could do it, Mish." The voice belonged to the face. "How you doin', man? Remember me? Remember your good friend Jarell? That's right, I tucked you into this bed last night. Come on, let's get you up and headed toward the men's room. You could use a serious washing up, my man."

  "Where am I?" His own voice was low, rough and oddly unfamiliar to his ears.

  "The First Church Homeless Shelter, on First Avenue."

  The pain was relentless, but now it was mixed with confusion as he slowly, achingly sat up. "First Avenue...?"

  "Hmm," the man named Jarell made a face. "Looks like you had yourself a bigger binge than I thought. You're in Wyatt City, friend. In New Mexico. Ring any bells?"

  He started to shake his head, but the hellish pain intensified. He held himself very still instead, supporting his forehead with his hands. "No." He spoke very softly, hoping Jarell would do the same. "How did I get here?"

  "A couple of Good Sams brought you in last night." Jarell hadn't gotten the hint, and continued as loud as ever. "Said they found you taking a little nap with your nose in a puddle, a few blocks over in the alley. I checked your pockets for your wallet, but it was gone. Seems you'd already been rolled. I'm surprised they didn't take those pretty cowboy boots of yours. From the looks of things, though, they did take the time to kick you while you were down."

  He brought his hand to the side of his head. His hair was filthy, and it felt crusty, as if it were caked with blood and muck.

  "Come on and wash up, Mission Man. We'll get you back on track. Today's a brand-new day, and here at the shelter, the past does not equal the future. From here on in, you can start your life anew. Whatever's come before can just be swept away." Jarell laughed, a rich, joyful sound. "Hey, you've been here more than six hours, Mish. You can get your six-hour chip. You know that saying,
One Day at a Time? Well, here on First Avenue, we say one hour at a time."

  He let Jarell help him to his feet. The world spun, and he closed his eyes for a moment.

  "You got those feet working yet, Mish? That's my man. One foot in front of the other. Bathroom's dead ahead. Can you make it on your own?"

  "Yes." He wasn't sure that he could, but he would have said nearly anything to get away from Jarell's too-loud, too-cheerful, too-friendly voice. Right now the only friend he wanted near him was the blessed, healing silence of unconsciousness.

  "You come on out after you get cleaned up," the old man called after him. "I'll help you get some food for both your belly and your soul."

  He left Jarell's echoing laughter behind and pushed the men's-room door open with a shaking hand. All of the sinks were occupied, so he leaned against the cool tile of the wall, waiting for a turn to wash.

  The large room was filled with men, but none of them spoke. They moved quietly, gingerly, apologetically, careful not to meet anyone's eyes. They were careful not to trespass into one another's personal space even with a glance.

  He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He was just another one of them—disheveled and unkempt, hair uncombed, clothes ragged and dirty. He had the bonus of a darkening patch of blood on his dirt-stained T-shirt, the bright red turning as dingy as the rest of him as it dried.

  A sink opened up, and he moved toward it, picking up a bar of plain white soap to scrub the grime from his hands and upper arms before he tackled his face. What he truly needed was a shower. Or a hosing down. His head still throbbed, and he moved it carefully, leaning toward the mirror, trying to catch a look at the gash above his right ear.

  The wound was mostly covered by his dark shaggy hair and...

  He froze, staring at the face in front of him. He turned his head to the right and then to the left. The face in the mirror moved when he moved. It definitely belonged to him.

  But it was the face of a stranger.

  It was a lean face, with high cheekbones. It had a strong chin that badly needed a shave, except for a barren spot marked by a jagged white scar. A thin-lipped mouth cut a grim line, and two feverish-looking eyes that weren't quite brown and weren't quite green stared back at him. Tiny squint lines surrounded the edges of those eyes, as if this face had spent a good share of its time in the hot sun.