Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  When he finally did start to speak, Becca thought she might've been imagining it. His voice was so soft and perfectly woven into the velvet tapestry of the predawn.

  "You know, I don't think I've ever ridden a horse before," he told her. "At least not since I was a kid. I don't know why I haven't tried it—it was great. Exhilarating. Kind of like flying. But you already know that, right? I can picture you as the kind of kid who was born astride a horse." He paused, but only briefly. "When I was riding Stormchaser, I remember thinking it was kind of like being on a motorcycle, except this thing I was riding had a brain and a soul..."

  Becca knew exactly what he was doing. He was gentling her, soothing her with the softness of his voice, the way someone might talk to a frightened animal. The way she'd spoken to Stormchaser just that morning. And as Stormchaser had, she clung to the sound of that gentle voice. It was the only thing solid and steady in a night that was spinning and shaking.

  No, it wasn't the night that was shaking. She was shaking. And crying, she realized. Although there was nothing she could do to stop her tears. Nothing at all.

  He was still talking, describing his ride, describing the way he'd put the bridle and saddle on Stormchaser. His words were unimportant and she stopped listening, focusing only on the rise and fall of his voice. And when he reached out and touched her, gently, lightly running one hand across her shoulders and down her back, she didn't pull away. She didn't want to pull away. Instead she leaned toward him, letting him enfold her in his arms.

  He held her as she trembled, rocking her slightly back and forth, infusing her with his warmth, encircling her with his solid strength. "It's okay now," he murmured over and over. "Everything's okay."

  It was working. She could feel her nausea begin to fade, felt herself relax into his strong arms.

  And he was strong. His slenderness was only an illusion. His arms and chest were solid muscle. She hadn't missed that fact when she'd gone in to wake him up and found him half-naked in bed. He had no extra fat or weight on his body, none at all. Yet his arms were soft, too. Gentle.

  He continued to stroke her back, then ran his fingers gently through her hair, murmuring words of reassurance. He held her close without being threatening, offering only comfort, falling into silence as her trembling finally stopped.

  She let her head rest on his still-damp shoulder, let her eyes close, let all of the awful what-ifs float away.

  Except for one. What if this man whose arms felt so good around her turned his head and kissed her?

  Becca opened her eyes. That was a completely crazy thought. She pulled herself away from him, pushing herself to her feet.

  She shivered slightly, cold without Casey's arms around her, as the first glimmer of dawn started to light the eastern sky.

  He was still a shadow, sitting in the grayness. Becca backed away quickly, both afraid that he might break the silence, and afraid that he might not.

  “There's no way I could ever pay you enough for what you did tonight," she said softly. Oh, she could think of one way she could certainly try to repay him, but she firmly pushed that wayward thought away.

  "I didn't pull the kid out of the river for money," he said.

  "Oh, no," she said, afraid she might've offended him. "I didn't mean that. I just meant... I wish there was some way I could thank you for what you did." Her voice shook slightly. "And for sitting here with me just now."

  "Sometimes the hardest part of the battle comes after it's over," he said quietly, "when the adrenaline level drops and there's nothing left to do but think about what went down."

  Becca lingered as the sky continuously grew lighter, knowing she should say good-night and put a healthy distance between herself and this man. She was drawn to his gentle voice and quiet smile more than she wanted to admit. And as for his arms...

  "Were you in the army?" she asked, instead of taking her leave.

  He was silent for several long moments, then he pushed himself to his feet in one easy, fluid motion. "Are you sure you want to start a conversation right now? You look as if you could use about twelve hours in bed."

  With him? The thought popped into her head and she tried her hardest to pop it right back out again. What was wrong with her tonight? "You're right," she said. "I'm just... I'm still..."

  He held out his hand. He had big hands, strong, capable-looking hands that were callused from hard work. Attractive hands that were attached to attractive arms.

  "Come on," he said. "I'll walk you back to your cabin."

  Becca shook her head. "I'm okay." She was afraid to touch him again. Even just his hand. "Thank you again, Casey."

  He nodded, dropping his hand. "I have a nickname," he told her, "that I prefer to answer to. It's Mish. I know it's...unusual, but it's how I think of myself."

  "Mish," she repeated. "Is it Russian?"

  "No. It's short for..." He laughed almost selfconsciously. "It's short for 'Mission Man.'"

  Mission Man? "What does that mean?"

  She saw another flash of his straight white teeth in the growing dawn. "I'm not sure I know myself. It's just a handle I was given by a...a friend."

  Becca backed further away. "Well, thank you. Mish." She paused. "We should...probably set up a time to talk in the morning," she told him awkwardly.

  "Whenever you like," he answered simply. "You know where to find me."

  Chapter 4

  Lt. Lucky O'Donlon sat alone in the back corner booth, in a deserted section of the Denny's on Water Street in Wyatt City, New Mexico, finishing his breakfast.

  Water Street. Yeah, right. The entire street—the entire town—was dry as a bone. He'd woken up after a ten-minute combat nap this morning, yawned, and his lip had split. God, he missed the ocean.

  He and his team had arrived in Las Cruces later than he'd anticipated. By the time they'd gotten their hands on an inconspicuous-looking car and driven all the way through the desert to Wyatt City, it had been well after midnight. Lucky had grimed himself up, said goodbye to Bob and Wes, gotten out of the car nearly a mile away from the First Church, and had walked over to the homeless shelter there.

  As he now watched, Bobby and Wes sauntered out of the shiny new motel across the street from the Denny's, clearly in no huge hurry to meet him for their scheduled sit-rep. In fact, Wes stopped to light a cigarette in the parking lot, cupping his hands to shield his match from the wind.

  Bobby nimbly plucked the cigarette from Wes's lips and tossed it to the gravel, grinding it out under his size-seventeen-and-a-half boots. And, as Lucky watched, they argued for the nine-thousandth time about Wes's inability to quit smoking.

  Or rather Wes argued, and Bobby ignored him.

  Bobby headed for the restaurant, and Wes followed, still arguing. They were showered and shaved and looking far fresher than Lucky. They were both wearing jeans and T-shirts, and Wes actually had a weather-beaten cowboy hat jammed onto his short brown hair.

  Bobby, with his darkly handsome, Native American features, looked like he could be one of the locals in Wy-att City. Wes looked exactly like what he was—Popeye the Sailor man in a cowboy hat.

  "I'm gonna quit," Wes was saying as they came into the restaurant and headed back toward Lucky's table. "I swear I am. I'm just not ready to quit right now."

  Bobby finally spoke. "When we're out on an op and we're buddied up, I can smell the smoke on your breath from yards away. And if / can smell you, so can the opposition. You want to kill yourself by smoking, that's your business, Skelly. Just don't kill me."

  For once in his life, Wes didn't have anything to say.

  Bobby sat down next to Lucky, clearly preferring, like the lieutenant, to keep his back to the rear wall. Wes slid all the way over on the other side of the booth, sitting half-turned, his back against the mirrored side wall, so that he, too, could see the rest of the restaurant. Good habits died hard.

  Too bad bad habits died hard, too. Bobby was dead right about Wes's smoking. When they were out in a group,
the scent of a cigarette smoked six hours earlier could conceivably put them all in jeopardy.

  Bobby gazed at Lucky. "Whoa, you smell ripe. Sir."

  "And you both look as if you had ample opportunity to shower after a great night's sleep."

  "The room was very nice, thanks."

  "Yeah, I'm looking forward to seeing it from a prone position with my eyes closed," Lucky told them. Unfortunately that wasn't going to be soon.

  He hadn't gone to the church to sleep. He'd been there to check the place out thoroughly—to sneak and peek and find out as much about the shelter as he possibly could. He'd spent most of the night chatting up the volunteer workers, finding out how the system worked.

  "The shelter's purely a church-run organization," he told Bob and Wes. "The only rules are no drugs, alcohol, weapons or women on the premises. And the men have to be out of both the building and the neighborhood before 8:00 a.m. because the facility's used as a preschool starting at 8:45."

  "Anyone remember seeing Mitch?" Wes asked.

  Lucky shook his head. "No. And they don't keep records of the men who use the shelter. But they do have records in the church office of the volunteers who work the different shifts. One of you is going to have to go into that office and charm a list out of the church ladies who work there. We've got to find out who was on duty the nights we think Mitch might've been there."

  Wes pointed to Bobby. "He'll do that. Church ladies give me a rash."

  Bobby shrugged. "I'll do it—if you quit smoking."

  "Oh, God." Wes slumped forward so his head was on the table. "Fine," he said, his voice muffled by his arms.

  "I'll quit smoking. You just keep any church ladies away from me."

  Bobby turned to Lucky. "Luke, I've been thinking. If Mitch came into the shelter in disguise..."

  "Yeah, I've been thinking that, too." Lucky signalled the waitress to freshen his cup of coffee. She poured cups for Bob and Wes, too, and told them she'd be back in a minute to take their order. He waited until she was gone to continue. "If he doesn't want us to, we're probably not going to find him."

  "Provided he's still alive," Wes said darkly.

  Lucky took a sip of his now-hot coffee, feeling it burn all the way to his stomach. "How well did you guys get to know Mitch Shaw last year when we were working with Admiral Robinson?"

  Bobby looked at Wes, and Wes looked at Bobby. Guys who had been swim buddies for years, the way these two had, could have entire conversations with a single glance.

  "Not very well," Bobby admitted. "He pretty much kept to himself."

  Wes looked at Bob again. "Or hung out with Zoe Lange."

  "Zoe Robinson, now." Bobby sighed from the memory. "I always kind of figured Mitch had a thing for her."

  "She have her baby yet?" Wes asked. "I never knew a pregnant woman could be so sexy until Zoe got knocked up."

  "She's not due for another few weeks," Lucky said, looking at Bobby and rolling his eyes in exasperation. Only Wes could refer to the pregnancy of a highly decorated and respected admiral's wife as "knocked up." "Can we stay on track here? Let's focus on Mitch Shaw. I didn't get to know Mitch very well either."

  "He was one spooky dude," Wes said.

  "Jake Robinson trusts him," Bobby pointed out. He frowned slightly at Wes. "And don't talk about him in the past tense, please."

  "Okay." Lucky pointed at Bobby. "You go make friends with the office staff at the church." He pointed at Wes. "You get on the computer and search out whatever personnel records and files you can about Mitchell Shaw. I want to know where he grew up, what his nickname was during BUD/S training, what medals he's won, his favorite vegetable, his favorite color. I want to know everything there is to know about this guy."

  Bobby stood up. "I'll grab a donut on my way out." He pulled the motel room key out of his pocket and put it on the table in front of Lucky. "You'll be wanting that."

  "I want it but I'm not going to use it. I'm going to go check out the neighborhood around the church shelter. See if anyone in the grocery shops remember seeing Mitch. And as soon as the bars open, I'll check them out, too."

  "Forgive me for singing the same old refrain, but you look worse than you smell, Lieutenant," Bobby said. "Maybe you should crash for a few hours."

  "We've got another check-in with the captain coming up in twelve hours," Lucky reminded them. "I'm not looking forward to giving him a repeat of this morning's sit-rep—that we're here but we're still clueless." Lucky slid out of the booth's bench seat and threw enough money onto the table to cover his breakfast. "I'll take a quick shower, but that's all I have time for. Let's meet back at the motel at 1300 hours."

  "God, I wanted a real breakfast." Wes gazed longingly at the scrambled eggs and ham pictured on the menu, then pushed himself out of the booth.

  "I'll buy you a super-deluxe breakfast special to go," Bobby said, "if you'll trade assignments with me."

  "Searching computer records versus duking it out with the church ladies?" Wes shook his head. "I don't want breakfast that bad."

  The Aldens were leaving.

  Mish waved goodbye to Chip as the van pulled away, down the long driveway.

  Last night's events had been too much for them. Their vacation was over, Ted Alden had told him as he'd thanked Mish again. Besides, they wanted to get Chip checked out by their personal physician back in New York.

  "Are you completely insane?"

  Mish turned to see Becca standing slightly behind him. She was holding a piece of paper in her hand and...

  He turned away, recognizing it as the exorbitant check—a thank-you gift, the man had called it—Ted Alden had tried to press into his hand as he said goodbye.

  "How could you refuse to accept this?" Becca asked, moving in front of him, holding the damned thing up.

  There was no way he could explain that the thought of taking money for saving a kid's life made him squirm— especially since the nightmarish dreams that continued to haunt him made him wonder if maybe he'd earned that big wad of money he carried by taking people's lives.

  "I didn't go into the river after Chip because I wanted a reward," he told her. "I did it because I liked the kid." He shook his head. No, that wasn't exactly true. "Look, I would've done it even if I didn't like the kid. I just...I did it, okay? I don't want Alden's money. He thanked me—that was enough."

  Mish headed back toward the barn. There were stalls to shovel out and other chores that needed doing. He'd gotten a late start today, and he was moving more slowly than usual, thanks to that piece of telephone pole that had smashed into him in the river. He didn't think his rib was broken, but it probably had been cracked. Either way, there wasn't much he could've done about it. He'd grabbed an Ace bandage from the first-aid kit in the barn, and he'd wrapped himself up—not that it really helped. It hurt, but that would fade in time.

  Becca followed him, a sudden brisk breeze making her clutch her cowboy hat to her head. "Casey—Mish. God, this check is for a hundred thousand dollars! That kind of money is nothing to Ted Alden—he's got bushels of it back on Wall Street. But for someone like me or you... You can't just say 'no thanks' to an opportunity like this."

  He stopped short, and she nearly ran into him. "Funny, I thought I already did."

  She was completely bemused and almost entirely confused as well as she stood there gazing up at him, as if she were trying to see into his head. "I promised Ted I'd talk you into accepting this."

  "You're going to have to break your promise, because I don't want it," Mish said again. He reached for it, intending to tear it up, but she pulled it away from him, safely out of reach, as if she had been able to read his mind.

  "Don't you dare! I'm going to hold on to this for you while you think about accepting it. Take all the time you need."

  Exasperated, he turned back to the barn. "I don't need time. I've already thought about it. You'll just have to send it back to him."

  Again, she followed, all the way inside. "With this kind of money,
you wouldn't have to work here, shoveling horse manure for most of the day."

  He glanced back at her as he picked up his shovel and started doing just that, trying to ignore the flare of pain in his side. "Are you firing me?"

  "No!" Her answer came quickly. "That's not why I said that. I need you to stay, I'm shorthanded already, but actually I'd..." She cleared her throat. "I'd like it if you stayed."

  Mish didn't stop his work cleaning out the stall, but he couldn't keep himself from glancing up at her again.

  She was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt open and untucked over a T-shirt. It hid the soft curves he didn't need to see to know were there. She'd fit perfectly in his arms last night. Maybe a little too perfectly. As she gazed back at him, her eyes were dark brown, bottomless pits that he knew he could fall into and lose himself in far too easily.

  She was looking at him as if he were some kind of hero. And he knew with a flash that his refusal to accept that money had only made her like him more. Damn.

  "That is, if you want to stay," she added, embarrassment tingeing her cheeks with pink. "You know, just...for a while."

  Mish forced himself to look away, forced himself not to think about the fact that he couldn't remember the last time he'd had sex. Of course he couldn't remember. Everything before Monday was a total blank. Yet still, somehow he knew—as he'd known the waist and inseam measurements of his jeans—that it had been a long time since he'd been with a woman. A very long time.

  And he found this woman to be incredibly appealing.

  She'd turned down his offer to walk her back to her cabin as the sun was starting to creep over the horizon early this morning. That had been a good call on her part—Mish didn't know what he'd been thinking at the time. She'd just been through an emotional wringer and surely had been vulnerable.

  He himself had been running what-if scenarios all morning. It had been sheer luck that Chip had been swept directly into his arms in the river. Sheer luck the kid hadn't been killed. The line between what was and what might have been was a very thin one. Tragedy had been averted by mere inches. And afterward, Mish had been a little too close to an emotional edge himself, and he knew now what he'd only suspected last night.