by J. L. Saint
But perhaps she deserved no better, for she had failed.
For as much as she loved Neil and grieved his loss, for as committed as she was to be the perfect wife to him forever and yearned for his presence. For as determined as she was to ignore, and yes even cut out the part of her that had sprung to life, her insides clenched every time Roger Weston walked into a room. She remembered the first time it happened. Neil's commander had been away somewhere that even Neil could not know of when she had first come to America. She and Neil had been married for six months and she could hardly believe the blessing that both Neil and Allah had showered upon her. Then Roger Weston had walked in the front door of her happy home and her stomach had knotted. She'd broken out in a heated sweat and had been so physically disturbed by what happened that she had had to excuse herself. She'd feigned an illness and had spent the rest of the evening alone in her bed while Neil and his friends had watched a special football game on the television.
Now she was pretending again. Pretending that Roger Weston didn't disturb her, but it wasn't working. She felt him there and, Allah forgive her, she was so thankful that he was even though it sharpened her grief for Neil. Made her loss more painful because deep in her heart she wondered if she had been unfaithful to Neil by her reaction to his commander.
She truly might deserve to die, but still her spirit refused to let go.
She brushed away more tears of guilt and grief with the end of her blanket and drew another deep breath. She had vowed she would never use the phone number Roger Weston had given her after telling her that Allah had taken Neil away from her. But then that man today had left her no choice. And even now, she did not have the strength to deny herself and send Roger Weston away. Maybe tomorrow she would be stronger.
Every noise, every time the door opened, her heart would race with fear. Sure that man had found her to deliver the punishment he promised. SheA rough groan brought her eyes wide open and had her sitting straight up in bed. Her heart leapt to her throat and pounded hard in her chest as she searched the shadows of the room for danger. She knew in her mind that the door to her room was closed and had not been opened. She knew it was impossible for that man to be there, but she could not stop her fear. It wasn't until she heard another groan that she realized it was Roger Weston. He slouched low in the chair across the small room, his long legs sprawled out, and his head resting against the chair back and the wall. He appeared asleep, but it was not a peaceful rest. His breathing was rapid, his hands gripped the side arms tightly, and his head jerked slightly in a repetitive denial of whatever nightmare had gripped him.
"Mr. Weston," she said softly then repeated a little louder. He didn't wake and looked as if he was in such distress from his dream that she couldn't just leave him. Though her body was sore all over, though her hands and knees throbbed with every movement, she slid from the bed and walked across the chilled floor. Wearing only the thin material of the hospital gown to cover her practically naked body was so sinful that she turned back to the bed and pulled the blanket from it and covered herself. By the time she finished, she was nearly groaning from the sharp pain in her hands. As she turned back to Roger Weston, she heard his jagged whisper. "No…God…no. Not Neil. Not DT. Not Rico. Not Pecos. I didn't have a choice. I had to…had to decide. Don't you understand, Beck? I had to. God help me… I had to."
Roger Weston's cry for his God so matched Mari's own cry to Allah that her already hurting and grieving heart twisted with even more pain. She moved closer to Roger, spoke to him again, but still he did not hear her. With no other choice, she reached out and touched him, more aware of the power and heat of his muscled shoulder than she ever had the right to be. And that was through her bandages. Touching him skin to skin would be… Allah, forgive me.
"Mr. Weston." She shook his shoulder this time. He jerked awake with a start, nearly coming straight up out of the chair. She reared back and wobbled for balance, even crying out a little in shock.
He caught her arm, balancing her. "What is it? You shouldn't be up. You should have just called me. Do you need the nurse?"
Before she could find her voice to answer him, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her back to the bed.
"I tried calling out to you," she told him, barely finding her voice amid the flooding sensations of his scent, his heat, his strength. "But you were asleep."
"I'm sorry. It won't happen again. What did you need?" he asked, setting her back in the bed as if she were made of glass. And perhaps she was; she thought she would break apart at any moment from the emotions battling within her breast and the pain trying to drag her under a dark abyss.
She drew the blanket to her, too aware of him so close. "I-I didn't need anything. You were in pain, a nightmare. I think. You spoke of Neil and others and were so distressed from your dream that I had to wake you."
"What did I say?" His jagged, almost angry tone surprised her and made her peer closer at his face in the shadowed room. His rough jaw, hooked nose, dark unruly hair and blue eyes were all familiar to her, but there was something completely different about him that wasn't there before Neil had died. And whatever nightmare he was having about Neil and the other men, it was still with him. She could see it in his eyes and read it in the sudden tension gripping his every visible muscle.
"Only that you didn't have a choice. That you had to decide."
He exhaled sharply.
"What is it? What happened?"
"Nothing. Forget anything you heard. It was just a nightmare. Not real. Not important. Go back to sleep. I won't disturb you again. I'll be in the hallway stretching my legs." He turned away from her and didn't look back as he left the room.
Mari blinked at the closing door, realizing Roger Weston had just lied to her. His nightmare had been important and he was as haunted by ghosts as she was.
Roger stepped out into the hospital hallway and braced himself against the wall, barely curbing the urge to bang his head against it. What he'd almost revealed in his sleep-what really happened in Lebanon and how Neil had died-made him sick inside.
Heart racing double-time to his careening thoughts, he broke out in a cold sweat and pressed his palms to his eyes to stop the images flashing in his mind. The dead. The dying. The gravely hurt. The women. The children. His men.
All because he'd made a decision. A decision that as a commander he'd make over and over again. A decision that given the way it played out, he couldn't seem to live with as a man.
Collateral damage was the prettied-up phrase to describe untargeted death in warfare, or more accurately, the accidental murder of innocents. Friendly fire was the palliative phrase for accidental murder by a royal fuck-up. Legally excusable murder, and both of them sat squarely on his shoulders. But that wasn't the worst part. Every commander, every soldier realized the world wasn't perfect and shit happened. That in any war there would be collateral damage. That in any battle friendly fire could happen. It was what he had to do every day in the aftermath of Lebanon that had him torn completely in two. Lying to the world and to the men who trusted him most.
But the only salient point-goal, objective, whatever tag the military and Presidential brass wanted to put on it-in the situation was to avoid fanning the flames of World War at all cost. A big picture that Roger agreed with as much as he disagreed with covering up of the truth. Thus his grueling state of turmoil.
His cell phone vibrated and he quickly dug it from his pocket, hoping it was Officer Cain with the news that Mari's attacker had been apprehended or, better yet, dead. But no such luck. It was Beck, DT's best friend and the one man Roger didn't want to talk to at the moment but didn't dare to avoid. Beck was the wild card that could bring the cover up down like a house of cards.
"Weston." Roger ascertained that the hallway was empty. Just to be sure though, he kept his voice low.
Beck didn't say anything, but then given Beck's recent behavior the man might be too drunk to speak.
"Where are you, man?"
> "Sober."
"That's good."
"No, sir. That's not so good. You see, at least drunk I can rationalize what we're doing to DT, Rico and Pecos. Sober I can't. Just fuck the rest of the world, sir."
"We can't and you know it. It will set the radicals on fire."
"You can't but I'm pretty damn sure I could. And in case you haven't seen the news today, they're already on fire. We sacrificed our souls and lied for nothing. Christ, if I could go back and do it all over again, I would have never identified that Muhammad al Qassem entered the terrorist's hideout. DT would have nailed al-Qaeda's number two SOB from the inside anyway. I never fucking imagined you'd send in a missile."
"You're not remembering it all. Comm-"
"I know. Communications were dead."
"So were-"
"The signs of life signals. I know. I do remember shit. And I remember saying that I still heard gunfire inside the hideout."
"Which, given the data we had, meant that the men Qassem brought with him were firing on the terrorist. Most likely there to take Prime Minister Shalev's daughter and Ambassador James's daughter hostage from the original kidnappers. The odds that DT, Neil, Rico and Pecos were still alive were minimal at that point."
"But they were damn it, and I knew it in my gut."
Weston turned to face the wall and rested his forehead on the hard cement.
"Beck, you and I both know that sometimes decisions can't be made on gut feelings. We had to go with the facts. That we now know about the existence of Wipeout and its ability to disable our systems doesn't change the decision we had to make then." Experts were still trying to analyze the jamming device the terrorists had used. The downed communications and signs of life signals had been bad, but the effect the device had on the Samson's GPS had been a disaster. The Samson was the newest air-to-surface missile in the precision strike arsenal with an accuracy of less than a meter. The missile, launched from a UH-60 Black Hawk, was the US's compliment to Israel's Delilah and had a small but effective warhead designed to keep collateral damage to a minimum. But it was the stored explosives, both in the terrorist's hideout and in the building next door, a supposed orphanage, that had caused the devastation.
"You're wrong, Commander. You were wrong then and you're wrong now. DT, Rico and Pecos deserve the truth."
"Damn it, Beck. We've set a course and we have to see it through. Do you have any idea what the global ramifications would be if you blew the lid off of this? The orders came from the top and it's our sworn duty to-"
The line went dead in Roger's ear. Shit. Bad just turned worse.
Chapter Twenty-One
0330 hours
"?Y ahora que, George?" Andreas demanded, wanting to know what would be next in the continuous plague of disasters following Bill Collins's betrayal. Flying at the top speed of four Rolls-Royce Trent 977/B engines in an Airbus A380 customized by Design Q in Worcestershire, he sat in the fully outfitted Turkish bath with George at his side, agitated that he couldn't relax and enjoy his newest acquisition. He'd recently bought the flying palace off the hands of an oil-rich prince whose well had run dry when his father disapproved of his repeated dalliance with a junked-out pop star.
The thought of having eighteen hours to twiddle his thumbs before reaching El Santuario had him stretched over a torturous rack of painful frustration-pain that the incompetence of Fidel's hired operatives in Atlanta only sharpened. The therapeutic benefits of the mint showers and eucalyptus steam room did little to help ease him. Not even Mozart's "Eine kleine Nachtmusik" being broadcasted live from the musicians in the concert hall above helped. Minute by minute the reports feeding in from Atlanta went from bad to worse. Bill's wife and children had escaped and they had help now. Someone who could handle a gun, a man by the name of Jack Hunter that Andreas's resources were having difficulty in getting information on. Hunter's abandoned rental car had been found on Angie Freemont's street about fifty yards away from where Lauren Collins had parked hers.
Sure at any moment he'd be driven past his soft-spoken vow to screaming like a maniac, he shut his eyes and upped the volume of the music. He tried to focus on easing his anger as he turned his mind to his home above all others, El Santuario. Almost as big as an entire Peruvian region, El Santuario housed Andreas's perfect home, his research and development facility, and George's personal primate reserve, where a number of George's wild brethren roamed. The area also provided an ample and secretive operational base for his special ops teams as well as anything else he wanted to keep from prying eyes. He imagined exactly what he would do the minute he arrived. Bill Collins's body would already be there and so would the traitor's wife and children. Andreas would personally extract what in the hell Collins's had planned to do with the formula for GXP from his wife, using the children, of course. Then he'd make an example of Collins's family.
Putting the fear of Diablo himself into the people working for him was the only way to close ranks on Collins's betrayal. The video of the event would make the current executions on YouTube look like Walt Disney films. Andreas prided himself on speaking softly and carrying a big stick-the binding, torturing and killing of a betrayer's family made for a really big stick-one that he anticipated George would have a hand in this time.
The kids would never even see it coming. Cute, funny chimp suddenly going murderously wild. The video would likely go viral.
Andreas must have had the music unusually loud because he never heard Fidel knock. He felt George move and opened his eyes to see Fidel standing fearfully before him. George had moved to stand between Andreas and Fidel, clearly agitated and wanting to protect Andreas. Andreas's heart swelled.
Fidel had better have good news. "?Que?"
"We're f-f-finally learning that J-J-Jack Hunter is part of the US Military, and Guru has decrypted one of Collins's email acc-counts." Fidel's skin color went from green to white and back to green.
"And?" Andreas stood, barely choking back the accompanying yell that went with his question. Why should he have to pull information out of his own assistant?
"C-C-Collins's l-l-l-left you a m-m-message on it."
Andreas blinked. "?QUE?" He almost shouted when Fidel didn't say a more. Instead he bit his tongue until it bled.
George immediately went ape shit, jumping up and down, holding his ears and crying.
"The n-n-note s-s-says that proof of your involvement in the terrorist acts h-h-has been sent to a n-n-number of sources along with the f-fuel formula."
"?Madre de Dios!" Andreas screamed.
George went for Fidel's face first, ripping skin, biting off ears and then Fidel's fleshy lips. Fidel screamed and flailed in horror and shock, thrusting his hands out to stop George. George only ate them and ripped them off the man. The Turkish bath ran red with the spewing blood. Andreas breathed in the acrid scent, remembering times when the smell meant his power and rule were supreme. He didn't intervene. It was time for a new Fidel anyway.
When Fidel was nothing but pieces, Andreas calmed George down. He cleaned them both up in the mint showers. Then he sent George off with his nanny to rest. After shoving Fidel's remains into a garbage chute that would be jettisoned over the Atlantic, Andreas went to find Guru with his usually soft spoken calm restored and the tones of "Eine kleine Nachtmusik" bolstering his resolve. He supposed he shouldn't feel too bad about losing his control and yelling. After all, the Godfather had had his moments as well.
Dios, whatever diabolical double cross Collins had set in motion had to be stopped dead in its tracks immediately. And so did everyone else the bastard had involved. Nothing and no one was going to interfere with the legacy of safety that economic and environmental justice would bring to his son. No matter what the cost.
When Guru heard that Fidel was out of a job, the man worked like a genius on steroids and soon produced emailed confirmations from Collins's account of packages delivered just two days ago. The names and addresses of the recipients were conveniently included. One to Lauren
Collins. One to Matt and one to Mitch Collins. One to Conrad Gardner. One to Thomas Ettinger. One to Edward Weiss. One to Bob Cantrell. And one to Ray Branson. Assassins were immediately dispatched.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Buford, Georgia
0900 hours
"Thomas's house is the next one on the left," Laruen directed as Jack drove. The morning was bright and peaceful and at complete odds with the hellish night she had spent. Violence from the day, the heat of Jack's kiss and his haunted words afterward had run roughshod over her mind, making her shiver in fear, sweat with need, and writhe in pain for him until she'd given up trying to sleep and spent the rest of the night sitting in the desk chair, staring at the letter Bill had written.
She still didn't have a clue as to what Bill meant. Now she was sleep deprived and feeling self-conscious over her complete abandonment of everything beneath Jack's potent kiss. Kiss? It was more like a rehearsal for a grand slam home run. He'd conquered second base, had touched on third, and there had been nothing to stop him from scoring.
Fire filled her cheeks again. How had she let it happen? Angie and her sons were in the other room. She'd only met Jack less than ten hours before. To hell with the whole quality verses quantity crap. That amount of time compared to the strength of her desire was pure insanity.
Could be worse, a little voice said, much like her son's would say when they were caught being bad. What if you didn't regret it?
She didn't.
Could be worse, the little voice said again. You could want a repeat and more.
She did. Every single moment of it and every bit of him. His demanding tongue, his hard erection, his hot hands. His intoxicating scent, powerful muscles and gripping passion. The whole damn package.