by Johnson, Liz
“Um…” She bit her lip and looked down at her sandals. “I don’t know.”
His eyebrows shot up his forehead, which wrinkled in even ripples. She could read the doubt on his face. He probably thought she saw a Middle Eastern man behind her in line for coffee, and that fear made her jump to the conclusion that he was following her. His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “I think you need to talk to someone about this. The PAO could probably recommend a counselor.”
Her blood boiled at his condescension, and her apprehension evaporated. Taking a deep breath in through her nose, she pushed it out through tight lips.
If she had any idea how to face down the man following her on her own, she would. But since she didn’t, she had to convince the lieutenant to help.
Taking a firm step toward him, she pointed her finger toward his chest, but stopped about two feet short of touching him. She wasn’t that brave. “Listen to me. I’m in trouble, but it’s not just me. I don’t know the name of the man who’s after me, but I know that I heard him plotting to blow up something here in San Diego.”
“Do you speak Arabic?”
“Just enough to get by for two years in Lybania.”
He squinted at her, leaning toward her still-outstretched finger. “Then how do you know you didn’t misunderstand what he said?”
“He was speaking English.”
*
Tristan snapped his full focus on Staci at her words. “Was he American?”
“Yes.” She didn’t hesitate.
Could she be telling the truth? “How do you know?”
“How would you know an American? He spoke like an American, used words like an American.”
“Did he have an accent?”
She looked toward the ceiling, worrying her lip between her teeth before answering. “Not that I noticed. He wasn’t from the South or Boston or New Jersey. He sounded like a national newscaster, polished and smooth.”
Rats. This girl honestly thought she’d overheard something. Whether she was really being stalked or not, there was no denying she thought she was in trouble.
But he wasn’t the right one to help her. Getting involved in something like this could only spell trouble—mostly with his commanding officer, who had already warned him once about being too friendly with rescued hostages.
He scrubbed his fingers along his scalp, a vain attempt to relieve some of the pressure building there. She wasn’t supposed to be there. He was breaking all the rules already by speaking one-on-one with a rescued hostage. If his CO found out, he’d be knee-deep in a serious mess, and no matter how pretty she was, she wasn’t worth risking being grounded for the next mission or worse.
He didn’t like telling a scared woman that he couldn’t help her, but what other choice did he have? It was highly likely that the danger was all in her mind, even though she’d convinced herself that it was real. It would be wrong to give up the chance to go on missions that made a real difference just to help her fight imaginary enemies.
She flicked a strand of dark hair over her shoulder, blinking huge green eyes up at him. Her full, pink lips pressed together, wrinkling her nose slightly. It took everything inside him not to smile at her, to put her at ease and give her the assurance she craved.
But that wouldn’t do either of them any good.
“Look, Ms. Hayes, I am sorry that you went through that experience. I’m sorry about what happened to you in Lybania, but I already did as much as I can for you. Now you have to keep living your life. Do you have a pastor or priest you could talk with? Maybe he could help you work through this.”
Her shoulders fell, the last remnant of hope in her features vanishing. “All right. Thank you for your time.”
She turned, shuffling toward the office door, and a band around his heart squeezed. He’d done the right thing sending her away. So why did it feel so wrong?
Just as she reached the door, she tucked a hand into the pocket of her colorful skirt. As she spun on the spot, she held out something that she’d pulled from within. “I almost forgot. One of the guards dropped this in my cell after talking to the American man.”
He reached for the scrap of paper and unfolded it to reveal a crude sketch.
“Doesn’t it look kind of like—”
“—the harbor,” he finished for her. There could be no doubt about the docks and shoreline. He’d run along the beaches in the sketch for nearly ten years. He knew every ship and slip.
And apparently someone else did, too.
“But I don’t know what that says.” She pointed toward a line of scrawled symbols.
He squinted at the text. “It’s not Arabic, but it’s not far off, either.” He pointed to the third and fourth word on the page. “This looks like one and two, but it’s not. It’s different.”
“You read Arabic?”
He glanced up from the words written on the map. “Enough.” That was a bit of an understatement. He was actually almost fluent in it and could read nearly anything. But she didn’t need to know that. A few secrets always came in handy.
“I think it’s a dialect from the hill country. I only picked up a few words of the different dialects while I was there, but it would seem to fit.”
He nodded. “Might be right.” So why was someone writing in Lybanese on a map of his harbor? His gut clenched as he realized her story might be true after all. But why would they be after Staci? Who would think her a real threat?
“What did you overhear exactly?”
Her eyes shone for just a moment before she blinked her hope back under control. “One of the guards said something about the pieces needed to build the bomb. He said they had almost everything they needed, and when it went off, everyone would know they wouldn’t be intimidated by America’s military. And then the American said he’d place it, and it would be just like fireworks.”
That wasn’t much to go on. “What else?”
She chewed her lip again, running a finger over the side of her face for the tenth time. “I guess they were talking about this map. I think the American was pointing out landmarks and such.”
“Then what happened?”
“They were still talking when someone else came into my cell.”
His stomach jolted, his hands forming fists completely on their own. He didn’t want to know, but he had to ask. “What did he do?”
“He tried to get me to confess to breaking the law by giving away bibles. When I wouldn’t confess, he left and the other guy, the one who had been talking to the American, came in to take his turn. He was angry I wouldn’t give in, and I don’t think he noticed when he dropped the map. I scooped it up when he had his back turned. After that, everything is kind of fuzzy until you showed up.”
“You mean, this all happened the day of your rescue?”
She nodded.
“Did the Timmonses hear the American, too?”
“No.” She locked her hands in front of her, her skirt swishing like a bell as she swayed. “They had separated us after our second week.”
“Why?”
She looked away, and he felt the gut punch as sure as if one of the other guys on his team had thrown it. That was a stupid question. Pretty girls in Lybania being held by ruthless terrorists…
He’d seen enough of that country to know, and he could only pray that she’d been spared the worst, that her physical scars were deeper than her emotional and spiritual ones.
His pulse pounded in his ears, suddenly ready for a fight. But he’d already taken on the guys responsible for the pink spreading over her cheeks and the bright red scar in front of her ear that she kept trying to cover.
“It wasn’t anything like what…” Her voice trailed off, and she cleared her throat. “That is, they were waiting for someone. For their leader, I think.” The pink in her cheeks turned into flames.
Thank God his team had rescued her when it had.
But even if she’d avoided the physical attack, knowing what was coming had to have l
eft a few emotional scars. It was brave of her to have taken the map in the first place. At a time when she’d been at such high risk herself, she’d thought of others, and had tried to gather evidence she’d hoped to use to keep people safe. That said a lot about her. And it made him even more reluctant to turn her away.
Maybe he could look into this in his free time. He didn’t have any training missions on the schedule for the next few weeks. Could it hurt to at least keep his eyes and ears open for an American placing a bomb somewhere in San Diego that would send a message to America’s military? It was a huge city and highly unlikely he’d see anything, but at least he could put her mind at ease.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“You will?” Her voice skyrocketed, and she plastered a smile into place.
“Yes.” He looked at the door then back at her. “Leave me your phone number, and I’ll call you if I find out anything.”
“And how should I contact you?”
“Through your PAO. She’ll pass any messages to me.”
“And who should I ask her to pass them to?”
She hadn’t missed a beat and was intent on getting his name. “Lieutenant Sawyer.”
“All right.” She scribbled her phone number on a sticky note and handed it to him before opening the office door. “Thank you, Lieutenant Sawyer. For two weeks ago and for today.”
“You’re welcome, Ms. Hayes.”
“Please call me Staci.”
“All right.”
As she flounced out the door, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. Her dark curls bounced with every step, her shoulders in perfect posture. She may have sustained a flesh wound to the arm and a cut on her face, but her three weeks as a hostage hadn’t damaged her backbone.
When the outside door of the trailer clanged shut, he walked back to his office, ignoring the stares of Willie G. and Zach—Zig—McCloud.
Zig whistled low and long, elbowing his teammate in the ribs. “I guess it pays to have rank. I’d go to the academy, too, if I had pretty girls like that coming to thank me.”
“What’d she give you?”
Tristan clutched the scrap of paper in his hand, forcing down the knot in his stomach. It shouldn’t matter that they were teasing him. He’d sure teased them over the past couple years.
But Staci Hayes wasn’t a SEAL groupie. She didn’t hang around the pool hall waiting for a SEAL to show up. She hadn’t gone looking for a warrior.
He’d gone looking for her.
And she deserved better than the speculation of two of his men. “Willie G. and Zig, go clean up the training boats.”
Zig opened his mouth, about ready to argue, then realized that it wasn’t a request but an order.
“Yes, sir.”
They stalked off, leaving him some time alone with the crude map and a head full of questions. As he sank into his desk chair and leaned back until it popped, he replayed Staci’s words over and over. Had there really been an American man consorting with Lybanian terrorists? If so, where on this map were they planning to place the bomb they’d mentioned? And what did the message on the map really mean? Thousands of hours practicing languages were useless if he couldn’t read the one in front of him.
The map didn’t contain a convenient X to mark the spot or even a circle to pinpoint which part of the coast might see the explosion. But it did contain the coastline of Coronado Island. From the airport to the naval stations, Harbor Drive, and even the golf course.
It represented too many people. Too many possible victims.
And he had nowhere to start.
The best he could do was a call to a friend in the FBI’s counterterrorism unit and a former cryptology instructor for the navy.
After leaving messages with just enough information to get him a return call, he shut down his computer and grabbed his bag of workout gear, slinging it over his shoulder as he strolled out of the building and past the two SEALs hosing down a rack of RIBs—Rigid Inflatable Boats.
“Have a good weekend, boys.” He waved, not even trying to hide his smirk as he reached the parking lot. Throwing his bag into the bed of his truck, he jumped up, sliding behind the wheel.
As he pulled onto the main street that ran most of the length of the naval station, he tried to focus on the rare two-day weekend ahead of him.
He’d promised his sister, Ashley, that he’d put together the crib for his soon-to-arrive nephew. And she wanted to do some more shopping for baby clothes before Matt—her husband as well as Tristan’s senior chief—returned from demo training in Chicago.
Maybe she’d let him off the hook for the shopping trip if he put together the crib and matching dresser.
He waved a civilian pedestrian across the walkway. She was halfway to the next parking lot over before he realized she was his afternoon visitor. She was coming from the administrative offices, probably just finished with the interview training to prep her for upcoming media appearances about her ordeal. He’d already seen her picture in the papers, but she’d yet to make a morning show appearance. Lt. Commander del Rey, the PAO, was probably talking Staci through the schedule.
Staci slid into her green sedan and pulled out of her spot, winding between the thinning crowd of other vehicles. She had reached the exit of the parking lot by the time the white delivery van behind Tristan honked.
He laughed at himself for being so easily distracted and waved out the window, pulling up to one of the guardhouses at the front gate of the base.
“Carl, how you doing, man?”
The broad-shouldered Samoan snapped to attention in the door frame of the little hut. “Good. How about you, Lieutenant Sawyer? How’s your sister?”
“Oh, you know. Waterstone took off to Chicago for training, so Ashley moved back in with me in case the kid comes early.”
Carl laughed. “You know any kid of the senior chief’s is going to show up early.”
Tristan’s shoulders shook as he waved at the younger man and pulled off the base, right behind a green four-door with a rusted bumper.
He tried to catch a glimpse of her chestnut hair, just to make sure it was Staci, but from the seat in his truck, he couldn’t confirm. It didn’t stop him from following her over the bridge and into San Diego traffic.
He passed an exit for I-5, which he should have taken to pick up Ashley.
So why was he following someone he wasn’t supposed to have any individual contact with? He didn’t have a good reason, just an instinct telling him to make sure she got home safely.
A glance in his rearview mirror showed the same white van from the base still on his six. It hung back but took every turn he did. Every turn the green car did.
His gut clenched after the third turn.
There was only one way to know for sure who the van was following.
At the next cross street Tristan slowed down and put on his blinker to turn right. The green car pulled almost a block ahead as he turned onto the side street. As soon as he’d cleared the turn, the white van gunned it past Tristan’s truck.
Somehow he’d ended up literally in the middle of something, and now that he was out of the way, that van had a clear shot at the green car. At Staci.
He shoved his gear shift into Reverse and slammed on the gas, spinning the steering wheel and completing a full one-eighty before turning right back onto the main road. In one quick motion he took off after them, joined only by the smell of burning rubber.
He caught up to the van about four blocks later as it maneuvered itself to pin the sedan against the deserted sidewalk in front of the gated entrance of a convenience store.
Air caught in his throat until he schooled it into measured breaths, keeping his hands steady despite the rush of adrenaline that coursed from the top of his head to his fingertips.
Like it or not, he was part of this now. No way was he going to let a fool in a van hurt the girl he’d risked his neck to rescue on the other side of the world.
The van let up for a
moment, and Tristan hoped he might be able to get between the two vehicles. But his hopes were in vain. A second later, the van crashed into the side of the green car, sending it careening into a light pole.
THREE
Staci jerked against the shoulder strap of her seat belt, which stole her breath but kept her head from cracking against the steering wheel. The car was too old to have air bags. There was nothing but the seat belt to protect her.
With one eye pinched closed and the other only open partway, she surveyed the white van with tinted windows as it sped away after running her into the light pole. As she clawed at the seat-belt buckle and fought for air, she sank against the steering wheel, every ounce of strength dripping from the bottom of her feet through the floorboard.
Maybe if she held her head between her hands, the world would stop spinning.
And maybe if the world would stop spinning, she could pull her thoughts together.
She pressed her palms harder into her forehead, but the earth still seemed to be whirling out of control. As she fell toward her car door, it suddenly disappeared, replaced by a pair of hands that cradled her against a broad chest.
“Whoa there.”
The voice was deep and strong like the hands, but she couldn’t manage to open her eyes far enough to look into his face.
“Did you hit your head?”
She rubbed it absently, unable to pinpoint if the pain came from the spinning inside or a throbbing outside. “I don’t think so.” The last word came out on a wheeze, and she pushed against the cotton covering his shoulder—his unmovable shoulder—for any ounce of space.
“Careful.” He loosened his grip, but not enough.
She managed a shallow breath. “I’m okay.”
“I’m not so sure about that. Just stay with me for a second.”
Something about his words pricked at her memory. They were familiar like a sweet dream.
“Stay with you.” She swallowed and gasped for air and with it the strength to open her eyes.
The arch of his nose and curve of his mouth were just as surprising—and welcome—as the first time she’d seen them.
“Lieutenant Sawyer?”