True to You (A Love Happens Novel Book 3)
Page 27
Closing the study door behind her, she ignored Ash’s parting comment that she’d already stabbed him in the back, tears clouding her vision as she hurried to her car.
And ran straight into a pink polo-covered chest before she made it to the foyer.
“Trey? What are you doing here?”
“Whoa, there.” Holding her steady, he dipped his chin. “I wanted to extend my condolences in person. Are you okay?”
“Thank you,” she said politely, looking toward the front door. “I need to go—”
“On behalf of everyone at Gillis Wine Group, we’re all sad and disheartened to hear of Marshall’s passing. I couldn’t let that go without saying.”
“Thank you,” she repeated, his grip on her shoulders not easing even as she tried to sidestep him. “But I really have to run.”
“He was an icon in the industry and his presence will be greatly missed.”
“Once again, thank you.” Christ, he wasn’t going to let up on this. “Now do you wanna tell me why you’re really here? Because if it’s about the distribution deal, we’ll need to schedule a meeting later. It’s been a doozy of a day, and I really need a drink. Preferably one with Jack Daniels.”
As he wiped a stray tear from her cheek with his thumb, his cologne gagged her. God, she hated Obsession for Men.
“I wanted to check on you personally, see if you need anything. Looks like you do.” In another lifetime, his thoughtful smile might be charming. “You know I’ve always wanted to take our relationship to another level, so maybe we can start with a friendship. I make a mean Whiskey Sour.”
“Well, isn’t this tacky as shit.” Ash’s sarcastic voice echoed, and Olivia jumped like a thief caught red-handed.
Hands on his hips, he froze Trey in place. “You know the guy they planted this morning wasn’t her husband, right? She’s still married to me. For now, at least.” His parting shot was said directly to her.
“Oh, spare me the dramatics.” She mimicked his stance. “I’m not even gonna bother with the whole ‘this isn’t what it looks like’ bullshit. You know it’s not.”
He smirked and headed for the front door, tossing a jab over this shoulder. “Might be a good time to cozy up to him. Maybe he can give you a job. You’re gonna need one.”
“What are you talking about?” Half running to catch up, her heels clicked on the terracotta tile. “My job’s safe for the next twenty-five years.”
“Not if I shut this place down. And that’s exactly what I’m doing.” Stopping at the door, he turned. “Got a sweet standing offer from a land developer the day Marshall croaked, and thanks to controlling share, I just accepted.” He waved his phone in the air, wasting no time. “Polish your resume, ‘cause Coleson Creek is closed for business. Take whatever you want from the house. Hell, yank the draperies and make goddamn dresses out of them. Strip the wallpaper. Steal the toilets. Wrecking ball’s coming soon.”
A land developer. Cookie-cutter houses.
“No.” She shook her head, the pins holding her tasteful updo loosening. “No, you can’t do that. They’ll bulldoze it all down. They’ll level the rose garden. Please don’t do that, Ash. Please.”
Forty-ton trucks would drive over sacred ground, the rumble of diesel engines frightening as they scraped away everything in their path. A heavy metal claw the size of a refrigerator would hammer the hallowed earth, churning up grass, dirt, and roots, digging with reckless abandon, disturbing what rested peacefully, innocently, beneath it.
The images choked her, panic setting in.
“Already done, darlin’, and that means you’re out of a job. But don’t worry, I’ll give you a decent severance package, despite Marshall’s will. Oh, and that alimony payment that’ll kick in before too long. You’re getting what you want from me.”
“No! Ash, you don’t understand. Wait!” Chasing him to the driveway, she grabbed his arm, but he shook her off. “They’re gonna take away all I have left. And for what? A golf course and townhouses? That’s meaningless. But the garden means something to me. I need it. I need to go there. It’s all I have. It’s all that’s left.”
Tears streamed down her face, loose clumps of hair hanging from the ruined twist.
“Look at you,” he said, rounding on her, face flushed in anger. “Carrying on about a house. It’s just a fucking house, Liv! I’m your husband.” He pounded his chest. “Care about me that much. Love me that much! I just told you I’m granting you your divorce, and what do you do? Throw a shit fit over the vineyard. Not me. Not the fact that my life is over. Christ, my wife loves Coleson Creek more than she loves me.”
“That’s not true,” she pleaded, bearing the weight of his words. “But the garden—”
“It makes me question whether you ever really did.” He held out his arms. “Did you ever love me? Or did you just marry me to get the keys to the kingdom?”
“What about you? Did you only marry me because you knew it would piss off your dad?”
Charged silence followed, neither willing to shed their protective armor, both wounded anyway.
Olivia broke first, voice shaking. “I know Rosa taught you better than to call a woman a whore to her face, so I’ll reference another legal document with our names on it. It’s called a prenup. And I’m begging you to rethink this. Please. They’ll dig up the garden.”
Chest heaving, he stared at the sky. “I love you, Liv. So fucking much. And all you’re worried about is the goddamn yard.”
Then, with a vile curse aimed at himself, he hopped into his Jeep and flew down the road, not hitting his brakes once.
She knew because she stood on the cobblestone driveway of a house that meant squat to her, with mascara running and the wild hair of an escaped mental patient, watching him go.
Just like so many times before.
A crowd of onlookers stood on the front steps, the men shuffling their feet in awkward silence, the women holding a hand to their mouths and weeping with her. All unsure how to approach a woman losing her mind right before their eyes.
Trey. Elliott. Rosa. Hope and Beck.
The first two men retreated to their cars, seeking immediate escape. Rosa and Hope circled her, a protective embrace from women who’d once had their hearts broken, too. Beck hung back, hands on his hips and scowl on his face, undoubtedly, rightfully, taking Ash’s side.
Olivia didn’t acknowledge them. Didn’t even hear them. All she heard were the powerful three-word sentences she should have said, but didn’t.
Don’t leave me.
I need you.
I choose you.
I love you.
All the way.
Whoever was hitting the base of his skull with a hammer was about to lose their life. Just as soon as he could move.
“Get up, asshole.” Sam. “We’ve got work to do.”
Lifting the arm thrown over his gritty eyes, Ash glared at his so-called friend. “Be nice or I’ll puke all over your Cole Haan oxfords. Fucking pretty boy shoes.”
The foot that landed on his chest wasn’t wearing a designer dress shoe. The nudge was from a well-loved pair of tactical boots. “Let’s go, Coleson. We’ve got armed militia holding seventeen hostages and our contact at the DOD’s pissed you’re not answering your phone. Time’s ticking.”
He sat up, but gripped the edge of the sofa when his office spun. “Somebody turn this merry-go-round from hell off.”
“You think he’s still drunk or did that twelve-hour nap sober him up?”
Beck answered Sam’s question. “He’s finally sober, but let’s give him a water gun, just in case. If anything, it’ll be entertaining. Can’t wait to watch him reload.”
“Stop talking about me like I’m not here.” He ran a hand down his face, feeling a week’s growth of beard.
“Sorry, sir,” came Beck’s amused reply. “I’m sure your accuracy with a Super Soaker is awe-inspiring. And considering your jovial mood? I’d say you’re one hundred percent sober. Back to normal.
”
“Christ, you jokers talk loud. I’m gonna go sleep at the public library.” A bottle of Gatorade landed in his lap, narrowly missing a sensitive target, and Ash scowled. “Your aim sucks.”
“No,” the former SEAL replied casually, “your balls are too small. Sir.”
Beck and Sam’s combined laughter induced the hammering again, and he stood, taking inventory. Did his mouth feel like a cat pissed in it during the night? Check. Was his head a pin drop away from exploding? Check. Could the acid churning in his gut melt a Buick? Check.
Had he really thrown away the best thing that ever happened to him because he was an egotistical jerk with a chip on his shoulder and abandonment issues? Check.
After chugging the entire bottle of florescent green liquid at once, Ash wiped a hand across his mouth and hung his head.
“Time to roll, brother.” Sam clapped his shoulder. “Bad guys still gonna bad, even though you’re a hot mess.”
He shook off the cobwebs from a five-day drunk and hit his private bathroom. A scalding hot shower, a half dozen aspirin, and a gallon of water later, he was suited up and grabbing his range bag, the weapons ready to go on a moment’s notice.
“Don’t need those,” Sam said. “We’re flying commercial to Utah. Turns out, Provo’s a hotbed for terrorist activity.”
Something wasn’t right about this mission. First, they weren’t taking any heavy assignments right now. Ali was due yesterday. Second, flying commercial meant relying on outside sources for weapons. Less than ideal.
“I need a full briefing, Sammy.” And the liquor-induced fog to recede.
“In the car,” he replied, walking through the lobby where Beck, Mike, Nolan, and Grady waited.
They followed Sam out single file, Ash picking up the rear.
Carrie held the door, wishing each man a personal farewell. Another oddity. “Good luck,” she said to Sam. Grady got a compliment. “Stay safe, handsome.” Beck and Nolan each got a wink, along with a suggestion. “Try not to mess up those pretty faces, boys.” Mike got an air kiss and a stern order. “Don’t die.”
When Ash passed by, he tensed, prepared for anything. “I hope a Greyhound bus full of scorned women kidnap you, strap a vice on your balls, and make you drink prune juice until you have shit coming out your mouth.”
Well, that was a lovely sentiment. His most loyal guard dog had chosen Team Olivia, not happy with his recent behavior.
She could get in line.
Piling into a shiny black Suburban with Grady at the wheel, Sam briefed Ash on the surprise mission.
“There’s a group of armed militia who’ve taken a rural community center outside Provo hostage. Seventeen people, including a Utah senator.”
Black sunglasses eased the pain from the sun, but damned if Grady didn’t hit every bump in the road. A hundred push-ups after his shower had gotten the blood pumping, but the aspirin had yet to kick in. “If there’s a government official involved, why call us?”
“Given the bad press the FBI’s received on their hasty handling of similar situations, they’ve decided to outsource. We’ve been reviewing all relevant data for the last ten hours, putting together a game plan.”
Pissed at his selfish bender, Ash nodded, knowing the level of planning required to guarantee a positive outcome.
“I’ve coordinated with the local Sheriff,” Sam added. “Initiated taps on the phone lines and Internet running in and out of the center. Nothing of note yet. Here’s what we know about the players.”
He handed Ash background checks for the six militia members, as well as any interesting history on the known hostages. Scanning them, he saw nothing justifying an entire team effort. Six on six? This was hardly a fair fight. Had Ash been in charge, he would’ve grabbed Beck and headed out.
Guzzling more water, a flash of blonde hair in the car next to them caught his eye, and he pictured Liv, lonely and broken in his rearview mirror. Stomach cramping, he swallowed back the bile. Maybe he’d order a half dozen vodka shooters and put himself back to sleep.
Two hours later—sans vodka—he inhaled the thin mountain air of Utah, feeling almost human. In a near carbon copy rental of the black SUV, Sam drove an hour into the remote wilderness, meeting up with a former Marine who dabbled in the arms trade.
Donning their operational uniforms, the gear pitch black to blend in with the night, they ran through the plan again, Sam throwing out potential roadblocks to ensure a successful mission. The Sheriff’s office would start a fire to create a diversion for any media outlets catching wind of the standoff, Scorpio would go in and subdue the six militia, and the deputies would follow to remove the hostages. They’d be back in San Diego before dawn.
Cake.
It was only when Sam handed each man his preferred hand gun and assault rifle that Ash put the pieces of the odd mission together. The assortment of firearms, including his favored 9mm and M-4 assault rifle, were plugged with yellow plastic. Not live rounds.
This was a drill.
Ash’s blood boiled. “What the fuck, Sam?”
A drill wasn’t unusual. Sam keeping him in the dark was.
“Just getting your head on straight. This is the only way.”
Looking at each of the guy’s black-painted faces, he saw only stony concentration and laser focus. No different than a real mission. Training was vital to maintaining a peak physical and mental condition, and in their military careers, they’d run just as many drills as real-world operations. Scorpio was the same. Sometimes the guys knew ahead of time, sometimes they didn’t. Both Ash and Sam always knew.
This set a precedence.
But yellow caps or not, they were running the op as a real-time event.
Hustling through wooded terrain on silent feet, he gave Beck a questioning look, getting an apologetic nod in return. He and Sam cooked this up to whip him back into shape.
Once at the community center, located three klicks from the evac point, their plan went exactly as Sam laid out. If live fire had been involved, they would’ve eliminated every militia member—or captured, pending instructions from the company hiring them—without harming a single hostage. The operation was flawless, playing out without fault.
Until the last shots were fired—from Ash’s weapon.
Checking the basement of the structure, Ash called the all-clear in his headset and scaled the rickety steps on ghost feet, slinking along the wall as he headed toward the rally point. A dark shadow crossed his periphery, and he pivoted to his right, firing the 9mm instinctively, taking a two-tap insurance shot. One bullet might wound, two would kill.
A flood of florescent light blinded him as somebody hit the switches, lighting up the vacant building used for police and military training, the walls made of plywood, the bad guys made of cardboard. Thick dust filled his nose and stars swam in front of him when he whipped off his NVG’s.
Once his vision cleared, he almost dropped to his knees.
Beck, the dark shadow Ash had mistaken for the enemy and shot twice, stood there, just as dazed. Not harmed in any way, but stunned at his boss’s fatal mistake.
Running a hand down his torso, Beck automatically checked himself for hits. “Needed that like I needed a hole in the head.”
“Christ, why the fuck didn’t you report your location?” Turning in circles, Ash palmed the top of his head, taking in heavy gulps of thin air as the other four shuffled in.
“On your right. I identified my location twice, the second time as you cleared the top step. On your right.” Methodically recalling the previous ninety seconds for Sam, Beck searched for an excuse to cover Ash’s tail. “Maybe background noise filtered my mic.”
“If you said it, you said it,” Ash shot back, thunderstruck by his deadly error. “Don’t fucking sugarcoat it to make me feel better.”
He looked at each of them, all wearing the same state-of-the-art headsets and mics set to the same frequency, and they nodded, verifying Beck’s recollection. On your right.
“Let’s go,” Sam ordered. “We’ll regroup in the car.”
The guys followed his order, but Ash turned away, pacing as the implications set in. If this had been real, Beck would be dead.
By his hands.
“I’ve never seen you this bad, Ash. Even when Scorpio opened and you’d shut yourself up in that office for days at a time, you were still focused. Anti-social to the max, but I’ve never known you any different.” Sam clapped a gloved hand on his shoulder. “Get it figured out with Olivia or continue to be a dumbass, I don’t care either way, just stop shooting our employees, okay? Our insurance will skyrocket.”
Picking up the helmet, he handed it to Ash and gave him a shove, forcing him toward the evac point.
Sam’s vest pocket buzzed as they exited the structure. “Hey, babe. How you holding up? Want me to bring home mint chocolate chip?”
Ash’s disgusted snort echoed off the forest walls, and he shook his head when Sam glared. No outside contact was allowed during a mission, drill or not, no exceptions. Now wasn’t the time for a personal call from the wife.
Especially when his own wasn’t speaking to him.
“Yeah? How long do you think?” Sam’s easy jog sped up as he checked his watch. “Okay, no problem. On my way.”
When he pocketed the phone, Ash threw him a smirk, keeping pace as they dodged trees and crossed uneven land at a dead run. “What, no sappy goodbye? No cheesy back and forth over who should hang up first?” Using his best girly voice, he mocked Sam. “No, you hang up first. No, you. Oh, my gawd, no, you.”
A broad smile split Sam’s face, the jab missing its mark. “Change of plans. We’re flying home private.”
“Yeah? Why don’t we order champagne and caviar while we’re at it? It’s not like I just fucking killed Beck or anything.” His blood pressure raged.
“Ali’s in labor. Holy shit, Ash.” Sam laughed, the botched mission forgotten. “I’m about to be somebody’s dad.”