by J. M. Madden
Now, she wouldn't see his kind eyes again.
Fresh tears filled her eyes but she brush them away. She needed to figure out what the hell she was going to do now.
When she'd seen Roger coming down the alley she’d been excited because she thought maybe he had information for her but he didn't want to report it over the phone. She’d been about to turn away from the window when a motorcycle had raced into the alley behind Roger. The rider had some kind of pipe or stick in his hands and had struck Roger in the back of the head before he'd even had a chance to turn around. The man on the bike spun around and raced back to Roger, who lay motionless on the ground. The motorcycle rider struck him again in the head, then again. Roger had been killed right in front of her eyes. Blood sprayed everywhere as he was hit again and again. Once Roger stopped moving, the rider dragged him over to a dumpster, lifted him up and rolled him inside. Then the murderer had paused as if he felt the weight of her eyes, and slowly turned his head. He looked up directly into her eyes.
It was the man from earlier in the day! Even through shadow cast by the front of the helmet she recognized his cold gaze.
Andrea panicked. Normally she was the steadiest person in a group, but for that one second she felt in such fear for her life that her normally dependable brain went completely blank. Only when the man began to move toward the back of her shop did she realize the danger she was in. She’d just witnessed the murder of a CIA agent.
Racing through the apartment she snatched up her purse and looked frantically for her cell phone, but didn't see it.
“Fuck," she hissed.
She raced back into the bedroom and pulled out her underwear drawer, reaching for the little Beretta Tomcat that Dorian had gotten her for one of their anniversaries. She stuffed it and the holster in her purse and ran back to the kitchen, slipping her feet into her tennis shoes along away. Then, raising the window at her little plant balcony, she crawled through, making sure to close the window behind her. The space wasn't big enough for anything other than potted plants and she always wondered why they'd even bothered to put it here, but she was very glad now because it allowed her to lower herself to the adjoining roof without breaking anything. Once her feet hit the roof she ran.
As she’d run along the street, ducking behind trash cans whenever she heard a vehicle, she had a wild memory of listening to the team talk about moving through a village, using cover along the way. Maybe it helped her get away. Normally it took her five minutes to walk to the parking garage where she kept her car, but tonight it took her almost 30 minutes because she kept hiding. Scrambling underneath her little blue car, she remembered laughing at her son when he'd handed her the small black box.
“We are not going to be around to run you things when you forget them," Ryan said with a grin. “Where is your spare key, and the fob?”
Andrea had handed it over and watched where he placed the magnetic box.
Scrabbling for it now, she was so thankful for her smart, practical son and she hoped she would live to see him again.
As she pulled out of the parking garage, she made sure to drive normally. If the motorcyclist was still around she didn't want to do anything to catch his attention. Once she was a few blocks away from the coffee shop, she headed toward the interstate. She didn't pick a direction, just the closest on-ramp. Only after she’d been driving for almost an hour did she feel safe enough to pull over at a roadside rest stop and give herself time to think.
How had they known she'd called Roger? And who were they? Had Roger somehow caught the attention of the man from the shop? She had no idea but she did know that she had witnessed a murder and had potentially dangerous information about a pending terrorist threat. So who the hell did she call?
The police would take too long to get through the red tape and to whoever actually could do something about what she'd heard. She could call the CIA again, but she had no other contacts. She didn't even have a phone number. The only phone numbers she could remember off the top of her head belonged to her kids, her shop, and Jack Bishop.
Twice today she'd wished he was nearby. Maybe he was the one to call. But, first order of business, she needed a place to stay. Where could she go? The first place that occurred to her was the beach house. Years ago, when the kids had been little and Dorian home, it had been a weekly trek for them. The rental was on Willoughby Spit, north of Norfolk and had been a refuge for all of them. More often than not Jack had come with them. He’d sat in the chairs and ate food but he'd never really seemed to relax.
When they’d approached the owners about buying the house, Jack had offered to contribute. Back then she’d been surprised at the gesture. Maybe those few trips he’d joined them on meant more to him than she’d understood at the time.
If she went to the beach house, would he think to look for her there? Yes, he would. She had no doubt about that. If Jack knew she was in trouble he would move heaven and hell to ensure her safety.
She needed to get a damn cell phone.
Luckily her newer model car had a GPS built in. She typed in the address of the beach house and it routed her through the Norfolk traffic mess. Two hours and forty-eight minutes. She knew there was a Walmart as well as a Target near the house. She could stop there to pick up one of those cheap pay-as-you-go phones. She remembered Jack’s phone number by heart.
Did she dare call him though? What if it put him in danger like Roger? Losing Jack would devastate her. Jack had been her friend for many years and she still considered him a friend, even though they hadn’t talked in a while. After Dorian had died, Jack had been the rock that she relied upon. As hard and as inscrutable he was, she knew he cared for her and the kids. He’d been a part of their family going on 25 years.
Jack had never built a family of his own; he had just always been a part of theirs. He’d been married for a short time but it hadn't lasted long. Most Navy SEAL marriages didn’t.
Friendships did though, and she could call him.
Maybe it would be better if she got the phone now and not wait until she got to the beach. She could call to get his advice and to tell him about Roger. With that thought in mind, she pulled over to one of the discount stores and headed to the electronics department. She used cash to pay for it, just in case. Then she sat in the parking lot for half an hour setting the account up with the prepaid minutes card. When it was finally ready to use she typed in Jack's cell phone number.
“Bishop,” he snapped.
“Jack,” Andrea breathed, hardly daring to hope.
“Andrea? Where the fuck are you?"
Tears filled her eyes at the sound his gruff voice, then rolled down her cheeks. "Jack, I'm in some shit."
"I know, baby," he said, voice incredibly soft.
It was so out of character to hear him so tender, it made her cry harder. "Roger Mann is dead. He was tracking down something for me and I got him killed.”
“No, you didn't get him killed. The guy you saw in the alley did.”
Those words made her pause. “How did you know?"
"I read the signs, baby. You did good getting out the way you did. Now, where are you?"
“On my way to the beach house. I just stopped to get a phone because I couldn't find mine on the way out."
"I've got your phone, don't worry about it. You head to the house and I'll be there soon as I can. You're okay, Andrea. We'll get this all figured out."
“Okay," she said. “I’ll meet you there."
He hung up without another word, which was fine with her. It was Jack's normal way. Finally, she was able to take a decent breath and the constriction in her chest seemed to ease. Starting the car, she pulled out of the lot and merged back onto the interstate.
Chapter Three
The beach house had been a purchase she and Dorian had never regretted. They'd considered it rental income and an easy getaway when he and Jack were home. SEAL Team Four was stationed out of the Little Creek area and when he was an active member he needed to b
e ready to deploy at any moment; which meant they needed to stay fairly close. The beach house had been the perfect escape whenever they had a few days. Jack and Dorian had loved the beach as much as the kids did. Some of her favorite memories were of all of them around the fire pit on the beach, laughing and talking, making sticky s’mores.
It had been several months since she’d been to the house. She tried to remember if there was anyone renting it right now, but she couldn’t. Normally, a realty company took care of the scheduling, but she couldn't recall seeing any emails recently. Maybe she would luck out for once today.
The house was deserted. The lights were dark and there were no vehicles in the driveway or parked beneath the house. She jogged up the steps, keyed in the front door code and entered. The house was a little musty, as if it had been a while since anyone had been in residence. She flipped on a few lights as she walked through the first floor. Once in the kitchen she turned on the kitchen spigot, then jogged down the stairs to the maintenance room centrally located under the elevated house. She keyed the code into the door lock and went in to turn on the main water. Turning the kitchen faucet on would allow any air in the line to escape. She relocked the door and headed upstairs. Water was running in the sink when she got back to the kitchen so she turned it off then headed to the bathroom.
Her face was a wreck. Normally, she was extremely collected, but she’d been thrust into an impossible, nightmarish situation. Her calm, idyllic life had suddenly turned dangerous and she was struggling to keep up. Her short hair was a ragged mess, sticking in all directions. She'd been running her hands through it. It was after one in the morning now, and the makeup she’d applied early that morning was a smudged muddle beneath her eyes. Most of it was gone because she’d been mopping her face of tears. Her nose was red and her skin pale. Overall, she looked like she’d been on a hell of a bender. Glancing down, she noticed how dirty she was. There was a rip in the side of her T-shirt and she had no idea how it got there.
Leaving the bathroom, she headed into the master bedroom. The second closet was always locked with the same keypad as was on the front door. She keyed in the code and opened it up. This closet wasn't one of the biggest, but it did have a stack of her clothes as well as stack for each of the kids. There were some bigger tees off to the side and she thought they might belong to Jack. Grabbing her stack of clothes she carried them out to the bed, sorting through them. There was that bra she thought she’d lost. Pulling out a few things, she headed back to the bathroom and started the shower. They’d installed an on-demand water heater ages ago so she didn’t have to wait for the water to heat, thank goodness. She stripped down and stepped beneath the water, letting it wash her fears and anxiety and grime away.
Two hours later, she was pacing the mostly dark house but she was feeling better. It was late, but she had no desire to lay down. She didn’t think she could, not until Jack got there. She'd taken the time to jot down notes about what she'd observed at the murder scene. The man on the motorcycle was the same man she’d overheard inside the Daily Grind. She had no idea how Roger had found him but the motorcycle was the same. The man who killed Roger was wearing a helmet but it didn’t have a visor and she’d recognized him immediately.
If they didn't figure out what the hell was going on, there was a chance she could end up as dead as Roger.
She wasn't sure what made her turn around, but Jack was suddenly just there, in the living room with her, holding out his strong arms to her. If he’d approached her any other way, she’d have been okay. Instead he came in and disarmed her, offering her comfort she knew she shouldn’t take. But after the past day and night, she couldn't help but take it. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she turned her head into his heavy chest and sobbed.
Andrea hated feeling weak in that moment. It was everything she’d grown up fighting against and it contradicted everything she’d tried to teach her daughter and the young women that worked for her— Be strong and be able to support yourself without a man in the picture.
She’d been alone for so long though. And this wasn’t something she could deal with on her own.
Jack smelled as good as he always did, like man and the outdoors. For a second she forgot about everything that had happened and just basked in being held in his arms. Yes, she could support herself on her own, but sometimes it was nice have someone else to bear some of the weight.
Jack give her time to cry herself out. He didn't pull away and he didn't shift uncomfortably under her tears. His hard arms were locked around her. Andrea couldn't remember the last time she’d cried so hard. Actually, she could. Jack had held her then as well. It had been when Dorian had been killed.
“You're always holding me when I cry," she whispered.
“It's all good," he told her roughly.
For moment, she thought he meant something else, something more. No, that wasn't what he meant. Reluctantly pulling away, Andrea scrubbed her face, wiping away tears. "Sorry, Jack."
Jack Bishop was a massive figure. Not as tall as Dorian had been, but built almost twice as heavily. He'd retired from the SEALs almost five years ago now, then she thought he’d joined Homeland Security for a couple years, but that had seemed odd to her. Last she'd heard, he’d been retired, moving around here and there. Helping out as a contractor on a few things. Overall, after Dorian died, Jack had gotten away from the Navy. He'd been in the same accident that had killed Dorian. Jack had been left with a mangled lower leg and foot and half a dozen bullet holes in his body, but he’d been there for her when the body of her husband had come home, standing in a cast to hold her, though she should've been the one giving him comfort and care. They’d both been grieving.
Jack looked good now though, broad and strong, his rough face tanned. It was obvious he was outside a lot. His iron gray hair was short, but still looked thick. His face was the same, lean and scarred, hard silver eyes unfathomable. Years ago on a mission to Kuwait Jack had been attacked by a terrorist with a machete. The terrorist had gotten a lucky swipe in before Dorian had taken him out. The cut had started on his forehead and gone straight down over Jack’s right eye and cheek, then the back swipe of the machete had left a line along the left side of his face and taken the pinky and ring finger of his left hand, as well as a corner of his palm when he held his hand up to protect himself. It was a miracle that he hadn’t lost more and his eyes hadn’t been damaged. It had taken over a hundred stitches to pull Jack's face back together, and another fifty for his hand and other fingers. Then, because he’d been so far from real medical care, he’d gotten an infection the antibiotics hadn't been able to kick for a long time.
The facial scars had never bothered Andrea, but she knew they had changed Jack. Before that attack he’d been quiet and reserved, but after that his personality had taken on a dangerous edge. His tolerance was shorter and it was almost like he shut people down before they had a chance to reject him. It had broken Andrea's heart at the time because Jack was already stone hard, but after the accident, there was very little give to him at all. For the most part, women avoided him, although there were a few that had pushed his boundaries. He’d been married once, but it had been a corrosive relationship that hadn’t lasted. Dorian had said he’d had hookups, but no actual close relationships, and that included the marriage.
It made her sad because as tough as Jack appeared to be he had a soft heart.
"We need to talk," he told her, nudging her toward the couch.
Andrea sat down on the soft cushions, for the first time feeling some of the tension leave her body. The past fourteen hours had been crazy.
“Why don't you start at the beginning," Jack prompted her, settling down beside her, his big body dwarfing hers.
Andrea related everything that had happened, all of her suspicions and the whispers she thought she'd heard. Jack didn't say anything, he just let her talk herself out. When she reached the part about getting into the beach house, she allowed her voice to trail away.
&nbs
p; “What do you think," she asked finally.
Jack leaned back against the couch, folding his hands over his lean belly. "I think you did everything exactly right," he told her, eyes direct, mouth an unforgiving line. “It's not unusual to have terrorist cells working independently across the country. And it's as you suspected, they come in to use the free WiFi, just like everybody else. I'm not sure what Roger Mann had a chance to implement before he was killed but I assume he was coming to talk to you about what he had done, and figured out. Obviously, he got close.”
Andrea nodded. "That's what I thought, too. I’m heartsick I dragged him into this."
Jack gave a hard shrug. “It's a part of the game," he said simply. “It'll always be us against them and people will fall. It's just nice when they screw up sometimes," he said pointedly giving her a look.
Andrea gave him a bit of a smile, but it was hard to be lighthearted when a man had just been killed. “So, what do we do?"
“Well," Jack said, “first thing I'm going to do is call Si and see if he's learned anything.” He reached down beside the couch and lifted up a bag she recognized. ”I grabbed a few things from your apartment I thought you might need."
Andrea sighed as he handed the bag over, loving that he’d brought her a piece of home. This was why she knew what a good heart he had. In the midst of a crisis he worried about her having her things.
“And here’s your cell phone.”
Andrea swiped through the security and into her messages. Luke was freaking out but promised to keep things running until she notified him otherwise. Her son had texted her a silly meme. And she had three text messages from unknown numbers.