Seal Team 16 06 - Gone Too Far

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  But how had they found Clyde? He grabbed the phone and dialed Alyssa’s room.

  She picked it up after one ring. “Sam, please go to sleep.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m trying. But—” He told her his theories about Clyde as concisely as he could.

  Alyssa sighed. “Sam, if I were looking for Mary Lou, you’re where I’d go to find her, not Clyde Wrigley. You know where she is. Your lawyers know where she is—”

  “Yeah, but I don’t have an address book,” he told her. “My entire address book is in my head—if I write it down, I lose it. So I memorize it, and it’s always there. I also don’t keep important papers in my house. My entire file for the divorce was at my office, on base. We’re not supposed to do that, but I’ve always been paperwork challenged.”

  She laughed. “Who, you? No way.”

  Sam smiled. She was actually teasing him.

  “So, okay,” she said. “Say I’m a member of a San Diego terror cell. I’m looking to stay active and to stay in the area, so I need to make sure Mary Lou disappears, because she can ID me. I don’t know you’re paperwork challenged and that you don’t have an address book by your telephone. The only thing I know about you is that you’re a SEAL. Isn’t it likely I’d break into your house to find out where Mary Lou’s gone?”

  Sam turned on the light. “There was a break-in. It was about two weeks after Mary Lou left. Someone came in through the kitchen window. The cops thought it was kids because nothing was taken. They just made a mess.”

  Alyssa didn’t sound happy at that news. In fact, she sounded pissed. “You know, Starrett, this is why you need to go in for questioning.”

  He was back to being Starrett, which wasn’t quite as bad as Lieutenant. “I don’t think whoever broke in found anything at all.”

  “Okay, if I’m the terrorist and I found nothing in your house, my next step would be to get Mary Lou’s phone number by waiting for your mail and stealing your long distance bill.”

  “I don’t get phone bills,” Sam countered. “Not through the mail. I pay my bills online. My system’s secure, too. Hacker proof. Kenny Karmody set it up for me.” He was liking this theory more and more. “And if you’re the terrorist, you probably know if you watch me—and try to follow me—I’d make you within the first day.”

  She snorted. “More like the first hour.”

  He paused. She really thought that highly of him. “Well, shoot. Thanks. That’s really—”

  “Sam, let’s sleep on this, okay? My brain’s mush. I know I must be missing something here—”

  “Just wait. Just two more seconds, okay? You’re the terrorist, you know I’m a SEAL, so you’re not going to follow me because I’ll see you. Who are you going to follow?”

  “Not Clyde,” she said. “Because I don’t know anything about Janine or Clyde. I just know I’m looking for a woman with a child, a woman who likes to read and attends AA meetings and gets jobs in the service industry because she never finished high school.” Alyssa sighed. “Sam, look, I’m a really stupid terrorist right now because I’m so, so tired—”

  “You’d follow her close friends.”

  “You said she didn’t have any close friends,” Alyssa pointed out.

  “From what Donny said, someone sure as shit was watching Ihbraham Rahman.”

  Which would make a hell of a lot more sense if Rahman were Mary Lou’s lover. Which just wasn’t possible. Okay, open mind, Starrett . . . No, he just didn’t see it. Rahman was Arab American and Mary Lou was Mary Lou.

  Shit.

  “Ihbraham Rahman,” Alyssa said through a yawn. “Why is that name so familiar? Wasn’t he my first husband?”

  Sam settled back in his bed. “Okay. I’m done annoying you. I’m hanging up.” But he wasn’t going to do much sleeping over here.

  He didn’t tell her that. He didn’t say, Alyssa, I’m too scared to sleep. Please help me survive this god-awful night.

  Instead, he said, “See you in the morning, Lys,” and hung up the phone.

  “You don’t have a car here, do you?” Ric asked Gina. “Because, as a police officer, I really can’t let you drive home.”

  It was the moment of truth.

  Gina had said her farewells to the guys in the band. She’d thanked the wait staff and the bartender, and she’d gathered up her jacket and her leather bag with her sticks and brushes. The drum kit belonged to the drummer she’d replaced, and he was coming by the club to pick it up some time next week. It was, without a doubt, the easiest gig she’d ever done.

  As well as the hardest. The shadow had been back again, in the dark corner by the rest rooms, for the last set of the evening. It had been Max. She was sure of it. And knowing him, he was probably still watching her right now. As she was talking to Ric Alvarado in the parking lot.

  “I’m walking back to my motel,” she told Ric. “It’s not far.”

  He had his key ring on his finger, and he flipped it so that his keys landed in the palm of his hand with a smack. “Can I give you a lift?”

  He was a nice guy. He was an incredibly nice guy. In a different lifetime, Gina would have really liked him.

  “Or, if you want, I could walk you,” he said. He was trying so hard to be casual about the fact that he was hoping to go home with her.

  “How much did Max tell you?” she asked.

  “How much did . . . what?” He pretended not to know what she was talking about. It was an Oscar-worthy performance.

  “Max,” she said, resisting the urge to applaud. “He asked you to come here tonight, right?”

  “Max Bhagat?” Ric said. “From the FBI?” He shook his head. “No. Are you . . . Is he . . .” He stopped and started over. “Did I make a mistake, Gina? I thought maybe there was something going on with you two the other night, but then he wasn’t here at the club, and you were being so, um, friendly. . . .”

  Oh, he was good. “Max didn’t call you and ask you to let me pick you up here tonight?”

  Ric laughed. “Did you pick me up? Because I thought I was trying to pick you up.”

  “Is that what he told you to do?” Gina asked.

  “Nobody called me and told me to do anything.” He was definitely getting uncomfortable with this conversation. “I came here because it was my night off and I love jazz. Do you have something kinky going with this guy? Because I’m absolutely not into that.”

  “No!” Gina said. “God, no!”

  Ric was serious and had been from the start. Max hadn’t contacted him. But that still didn’t mean that Max hadn’t somehow manipulated him into being here tonight.

  Gina caught herself. Come on. Max was powerful and an extremely magnetic leader, but he wasn’t Obi-Wan Kenobi. He couldn’t use mind control or the Force or whatever to make Ric bend to his will. You want to go to Fandangos. . . . That was ridiculous.

  Wasn’t it?

  She sat down on the curb, definitely feeling every ounce of wine she’d had tonight. “Max saved my life a couple of years ago. I was on a plane that was hijacked by terrorists and . . .” She shrugged.

  “Oh, man. Really?” He sat down next to her.

  “Really.” She sighed, chin on her knees, arms wrapped around her legs. “I’m in love with him.” She turned her head so that she could look up at him. “Want to sleep with me?”

  Ric laughed. But then he looked at her closely. “Are you really drunk?”

  Gina sighed again. “No.”

  “Did you maybe take something mind altering tonight that I don’t know about?”

  She sat up straight, indignant. “No!”

  Ric held up both hands in a gesture that said easy there. “Hey, I’m not asking you this as Detective Alvarado. I’m asking as a man who likes you. You’re not going to get in trouble or anything. I just want to know the truth.”

  “The truth is I don’t do drugs,” Gina told him. “And I’m really not drunk. I’m just . . .” She rolled her eyes. “Pathetic.”

  “I don’t t
hink you’re pathetic,” he said. “I think you’re really hot and . . . yeah, I really want to sleep with you. Your being in love with this other guy is probably going to make it suck, but, you know, I’ll suffer through somehow.”

  Gina looked up at him and laughed.

  He was looking at her with half-closed eyes and a crooked smile on his handsome face. He reached up to push her hair back, and his fingers were warm against her face. “I bet I can make you forget about him tonight.”

  Wouldn’t that be nice—if she really could forget everything. Max, the airplane, the way it had felt to be so certain she was going to die . . .

  Ric leaned toward her as he pulled her chin up to meet him. His lips were soft and his mouth tasted sweet, like Fandangos’s coffee, rich and strong and laced with cinnamon. His hand was in her hair. Gina closed her eyes and let him kiss her and tried to imagine his hands all over her, his body on top of hers, and . . . She pulled away, scrambling to her feet.

  “Hey!” He followed, catching her as she tripped in her haste to get away. “Whoa, whoa! You okay?”

  “I can’t do this,” she said. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry.” She tried to pull free. “Please let go of me.”

  He didn’t. “Gina—”

  “I said, let go of me!”

  He let her go, both hands in the air. “Okay, now you’re really freaking me out.”

  She walked away from him, toward her motel, as fast as she could without it being called running. But when she got to the corner, she stopped. And turned and went back. Because she owed him at least an explanation.

  He was still standing there looking at her as if she was insane. She was. She was definitely insane.

  “You don’t really want to sleep with me,” she told him, trying her hardest not to cry. “You don’t know this yet, but I do. So I’m just skipping ahead to the part where you say, ‘Oh, gee, Gina, all your baggage is a little too heavy for me. I mean, wow, the responsibility’s just too intense. I think we should just be friends.’ ”

  “All what baggage?” he asked. His eyes were open a little wider now, and his smile was gone.

  Gina couldn’t bear to watch his warm brown eyes change from wary to horrified to filled with embarrassed discomfort. So she closed her own eyes and told him. “I haven’t had sex since before I was gang raped on that hijacked plane.”

  “Oh, shit, you were . . .?” Like most people, he couldn’t say the R-word. “Oh, Gina, oh, baby . . .”

  Ric put his arms around her and held her tightly, but it wasn’t with passion anymore, it was only with kindness, and she wanted to cry.

  “I wasn’t going to tell you,” she said, “but that’s not fair to you, because I really don’t know if I’m going to flip out, or if I’m going to need to slow down or even stop, and it’s just not fair not to tell. But as soon as I tell, no one wants to touch me!”

  “Shh,” he said. “It’s all right. It’s okay, baby. It’s going to be okay.”

  She smacked his arms, pushing him away from her. “That’s such a stupid thing to say! Maybe it’s going to be okay for you, but it’s not going to be okay for me!”

  He took a step toward her. “Gina—”

  She took a step back. “Just go home!”

  He kept coming. “I’d rather go with you. Back to your place.”

  Yeah, right.

  “Don’t touch me,” she warned him. He probably thought she wouldn’t know that he was lying.

  He held out his hand to her. “Come on. I’ll drive.”

  Gina looked at him. It had finally happened. She’d finally met a guy who was too nice to say no. But she suddenly knew that rejection really hadn’t been her problem all these months. She had actually been relieved that Elliot hadn’t wanted to sleep with her.

  Because she wasn’t ready for this. It was possible that she’d never be ready for this kind of casual “I like you, let’s do it” sex again.

  Her body had been used. Viciously, brutally. Sex had been forced on her as an expression of terrible violence and hatred. She’d told Max that she wanted that part of her life back, but she really didn’t. She didn’t want to experience sex ever again as anything less than a meaningful demonstration of real, deep love. And as nice as Ric was, she didn’t love him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I really am.” And she turned and ran away.

  Here he was. Lying alone in a bed in a cheap motel room, balls still aching from being flattened by 120 pounds of angry woman, buzzing from all the caffeine in his system. Exhausted as hell, weary from worry and grief, but too freaking scared to fall asleep. Sam had taken a warm shower in an attempt to relax, but even that hadn’t helped.

  He wanted to reach for the phone again, to call Alyssa, who was on the other side of the wall just behind his head, in the next room over.

  And say what?

  Please, I don’t want to be alone tonight. I keep thinking about kind-hearted Donny burning to death in that fire, and Tom losing Kelly, and Janine on the kitchen floor, and how terrified Haley must’ve been right before she died. . . .

  No. Haley wasn’t dead and he wasn’t going to call Alyssa. Because if he called her, she might come over. And if she came over, they’d end up in bed together and . . .

  And Sam wasn’t going to sleep with her. He’d made that decision today while they were talking about love, about the differences between “I want you” and “I love you.” He’d realized, with remarkable clarity considering how tired he was, that sex—as much as he desperately wanted it—would only complicate the shit out of their relationship.

  Their relationship. Sam found himself smiling wanly at the ceiling. As bad as this situation was, it had brought about something good. Whether she liked it or not, he and Alyssa Locke were in a relationship again. Yes, it was freaking mixed up and about the farthest thing from normal that a relationship could be, but it was a relationship.

  True, neither one of them had completely figured out how Mary Lou and Haley and, yeah, even Max Bhagat fit into the equation, but what the hell.

  Sam was determined to take this embryonic, misshapen, ugly lump of a relationship and grow it into something beautiful. Something honest. Something permanent. Something real. Something like the relationship Walt had shared with Dot.

  That one had started out nearly as screwed up as this was. Well, maybe not quite. Because Walt and Dot had been careful to keep sex out of things until their feelings for each other had grown into real, rock-solid love.

  Sam looked at the phone again. Don’t do it, idiot. Don’t call her again.

  Of course, there were definitely a lot of missing steps in the dance that would start with his picking up the phone and end with her over here, in his bed. Assuming it would automatically go there was arrogant and egotistical. She could say no. She would say no.

  But then Sam closed his eyes, remembering the way Alyssa had kissed him in the back hallway of the Wal-Mart. Holy, holy Jesus. She was fire in his arms. For a few minutes there, he’d been convinced that she was going to come. Just from a dry hump in a public corridor. He’d almost lost it himself, but his excuse was that he’d been celibate now for nearly a year.

  Sam squinted at the ceiling. Was it possible . . .? Nah. He’d seen the way she’d kissed Max. The fucker. Still . . . Maybe it meant that Max wasn’t so great in bed after all.

  Yeah, wouldn’t that be nice? Sam wasn’t any closer to sleep, but thinking about Max being unable to keep it up, or maybe just boring Alyssa to tears, was definitely better than thinking about Donny burning to death or Mary Lou and Haley jammed into some trunk.

  But even better than the thought of Max, impotent, was the idea of Alyssa maybe being as desperate for Sam’s touch as he was for hers, not because she missed great sex, but because she missed him. In which case, if he called her on that phone, she might say yes.

  Which was why he couldn’t call. Because if she said yes, then in order to stick to his plan about growing something real, Sam would have to be the one to s
ay no. And he did not have a good history with that particular word. At least not when it came to Alyssa Locke and sexual intercourse.

  Sam heard Alyssa’s cell phone ringing through the thin motel walls. He sat up. Was that Jules calling her? Or Max? Either way, it was probably news. He could hear the murmur of her voice through the wall, but try as he might, he couldn’t make out the words. Probably because his heart was pounding too freaking loudly.

  Please God, let her come hammering on his door to tell him that those bodies in the trunk were definitely not Mary Lou and Haley.

  He heard her stop talking, heard only silence. Then the sound of water running, a toilet flushing. Then nothing. Until she knocked, softly, on his door.

  Oh, no.

  That was not a jubilant knock, and Sam knew that the news was not going to be good.

  Please God . . .

  “Still nothing absolutely conclusive,” she said before he even got the door all the way open. “Jules said they’re having some trouble with the dental records. The fire was . . . apparently very hot.”

  Sam nodded, just looking at her.

  She’d had an overnight bag in the back of her car, and unlike him, she had a change of clothes. She either slept naked or her pajamas were too revealing, because she’d thrown her jeans and that baggy T-shirt back on.

  She’d splashed water on her face before coming over here—part of her hair was still wet—but despite that, her eyes looked red, as if she’d just been crying. As she looked back at him, tears welled in her eyes. She covered her mouth with her hand as, Jesus, her face contorted and she started to cry.

  Nothing absolutely conclusive, she’d said.

  Sam’s ears roared as he pulled her into the room, into his arms, closing the door behind her.

  “What did Jules tell you?” Sam asked, even though he knew. Mary Lou’s driver’s license or something else that could identify them had been found near the car.