Last Man Standing

by Cindy Gerard

  No one had dedicated themselves more than he had. For that reason, he resented the president greatly for keeping him on the string so long. For constantly dangling the secretary of state cabinet appointment, then jerking it away from him when it was all but sewn up, adding yet another name to his precious list.

  But that game was now over. Rydell had turned in his resignation yesterday. Greer had heard the announcement right after Wilson had notified him that he’d located “the package” and was en route to tie up the loose ends. Greer halfway expected the president to pull him aside tonight and confide that he would make the formal public announcement of Greer’s appointment tomorrow.

  Barely suppressing a smile, he started across the room again—then stopped, thunderstruck, when he spotted the woman walking through the door.

  His chest suddenly seized; pain shot through his left arm and jaw.

  It couldn’t be. His eyes were playing tricks.

  The woman just looked like Ann Tompkins—it couldn’t be her. Ann Tompkins was dead by now. She had to be dead.

  He had almost convinced himself when Robert Tompkins stepped next to her—and then a young woman whose resemblance indisputably identified her as Ann’s daughter, flanked Ann on the other side.

  The pain in his chest was now breathtaking, and he spun around. He had to get out of this room. He had to think. He had to—

  He took two faltering steps, and ran straight into the solid wall of a man’s chest.

  “Out of my way!” he roared, fighting for breath as his chest continued to seize, weakening him with blinding, consuming pain. “I have to . . . leave. I have to—”

  “But the party’s just getting started,” the man said, gripping his arm when he frantically attempted to bull his way around him. “I’d hate to see you go before I had a chance to introduce myself.”

  The grip on his arm tightened like a vise. Gasping for air, Dalmage reached out, gripped the man’s shirt, and peered up into eyes as cold as gunmetal.

  “The name’s Green. Joe Green.”

  Fireballs exploded in his chest like hand grenades. He couldn’t bear it. He clutched at his throat. Felt his eyes bulge. His knees buckle.

  The collective gasps in the room barely registered as he dropped to his knees. He was aware only of pain. Layers on layers of pain, wave on unyielding wave.

  “Help . . . me,” he gasped, pleading into those cold hard eyes that stared down at him without an ounce of pity or compassion.

  He collapsed on his back on the floor, his world ending as blackness sucked him into the cold, dark deep.

  “Come on, you sonofabitch,” Joe muttered as he administered CPR to the man who had killed his friend, altered the course of his life, and plotted to sell out his own nation.

  “Joe.”

  He shook Stephanie’s hand off his shoulder and doggedly continued his compressions.

  “Joe,” Stephanie repeated more firmly, then got down on her knees beside him. “It’s over. He’s dead. There’s nothing more you can do.”

  The gravity of her tone finally got to him. He sat back on his heels, pressed his fists against his thighs, and tried to catch his breath.

  Dalmage was dead.

  It was what he’d wanted, what he’d lived for. But when he’d realized what was happening, instinct had taken over and he’d applied CPR.

  Because he’d realized Stephanie was right: Dalmage should pay publicly for what he’d done. Joe wanted him alive to stand trial before the American public. He wanted the world to know that this bastard was responsible for Bryan’s death.

  But Dalmage lay dead on the floor, his lifeless eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

  He felt cheated. He felt betrayed.

  “Come on, Joe.” Stephanie gently pulled him to his feet. “Time to let it go.”

  “Love you, too. I’ll talk to you again tomorrow, Mom.” Stephanie disconnected, then tossed her cell phone on her coffee table and leaned her head back against the plush sofa. She didn’t know who needed the daily contact more, her or her mother. She hugged her arms around herself, feeling a sudden chill despite the warmth of her heavy sweater, warm fuzzy socks, and her favorite jeans.

  Her dad had needed medical treatment before they could leave Minnesota. He had a concussion and needed several stitches in his head, but fortunately he was doing fine now.

  Dealing with the law enforcement in Minnesota had been another story. It had taken every weapon in Ann’s bag of DOJ tricks to convince them to keep a lid on the crime scene long enough to let them confront Dalmage. No one had imagined that less than twenty-four hours later, Dalmage would be dead.

  Joe’s big hand reached out, squeezed her thigh. “So . . . they’re doing okay?”

  She turned her face up to his and smiled. Tonight was the first night they’d been able to grab some time alone together since they’d returned to D.C.

  “They’re good.” She was proud of the strength both her mom and dad had shown through this entire ordeal. “Happy to be home, and happy to start putting this all behind them.”

  It had been three days since Dalmage had died of a massive heart attack. Three days of giving statements to the attorney general’s office and to the Department of Justice attorneys, turning over their theories and their findings, and explaining five dead bodies and a destroyed cabin in the wilds of Minnesota. It had taken a toll on all of them.

  She was exhausted. So was Joe, who still hadn’t recovered all of his strength. Unfortunately, the situation was far from over. The first news story had leaked yesterday, detailing a startlingly accurate account of Dalmage’s corruption—from his traitorous acts in Sierra Leone that had begun all those years ago; to EXnergy; to the murders of potential secretary of state appointments, and finally to her parents’ abduction and near miss with death. There would be more testimony over the next few weeks. Months of sorting out REE rights in Sierra Leone. Only because Nate Black was held in such high regard by the United States government for the covert work he and the BOIs performed were the names of the individuals responsible for uncovering Dalmage’s crimes and saving Ann and Robert’s lives withheld.

  Joe had dodged a bullet. Mike and Ty had also been spared. The president himself had leveled a mandate that their names would not be linked with the case under any circumstances. Because she was Ann and Robert’s daughter, Stephanie had been tied to the Dalmage affair, but her direct involvement in uncovering his crimes remained a secret.

  She became aware that Joe had grown very quiet beside her. “What?” she asked when she realized he was watching her.

  He brushed her hair away from her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. “How about you? Are you going to be able to put this all behind you?”

  She knew exactly what he was asking. She’d killed a man. It had been necessary and justified. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t going to be fallout. It didn’t mean she wasn’t going to spend many sleepless nights figuring out how to handle it.

  “I’ll be fine,” she assured him, because he didn’t need the weight of her issues on top of his own.

  She rose abruptly. “And right now I’m beyond starved. I think I’ll heat up that lasagna Rhonda sent over. Want some?” She turned toward the kitchen.

  He reached out and caught her hand, stopping her. He wanted to talk about it. She didn’t. The memory was still too raw. She wasn’t ready to face it yet.

  “Really, really hungry,” she said with a teasing grin, resisting the concern in his eyes that she knew would soon result in a “come to Jesus” talk about dealing with those feelings.

  He tugged harder, but she was literally saved by the bell. The doorbell.

  “Hello, gorgeous.” Mike Brown caught her up in his arms when she opened the door to him and Ty. “How about you and I run off into the sunset together? Blow this joint and that big ugly dude sitting like a stain on your pretty sofa. Hey, big ugly dude.” Mike waved to Joe, who flipped him the bird.

  Stephanie laughed and hugged Mi
ke back. “I’m going to miss you.”

  “I’m not,” Joe said. He walked across the room and shook Ty’s hand. “Hey, bud. How’s it going?”

  “It’s all good,” Ty said, then hugged Stephanie hello.

  “You guys want a beer?” Stephanie asked.

  “Can’t,” Ty said. “I’ve got a plane to catch. Some of us have to work for a living.”

  Mike looked wounded. “I bring you on board for a really excellent adventure, and you diss me? That is not cool, bro.”

  “Not to split hairs,” Ty said, giving back as good as Mike gave, “but you brought me on board for a—let’s see, how did you put it? Oh yeah: ‘a simple little copilot gig to West Africa and back.’ You never said a word about bullets, bad guys, or frostbite.”

  “You loved it,” Mike said confidently.

  Ty grinned. “Yeah,” he admitted, crossing his arms over his chest and widening his stance. “I did. Felt good to be back in action again.”

  “There was something else you loved,” Mike teased, and winked at Stephanie.

  Ty frowned at his brother. “What are you talking about?”

  “Seriously?” Mike made a sound of disbelief, then sing-songed, “Tyler and Jessie sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

  Ty, trying to look unaffected, made a sound of disgust. “What are you, twelve?”

  Mike looked at his brother with a maddening smile. “Hey, I’m not the one who was crushing on the pretty little Minnesota widow lady.”

  “I was not crushing, for Christsake,” Ty grumbled.

  “Like hell. I know that look. You were smitten.”

  “Show her a little respect.” Ty’s face turned red. “She saved our bacon when she gave us those guns.”

  Mike pressed a hand against his chest. “I’ve got nothing but respect and gratitude for that woman. I just don’t want to show my gratitude the same way you do. So when are you headed back up north, Nanook?”

  Ty set his jaw and glared. “Shut up, Mikey. Just . . . shut up.”

  Stephanie was still grinning when the brothers left a few minutes later, still lobbing insults at each other.

  “I thought Laurel and Hardy would never leave,” Joe said, closing the door behind them.

  “They are a pair,” she agreed.

  “And I’d have either one watch my back any day.”

  Yeah, she thought. The BOI team—who had returned from their mission just yesterday and had all been on the phone with Joe since—hadn’t been able to help but Mike and Ty had stepped up to the plate like pros.

  “I knew Mike was a Navy pilot in another life, but I hadn’t realized Ty also had a military background.” She headed for the kitchen to finally heat up the lasagna.

  “Followed his big brother’s footsteps,” Joe said, trailing her. “Pretty awesome, when you think about it.”

  Yeah. It was pretty awesome. But the way he said it made it sound a little sad.

  Or maybe it was just her. Her big brother, Bryan, had been on her mind a lot these past harrowing days.

  “Steph?”

  Joe’s voice made her realize she’d zoned out. Apparently it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to get her attention.

  “Sorry. What?”

  “I’m going to go take a shower while that heats up, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. I’ll have everything ready by the time you’re finished.”

  While the microwave hummed quietly in the background, she leaned her forearms on the counter, lowered her head between them, and closed her eyes.

  And saw Carl Wilson fall dead on the floor again.

  I killed a man.

  She lifted her head abruptly and drove the memory from her mind. She thought about her parents instead. About how she’d almost lost them. About the blood, and bruises.

  Okay—not the best deterrent.

  She was just going to have to live with those images for a while, she conceded as the bloody scene in the cabin flashed through her mind again. The horror of finding Joe in that Freetown jail. The look in Suah’s eyes when they’d left him.

  She was going to live with a lot of things, for a very long time.

  27

  They ate dinner in silence, then she shooed him into the living area while she cleaned up.

  Joe sat on the sofa, flipping through the news channels, stealing covert glances as she made work of nothing. How long did it take to tidy up the kitchen? A long time, apparently, when you were determined to avoid a very specific conversation.

  He’d had enough of her stalling. He turned the TV off and tossed the remote on the coffee table.

  “Stephanie. Come here.”

  “Almost finished,” she said, wiping down the counter for the third time. He knew it was the third time because he’d counted. “Then I want to give Rhonda a call.”

  He pushed to his feet and stalked barefoot across the cool wood floor into the kitchen.

  “With me.” He latched on to her wrist, dragged her into the living area, and sank back down on the sofa with her on his lap. “I want you to talk to me.”

  She didn’t pretend not to understand. But she had no intention of having this conversation. “Joe, give it a rest. And give me some credit. I’m fine. There’s nothing—”

  “Stop it.”

  He hadn’t meant to snap. And he hadn’t expected to see that beautiful poker face crumble.

  Damn. He sucked at this.

  “Look,” he said when she looked down, her hair hiding her face. He reached up and tucked it behind her ear. “You’re dealing with the Grand Poobah of denial here, okay? You think I can’t see that things are eating you up inside?”

  A single tear landed on her folded hands. Still she wouldn’t look at him.

  Hell.

  He felt heartsick for her and the unjustified guilt she was feeling. “It’s never easy to take a life, Steph. Sometimes, it’s just necessary.”

  Her shoulders sagged and she just sort of folded, leaning against him, her cheek on his chest, her hand on his shoulder. “He was going to kill you. He was going to kill Mom and Dad. So why do I feel this horrible remorse?”

  “Because you hold life precious. Because you’re trying to attribute your values, your heart, to a cold-blooded killer. But it doesn’t work that way, Steph. People like Dalmage, like Carl Wilson and his team, they’ve got something missing. They’re defective.”

  “They’re human beings.”

  “They’re not. Not in the way normal people are human. They’re sharks, Stephanie. Predators. Put you in a room with a goldfish, you’ll nurture it. Put a shark in a tank with that goldfish and he’ll eat it. Without a thought to what it means to the goldfish. That’s the difference between them and us.”

  He curled a finger under her chin and tipped her face to his. “You can’t pity them. You can’t fix them. You can’t inject them with a dose of humanity or compassion or whatever it is that makes us different from them. They’re unredeemable. So you eliminate them. And the world’s a better, safer place without them.”

  She tucked her head back under his jaw, was quiet for a very long time. Finally, she exhaled deeply then looked up at him again.

  “Why is it, that a man who has such difficulty expressing his own feelings, knows so much about how to help me with mine?”

  This was the part he’d been dreading. When he’d forced her to open up to him, to help her sort things out, he’d known she’d expect the same in return.

  Didn’t mean it was going to be easy.

  He stared at the ceiling, knowing she was waiting. Knowing what she deserved from him.

  “Soldiers aren’t supposed to talk about . . . things, you know?” He glanced at her, saw in her eyes that she did know. “From the time you enlist to the time you get out, it’s all about sucking it up, shoving it back, locking it inside.”

  “It’s not healthy.”

  “In the real world, no, it’s not healthy,” he agreed. “But it serves a purpose in the military. In covert ops. I
t makes you strong. Keeps you focused. One enemy. One goal. One-track mind. If you’re weak, if you falter, somebody dies.”

  “Sometimes they die anyway,” she said softly, and he knew she was thinking of her brother.

  Would he always feel that he could have prevented Bry’s death? Probably. He would always wonder if there was something he could have done. But the guilt . . . he wasn’t going to carry that any longer. Dalmage was responsible. And Dalmage had paid. Now he had to let it go.

  When it came to Bobby’s death, though, there was nowhere to shift the blame. He owned that one, lock, stock, and barrel.

  He needed to tell her. His heart slammed out a couple of beats at double time. She was waiting. This was going to be so fucking hard.

  “My little brother,” he began, but had to stop because his mouth had gone bone dry.

  Long moments passed, his heart pounding, his breath shallow, before he worked up the courage to meet the eyes that were focused on him with shock and concern.

  “You have a brother?”

  She was trying not to sound hurt. What kind of a man, after all, withheld something like that from the woman he loved? From the woman who loved him?

  “Had a brother,” he said hoarsely. He looked away. Clenched his jaw. “Bobby was ten when he died.”

  “Oh, Joe.” The compassion in her voice was humbling. But compassion was totally misplaced on him.

  “I killed him,” he said flat out before he lost his nerve and bailed on her.

  The harsh, stark words hung in the air while he waited for compassion to change to horror and disgust.

  But apparently she didn’t get it. Tears welled in her eyes. Tears he could barely see through the mist that suddenly burned in his.

  He couldn’t sit still any longer. He set her aside, pushed himself off the sofa, and paced. Eyes down. Shoulders stooped with the weight of the secret he’d carried all these years.

  He’d never told anyone. Not Nate. Not the guys. Didn’t talk about it with his parents. Not when it happened, and not after the funeral.

  Sweep it under the rug. Let the sleeping dog lie. Lock the door. Don’t ever let it out.