by Ronie Kendig
4 June – 1045 Hours
Boone sprinted from the parking lot into the hospital. He punched the button for the elevator and shoved back, watching the light. “C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered. His pulse hadn’t slowed since Rusty’s call an hour ago. Stupid traffic coming down Route 7 killed his timing. That and the cop who pulled him over.
With a ding, the elevator door slid open.
Boone threw himself forward—and skidded to a stop. An elderly woman shuffled forward. He slapped out a hand to keep the door open and secretly wanted to lift the woman and place her outside. Would’ve been faster.
“Thank you,” the woman said in a shaky, frail voice.
Hitting the third-floor button, he stepped back. Clasped his hands. Glanced at the numbers above the door. Then to the still-open door. Why isn’t it closing already?
Finally, it slid shut. And the elevator slowly lifted.
Should’ve taken the stairs.
The lift alighted and the door took its time opening again. Boone shoved himself through the space as soon as he’d fit. Free of the box and its confinements, he jogged to the end of the hall.
Rusty stood outside, arms folded, pinching his lips as he stared through the wire-beveled glass.
“Rus,” Boone gruffed as he approached.
Off the wall, Rusty gave him an “I’m really sorry” expression.
“What’s happening?”
Rusty jutted his jaw in the direction of the room. A half-dozen doctors and medical staff were crowded around. An annoying noise rattled across Boone’s hearing, but he was focused on Keeley’s form. Almost as frail as the old woman from the elevator.
“They’re not sure,” Rusty said. “She’s been flatlining on and off for the last thirty minutes.”
“Why?” Boone growled. “She was almost ready to come home.”
“They’re running tests. Checking for an internal bleed or injury they missed…” Rusty folded his arms. “I’m sorry, man.”
“Not your fault,” Boone muttered as he moved to the window. He planted his hands on the blue-painted steel frame. His breath, warm against the cool glass, bloomed in a fog.
Too many scrubs-covered bodies blocked his view. He leaned to the side, trying to see around them, but it was no good. Boone pushed off and went to the door.
A doctor stepped out, a hand going to Boone’s chest.
Though everything in him wanted to take that hand and secure it behind the doc’s shoulder blade, Boone restrained himself. “What’s wrong? What happened to her?”
“Mr. Ramage, that’s what we’re working to figure out.” He pointed with a clipboard to a corner of the hall then walked that way. Once they were out of traffic and earshot of the others in the corridor, the doctor sighed.
“She was fine. You told me she would be waking up any day. I’m gone for four days, and I get a call that she’s on the verge of death. What happened?” Boone demanded, glancing to the room as another nurse exited. As the door slid shut, two nurses moved in opposite directions, and for a split second Boone saw Keeley.
Or rather, a ghost of Keeley. A strange tinge colored her face and made her look drawn. Aged. Her lips were almost blue.
“Look, I…” The doctor scrubbed the back of his head.
“What aren’t you telling me? You have a theory, don’t you?”
Again, the doc sighed. “I don’t. I wish I did, because then we could attempt to be proactive, but… I’m confounded. It makes no sense.”
Eyes on where Keeley’s toes pushed up the blanket, Boone willed her not to leave him. “I just don’t understand how we went from ‘she’s coming home soon’ to ‘she’s on the brink of death.’ ”
“I don’t either,” the doc admitted. “Excuse me. I need to study the labs again, compare them to new labs. I’ll keep you posted.”
After the doctor and most of the staff left, Keeley’s heart rate and blood pressure moderately stabilized, Boone slipped into the room. He went to her side and took her hand, cringing at the tubing that snaked down her throat and the thinner tubes anchored into the top of her hand.
“Keeley,” he whispered, lifting her hand gently to his lips and kissing the spot by her thumb where the IV didn’t interfere. “Please come on, baby. Don’t do this to me. Don’t leave me.” His throat felt raw and thick. “I need you.”
Annie
Lucketts, Virginia
4 June – 1315 Hours
What was wrong with her? The one man she’d wanted a relationship with was here, waiting on her. Right outside the showers in the lounge. Waiting to talk. Waiting to pick up where they’d left off. Sam was everything she wanted in a guy—kind, romantic, tenacious, handsome, honest, full of integrity. And he liked her. A lot, obviously, considering all he’d done to find her.
I should be flattered.
Showered, dressed, and sitting on the floor, she hugged her knees to her chest. Rested her head against the tiled wall and willed herself to go out there. Face the music. Stop being ridiculous.
And yet here she sat.
Maybe it was Trace’s fault. What he said, what he did—his touch against her jaw that she could still feel—reignited all the old feelings. Old promises. Broken promises. Promises she’d begged God for the first two years after Misrata to fulfill.
“Annie?” Téya’s voice echoed in the room seconds before her leggy friend rounded the corner and stopped short. “Sam’s waiting for you.”
Annie nodded but didn’t move.
Téya tossed her towel and change of clothes on the counter by one of the showers. “And why are we avoiding the hot-n-hunky Mr. SEAL?” She crossed her legs at the ankle and sat. “What am I missing?”
“The same thing I am, apparently.” Annie sighed and peeled herself off the wall.
“What’s wrong?”
“He doesn’t belong here.”
“Do any of us?”
“We do—you and I. Trace and Boone, Noodle. But not Sam,” Annie said, her words cracking on raw emotion. “This, what we’re going through, what we’ve done, what happened in Misrata—it’s a nightmare. Half our team is dead or dying, and I don’t want Sam to end up like that.”
Téya considered her.
Annie slumped back against the wall. She knew those words were more like the wrapper on a burger and not the meat itself. “What?”
“Well,” Téya said as she pushed to her feet. “If David walked in here right now, I sure wouldn’t be moping in the shower. Especially knowing what we’re facing, what’s out there trying to kill us. I’d be all over him—well, not literally—to make sure we had every moment we could get.”
“Would you? Really?” Annie felt worse. Guiltier. “But it’d put David in danger.”
“Girl, please.” Téya went to the shower and twisted the knobs. “You are so not getting that over on me. That hunk out there is a SEAL, Annie. He knows how to handle himself. So, I know that’s not the problem behind you hiding in here. No.” She wagged her fingers at Annie, motioning her to get off the floor. “Stand and tell the truth.”
“That is the truth.” Annie stood.
“No.” Téya folded her arms. “That’s what you’re telling yourself so you don’t have to face the truth.”
“Yeah, and what truth is that?”
“Your feelings for Trace are still too strong. And you can’t decide between the two.” Téya smiled, took hold of Annie’s shoulders, then aimed her toward the lounge. “To be honest, I’m not sure who I’d pick either. But staying in here is only going to make that hair of yours frizzy.”
A shove pushed Annie into the open.
Sam looked up, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second. He started to push to his feet then slowly finished the movement. And man! Téya was right—Sam was a hunk. Wearing a navy T-shirt and a faded pair of jeans only made him look more GQ. “Still hate me?” His rich baritone voice still smoothed her tension and made her relax.
“I don’t hate you.” Annie sagged as she release
d her frustration. “I just…”
“You don’t want me here.”
She sighed and closed the distance between them. Easing onto the sofa, she tucked a foot beneath her as she sat. “It’s dangerous, Sam.”
He smirked, angling his torso toward her. “You do realize I’ve run plenty of combat operations. I’ve shot people and been shot, Annie.”
Her heart spasmed, hearing him use her real name. Guilt tugged at her. “That’s weird…”
“It is for me, too. But I’m in. Whatever it takes.”
And that frustrated her. Why, she couldn’t explain because she didn’t know. He was nice. Too nice. Too understanding.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asked.
Annie gave a halfhearted shake of her head.
“I feel like I’ve lost you again.”
She sighed. “Sam—” she met his gaze and felt the walls around her heart stagger, so she looked down “—things are really messed up right now. There’s so much you don’t know—”
“Then tell me.”
“I can’t.” This time, she saw disbelief and hurt in his chocolate eyes.
“Annie, I’m here. I’ve been on a mission with you and your team. I’ve seen them.”
“But you don’t know—” She snapped her mouth shut. What would he think when he found out she’d been the team leader responsible for the deaths of twenty-two innocent lives? Would his resolute belief in her waiver? She believed it would. Sam was too good a person to accept something so heinous. “Sam, it’s so complicated. So dangerous for you to know, even though you’re here. Even though we are here, there are men still trying to kill us. Men resolved to make sure we stay out of the way or silent.”
“Fill me in. I’ve got the clearance level, Annie. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I fought to find out, and I’m not just walking away.”
“Sam, you don’t belong here.” Something about his resolution to stay involved made her feel like a heavy blanket had been thrown over her face. Breathing grew harder.
“I belong with you.”
Annie met his gaze. Yes, she wanted that. Believed that. But with her, not with her here.
Sam touched her face, and she leaned into the warmth of his caress, closing her eyes. He tugged her closer, and she let her temple rest against his shoulder. “Why does it scare you that I’m here, Annie?”
Eyes closed, she thought about how to answer that. Truth was, she didn’t know. Was it as simple as not wanting him to get hurt? Yes, a big part—she’d killed twenty-two people. She didn’t want to make it twenty-three.
But Sam was a SEAL. He knew how to fight. Knew how to operate.
But if he saw her operate… what would he think? When he found out she’d killed children and women…? “I don’t know,” she whispered.
He held her close, his chin resting atop her head. “Take your time figuring it out. I’m not going anywhere. Weston has made that clear.”
Annie lifted her head. Met his gaze. Their noses almost touched, and she could feel his breath fanning across her cheek.
He homed in on her mouth.
Her heart hammered. But instead of kissing him, she pulled back. Then hated herself because she saw the hurt in his eyes again. “Sorry,” she whispered. Telling herself she should just kiss him now, let him know she still liked him. Still wanted to figure things out. “I—”
“Annie!”
Her breath backed into her throat. She turned just as Trace stalked past the oddly angled walls that provided a bit of privacy in the lounge. His expression went from stern to anger in a heartbeat. He and Sam shared a long, hateful look.
Annie stood, intentionally blocking their glare-off. “What’s wrong?”
“Need you and Téya out here.”
Sam had come to his feet now, standing behind her possessively. And she couldn’t deny the jealous rage that spread through Trace’s face did her wounded heart a lot of good. But she didn’t want them at odds just for her thirst for revenge against Trace. She didn’t have a thirst for vengeance, truth be told.
“I’ll let her know,” she said, then turned to Sam and slid her hand along his arm until she clasped his fingers. “We can finish this later.”
Sam nodded.
Annie toyed with giving him a quick kiss, but they hadn’t really moved to that level. Or past the obvious rift between them. She squeezed his fingers then went to the showers.
“Give her room and time to figure this out.” Trace didn’t sound confrontational with that warning to Sam, but Annie knew better. She also knew what Sam would say.
“You mean, give her room so you can step back in.”
Yeah. About like that… She hated the tension between them, but she lingered within earshot to hear what Trace would say.
“What Annie and I had ended five years ago.”
Trace’s words were like a hot branding iron through her heart, searing any hope she had that they’d get back together. And that was it. That was why she didn’t want Sam here. She hadn’t given up on Trace. Even though he’d ripped her heart out. And now…he’d done it again.
“So there was a ‘you and her’ then?”
Sam sounded furious but also enjoyed getting the dig in.
“If you know anything about her, you’d be smart to bury that and give her the room she needs. Annie can’t be forced to do anything she doesn’t want to do. And if you try, you’ll only tick her off.”
Trace
Pentagon, Arlington County, Virginia
5 June – 0910 Hours
Not only had he lost her, but he’d lost her to a squid. For two minutes on the plane, he’d imagined she might actually let him back into her life, forgive him for what he’d done. Being that close to her, smelling that lavender body wash she’d used years ago, he’d nearly given in to those desires. Nearly kissed her.
Call him crazy, but he was pretty sure she would’ve let him.
Then the SEAL came around the corner.
Trace tucked his cover in his right leg pocket and strode down the hall of the Pentagon with General Solomon to the office of the Army’s service chief, General Barry Cantor. They stepped into the office area and were met by a young lieutenant seated behind a desk. His name patch read HOLLINGS.
“Morning,” Solomon said. “We have an appointment with Barry.”
“Yes, sir,” Hollings responded as he stood. “He’s waiting, sirs.” He led them down a short hall and past three additional doors to one that had the black name plate with CANTOR stamped in white. After two firm raps, he pushed into the room.
“General Solomon and Lieutenant Colonel Weston are here, sir.”
“Good, good.” Cantor came around his massive desk and crossed the office. “Come in, Haym.” The two greeted each other like long-lost brothers with a firm handshake that pulled into a back-slapping fest. “How’s Vivienne doing since her surgery?”
“Oh, that was six months ago. She’s fine.”
“And that beautiful daughter of yours? How’s she? Found a good Ranger or Green Beret to run off with?” Cantor’s eyes crinkled in a deep smile as he turned to Trace. “You didn’t steal her away from him, did you?”
Heat rushed up past the tan shirt collar and up his neck. “No, sir.” Francesca would rather gut him than date him. And the feeling was mutual.
Cantor slapped his shoulder. “Oh, don’t be embarrassed to admit you noticed how beautiful she is—in fact, Hollings out there has been trying to get her phone number since he met her at the Christmas gala.”
“I’m not sure Francesca would date Army,” Haym said. “Seems quite determined to do everything opposite me.”
“At least she’s in the military like her brothers, eh?” Cantor pointed them to where a black leather sofa and two chairs sat huddled in a conversation area. He offered coffee and water, and when they refused, he steered them right into the reason for the meeting. “How are those boys?”
“Grown fighters,” Haym said, his words drenched with the pr
ide that drew up his shoulders. “However, I think you know more about Paolo than I do, I believe.”
Appreciation for the words colored Cantor’s face. “Imagine that’s right,” he said with a laugh.
Trace might not be privy to the facts of these men’s lives, but he could read between the lines as well as the best. Clearly, Haym’s eldest son had gone into an intelligence-related field that put him under the direction of Cantor. The knowledge made Trace a little more ill at ease. He had Haym on his side, but the man’s daughter enjoyed breathing fire down his neck. Would the eldest son do the same?
“So, she might not be trying to date you, but it seems our dear Francesca is trying to slice open your old wounds.”
Trace blinked, the general’s ability to switch topics so fast it left a soldier with whiplash no less sharp today as they sat here. He cleared his throat. “Apparently, sir.” A quick look to Haym told Trace there were no ill feelings.
“Well, I’ll tell you—Marlowe is out for blood.”
Trace nodded.
“Namely, yours.”
Another nod. “Yes, sir. I believe he’s been after it for the last five years.”
“What about the girls?”
Trace hesitated, wishing now he’d accepted the offer for a glass of water. He didn’t talk openly about Zulu.
“I have reports the one in the hospital isn’t doing well.”
Something about this man having such credible, up-to-date information unsettled Trace.
“And The Turk!” He guffawed. “Heavens have mercy—how on earth are you getting so tangled up in everything?”
Trace shifted on the leather chair. Wasn’t this meeting to discuss the investigation? To prep Trace for what was to come? To warn him to keep his lips tight and his information tighter?
“And what about that SEAL you had to wrangle into submission?” the general asked, snickering. “I would’ve paid money to see that go down.”
“Holding his own, sir.” Irritation clawed its way up Trace’s spine and kept him from looking the general in the eye and giving away his anger.
“And you?”
Trace snapped his gaze to the general. “Sir?”
“How are you holding up? It’s been one brutal mess.”