by Ronie Kendig
Then pitch black.
Boone lunged. “He’s shot!”
Boone
Mediterranean Sea
7 June – 0320 Hours
They’d searched for an hour and still nothing. Boone could not face the failure of losing Sam, not with Annie right here.
“Keep searching,” Trace said. “He’s got the skills to survive. Don’t leave that water without him.”
Though Trace didn’t say it, Boone knew he meant dead or alive.
“He’s a squid,” Leo said. “He knows how to beat this.”
Nuala lifted the thermals and scanned the choppy sea. “What do you think?” she asked quietly. “Is he out there? Alive?”
Boone stood at the rail, gripping it tightly as he stood with Nuala. “Out there, yes. Alive”—he cocked his head—“if he got shot…”
At the bow, Annie stood with a jacket wrapped around her shoulders, watching. Silent. Devastated.
“She’ll crack,” Nuala whispered. “She’s held it together, but Sam…”
“She was pretty cold toward him when we rescued her in the forest. I didn’t think she wanted him around,” Boone said, his gaze never leaving the water.
“He thought so, too. Y’all haven’t figured out women yet? You have a lot to learn about women,” Nuala teased. “Annie loves Sam. She might not know it yet, but when we first came to the bunker, she talked about nothing but getting back to him. She pushed him away because she was afraid of losing him.”
“So, in other words, if I don’t want her to hate me for the rest of my life, I better find this Squid—alive.”
“Alive would be preferable.” Nuala gave him a smile without looking.
“He’s a SEAL,” Boone said with a fake sneer.
“He’s handsome. He pursued her. He never gave up on her. A girl likes that.”
“All girls?”
Nuala drew back from the nocs and met Boone’s gaze. She stood a head shorter than him, but she had the chutzpah to be a sniper and face down many a deadly foe. “Yeah,” she said, her words even softer than normal.
Boone stilled. Something just happened there, with Nuala. He wasn’t sure what. Somehow, he had this feeling something he’d said held an entirely different meaning to her. That look meant something. He recalled the hints Téya and Annie had dropped about Nuala having a thing for him.
He winced. Never meant to lead her on. He’d asked the question with Keeley in mind.
She returned to the watch. “Keeley will get better, then you can be the gallant hero you always are, and you’ll know then that I’m right.”
The gallant hero you always are…
Is that how Noodle really saw him? Not as some messed-up country hick?
“Boone.” Her breathy declaration of his name came only seconds before she touched his arm. “Boone, I see something.” She handed the nocs to him. “Four o’clock.”
“Send the signal.” He took the thermal binoculars and searched the area she’d pointed out as Nuala used the SureFire to flick the rescue code. “I’m not seeing any—” A dark huddle bobbed on the water. “I’m not seeing a response.”
“What if he’s”—dead?—“unconscious?”
“Leo,” Boone shouted. “We have something.”
The ultrafast patrol boat swung in the direction, churning a foamy wake as they raced toward the dark huddle.
They were within twenty yards when Nuala called out. “It’s him! He’s not conscious.”
Boone grabbed a hook and hurried to the side of the boat. With him were Leo’s two men, who leaned over and helped drag Sam’s body onto the boat. “Easy, easy.” Hauling him up over the side was about like trying to hoist an anchor with his bare hands.
Sam was limp. Dead weight. His head hung and his arms dangled like seaweed. Water dribbled down his face and hair.
They fumbled him up and over and laid him in the back. Even as he sliced away the Squid’s dive vest and equipment, Boone felt the patrol boat roaring toward safety. Away from the Aegean Mercy. Away from the sea that may have taken Sam Caliguari’s life.
X
Annie
Mediterranean Sea
7 June – 0320 Hours
Dread dripped heavy and black as Annie watched the three men lower Sam’s limp body to the deck of the high-powered boat. The constant slap-slap of the hull against the choppy waters only agitated her nerves and Boone’s dark mood as he assessed Sam.
“Move, move!” another man shouted from behind her, pushing into the fray. He dropped a large red-and-white box on the deck as he went to a knee. He lifted Sam’s arm and held his wrist as he dug through the kit.
“Anything, Nigel?” Boone cut away the vest that had the oxygen tank and the inflated life vest. Sam had clearly pulled the emergency cord on the vest. If he hadn’t, would they ever have found him?
“What can I do?” Annie asked.
“Stay out of the way,” Nigel barked without looking at her. “Nothing.” He shook his head. “No pulse, no circulation. Start compressions. Leo, get the oxygen.”
Immediately, Boone went to work pumping and counting off the compressions. It hurt to breathe, to watch them trying to save Sam, to know that Sam might not survive this. Why had he volunteered for this mission? Why did he think he could do it?
“You.” Nigel’s gaze hit Annie as he held up a trauma sponge. “Hold that on the wound.”
Grateful to be useful rather than standing around watching Sam die in front of her, Annie cut away the dive suit from the wound and pressed the quick-clot sponge to Sam’s wound, which was partially sitting in his chest and part on his shoulder.
Leo had high-flow oxygen going as Nigel slid a needle into Sam’s arm and attached a tube to a bag marked SALINE.
“C’mon, Squid,” Boone said as he pumped his hands against Sam’s chest. Each time Boone compressed, blood seeped around her fingers.
Annie grunted, furious that she couldn’t stop it.
“Press harder!” Nigel barked.
Pump.
Squirt.
She pressed even harder, straightening so she knelt over his body, her arms fully extended.
“Harder! If you want him to live, get that bleeding stopped.”
Pressing with both hands to stop the bleeding, she glanced from Boone’s much-larger hands to Leo holding the oxygen mask…to Sam’s slack, gray face.
No, he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t die. “Sam, c’mon!” Annie ground out, shoving back tears and panic. “C’mon, Calamari—breathe!”
“Got a pulse,” Nigel said, holding a hand to Boone, who eased off the compressions. “His pulse is thready, but he’s still not breathing—probably has water in his lungs. Keep the O2 going.”
Water in his lungs? As in…drowned.
As in might not live.
As in died trying to prove to me that he belonged here. Because that’s why he’d volunteered for this mission, right? Because she’d said he shouldn’t be with them. And thick-headed SEAL that he was, he wanted to prove he should. She just wanted him to return to Manson.
Now, he might not return at all. To Manson. To her. “Sam…” Tears slid from Annie’s eyes, a mixture of anger and panic. “Please…”
“Maybe he’s been gone too long,” Leo said. “Who knows how long he was like that before we found him. He could be brain dead—”
“No!” Annie ground out, hot tears spilling over her cheeks. “He’s not! Save him. Keep pumping that oxygen.” She bent toward Sam’s head and ran a hand over his dry hair. Oddly dry thanks to the hood he’d worn. “Hey—” Her throat constricted as that lone word trembled, forcing her to clear her throat. “Calamari, please…fight!”
“Losing his heartbeat again,” Nigel said. “Boone.”
And immediately the big guy started compressions again.
“Sam,” Annie said with a half whimper. “C’mon,” she growled. “Fight. Breathe!”
Boone pounded Sam’s chest with the heel of his fist. “Fight, y
ou worthless squid!” He pounded again, Sam’s body bouncing from the force.
“It’s no good,” Leo said.
Annie wanted to punch the guy. “You can’t stop. His heart was just going.”
“But if he’s been without oxygen, he—”
“Keep. Going.” Annie heard her words bounce back to her in a hollow echo on the sea.
A gurgle snagged her attention back to Sam. Water spurted up. He coughed.
“Roll him over—easy!” Nigel lifted Sam’s wounded shoulder and moved him onto his side, thumping his back as Boone steadied Sam.
With another cough, Sam hurled water and vomit all over the deck. He vomited again, gagging and coughing.
“Easy, easy,” Nigel intoned, lowering him back to the deck.
Shaking his head, Sam coughed more, his eyes clenched in pain. Then the shakes started.
“I need to take care of that wound,” Nigel said.
“Inside.” Boone, Leo, and Nigel hoisted Sam off the deck, and Annie grabbed the med kit, knowing they’d need that for the surgery. They ushered Sam into the belly of the patrol boat that had a too-short galley table.
Annie set the med kit on a counter behind where Nigel stood. When she turned, rich dark eyes—still weighted with pain—held hers. She moved around to the other side and placed her hand over his, surprised when his cold fingers coiled around hers.
Boone
“Will he live?”
Boone sat in a cuddy, phone pressed to his ear, the boat racing back to shore, bent nearly in half as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Probably, but he’ll be out of commission for a while with that shoulder wound.” The space was confined and would work well to sleep, but not necessarily decompress. At least, not for him. Maybe for the Squid. “What about the Lorings? Did they see or say anything while he was in the yacht?”
“Nothing. They’re pretty quiet.”
“Guess it was too much to hope that they’d see something…”
“Boone…” Trace’s voice went quiet. Stiff.
And so did Boone’s spine. Keeley. He straightened. His head thunked against the hull, so he moved into the stairwell. “How is she?”
Trace let out a heavy sigh. “It’s not good. Her organs are shutting down. She’s on full dialysis—”
“I told you I had to stay there. I told you this was a bad—”
“No choice, Boone. You know that. With the hearing, I couldn’t leave the country. We needed someone out there. You’re all I had.”
“Quade could’ve come.”
“Annie would’ve killed him.”
Boone almost smiled. Instead, his mind swung toward the woman lying on her deathbed, it seemed. He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, letting everything in him go silent. “I can’t lose her…”
“First things first. Let’s get Zulu and you stateside first.”
“Sam is immobile.”
“For how long?”
“Unknown. Nigel’s sewing him up. We might have trouble leaving the country with the way that tactical team hit the yacht and Sam,” Boone said, harnessing his emotions and focusing on the mission again. He wasn’t forgetting about Keeley; he was operating in a manner that would get him back to her the fastest.
“Already worked out. You’ll have an escort waiting when you make land.”
After the call, Boone moved out into the salty sea air. He gripped the rails, knowing he wouldn’t be any use down with Sam. Besides, he needed the sea air to clear his mind. His heart. Keeley was dying. There was no other way around it. No use pretending it wasn’t happening. No use clinging to false hopes that she’d miraculously pull out of organ failure. What happened? What had changed that she’d go downhill so fast and so completely?
And Sam. Though he’d started breathing on his own, was there brain damage? How long had he been dead? Because that’s what it was—right?—when someone wasn’t breathing and their heart wasn’t beating? Yeah, Boone would call that dead.
And Trace. Back there in DC fighting for his life—again. Thanks to the meddling of a tenacious intelligence analyst with a vested interest in the outcome: revenge. How many times had he wanted to go deliver some hard truth to her, get her off Trace’s back. Off Zulu’s.
The team. The girls. Sometimes he felt bad for calling them that, but there was a level of affection—not in a romantic or perverted way. As if he were their big brother, watching over them. Training them. Protecting them.
Failing them. Jessie. Candice. Now Keeley.
He leaned on the rails and pressed his face into his hands. About now he wished he’d been more of a praying man like his dad. Resting his forearms on the metal rail, he stared out over the choppy waters and wondered if God would listen to him now.
That was stupid. He knew He would. Dad had always said God wasn’t just waiting for us to talk to Him, but that He actively searched the earth for someone with a heart willing to serve. Did God barter? Could Boone promise to serve God if He let Keeley live?
But wasn’t that an empty promise? Just like the soldier who promised to do his best if… Well, the scenario didn’t matter. You either did your best or you didn’t. If your best depended on circumstances, then that meant you weren’t dependable. Who’d want to put their lives in the hands of someone who evaluated whether or not to give their best on what they’d get in return? What cowardice.
Boone sighed. Maybe it did make him a coward, but… “God, please—do something for her.”
“Think He hears?”
Angling to the side, Boone looked at Annie as she closed the gap between them. “My dad says He does, but I… religion and I didn’t get along when I was high school. Too many rules.”
Annie snorted. “Right, so you joined the Army.”
He grinned and bent forward, resting his arms on the rail again. “Yeah, but it was physical. I needed to be doing.”
“I believe He hears us. I’d just like to know why He doesn’t answer.” Annie’s small hands wrapped around the metal bar.
“Are we talking about God, or Trace?”
Annie gave him a startled look then opened her mouth to respond. But nothing came out. She pressed her lips together as she pushed her gaze to the moon. “He told you?”
With a shake of his head, Boone pulled himself straight. “Trace talks to me about pretty much everything. We hit it off the first day we were teamed. I could look at him and know what he was thinking. And vice versa. I respect him. A lot. And I’d like to think he feels the same. We don’t really have any secrets—even when we try to keep them. He knew from day one about Keeley.”
“How is she?”
“Dying.” The word felt cold and hollow. Boone picked up the roughed-up edges of his thoughts and plowed on. “My point being—Trace and I know each other. We don’t keep secrets.” He met her gaze. “Except when it comes to you.”
Her wide blue eyes searched his, as if looking for his meaning.
“Trace won’t talk about what happened.”
Tucking some of that wild blond hair behind her ear, she once more pushed her gaze outward. “You mean…what happened after Misrata?”
“I mean between you two. He’s never spoken of it.”
“Oh.” Her voice was small, her sagging shoulders smaller. Even with the limited light from the moon, he saw her chin puckering as if she were about to cry. “I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised.” She scraped together a brave, fake smile. “Trace has always been about the mission.”
“That’s not quite what I meant.”
Uncertainty creased her brow as she turned to him. “What did you mean, Boone? Because I’ll be honest—if you’re going to tell me Trace has put his feelings for me aside—”
Boone touched her back gently. “The only time Trace Weston goes dark, goes silent, is when he doesn’t know what to do.” He gave her a soft smile. “That tells me how much you mean to him. How much whatever happened affected him.”
Quiet lapping of the waters danced between th
em, Annie seeming to ruminate over his words. Over lines he may have crossed. He was sure Trace would run him up the flagpole for what he’d just told Annie.
“Maybe he’s too late, Boone.”
He gave a slow nod. “Reckon I guessed that with the Squid showing up. And truth be told, I think Trace knows, too.”
Rubbing her fingers together, Annie chewed her lower lip. The tension that crept into her soft features reminded Boone of the way Keeley acted when she was fighting back something. A truth, a painful realization, or a secret.
“Ya okay?”
“I…” Her voice cracked. She took in a shuddering breath then brushed back some curls the sea breeze tossed into her face. “It’s hard to know what the right thing is.”
“About…?”
With an apologetic smile she worked to fight the tears glossing her eyes. “Sam… Trace…” She bunched up her shoulders. “A part of me wants to punish Trace. Make him hurt the way he hurt me. But that’s not why Sam and I… that’s not why I like Sam.”
“Trace and Sam are a lot alike.”
“Too much.” Annie gave a soft snort. “I know how to pick them, don’t I?”
“You do,” Boone said with a laugh. “I can’t say the Squid is worth your breath. I mean, he is a Navy SEAL after all.”
“Was,” Annie corrected.
“No, once that’s in your blood, it’s in for good. Just like SF.”
Annie bounced her legs. “I don’t want to hurt Trace, Boone.”
“Especially now.”
She turned to him, frowning. “What do you mean? Because of Sam? Or because of what’s happening with Zulu?”
Boone straightened, cursing himself for letting that one slip. “Because of Zulu.” It wasn’t a whole lie.
Shoot. He shouldn’t be lying at all if he wanted God to answer his prayer about Keeley, but Trace would skin him alive if she found out. “I’d better check on the Squid.”
Trace
Capitol Hill, Washington DC
8 June – 0900 Hours
The cherry blossoms had long since bloomed down on the Mall, and the streets were now crowded with tourists, flocking to the nation’s capital to visit the museums, historic locations, and the seat of power. Halls of the Capitol teemed with overpaid suits and power-hungry politicos, who had too often turned their backs on the military volunteers fighting fierce, brutal wars while those same politicians sat comfy before a fireplace, feet up, drink in hand, as they cut benefits and dug into the heart of the warriors defending their country with their very lives.