Suzanne Brockmann - Team Ten 08 - Identity Unknown

by Suzanne Brockmann

  steps. I had this faith in God, and it seemed it was only a matter of time before I received the call and..."

  He laughed again, but there was no humor in it. "I received a call that day, that's for sure. My father and his words and his faith couldn't save us—he couldn't even save himself. But with a weapon like those machine guns... Yeah, I received a completely different kind of call."

  Becca reached across the bench seat and found his hand. He held onto her tightly, seeing the lights from the truck stop up ahead, and knowing it was just a matter of minutes now before he had to walk away from her for good.

  "The American—I wish I could remember his name!— he was ready for them, and when the terrorists opened the door, he launched himself at them. It was a suicide play. He knew he was going to be shot. But he'd hoped to grab one of their guns and throw it toward me, and somehow he did. And when that weapon came sliding across that tile floor toward me, I didn't hesitate. And I left my father's world for good, Bee. I picked it up, and I fired. I leaned on the trigger, like the American had told me. I pulled the muzzle down, and I swept it across those bastards, all jammed together in that doorway, and I sent 'em straight to hell."

  A spray of bullets.

  A spray of blood.

  So much blood.

  Blood...

  "I killed all three of them. And with the hostages armed on the inside, we held off the terrorists until the marines stormed the building. The American died on the way to the hospital. He and my father were the only casualties among the hostages."

  "I don't know," Becca's voice was quiet in the darkness. "I might be tempted to call you a casualty, too."

  "Yeah," Mitch said just as quietly. "In a way, I guess I died that day, too." He pointed to the exit that was approaching. ' 'We could use some gas—and a cup of coffee would be something of a blessing right about now."

  He could feel her eyes as she glanced over at him, and he carefully kept his gaze on the road in front of them.

  In silence, she took the exit, braking at the Stop sign at the end of the long ramp. The truck stop was brightly lit, and she pulled into the parking lot, into a slot by the restaurant door.

  She still had his hand, and when he would have turned away to open the door and climb out, she tugged him toward her. She pulled him into her arms, wrapping him in her sweetness and warmth.

  "Thank you so much for telling me," she whispered, and she kissed him.

  Mitch lost himself in the softness of her lips. That she would want to kiss him after all he'd just told her was amazing to him. And he knew more than ever that she wouldn't willingly go back to the Lazy Eight without him.

  So he held her tightly and, without her knowing it, kissed her goodbye as gently as he could.

  "I met Mitch Shaw at his father's funeral." Admiral Jake Robinson sat at the head of the table in the Gray Group's makeshift temporary headquarters at Kirtland Air Force Base in Albuquerque.

  After calling Captain Catalanotto, Lucky and his team had been ordered to Holloman AFB, pronto, where a special transport had been waiting to whisk them up to Kirtland. It was the power of the Admiralcy in action. When they landed, they were escorted posthaste from the trans-

  port to this office, where they were joined by the captain, and Blue McCoy and Crash Hawken, the two SEALs from Alpha Squad who'd been sent to look for Mitch in Albuquerque.

  "The vice president of the United States was at the funeral, too," the admiral told them. "And he shook the kid's hand and told him he was very sorry for his loss, told him there was going to be a ceremony in Washington, and the president of the United States was going to present Mitch with a special version of the Medal of Honor.

  ' 'And Mitch looked him right in the eye and told him thanks, but no thanks. He didn't deserve it. His father did, though. His father had died believing in the power of good over evil. The way Mitch saw it, the Reverend Randall Shaw had died sticking to his belief that nonviolence was the only option. Mitch, however, believed that by killing those terrorists, he'd given in and used evil to fight evil. He didn't want a medal for that.

  "I introduced myself to him," Jake told them. "I wasn't an admiral at the time, but I'd been heavily decorated from my time in Vietnam. Still it was obvious that he wasn't interested in talking to me—until I told him I was a friend of Senior Chief Fred Baxter, the man who'd died helping Mitch save those hostages' lives. After I told him that, he took a walk with me, and I had the chance to tell him that Freddie was a Navy SEAL, told him a little bit about what that meant. And I told him that Fred was getting a medal, too. Posthumously. And Fred deserved that medal, absolutely, without a doubt. Because Fred Baxter, like me, like most SEALs, believed in something just as absolutely as Mitch's father believed in nonviolence. Fred believed in the power of gray."

  Jake looked around his room. "You guys know this. In our world there's no such thing as black and white.

  There's no clear line between right and wrong, especially when the outcome affects millions of lives. And so we operate in that narrow band of gray. Mitch was fifteen when he first stepped into that world.

  "I don't know what he's doing right now," the admiral continued. "I don't know what the hell he's up to, but I can tell you with complete confidence, gentlemen, that he has not sold out, that he remains faithful to both God and country. He's worked closely with me since the conception of the Gray Group—in fact, he gave it its name. I trust him as I trust myself. There will be an explanation for his behavior, I guarantee it. I know you're not going to like this, but I suggest we sit tight, give him space to operate, and wait for him to contact us."

  Lucky looked at Joe Cat, waiting for the captain to make an alternative suggestion. When he was noticeably silent, Lucky cleared his throat. "Admiral. Sir. Aren't we, um, forgetting about that plutonium floating around out there, about to fall into the wrong hands?"

  Jake stood up. "Gray Group operatives have infiltrated an arms dealer's organization—the very one that will be attempting to broker the deal. The client's a political faction in an Eastern European country and we've been keeping tabs on them as well. The exchange was supposed to take place yesterday, but the seller cancelled at the last minute—which leads me to believe that the seller no longer has possession of the plutonium, and that Mitch Shaw does. But a new meeting's been set up for tomorrow. In Santa Fe. Which means that sometime before tonight and tomorrow, Mitch could well be calling in for some help. And gentlemen..." He looked around the table, meeting each of the SEALs' eyes.. "When he needs us, we'll be ready."

  Becca knew what Mitch was doing. She knew, without a doubt, that he was kissing her goodbye. If she let him get out of the truck, he was as good as gone.

  She held him tightly, knowing that if she didn't speak now, she'd regret it for the rest of her life.

  *'Don't go." Her voice shook.

  He didn't try to pretend he didn't know what she meant. 'I have to, Bee."

  She was glad he didn't pull back, glad he couldn't see the tears in her eyes as she did the one thing she swore she'd never do—beg a man to stay. "We can start over. Go away together. We can hide. There's got to be a million places two people can lose themselves in this country. No one will ever find you, we'll be careful and—"

  "Spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders? That's no way to live."

  Becca closed her eyes, feeling her tears escape.

  "Please..."

  "I can't. Not knowing who's after me, or why... It would drive me crazy. Bee, I have to find out who I am." He pulled away from her gently, opening the glove compartment and taking a folded piece of paper out. ' 'I wrote this letter," he told her. "It's to Ted Alden. I've explained the situation as best as I could, and I've asked him to invest the money he wanted to give me in your ranch— the one I know you're going to buy someday. However he wants to set it up is fine. I want you to send this to him along with that check he wrote, okay?"

  "No," she said. She wouldn't take it from him, so he put it back i
n the glove box. "No, it's not okay!"

  He opened the door and stepped out into the night. "I love you."

  It was what she'd both dreaded and hoped to hear.

  Becca squinted at him through both the glare from the overhead light and her tears. "Then how can you leave?"

  He lifted his case up and out of the truck, his face in the shadows. "How could I stay?"

  He closed the door, and Becca scrambled out of the driver's side, wiping furiously at her tears. "Mitch!"

  But the parking lot was empty.

  He was already gone.

  Chapter

  JVLitch couldn't sleep.

  He'd toyed with the idea of not getting a motel room because he knew he'd never get his eyes shut tonight.

  The Albuquerque address on the passport hadn't been real. Oh, it was a residential neighborhood, but—surprise, surprise—the house number didn't exist. And even though Mitch had walked around in the darkness for close to two hours, he hadn't felt even the faintest flash of familiarity from anything.

  He'd walked back to the part of town that was lit by cheap motels, late-night bars and all-night coffee shops. He'd gotten his coffee to go, and paid the extra money for the motel room.

  Not because he wanted to sleep.

  Because he wanted to look through his suitcase again. See if there was anything he'd missed.

  So now he sat on the sagging double bed, surrounded

  by the contents of his leather case. His...bag of tricks? Grab your bag of tricks, Lieutenant...

  Lieutenant?

  He'd set the weapons aside, but now he picked up the MP-. His "room broom." It fit comfortably, easily in his hands.

  His father would have been shocked.

  He put it down, and unrolled his jeans. He hadn't had a chance to go through the pockets and...

  He nearly missed it. It was a small photograph in the back pocket. The torn corner of a picture—just the head and shoulders of a man.

  The face was shockingly familiar.

  Shaggy hair, full beard, florid features...

  Casey Parker.

  The name came to him in a flash of certainty that chilled him to the bone.

  Casey Parker was the man who had shot Mitch in that Wyatt City alley. He was also the man who had come to the Lazy Eight ranch, looking for the package that was supposed to be waiting for him there—the package Mitch had taken in his stead.

  He still had the key that had been in that envelope. He was carrying it in his pocket.

  Mitch took it out and looked at it again. It was, without a doubt, the kind of key a bank issued with a safe-deposit box. What was in that box, Mitch could only guess. Money, maybe. Or the take from some robbery. Jewelry. Something valuable. Something that had started all this. Something Parker had already tried to kill Mitch over.

  And it was only a matter of time before Parker returned to the Lazy Eight, looking for this key.

  He wouldn't find it, but he would find Becca.

  All alone. Unsuspecting. Virtually defenseless.

  Mitch threw his things back into his leather case and jammed his feet into his boots. He had to get to the Lazy Eight.

  Before it was too late.

  Becca opened the ranch office early, just as the sun was coming up.

  The sky was heavy with clouds. A storm was brewing. Most likely it would rain hard and heavy starting sometime within the next few minutes and clear up before lunch.

  She wished she could say the same about her own dark disposition.

  She'd spent a restless night, tossing and turning in her bed, and she'd been exhausted when her alarm had gone off. But it was better to get up and get to work instead of hiding out by sleeping in. Besides, this way she'd be good and tired when tonight rolled around. And maybe she'd fall straight into a dreamless sleep without even thinking once about Mitch.

  Hah. Fat chance.

  But she had to stop thinking about him. It was entirely likely she would never see him again, so she'd better learn to stop thinking about him. She knew she could do it. And once she learned not to think about Mitch, well, then she'd be on her way to learning to live without him. She could do anything, if she put her mind to it.

  And right now she'd stop thinking about Mitch by focusing on all the work she had to do to catch up around here.

  The storm clouds were so dark, Becca had to turn on the light over her desk just to see.

  She sat down, uncertain of where to start, and knowing

  without a doubt that such a dilemma wasn't worth crying over. Yet here she was, on the verge of tears. Again.

  Damn Mitch.

  And double damn herself for being so stupid as to fall in love with him.

  Work had piled up in her in-basket over the days she'd been gone. Her E-mail alone was enough to occupy her for most of the morning. She'd start with that. She scrubbed at her eyes and blew her nose soundly. She was determined to work in the office only until ten. If she could get enough done now, she'd give Belinda the morning off and take the guests on the morning trail ride herself, provided the weather complied. She could use some quality time with Silver and...

  The office door squealed as it opened, and she closed her eyes, desperately hoping that whatever problem was walking into the office at : a.m. could be dealt with quickly and efficiently and...

  "Becca, thank God."

  Mitch? She turned around so quickly, she nearly fell out of her chair. It was. Mitch had come back.

  As she stood up, he dropped his case on the floor and moved toward her, coming right up and over the counter that separated them. And then she was in his arms.

  "Are you all right?" he asked, pulling slightly back to look down into her eyes. He touched her face, her hair. "Please tell me you're all right."

  She nodded. Yes. Now she was very, very all right. "Thank you," she said, kissing his neck, his ear. "Thank you, thank you for coming back."

  He caught her mouth with his, and the fire that raged to life between them ignited instantly. And as the entire world seemed to swirl and shift around them, as Becca

  melted against him, she wondered how she could even have thought she could learn to live without him.

  And in that instant, she knew the awful truth. She'd found her true love. And he loved her, too. Given the opportunity, Mitch would stay forever.

  Please, please, give them the opportunity...

  He pulled away from her far sooner than she would have liked. "Becca, I remembered something."

  She could tell just from looking at him that it wasn't something good.

  "It was Casey Parker who shot me. I still don't remember why, but he meant to kill me. And I've got to believe that he'll be coming back here. He's going to want his key."

  And Becca knew. Mitch hadn't come back to the Lazy Eight because he wanted to. He'd come because he'd had to. If he'd thought she was safe, she would never have seen him again.

  But he had come back. And she had to make the most of this opportunity to convince him to stay.

  Mitch released her, and she let him go, watching as he picked up the phone on Hazel's desk. "What's the sheriff s number?"

  "It's right there," she told him. "On that list. Mitch, we've got to talk."

  He found it and punched in the buttons.

  "What are you doing?" she asked, realizing that he was dialing the sheriffs number.

  He was listening to the phone ring, and he met her gaze only briefly. "Calling the sheriff."

  "Obviously. Mitch—"

  "Yeah, hi," Mitch said into the telephone. "I'm calling from the Lazy Eight Ranch. We've got a major problem

  here, and I was hoping the sheriff could come out as soon as possible...?"

  He wanted the sheriff to come out here? If the sheriff got involved, then Mitch would...

  "Well, let's start with attempted murder," Mitch said to whoever was on the other end of the phone. "Is that worth waking up the sheriff over?"

  Mitch would have to admit to having amn
esia. He would be investigated. His fingerprints would probably be run through the computer and...

  And then they'd finally know who he was.

  But so would the sheriff.

  "We'll be waiting for him in the ranch office," Mitch said, and hung up the phone. He turned to face Becca, answering her before she even asked. "I'm turning myself in."

  She shook her head, unable to say anything, unable even to speak.

  "I thought hard about it the entire way out here. It's the right thing to do," he told her. "I should've done this weeks ago. I still don't remember much of anything, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't have to take responsibility for the things that I've done."

  "You're jumping to conclusions here." She finally found her voice. "You may not have done anything wrong at all."

  "How about possession of illegal firearms?" he asked. "We'll start there. Somehow I doubt we'll end there, though."

  He went out into the main part of the office, walking around the counter this time. Becca followed. "You don't have to do this."

  "Yes, I do." He pulled open the screen door. "I'm

  r

  going to get my . from the bunkhouse lockup, so I can turn it in with the weapons in my bag."

  The first crack of thunder rumbled in the distance, ominous and foreboding as Becca followed him outside into the eerie early morning light, and back toward the barn. The wind was starting to kick up, sending clouds of dust scooting across the dry yard.

  "This is really the only way I can start over," he told her. "Yes, it feels like I've been given a second chance, because I don't remember my past, but it's not real, Bee. If I really want a second chance, I've got to do it right. And that means facing up to whatever I've done, and paying the price. Lord knows I don't want to go back to prison, but if I have to, so be it. Because when I get out— if I get out—that's when I'll be able to make a fresh start." He smiled at her, that crooked half smile she'd come to know so well. "Besides, I'd face more than hard time to be sure that you were safe."