by Amy Vansant
“At an Airbnb.”
“Yes.”
Shee rubbed her forehead, wondering if her father’s coma would have stuck if he’d received proper medical care instead of being left in some random person’s bedroom.
“But if Viggo set Dad up, why would he half-ass save him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he shot him and then had a change of heart. Long story short, someone wanted Mick dead.”
“That could be a long list.” Shee leaned back in her chair. “Why draw him to Minneapolis? Why not shoot him here?”
Angelina shrugged. “Too close to the hotel maybe?”
“And Mick’s collection of killers?”
Angelina nodded. “You wouldn’t want to poke this hornets’ nest.”
Shee took a sip of her coffee as a pair of black vultures landed on the end of the pier.
“We had a funeral, y’know,” said Angelina, her dark thoughts no doubt inspired by the ugly leather-headed birds.
“For Dad?”
Angelina nodded and Shee picked an imaginary piece of lint from her shorts. “I didn’t know.”
“I know you didn’t know. You weren’t here.”
Croix poked her head out the back door, and for once, Shee was happy to see her.
“There’s a guy out here for you,” she said.
Angelina glared with dismay at her cooling coffee. “About what?”
Croix shook her head and pointed at Shee. “Not you. Her.”
Shee placed her hand on her chest. “Me? No one knows I’m here.”
“He does.” Croix’s lips twitched, as if she were fighting a grin.
With some effort, Shee stood from the low-slung Adirondack. “Did you get a name?”
“No.”
“Why not?” asked Angelina, sounding annoyed.
Croix huffed. “Sorry. I got distracted. He was super nice and—” The girl’s pupils floated up and to the right, a tiny smile on her lips as if she were remembering something.
“And what?” asked Shee.
“He’s kind of smokin’ for an old guy.”
“Old? How old?” Shee wondered if Viggo had come to them.
Croix shrugged. “Your age.”
Shee looked at Angelina. “Charming.”
Angelina chuckled. “Cheer up. If you’re old, imagine what that makes me.”
Shee motioned to Croix. “Go distract him. I’m going to go around the front to take a peek.” Croix started to move and Shee snapped her fingers to catch her attention. “Be careful.”
Croix flashed a bemused smile and slipped back inside.
Didn’t listen to a word I said.
Angelina stood. “I’ll go help her.”
“Do you have a weapon handy?”
“Croix has a gun behind the desk. I have one in my room. And if you’re going out front, Bracco has a Walther tucked in the back of his waistband.”
Shee nodded. “Okay. I’ll take a peek and let you know the threat level, if any.”
Angelina sighed. “Things were so calm before you got here.”
“Right. Nothing but headshots, comas and carting around dead guys.”
Shee jogged off the porch and headed left around the building. Reaching the front, she jumped to grab the front porch railing and hoist herself up. Bracco’s head snapped in her direction. She put her finger to her lips and he shifted his gaze forward so as not to draw attention to her.
Maybe the big man didn’t trust her yet, but the guy in the lobby was an even stranger stranger.
The sound of Croix giggling echoed from inside.
Maybe I should have been more specific about how to distract him.
Angelina’s low voice reverberated. More giggles. This time from Angelina.
What the hell?
Shee neared Bracco and the doorman lifted the back of his shirt to flash a Walther PK380 semiautomatic centerfire pistol tucked in the waistband of his khakis.
She nodded her thanks and peered around Bracco to see inside.
Croix’s description hadn’t been wrong. The stranger stood a good six-foot-three, broad shoulders, strong jaw, dimples flashing as he joked with the two women working hard to distract him.
Working really hard.
The man turned, affording her a better look at his face and Shee froze.
Oh my God.
He looked the same.
Older, sure. Bigger, his biceps and chest straining against his polo shirt. But other than that...
Shee swallowed.
Bracco bumped her, looking for instruction and she flinched, having forgotten he was there.
Oh. Right.
She straightened and patted Bracco’s arm to let him know all was well. His hulking form dropped a notch as he stood down.
Shee opened the front door, surprised to find her hands still worked. Attentions turned to her as she entered. The man leveled his gaze on her, his eyes burning a turquoise blue that appeared lit from the inside.
“Hey, Jelly,” he said.
Shee held up her index finger.
“Just a second.”
She walked briskly past him, down the hall, past the breakfast room and into the public bathroom. She hit the first stall’s door so hard it bounced off her shoulder.
Dropping to her knees, she gripped the side of the bowl to throw up.
&&&
Chapter Eighteen
Twenty-seven years ago, Navy Special Warfare Center, Coronado, California
Shee slapped her hand against her thigh. “But I want to at least do the legwork and then—”
Hefting the stack of papers she’d been attempting to commandeer from his arms, Mick took a step back. “No, Shee, you’re not tracking anyone without me. Give you an inch you’ll take a mile.”
“What does that even mean?”
Mick pushed up his reading glasses, looking like a professor on his first day in class. The Navy had diverted him from hunting fugitives to cover for a missing instructor at the Navy Special Warfare Center in Coronado.
Shee’s world was coming to an end.
Her father held her glare with trademark patience. “It means if I let you skip-trace these dirtballs, the next thing I know, you’ll be off trying to capture them.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Yes, you will. I’m not an idiot. I do learn from my mistakes.”
Shee threw her head back so hard it hurt her neck. “That was, like, one time. You can’t stop me now. I’m like a tracking machine.”
He sighed. “Why don’t you take some college courses while we’re here?”
“Yawn. Look. They’ll never know—”
“It’s not about the Navy knowing. I gave you an order and I expect—”
“I’m not one of your sailors!”
Shee pouted. She hadn’t meant for her voice to go shrieky and make her sound like the teenager she was, but Mick was destroying her life.
The heads of students passing Turner Field swiveled their way. She watched her father’s face color and knew she’d crossed a line.
“Not here,” he hissed through gritted teeth. He spun on his heel and strode away from her.
Shee pursued in the hopes of continuing negotiations in a less embarrassing tone, pulling up short as a young man in tan camouflage jogged to intercept her father. The boy saluted before shaking hands.
She cocked her head.
Something about that sailor...
Shee never forgot a face, but something about this particular mug rang familiar and yet not...
She gasped.
Peanut Butter.
The young man standing in front of her father was the boy she’d met in Charleston as a little girl.
Mason.
She eyed him head to toe.
Oh my. Haven’t we filled out?
Peanut Butter stood two inches taller than her father. He grinned, displaying a deep dimple on the cheek she could see.
If he was in Coronado looking that fit and wearing those fatigue
s...
Did he go SEAL? And make it?
That meant he’d already survived breakout, the beginning of Hell Week. He’d crawled beneath machine gun fire as a fog machine pumped smoke across the terrain. He’d run the O-course and climbed the pyramid of Hooyah Logs until his legs shook. He’d made it through the brutal boat Olympics known as Lyon’s Lope and completed BUD/S—Basic Underwater Demolition training.
She knew what SEAL candidates endured. She’d researched the Warfare Center on their long drive from the East Coast.
It explained why he looked the way he did.
The baby SEAL’s gaze shifted from Mick to her.
Shee stopped, only then aware she’d been shuffling toward the men as if caught in a tractor beam.
“Jelly?”
She smiled, fighting to look normal. Her lips felt twitchy.
“Peanut Butter? What are you doing here?”
His chest puffed a little more, something she hadn’t imagined possible.
“Mason’s a SEAL now, awaiting his assignment,” said her father. He seemed happy to distract from her demands.
Nice try, old man.
She flashed her father a withering glance to inform him she wasn’t finished and hadn’t forgotten.
Mick shook his head in a way that said, don’t start.
Fine. Temporary truce.
Shee turned her attention back to Mason.
“So, uh, you’re here?”
Duh.
Mason chuckled, dimples now visible on both cheeks. “Yep. Your father helped me get into the Special Warfare Prep—”
Mick cut him short. “I didn’t do anything. It was all you.”
Shee’s gaze floated back to her father.
You’ve been in contact with Mason behind my back? I swear, I don’t even know you anymore.
Mick shook Mason’s hand again. “I’ve got to get going. Good job, son.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Mick waggled his fingers at them as he hurried off. “You two should go get a burger or something. My treat. Shee, you pay and I’ll get you back.”
Shee watched him retreat.
Coward.
“So, I guess you came with your dad?” asked Mason, strolling toward her like the gorgeous distraction he was.
Fine. Dad can wait.
Shee’s chin lifted to meet Peanut Butter’s eyes, way up there...
“Are you a SEAL?” he asked.
Shee giggled and rolled her eyes.
Since when do I giggle?
“Siofra.” He said her name. No question, just her name.
“You remember my name?” she asked.
He nodded. “It’s pretty. Different.”
“Pretty different,” she mumbled, pulling at the neck of her t-shirt to let the heat radiating from her body escape.
What the hell. I must be getting the flu.
“So you’re, uh, all done?” she asked.
“We’re never done.”
“No, I just meant—”
“Hey, what’re you doin’?” He blurted the sentence as if it had been building in his chest.
Alarmed, Shee looked down, afraid she’d done something weird without knowing. She seemed to be just standing there. “What? Why?”
“I mean, are you busy? I don’t have to be anywhere until thirteen hundred. Ya wanna grab a burger like your dad said?”
Shee’s bottom lip unstuck from her top but no sound emerged.
“That’s one o’clock,” he added.
She retracted her head as if he’d slapped her.
“I know. I’ve been Navy since I was nine.”
He laughed. “Oh excuse me. You must be an Admiral by now.”
She sniffed. “Honorary Captain.” She actually had made her father bestow unofficial ranks on her through the years. She’d only made imaginary Captain a week earlier, right before he broke the news about their assignment in Coronado.
Probably to shut me up.
Mason saluted. “Ah stand corrected, Captain, ma’am. We can go to McP’s over on Orange if that sounds good?”
She hadn’t wanted him to stop talking. His southern accent was adorable. It took a moment for her to realize he was awaiting an answer.
“Oh, yeah. Okay.”
They fell into step beside each other, heading downtown, Shee pumping Mason for information about his SEAL training experiences, trying hard not to blurt out how’d you get so big? Everything about him was crisp and clean and smooth and hard, like a G.I. Joe doll come to life, if old Joe had joined the Navy instead of the Army.
Which he should have. Obviously.
“What was the worst part?” she asked.
He chuckled. “It was all the worse part.”
“But if you had to pick something?”
He shrugged. “Drownproofing, probably.”
“Where they try to drown you in the pool?”
“More or less.”
“I thought that sounded like the worst. I’m going to do it, you know.”
“What?”
“I’m going to do SEAL training.”
He laughed. “You can’t. You’re a girl.”
She scowled. “I’m going to train myself.”
“I dunno if that’s the same.”
“Oh, it’ll be worse. I’m very hard on myself. A real tyrant.”
He laughed. “I bet.”
He was still chuckling as they took a seat on the patio of McP’s Irish Pub. He looked happy. She guessed she’d be happy, too, if for the first time in a while people weren’t demanding she crawl on her belly through the sand into the freezing ocean.
“So what have you been up to?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Same as when I met you. Skip tracing and bounty hunting for the Navy with my father.”
He chuckled. “No, really.”
“Really.”
“You’re telling me you’re a bounty hunter for the Navy?”
“Yep.”
The waitress arrived to take their order, and Shee realized she hadn’t been reading the menu, just staring at it. The waitress blinked at her, waiting.
“I’ll get a cheeseburger,” she said.
The waitress scribbled on her pad.
“Same, but two,” said Mason, holding up a peace sign. “And a beer.”
“Me too,” added Shee.
The waitress side-eyed her.
“You twenty-one?”
“Yep. Two days ago.”
The waitress nodded and left as Mason leaned back, tapping the table with his fingers. “Cool.”
“What?”
“I always wondered what bounty hunters eat.”
“Funny. I always wondered what SEALs eat.”
He leaned in, flashing his blue eyes and snarling like a hungry tiger.
“We eat enemies for breakfast.”
The sinews of his neck bulged and Shee’s stomach fluttered.
“Enemies for breakfast and hamburgers for lunch?” she asked, trying to keep a poker face.
“Yup.” He leaned back again, a tiger tamed. “You really twenty-one?”
She shook her head. “Eighteen.”
They held each other’s gazes in silence.
She didn’t even mind.
The waitress returned with their food, killing the moment.
They fell to eating and Shee’s mind raced, searching for small talk.
“Your family must be prou—” Her face heated like a stovetop burner.
Stupid.
She’d nearly forgotten how’d they’d met.
“It’s okay,” he said, seeming to sense her horror. “Old man’s still in jail. Momma gave me what I needed to move past what he did.”
Shee perked. “She’s alive?”
He shook his head. “No. He killed her, like you thought.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
“Oh. She gave you her strength first?” she guessed.
Mason nodded his h
ead from side to side, those sapphire eyes twinkling, smiling as if he had a secret.
“What?” she prompted.
He shrugged. “You wanna go to the beach after this? Ah can show you the best spots.”
Shee nodded, smiling behind her hamburger.
Yes, please.
He still had that smirky, faraway look in his eyes.
Ever since I asked him about his mom.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked. “Something about your mom? Something about what she gave you?”
He seemed surprised she’d noticed.
“Kinda.”
“What?”
He shrugged and smiled. “A bag of rocks.”
&&&
Chapter Nineteen
Thirty-four years ago, Charleston, South Carolina
Mason’s Aunt Tildy had three children of her own and little interest in raising a fourth. After his mother’s murder and his father’s incarceration, she took Mason in out of shame, or guilt, or—to be honest, she didn’t know why she’d bothered. On his first night she pointed him in the direction of a threadbare sofa located in his cousin Ely’s room with a vague, mumbled promise of a future, proper bed.
While his aunt made a half-hearted attempt to get him situated, his Cousin Ely glared at him from beneath a lowered brow until Mason thought his skin might catch fire. As a boy in a house full of girls, Ely had been the only child with his own room.
Mason had ruined everything.
Their weekly fist fights started the next day.
He didn’t mind thrashing with his older cousin, though each time meant a good whooping. Ely had two years and fifty pounds on him.
Mason spent as little time as possible at his aunt’s house. First chance he got, he borrowed Ely’s bike and returned to his old home. Without him to mow, the front yard’s weedy grass had grown as tall as his knees.
He pulled his bike around the back of the house, stopping as he rounded the corner.
The back door hung open.
Not just the screen, which had fallen, a victim of its own weight after his father broke the upper hinge the night his mother went missing.
The solid door beyond it also gaped by four inches.
The last time he’d been in the house he was with his aunt and the social services lady, gathering his clothes and personal belongings. They’d entered through the front door.