Muldoon was the next officer to arrive, looking grim. Whatever had gone down with Joan in his office earlier hadn't been good. Of that, Sam was certain.
"Everything okay?" Sam asked.
"Everything's great." Muldoon turned his attention to his knee brace.
"Hey, Lieutenant Muldoon. You're my new hero. I used to think you were too polite, but not anymore." Izzy joined them, with Gilligan and Cosmo trailing along behind him. "You had a rough assignment night before last—doing it Navy SEAL style! Hoo-yah! I laughed my ass off when I heard that. And man, that news clip of that dress coming off! What a pair of h—"
"She was drunk," Muldoon said shortly. "The only thing I did that night was get Ms. Bryant away from the news camera. After we went inside she passed out. Didn't you see the press conference she gave yesterday? She's going into rehab. The woman is not well. Show a little respect."
"I must've missed that," Izzy said. "But rewind a sec. She passed out after you went inside, you said. Would that be right after?" The petty officer was determined to keep his big mouth flapping for as long as he possibly could. Sam suspected that he'd picked up on Muldoon's tension and was determined to get a rise out of the usually easygoing lieutenant. "Because I read somewhere—in Penthouse, I think—that Brooke Bryant is a real hummer. Kind of hard to turn that down, huh, sir? I mean, there's that face and that smile you've seen in a lot of magazines and newspapers, and she's going to work—"
"Don't you know what respect means, Zanella?" Muldoon asked, his voice a little too soft, a little too dangerous.
"Oh, I do, sir." Izzy was a son of a bitch. "And were it me, sir, I would have respected her fully."
"At that press conference today," Cosmo told Izzy, "she apologized and called Lieutenant Muldoon 'an officer and a gentleman.'"
"Okay." Sam straightened up. "Gossip hour is over." Izzy opened his mouth to comment, but they were all spared his further pearls of wisdom by Wildcard, who had hit the yard already at a dead run, dragging Jenk behind him.
"You guys hear this latest shit?" the Card asked, skidding to the kind of stop that would have made a cartoon character proud. Except the look on his face was almost as grim as Muldoon's. He was gazing directly at Sam, and when he got no response other than a headshake no, he pushed Mark Jenkins forward. "Tell 'em what you told me."
"I wasn't supposed to tell even you, Chief," Jenk protested.
"An FBI team went head-to-head in a firefight with an al-Qaeda cell right here in San Diego today," Wildcard announced.
"Shit," Izzy said, Brooke Bryant finally forgotten. "Where?"
"Apartment complex on the edge of town. The TV news has released some kind of story about gang violence— someone wants to keep the real story hushed." Wildcard turned to Sam and dropped an even bigger bomb. "There's a body count, Sam, and rumor has it the casualties are not all terrorists."
Alyssa.
Jesus, he'd know—somehow—if she were dead. Wouldn't he?
"Who was involved?" Sam asked, looking from Wildcard to Jenk.
The look on his face must've been fucking fierce, because Jenkins stopped hesitating.
"I don't know for sure, sir," he told Sam, "but Max Bhagat's entire unit has been in this area for a while, working on something. It's hard to believe they wouldn't be in the middle of this."
And Max's best agents—including Alyssa and, shit, even Jules, too—would have been front and center when those bullets had started flying.
Sam grabbed on to the fact that part of being the best also meant that they had both the skill and the guts to survive.
Of course, being the best didn't help when you were in the dead wrong place at the dead wrong time. Chief Frank O'Leary, may he rest in peace, was proof of that. He'd had the bad luck of being in a hotel lobby when an AK-47-wielding terrorist had opened fire.
O'Leary's death had come as a complete surprise to Sam, too.
Fear tightened its grip on him. Please, God, let Alyssa be safe. And Jules. And, Christ, even Max, too, the motherfucker. Whatever animosity Sam felt toward Max Bhagat, he didn't want the man to die.
"It's only a rumor-—about the body count, right?" Muldoon had come to stand right next to Sam, a solid tower of support. "So how do we get verified information?"
"We don't," Jenk said. "I'm sorry, sir—"
"How did you hear about this?" Gilligan asked.
"We almost got sent out as support," Jenkins reported. "I was in Admiral Crowley's office when the call came in. The situation never even reached Commander Paoletti's desk, though, because apparently the firefight happened quickly, and then it was over. There was a second call, almost right away, ordering us to stand down. The good news is that everyone in this particular cell was apprehended or killed."
Muldoon took out his cell phone. "You're friends with Alyssa's partner," he said to Sam. "Right? What's his name?"
"Jules Cassidy," Wildcard volunteered.
"Let's call him," Muldoon said to Sam. "Do you have his number?"
"It's in my office," Sam said.
"Come on," Muldoon said. "Let's take care of this. We'll make a phone call and then you'll know for sure what the situation is."
"I'll find Commander Paoletti," Wildcard decided. "He'll be able to get in touch with Max Bhagat."
"I'm going back to Admiral Crowley's office," Jenk said. "See if I can dig up where Bhagat's team is being billeted. Sometimes the phone isn't the best way to get in touch with people after something like this goes down. Sometimes it's easier just to go and camp out where they're staying and wait for them to return."
"Is there anything we can do?" Izzy asked.
"Go find the senior chief," Muldoon ordered. "He always knows everything that's going on. See what he can tell us about this."
"Aye, aye, sir."
"Come on," Muldoon said again to Sam as they all went in different directions.
They walked toward the Team Sixteen building in silence. This was unreal. This was...
"She's not dead," Sam said, but as he said the words aloud, he knew he could be wrong. People died fighting terrorism, and these days they didn't have to be sent over to Afghanistan to do it. Alyssa's job here in the States was no less dangerous than his.
"What do I do if she is?" he asked, knowing that Muldoon couldn't possibly answer that. No one could.
But Muldoon glanced at him. "Maybe the question you really should consider, sir, is what are you going to do if she's alive?"
Chapter 22
Joan knew the very instant Mike Muldoon came out onto the deck.
She was wearing about three sweaters, just sitting out there with Dave and Angela and Liz, having a drink, looking up at the night sky, listening to the crash of the surf, and arguing about who made the better starship captain—Kirk, Picard, Janeway, or Archer.
They were all still recuperating from Brooke's latest "event." Even though the President's daughter had been safely locked down in rehab for more than twenty-four hours now, they'd spent most of the day scrambling to handle the increased news coverage, trying to steer the focus of all the attention toward the hope of recovery, rather than the dirt of past mistakes.
Joan had spent her day recuperating from Mike Muldoon, as well.
But here he was. Coming back for round two, apparently. God help her, she didn't have the emotional energy for this now. She was terrified that if she so much as met his gaze, she would start to cry.
The things he'd said to her... And the things she'd said in return ... Joan felt sick just thinking about it. Obviously she'd really hurt him by not calling last night. And the stupid thing was that she'd wanted to call. She'd forced herself not to call him. And when she finally went to bed, she had lain awake for hours, dying to call, wondering what he'd say if she woke him up, if he'd come right over, if he'd...
And the next morning, she'd faced the terrifying fact that she was impatient and eager to see him again. Only, he didn't show.
Her first thought had been panic—he'd been se
nt to Afghanistan, where he'd instantly be killed.
"Excuse me," he said now. "I'm sorry if I'm interrupting, but ..." He'd dressed for the occasion in a uniform that wasn't quite as formal as his white choker suit, but he still looked extremely sharp. And he'd shaved recently, too. Not that the man had to go to much effort to look good. He looked directly at Joan, his handsome face somber. "May I speak to you privately, please?"
Protocol demanded that she make introductions, or at least make sure everyone knew everyone else. But tonight protocol could go to hell.
"I don't think that's a good idea, Lieutenant," she told him, and dismissed him—or at least tried to—by turning back to Liz. "I think the best answer to the question of who do you want on your team in a pinch has to be Spock. And since Spock comes with Kirk..."
But Muldoon didn't go away. In fact, he did the opposite. He pulled a chair over next to hers and sat down in it. When she looked at him, he said, "I'm sorry. It's important."
Liz and Angela and Dave were looking at one another sideways, and Muldoon reached across her to hold out his hand to them. "Lt. Mike Muldoon. I think we all met the other night."
They shook hands and introduced themselves, Liz looking at Muldoon with quite a bit of curiosity and interest in her eyes, but then Dave stood up. "Sorry to greet and run, but Liz and Angie and I really have to—"
Joan grabbed the edge of his jacket and pulled him back down into his chair. "No, you don't."
"No, we don't," Liz echoed.
Muldoon was embarrassed. Even though the light out on the hotel's deck was shadowy, she could see the heightened color in his cheeks.
"I don't want to chase you away," he told her coworkers. "But I do have to apologize to Joan. If she's not going to let me do it privately, then I'm going to have to do it in front of you because it needs to be said." He looked at her. "I'm really sorry that I got upset this afternoon. I'm ..." He glanced at Dave, Liz, and Angie, but then focused his attention on her.
"I'm scared, too, because I thought I was playing it safe. I thought I'd learned how to do that, how to protect myself, and I still got hurt—way worse than I anticipated."
God in heaven, the man was serious. He was going to have this entire conversation in front of Dave and Angela and Liz. Dave was squirming, but Angie and Liz looked like they'd settled in for the show, all but ready to order popcorn from the waitress.
And Liz was a bitch and a half. Everything Muldoon said was going to be public knowledge by tomorrow morning, and he'd already said quite enough.
Joan stood up. "Excuse us," she said to them, smiling extra sweetly at Liz. "Let's take a walk," she told Muldoon.
He was blessedly silent, thank you, Jesus God, as they went down the stairs to the beach.
"Well, that was nifty," she said as they hit the soft sand. The wind was stronger down here, and she wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt not to freeze. "But I guess you couldn't have hired a skywriter and made it even more public, huh? That doesn't work too well at night."
"You're not going to get me to apologize for that," he told her. He was wearing far fewer layers than she was, but it was as if he didn't even notice the cold as they headed down the beach. "I am sorry about everything else, though." He shook his head, laughing softly. "I'm even sorry we slept together. I knew that would be a mistake from the first moment I saw you."
Joan stopped walking. "If that's supposed to be your idea of an apology, I'm not sure I want to—
"I'm sorry, because even though I knew I'd end up hurt, what I didn't figure was that I'd end up hurting you, too. That's what I'm sorry about That's the last thing I wanted, please believe me. Those things I said to you were..." He shook his head. "I've never spoken to a woman like that before in my life. I've always just... I don't know. Crawled away to lick my wounds, I guess."
Spotlights from the hotel lit the beach for only a short distance. After that, it was entirely up to the moonlight.
Joan pulled a strand of her hair out of her mouth as they started walking again. "The things you said to me were honest," she told him quietly. "I'm the one who should be apologizing to you."
"No. You came and found me this afternoon," he told her. "According to the gigolo handbook, I was supposed to lie and tell you that something came up this morning, and of course I would never have sent Steve in my place if it wasn't vitally important. I was supposed to sweet-talk you and kiss you and tell you everything you wanted to hear until you agreed to see me again tonight. But I was angry and frustrated and .. . Jesus, I'm just going to say it, okay? My heart was breaking. All because you were sixteen hours late."
And okay. That bit about the breaking heart made her fail to comment about his "gigolo handbook" crack. In fact, she couldn't think of anything to say at all.
"Talk about being scared to death," he continued, the wind sweeping his hair into his eyes and then back out again. "I knew I was being irrational. I knew it was because of ... some intense thing I've got going here for you. And I couldn't play by the rules. When we first made love, Joan, I swear, I went into it the way I always go into a short-term relationship. Thinking what will be, will be. Don't think about tomorrow. Just, you know, get laid. As often as possible. Have a good time. I was completely intending to let it just play out all the way to the end, all the way to the point where you got on that plane and went home. But I couldn't do it." He struggled to find the words, to explain. "See, getting over you after just one night was ... really hard. I mean, I haven't managed to do it yet. I'm still ... But all I could think about was how much worse it was going to feel after a couple of weeks. I just... it'll be bad."
He laughed in disgust. "But this is bad, too. I want to be with you while you're here. Life is too short not to take chances—I was reminded of that today in a major way. So here I am. You want to give me part of your next three weeks, I'll take it. We can even do this one day at a time, if you want. It's your call."
It's your call. Joan kept on walking, afraid to look at him, afraid to speak. He honestly saw himself as insignificant and disposable. Someone—or a lot of someones—had taught him that he wasn't worth keeping. How sad was that?
He was living what was usually a woman's nightmare—his relationships were defined by his image as a sexual object. She had been wrong this afternoon when she called him a coward. He'd been trying to maintain some self-respect, and from a person whose sense of self-esteem as an equal partner in a relationship was close to zero, he had, in fact, been valiantly strong.
But here he was. Ready to surrender and take whatever she was willing to give him. Ready to give up total control.
What would he do if she said, Okay, bucko. Let's try ten years.
Oh, God—and wasn't that a scary thought? There was no way she was going to say that. She sympathized, sure. And she cared for him. Deeply. Far more than she wanted to. But she couldn't be the woman who would show him that he was wrong, that he was the least disposable man she'd ever met. She just couldn't do it.
"Michael," she finally said.
He grabbed her and swung her around, pulling her hard into his arms, and kissed her.
And, oh my God. The man could kiss.
"Don't say it," he said, between attacks on her mouth with his. "Whatever it was you were going to say. Let's just go back to your room. God, I want you. I want to be inside you again. Let's just have it be completely about sex for right now, okay? We don't have to talk, we don't have to think. Let's just get it on all night long and all tomorrow night and—"
"Michael..."
When he kissed her like that, she was ready to agree with anything he said. She was ready to tell him anything, promise him everything else.
"Mike..."
But none of it would be the truth.
"Michael, stop!"
He stopped kissing her, but he didn't let her go. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers.
"I'm sorry, too," she said. "I'm really sorry. I'm going to be completely honest with you
and please don't hate me—'
"I won't," he said. "I couldn't."
"You were mostly right," she admitted. "What you said this afternoon. I'm ashamed to say it, but you were going to be just part of what I did on my summer vacation. And when I went home... I would've called you back, absolutely I would have tried, but we probably would have just played phone tag. And even if we did connect, I wouldn't have time to talk for very long. You probably wouldn't either and... God, I don't have time for a relationship with a man who lives down the street from me. There's no way I could sustain something long distance. We'd end up hating each other."
"Okay," he said, opening his eyes and pulling back slightly to look at her. "So, okay. We let it end after a few weeks. At least we get these weeks, right?"
Joan shook her head. "I don't think that's such a good idea anymore. And you really don't want that, either. I mean, it's one thing to pretend that there's a chance of a future, but actually to know that the relationship is doomed from the start... ?"
He let go of her. Forced a smile. Pretended he was joking. "Ah, Joan, you're going to make me beg, aren't you?"
"Don't," she said. "Please. Unless..."
"Unless what?"
"Unless you plan to quit being a SEAL or to transfer east—" Joan laughed, rubbing her forehead. Where had this terrible headache come from? She needed a warm, dark room and at least four hours of uninterrupted sleep. "I can't believe the words that are coming out of my mouth." She turned and started walking rapidly back to the hotel. "Forget I said that, all right?"
"Maybe we should talk about it," Muldoon said. She was practically running, and all he had to do was lengthen his stride a little to keep up. "I mean, you're not going to work at the White House forever, are you?"
"I might. God—and the American voters—willing. I love my job, Mike."
Troubleshooters 05 Into The Night Page 37