Troubleshooters 05 Into The Night

by Suzanne Brockmann

  "Will you please get in?" she said.

  "No," he said. "I don't think that's wise."

  "Don't be a dope. I'm not going to jump you in the short amount of time it takes to drive to the base. I mean, while I'm driving? In busy traffic? I'm good, but I'm not that good."

  He sighed again, then opened the door and climbed in.

  Mary Lou put the car into gear and signaled her intent to move back into the line of cars. It was moving even more slowly now, looking to be stop-and-go all the way to the base. But that was okay. She was very early, and the more time she could spend with Ihbraham, the better.

  "Did you call the police about this Bob?" he asked.

  "No."

  "You must."

  "How'm I supposed to do that without everyone in the world finding out I had dinner with a scum ball?" She sighed. "I don't know... maybe it doesn't matter who finds out. Sam asked me last night if I was screwing around with my next-door neighbor. You know, Crazy Donny? Can you believe that? He actually thought ... But he wasn't even angry or even the slightest bit jealous. Just kind of curious about it— which is pretty depressing, don't you think?" She glanced at Ihbraham. "So I went to see a lawyer this morning, about a divorce."

  Well, now she had his attention.

  "She said I'd get child support from Sam, and alimony, too. I had no idea it would be as much as this lawyer said—at least until I get married again. If I get married again." She sneaked another look at him.

  He was silent as they rolled up another few car lengths. "Sam may not agree to give you this divorce."

  "Yeah, he will," Mary Lou said. "I'm, like, 99.999 percent certain this is what he wants."

  "You seem quite certain it's what you want, as well."

  "I am," she told him. "I'm scared, sure, but, see, well... I'm not in love with Sam anymore. And I wasn't even remotely interested in Bob—I was just real mad. At you." She glanced at him again.

  He was just silently watching her, a slight furrow in his brow as if he were struggling to understand what she was saying. She didn't really blame him for not getting it. She hadn't been particularly clear.

  "I was mad because, well, you've been hiding from me, and... I've gotten kind of used to you being around." Come on, girl, just say it. "I'm kind of in love with you," she told him.

  But he still didn't utter a sound, didn't move, didn't jump up and down or cheer.

  So Mary Lou forced a laugh. "How'd that happen, huh? I mean, we're so different from each other, and, well, different. In every way. But... if you maybe still have feelings for me, I thought... After Sam and I separate, which will probably be tonight or tomorrow ... maybe you could come over sometime and I could cook you dinner. If you want."

  She was actually blushing. She could feel her cheeks heat, remembering that conversation they'd had when she'd invited him in for iced tea. She wondered if he thought she was inviting him over for more than dinner—and if he would mind very much if she was.

  But when she glanced at him again, he was shaking his head. "I was sure you would never leave him," he admitted. "I promised my brothers..."

  "What?" she asked, but he just shook his head.

  They were in a line of cars waiting to get into the base. The guards at the gate were doing full searches, both of the interior and the trunk. They were even checking under the hood.

  Ihbraham opened his door. "I should get out here. They'll check your car more carefully and take twice as long if I'm riding with you."

  "I don't care," she said, knowing that he was talking about more than just passing this checkpoint.

  "My sons may have skin as dark as mine," he told her. "You said you don't want that. You said—"

  "I wanted life to be easy," she said. "But there's no such thing. You're the best person I've ever met, Ihbraham. And if you want to be with me, then... But if you've changed your mind—"

  "No, I didn't, but I also didn't expect you to change yours," Ihbraham said. "I've agreed to help my brothers and... You must give me some time to figure out what to do. Will you do that, please?"

  She nodded. "Help them how?"

  "It has to do with a woman," he said, and her heart sank. "I'm supposed to take her to dinner tonight and then ... But I'll get out of it—I'll get out of all of it." He climbed out of her car.

  She leaned over so she could see him. "Will you call me tonight?"

  "Yes—if I can."

  "I love you," she said.

  He smiled, and her morning got even brighter. "It is a day, I think, for miracles all around."

  "How are you, Lieutenant?" Vince said as he greeted Mike Muldoon in front of the VIP dais that was set up catty-corner to the spectator stands. "Crazy night last night. Thanks for being there for Joanie."

  He nodded. "It was my pleasure, sir."

  Vince nodded, looking out onto the field where SEALs from Team Sixteen would fast-rope down from two helicopters and take out a large piece of artillery. He knew from his own experience that it wouldn't take much to prevent a gun like that from firing. Putting all of the various parts out of commission would take a little more effort. He suspected that was what they were going to be doing here today.

  Either way, it was going to be so fast that most people would have no idea exactly what they had witnessed.

  This entire shindig had a carnival-type atmosphere. Families with little kids and tourists of all shapes and sizes had come out in force on this gorgeous—but hot—day to see this show.

  "Did you get any sleep at all last night?" he asked the kid.

  Muldoon smiled and answered him honestly. "No, sir."

  That was some smile. It must've been one hell of a night. "Ask her to marry you yet?"

  The kid seemed surprised for only a second. But then nodded. "Yes, sir. She's, um, thinking about it."

  Vince turned to face him. "Really?" Joanie, thinking about getting married! "I'm impressed."

  Every now and then a chopper flew overhead, making it impossible to hear. Muldoon waited for this latest one to move off a bit before answering. "Yes, sir. I, uh, kind of put her in a position where she didn't want to, urn, disappoint me by saying no right away. So she said maybe. I consider that to be something of a victory."

  "I'd say so," Vince said. "How on earth did you... ?"

  Muldoon was shaking his head. "Sorry, sir. I can't, uh..."

  Oh ho, so it was like that, was it? Vince had to work to keep from laughing. Good for him. Good for Joanie, too. "Well, if you want some advice from an old man, persistence triumphs. Just keep coming back—whatever she throws at you. Don't quit. Just keep showing up."

  "That's my plan," Muldoon said. "Do me a favor and don't tell her we talked about this, okay?"

  "I wouldn't dream of it. No point making her go postal."

  Muldoon laughed. Yeah, he knew Joanie pretty well. "Is there anything I can get for you today, sir? Do you have everything you need?"

  Vince glanced over to where Charlie was talking to Joanie and several other ladies who were part of the White House staff. She had color in her cheeks—no doubt about it, she was enjoying this very much.

  "I'm perfect," he said, giving the boy a smile. "Thanks."

  Husaam Abdul-Fataah walked into the Navy base without being searched.

  Sure, he walked through a metal detector, and he'd had to take off his shoes and get them checked, but other than that, he was just waved on through.

  Despite claims that this country avoided racial profiling, there were far more places he could go with his fair skin and light-colored eyes and hair than could most people who had such an obviously Muslim name.

  Of course, Husaam Abdul-Fataah was the name he took seven years ago, after his first meeting with al-Qaeda leaders, when it became obvious that embracing the Muslim faith would be a smart business move. He'd converted, enthusiastically. He'd worship zucchini squash if it would help him bring home the kind of money he was earning these days.

  And as for his new name, it roughly tran
slated into "sword and servant of the opener of the gates of sustenance."

  And those gates were open, indeed. He was steadily and quite gainfully employed. And the work was laughably easy. It was amusing indeed that, after years of working as a hired gun, a shooter with an ability rivaled by few, his biggest "skill" now was his ability to blend in in America. His greatest asset was the genes he'd inherited from Glen and Irene Canton of Lenexa, Kansas.

  As Husaam watched, an obviously Arabic-looking man was pulled from the line and swept with the metal detector wand, even though he hadn't set off the walk-through alarm. The man was patient and serene despite the obvious indignity of being singled out.

  And look at that. It was Ihbraham Rahman. Wasn't that provident? Maybe there was something to this blessings from Allah thing after all.

  Husaam hadn't been intending to stay here on the base for long. Once the bullets started flying, it was going to get very dangerous in this vicinity. In fact, he was expecting a call on his cell phone warning him when the President's motorcade crossed the causeway.

  But Ihbraham's presence was too neat a gift from God to pass up. And Husaam knew where the martyrs were intending to stand. He could position himself well out of range of their weapons.

  Husaam hung back and waited. And as Ihbraham finally was allowed into the area, he followed him.

  Sam Starrett watched the crowd filtering in through the gates from his bird's-eye perspective in Seahawk One.

  As the helicopter made another pass overhead, he could see the metal detectors and the security personnel hard at work, bomb-sniffing dogs nearby. Everyone's shoes had to come off and get sent through the X-ray machines. Bags and packages weren't allowed inside, but ladies' purses were. It was ridiculous—like women couldn't be as murderous as the next guy?

  Obviously the policymakers didn't know the same women who Sam knew.

  Mary Lou had gotten up and out early this morning, taking Haley with her, before he even woke up. And for the first time since they were married, she'd left the dishes in the sink.

  Which, in Mary Lou's head, was probably a most heinous act of domestic terrorism—probably retaliation for him asking if she was getting it on with Donny the Nutjob.

  She was a strange woman. Last night, when she'd told him to fuck himself, he'd gotten a glimpse of the girl he'd lusted after at the Ladybug Lounge all those months ago. It almost made him want her again.

  Almost.

  But he was smarter now—and determined to think things through before he took action. In other words, he was going to keep his pants zipped.

  Yeah, that was one mistake he wasn't going to repeat. Sex for the sake of sex. It wasn't going to happen, not ever again.

  He looked down at the metal detectors now, and watched as the guards ran a whole line of folded-up baby strollers through the X-ray machine.

  Jesus, they were actually allowing baby strollers in. That was one big fucking mistake.

  If he were a terrorist, he'd carry all his explosives in a baby stroller, right under junior's diaper-padded little butt.

  Wheel his way to his destination with the greatest of ease, pick up junior, set the timer, and walk away.

  And then, after the blast, he'd run away crying, "Someone help me get my darling baby to safety!"

  But hey, that was just him.

  Suicide bombers didn't bother with timers, either, so maybe the baby stroller thing wasn't a real threat.

  "Starrett, Nilsson, do you read?"

  "Got you loud and clear, Commander," Sam answered Paoletti, speaking into his lip mike.

  "Ditto that, sir," Nils reported in from Seahawk Two. "What can we do to make your day a little easier?"

  Commander Paoletti was freaking out about this op.

  Okay, that was an overstatement, considering that Paoletti 's version of freaking out meant that he ground his teeth slightly harder than usual.

  All joking aside, the man was about as grim as Sam had ever seen him. It was almost as bad as that time they were pulling an ambassador's wife out of a country in which a coup had taken place. The new government had decided at the last minute that they really didn't want any of them to leave after all and started shooting. Their helo suffered a direct hit—a lucky shot. Those losers couldn't have done that kind of damage in a million years if they'd actually tried. The team managed to make a controlled crash landing, but the Seahawk—it was a lot like this one, as a matter of fact—blew sky-high shortly after, and the force of the explosion had thrown Paoletti right on his head.

  Kind of the way Sam's older sister Lainey used to throw his GI Joe dolls across the driveway during the great Barbie Wars of third and fourth grade.

  Tom Paoletti had regained consciousness almost right away. But while the team was hustling to make it out of the country on foot, he recognized that the tunnel vision he was experiencing was a sign of a serious head injury. He knew it was just a matter of time before he went into a coma and became a very heavy addition to their already too heavy load.

  He got pretty fucking grim that day.

  A lot like he was today.

  What disaster did he mink was going to happen?

  Something bad. Sam hoped to God he was wrong.

  "Keep your eyes open while you're up there," Paoletti told them. "I want Jefferson, Jenkins, Maclnnough, and Zanella in place. Starrett and Nilsson—you made the arrangements we discussed yesterday?"

  "Yes, sir." He and Nils answered almost in unison.

  They didn't use live ammunition during a demonstration like this one. But since Paoletti was afraid that there might be trouble, he'd ordered Sam and Nils to double check that there were magazines with real bullets on board both these helos. And sniper rifles, ready to be pulled out of the rack and tossed to Duke Jefferson and the other top-notch sharpshooters that Paoletti had ordered to be given special seating at the doors of the two Seahawks.

  "I want eyes open at all times," the CO stressed again. "And no idle chatter on the radio. We still have about twenty minutes before the president arrives, and ten minutes after that before you do your fast-roping tricks. But as of right now, as far as we're concerned, this op has already started. The clock is running. I want all eyes on the crowd. Let's do what we do best."

  Sam looked around the helo at his team of men. Jenk, Wildcard, Cosmo, Gilligan, Duke, and Lopez.

  If any of them thought the commander was worrying just a little too much, they didn't show it by so much as a blink. Truth was, they probably respected Paoletti's gut feelings and hunches as much as Sam did. They all returned his gaze steadily, giving him a short nod and a solid thumbs-up.

  They were all good to go.

  "Joan!"

  Joan turned to see Kelly Ashton, Commander Paoletti's fiancée, waving to her from the crowd that was milling directly in front of the dais.

  There was standing room only down there, although many people preferred it to the bleachers, since it was a chance to be up close and personal when the President gave his speech.

  The crowd wasn't too thick yet, and Joan went down the front stairs and over to Kelly.

  Anything to keep her from standing on the dais with Muldoon watching her.

  Whenever she met his eyes, he smiled.

  And she flashed hot and cold and hot again.

  He loved her. He wanted to... She couldn't even think the M-word.

  Except she was thinking about nothing but the M-word.

  She glanced up at the dais where Mike was talking to Tom Paoletti, both of them looking incredible in their dress uniforms, weighed down by a ton of medals.

  They'd be getting another one, a unit citation, from the President today.

  "How are you? It's nice to see you again," Kelly greeted her. She was with an elderly man. "This is Tom's uncle, Joe Paoletti—he just got in from Boston. He actually caught an earlier flight, which is why we're here. We wouldn't have made it otherwise. Joe, this is Joan DaCosta. She works in the West Wing of the White House—isn't that cool?"

/>   "Very. Pleased to meet you, Joan." Joe Paoletti shook her hand and smiled—the family resemblance was pretty amazing, despite the fact that Joe was in his eighties and somehow managed to have more hair than Tom.

  "Joe!" Meg Nilsson came over and gave the old man a hug. She had a big-eyed baby with dark curly hair in a pack on her back. "How are you? How long will you be in town?"

  Kelly pulled Joan aside. "I heard your brother was in the hospital. Is everything all right?"

  "Yeah, it was something he ate—some kind of food poisoning. We don't really know exactly what it was. He's not quite all there mentally."

  "I'm sorry to hear that." With her freckles and her blond hair up in a ponytail, dressed down the way she was in shorts and a T-shirt and a baseball cap, Dr. Kelly Ashton looked about twenty-four years old today.

  "May I ask you a personal question?" Joan said.

  Kelly nodded. "Sure."

  "Rumor has it—"

  Kelly rolled her eyes. "Oh, jeez."

  "Wait, hear me out," Joan said. "The urban legend I've heard says that when you and Tom first got together a few years ago, you moved to San Diego all the way from New England." "

  "Okay," Kelly said. "That much is true."

  "But you're a doctor," Joan said. "Didn't you have a practice there?"

  "In Boston," she said. "Yes, I did."

  "And you just... walked away from it, from your whole life and career?"

  "I'm still practicing medicine," Kelly said. "Doctors never lack patients. Trust me on that one."

  "Did you and Tom even talk for one minute about him moving to Boston?"

  "No," Kelly said. "That was never a serious option."

  "That doesn't seem very fair."

  Kelly smiled. "It's fair."

  Joan laughed in disbelief. "How can you say that?"

  "Because it is fair. Look, Tom is the most incredible man in the world. He does things that only a few people on this planet are capable of doing—and he does them for our country. He could make astronomical amounts of money in the private sector, but he chooses to serve. I figure I can do my share, too, by taking on the role of Navy spouse—although, okay, I haven't managed to marry him yet but I'm working on that. Marriage license or not, when you're the wife of a Navy SEAL, Joan, you do things like move when he gets reassigned. God, I'd fly halfway around the world for a chance to see him for fifteen minutes."