Exiled (SEAL Team: Disavowed Book 4)

by Laura Marie Altom

  He shrugged before devouring more of his burger. “You get more flies with honey than vinegar. Plus, a husband and wife team is more sympathetic than a gun-for-hire.”

  She winced. “I apologized for that. I know what you do is different. Better. But you were hurt, and I was scared. It was the first thing out of my mouth.”

  “Water under my bridge. Let’s pay the bill and get some sleep.”

  “Separate rooms?”

  “Nope. We’re married, remember? But I’ll make sure to get a room with two beds. Wouldn’t want you catching my cooties.”

  At the same motel where her grandparents had stayed, Olivia tossed and turned until five a.m. before finally giving up and researching the legend of El Diablo’s Gold on her phone.

  Harding lightly snored.

  When they’d been together, she’d razzed him about it but never really minded. It had been a comfort having him share her bed. Her entire body warmed at the memory of what they’d done between the sheets that had nothing to do with sleep. She squeezed her thighs, hating that Harding still held that much power. She’d thought he’d been the one.

  Boy, had she been wrong.

  Too bad her body hadn’t yet received the memo.

  When Harding was still asleep at six, and she’d learned nothing about the supposed treasure that she hadn’t already been told a dozen times by her grandfather, Olivia showered, washing her hair with the motel-provided shampoo. At some point in their day, she and Harding would need to buy clothes and toiletries, but for now yesterday’s jeans, T-shirt and Miami Dolphins hoodie would have to do.

  She’d just reached for the blow-dryer affixed to the wall when a banging on the room’s exterior door gave her enough of a fright that she clutched her chest to calm her pounding heart. “Harding?”

  “On it . . .” He was instantly out of bed and charging in his boxers toward the door. He held a lethal-looking handgun. Had he slept with it? “Stay in the bathroom,” he said before flipping the deadbolt, then jerking open the door, weapon at the ready.

  Olivia closed her eyes, bracing herself for violence, but nothing happened save for a cold burst of wind. The sound of a revved engine. Squealing tires.

  “Shit.”

  Olivia emerged from the bathroom, pulse still racing, to find the second-floor room’s door open.

  Harding stood at the walkway’s metal rail, staring south.

  She joined him. “Did you see anyone?”

  “Just some chicken shit hopping into a rusty brown pick-up. He fishtailed from the lot, but was already too far gone for me to get a license or good description of the guy.”

  “Why do you think he banged on the door if he didn’t want to talk to us? Do you think he knows something about my grandparents?”

  “Yep.” He pointed to the door. Someone—presumably their friend from the truck—had written in red spray paint go home on the front of their room’s door.

  Olivia clamped her forehead with trembling hands. “H-how would anyone even know we’re here? None of this makes sense.”

  “Sure it does.” He led her back into the room, closing the door behind them. “Think about it. Either our waitress last night, or one of the day crew she told about us, or the guy who checked us into this motel knows a helluva lot more about Dude and Shirley’s whereabouts than we do. Let me grab a shower, then we’ll see who’s ready to start talking.”

  5

  HARDING WOULD NEVER admit it to Olivia, but he was actually pretty psyched by their early morning visitor. They now shared a booth at Ollie’s, waiting to talk with Sharon, whom their waitress, Kate, assured them knew everything about everyone in the small town.

  By the time the middle-aged woman, with salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a high ponytail, approached their table, Harding had already finished his Western Omelet and bacon. She wore the same Ollie’s T-shirt as Ginger had the previous night, only instead of dripping in faux emeralds, she wore a gaudy clear rhinestone diamond broach, earrings and bracelet.

  Olivia had barely touched her scrambled eggs and toast. Dark circles under her eyes told him she hadn’t gotten much sleep.

  “Sorry it took me so long to get my behind over here. I’m Sharon.” The waitress pulled over a chair, sitting at the booth’s front. “Kate told me about your poor grandparents. It’s a foul time of year to be lost in those canyons.”

  While Olivia took out Dude and Shirley’s photos, tears pooled in her eyes. “Do you remember seeing them? Maybe if they talked with someone local . . .”

  “Oh, dear.” Sharon’s hot pink lips turned into a frown. “I did see those two. They were with a local idiot—Randy Owens. They all ordered steaks and seemed in a real celebratory mood, which I found odd, as no one with a lick of common sense would celebrate being in the same state with him, let alone, room. No offense to your grandparents. Anyway, he runs a tourist trap that gets a lot of side traffic from the Moab crowd. It’s an old abandoned gold mine. He gives tours, tells ghost stories, local legends and the like.”

  “Is one of them about El Diablo’s Gold?” Harding asked.

  She cupped her hand to her chin, tapping her lips with her index finger. “I can’t be sure, but I’ve heard enough about it over the years that it wouldn’t surprise me. If your grandfather was hunting the treasure, it would make sense for him to connect with Randy. For a hefty fee, he guides folks into the back country, usually to visit ghost towns or scenic sites, but he’ll do anything to make a buck. The darned fool was married to my cousin Elise. He left her with nothing but a pile of his bills. Ever since, I haven’t been able to stand the bastard. Pardon my French.”

  “It’s okay,” Olivia said. “Thanks for the lead.”

  “Oh, sure. And luckily, you caught me on a fairly slow day. You should have been here ’bout a month ago when that jet went down.”

  “Excuse me?” Harding set down the mug he’d been sipping from. He prided himself on being well-informed but didn’t remember seeing anything about a downed aircraft in the news.

  “It was a big deal for being so hush, hush. Some fancy military jet from Nellis.”

  “What’s that?” Olivia asked.

  “Nevada Air Force Base,” Harding said.

  “Every motel and B & B in town was booked plumb full with military personnel. I’ve never seen anything like it. The darnedest thing is, after all that looking, from what I heard, they never did find a trace. Our canyons swallowed it whole. Or aliens vaporized it.” She winked. “Don’t get me started on that whole UFO conspiracy crew. We get a fair amount of those in here, too.”

  After wishing them well, Sharon gave Olivia a sideways hug, then announced she was headed out back for a smoke break.

  Harding said, “I do love a Chatty Cathy.”

  “My head’s spinning.” Olivia stirred sugar into her hot tea. “Sounds like we need to talk to Randy.”

  “Or is Sharon involved and pointing blame on him?”

  “At this point, anything’s possible. Let me run to the restroom, then we’ll visit Randy and assess him for ourselves.”

  “Sounds good.”

  She rummaged in her purse, pulled out her wallet, then a credit card. “Please pay with this. I can’t imagine how much you’ve already spent on this venture. I need to start chipping in.”

  “Put that away.” Harding held out his hands. “I appreciate the gesture, but this is on me. Plus, just in case anyone’s tracking us, I’m paying all cash.”

  “Harding . . .” He’d seen the look before. The one that said he was crazy and that she didn’t understand why he did the things he did. The one thing she would hopefully never be able to complain about was the fact that however unorthodox or on the shadowy side of the law he operated, he and his team got results.

  “Go on,” he said. “I’ll pay and then wait for you.”

  She shook her head before sliding from the booth. “I’ll pay you back.”

  He ignored her. She was as stubborn as she was beautiful. Even without makeu
p, her mossy green eyes mesmerized him. Not a good thing while working a case.

  After paying their bill, he bought a few gumballs from a machine, then checked out a brochure rack advertising local sites. Moab was the biggest draw but he found a pamphlet on Goblin Valley State Park and another on Randy’s Ghost Mine. There was a convenient map on the back and even a coupon for two bucks off adult admission.

  Score.

  Harding was inputting the directions into his phone’s GPS when he heard a faint scream.

  Olivia?

  Jolting to action, he pitched the gumballs clattering to the floor, then ran toward the ladies’ room. When he reached the door, there was already a crowd.

  Sharon knelt before the door, wielding a can of WD-40. She sprayed some into a brass-plated knob’s center hole. “Hold tight, sugar. This thing gets stuck all the time.”

  “Help!” Olivia’s muffled cry destroyed Harding.

  Acting on pure adrenaline, he called, “Liv, stand back!”

  He rammed the door with his shoulder. It popped open, hitting the adjoining wall with a thud. The interior room was dark, save for the light of Olivia’s phone.

  “Harding!” She threw herself against him. “I was in the stall when the lights went out. T-then a man came in. He whispered, Go home. I heard a door close and left the stall, but then the exterior door was locked from the outside. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get it open.”

  “It sticks all the time,” Sharon said. “You poor thing. You must have hallucinated the rest. Are you pregnant? Sometimes expectant mothers . . .”

  “I’m not pregnant,” Olivia snapped, “and I remember quite vividly what happened. A man came in, and . . .”

  “I think you have an overactive imagination. Nobody here would do anything like that.” The restroom’s fluorescent lights went on with a flicker and hum. “See? Must’ve been a blown fuse.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” Olivia asked.

  “You’d best ask your wife to watch her tone,” Sharon said to Harding.

  “Come on, babe. Let’s go.” Harding wrapped his arm around Olivia’s sagging shoulders. She dealt with the most critical ICU patients on a daily basis. She wasn’t prone to exaggerating or spinning tall tales.

  The crowd that had gathered was already dispersing.

  Sharon and Kate whispered to each other while giving Olivia dark stares.

  “You believe me, don’t you?” Olivia gazed up at him with tear-filled eyes. “It was terrifying. I’ll never forget his voice.”

  “Of course I do.” They were outside when he added, “Especially since that’s conveniently the same phrase that was written on our motel room door this morning.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I think it’s time for a visit to Randy.”

  Olivia hated herself for still feeling ill at ease, especially since they were miles from Ollie’s and standing in the blacktop lot of what looked like a perfectly nice place to spend an afternoon with family. A couple dozen SUVs, RVs, and sedans were already parked out front of a weathered wooden, Old West style building. Ghost Mine Est. 1883 had been carved into a wooden sign swinging from black wrought iron supports. Pinyon pines shaded a picnic area. Higher on a hill behind the entrance were a series of steps leading into a narrow mine entrance that had been supported by railroad ties. Three little boys chased each other on a playground, laughing and shrieking while two women watched from a log bench.

  Breathing deeply of the crisp, pine-scented air, Olivia tried conning her pulse into slowing by pretending all was well. She and Harding were vacationing.

  The scene was tranquil. Idyllic. So how come all Olivia seemed capable of focusing on was that sinister man’s voice whispering, Go home?

  Honestly? She would love nothing more. Her most hectic day on the ICU floor hadn’t come close to rattling her the way that man had. Assuming he was the same guy who’d spray painted the message on their motel room door, he topped the list of people she most believed knew her grandparents’ location.

  “Do you think Randy’s responsible for this morning’s fun?” she asked Harding on their walk across the lot.

  “At this point, I’m keeping our options open. Sharon didn’t exactly lead his fan club. But before convicting him, let’s hear what he has to say.”

  “I disagree. I think we should get local police involved.”

  “Not yet. Besides, if Randy had been at Ollie’s this morning and was the one paying you a visit in the restroom, wouldn’t someone have seen him?”

  “Maybe?” She worried her lower lip. “I just want to find my grandparents. They could be lost or hurt or . . .” She refused to voice the worst-case scenario.

  “Hey . . .” Harding stood before her, hands braced atop her shoulders, “Trust me. Trust my process. I know it may not feel like it, but the fact that someone in town doesn’t like our being here is a good sign. That means they know something, and we’re going to find out what it is, okay?”

  Sniffing back the knot in her throat, she nodded.

  “All right, Mrs. Breslow.” With the pads of his thumbs, he wiped away her silent tears. “Let’s play this like ordinary tourists. I want to scope this guy out before he knows we’ve been asking about him.”

  “Sounds like a reasonable plan. But if I get the slightest hint that he was the creep in the restroom, I’m kneeing him you-know-where.”

  Harding laughed. “That’s the Olivia I know and . . .” Love? A pang tore through her upon realizing how much she’d once loved him.

  Part of her wanted him to finish that clichéd figure of speech. Her more rational side knew even if he had, it would make zero difference between them. Their relationship stood at an impossible impasse.

  End of story.

  “Come on.” He clasped her hand. It was for effect, but that didn’t stop her tummy from performing a flawless cartwheel in celebration. She’d missed his touch. Not a good thing, but considering how much she needed his support, she’d selfishly take it. For now, she failed to see what the comfort of basic human contact would hurt.

  They reached the attraction’s saloon-style double doors when a siren sounded in the distance. The boys on the playground ran the highway’s fence line. Judging by their shouts, they were excited by the grim prospect of seeing an accident.

  The women Olivia assumed were their mothers called them back.

  Inside, it took her eyes a moment to adjust from bright sun to the dimmer light of the souvenir and antique store combo. Shelves were lined with everything from rock candy and toy gold pan sets to stuffed rattlesnakes poised to strike. Rusty tools hung from the ceiling. There were books for all ages. T-shirts sized from infants to adults 4X. A teen worked an old-fashioned soda counter. The menu affixed to the wall advertised Coke and root beer floats along with a variety of shakes, malts and sundaes. Banjo music was piped through hidden speakers, lending the space a festive atmosphere.

  A teen male stood at a ticket/reception booth. He was tall and gangly with too many teeth for his mouth and a forced smile that didn’t come close to reaching his brown eyes. “Howdy. Welcome to Ghost Mine. Need tour tickets?”

  “Sure.” Harding let go of her hand to take cash from his wallet. “Oh, and here’s a coupon.”

  “Thanks. For an extra two dollars, there’s a movie on local history. Want that, too?”

  “Maybe later.” Harding handed the kid a twenty. Outside, the siren’s wail grew closer. The boys squealed with glee at the new prospect of the cops taking down a robber. “When does the tour start?”

  “Randy plans starting them every half-hour, but sometimes he gets to talking and they run over. I think he’s already about ten minutes behind. That okay?”

  “Sure.” After tucking a dollar into a tip jar, Harding thanked the kid and turned to Olivia. “Want ice cream while we wait?”

  “Why not?” She sighed. “Might as well squeeze a little happiness into this trip.”

  “That’s the spirit,”
he teased.

  The siren was deafening, as if right outside. Then it stopped.

  “What do you think happened?” she asked on their way to the soda counter.

  “No telling,” Harding glanced over his shoulder.

  She followed his gaze, but given their current vantage point, there was nothing special to be seen.

  “What sounds good?”

  “I was thinking a . . .”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Harding Breslow?” A uniformed police officer pushed through the shop’s double doors, charging up behind them.

  “Has something happened to my grandparents?” Olivia’s heart tumbled.

  “Couldn’t say, ma’am. I’m here about a vandalism complaint and will need to see your IDs.”

  “S-sure.” Olivia’s hands shook while taking her Florida license from her wallet.

  Harding complied without saying a word. Why wasn’t he putting up a fight? Was the motel’s owner blaming them for the graffiti on their room’s door?

  “Thought you two were married?” The officer stood four inches taller than Harding, who was six-one. The man’s height and grim set of his mouth intimidated Olivia, which she felt sure was the man’s intention. “According to your licenses, you don’t share the same name or address.”

  “Newlyweds,” Harding said. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Hope I don’t have a wise-ass on my hands. I haven’t had near enough coffee yet to deal with a wise-ass.”

  Harding slipped his arm around Olivia’s shoulders.

  She clung to him, glad for his strength.

  “I’m taking both of you in,” the officer announced.

  “The hell you are,” Harding said.

  The soda counter girl and ticket-taking teen gawked.

  The three boys and their mother stood at the shop’s front door, staring.

  The officer pressed a button on a shoulder mic. “Got a pair of 10-82s at Ghost Mine. Resisting arrest. Request immediate back-up.”

  “10-4.” Squawked a male voice over the radio. “ETA five minutes. Over.”