Breaking Through (Book 2 of the SEAL TEAM Heartbreakers)

by Reasor, Teresa

  A fire alarm went off, piercing Zoe’s blast-dulled hearing as she fought to get air into her lungs. Cal rolled off of her, his unshaven face pale. He pivoted onto his good foot, balanced on his hands, and bracing his shoe-covered prosthesis on the floor, he straightened.

  His mouth moved as he yelled something at her. The screaming alarm made hearing him impossible. He bent and offered her a hand.

  Zoe’s first full breath was filled with grit and she coughed. They had to get out. She sat up. The baby. Was the baby all right? Her hand went to her abdomen. No pain, just a bruised feeling along her left hip where she’d struck the floor. Grasping Cal’s hand, she braced a palm on the floor to push upward while he tugged. Two feet from her splayed fingers lay a human tooth.

  Nausea rolled through her, and she closed her eyes. The screaming alarm was joined by a ringing deep in her ears. She opened her eyes and the world narrowed to a pinhole of light. Her stomach felt hollow, her legs weak. She bent at the waist and fought to keep from heaving.

  “Look at me, Zoe,” Cal’s voice coming close to her ear penetrated the other distracting sounds as he grabbed her arm and put his other around her waist. “We have to get out of here.”

  She nodded. The other therapists and patients? She scanned the room. One therapist was helping the double amputee put on his prosthetics. The other was guiding his patient toward the door.

  Tank, the large corpsman assigned to the therapy clinic, skidded to a stop just outside the door. “Is everyone okay?” he yelled, his words nearly impossible to hear. He motioned for everyone to hurry and shoved into the room to help.

  Zoe focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Out in the hall sparks flew as a live electrical wire swung from the damaged ceiling and hit the wall. Rubbery-smelling smoke drifted through the air, but no fire was evident. The cinderblock walls were blackened and pocked from the blast. Daylight from the therapy room beamed through one area of the wall, but the structural damage seemed limited to the direct spot where the man had stood.

  If Cal hadn’t shoved her, they’d both be dead.

  Another cramp of nausea hit Zoe. They turned away and hurried down the hall to the emergency exit. She kept walking, following the other evacuating employees through the hallways.

  Once outside in the employee parking lot, they moved away from the building and joined a large group standing along the strip of grass that surrounded the lot, the metal fence surrounding the property preventing them from going further.

  “You okay?” Cal asked.

  She nodded, though she’d begun to shiver with reaction. She wrapped her arms against her waist. She needed to go to the emergency room. She needed someone to check her out and make sure the baby was okay. Would she have pain right away if she were going to miscarry?

  “That fucker knew your name, Zoe. He was after you.”

  She nodded. The urge to cry was strong.

  “Why was he after you?”

  This man had saved her life. She owed him everything. “Someone leaked my brother’s name to terrorists in Iraq. He was shot about a week ago while surfing, but not killed. The man tried to kill my mother as well.”

  “They’ve declared a jihad against your whole family.”

  “I’m so sorry for everything. You’ve been through enough already. The FBI and all the other agencies didn’t think any of this would happen. They kind of shrugged it off.”

  Her shivers increased. And where was Brett? Was he okay? Her mother had been okay earlier, but was she safe now? She reached for her phone and hit the dial button to call Brett. His phone went to voicemail, and she waited for the beep so she could leave a message. “Call me right away Brett. Something’s happened at the hospital. You may be in danger.”

  She hung up. And thought about what to do next. Someone had to find Brett and warn him. She pushed the next number. Norm answered immediately.

  “Something’s happened. I need the Navy. ”

  CHAPTER 36

  Brett pulled into the horseshoe-shaped driveway before the brick, one-story ranch style home. A privacy fence, hooked to one end of the house, looped around the side yard and disappeared around back. The yard was immaculate, the flowerbeds across the front well-tended, the sidewalks edged. On the porch, a weeping fig with its braided trunk and waxy leaves sat in a pot near the front door. “You can stay in the car if you like, Tess,” he said. He removed the Sig from his shoulder holster and shoved it under the seat.

  “No, I’m going in with you. If he’s going to threaten to end your career, I’m going to be there to back you up.”

  Even with her mouth compressed, and her features set in an aggressive scowl, she was beautiful. He smiled, leaned over, and kissed her. “This may be just what he says it is. But save all that righteous outrage, just in case.”

  With her expression softened by the kiss, she nodded, and reached for the door handle.

  Brett exited the vehicle and waited at the end of the sidewalk for Tess to join him. He pushed the keypad and locked the car, then offered her his hand. When she took it, he wove his fingers through hers.

  “You’re moving a little easier,” she commented.

  “It must be all the TLC I’m getting.”

  Soft color lit her cheeks.

  He grinned. “Being with you is something special.”

  She leaned her cheek against his shoulder.

  Brett let her go ahead of him up the two steps to the porch. He pushed the doorbell and the door opened immediately.

  “Ensign Weaver.” Marsha Jackson’s smile looked brittle. Her blond hair hung limp around her face and her makeup was smeared beneath her eyes as though she’d been crying.

  Were they fighting again?

  “James has been calling you.” Her fingers trembled as they crept beneath her jaw as though she meant to cup her throat, then dropped to a place just over her heart.

  Brett frowned. Was that just a nervous gesture? “We’ve been out of town, ma’am. I called as soon as I got back.”

  “No, harm done. But he’s eager to see you.” She cupped her throat again, and then her fingers brushed down her blouse to settle over her heart, the first two folded under so that only the last three showed.

  No gesture. She was signaling hostage. Brett met the woman’s gaze and read the desperation in the stiffness of her features. He nodded slowly. She shifted her eyes toward the door.

  “Please come in.” She motioned with those same three fingers and stepped back.

  Brett’s arm tightened around Tess’s hip when she started to step forward. No way was she walking into this.

  “Tess is just dropping me off. I need her to pick something up for me while we’re on this side of town.” He thrust his hand into his pocket and retrieved the rental car’s keys. Taking her hand, he put them in her palm and closed her fingers around them. He delved into her brown gaze, hoping she’d catch on. “Honey I forgot to write that address down for you. Do you have a scrap of paper?”

  She frowned at him, confusion in her expression, but she stuck her hand into her bag and produced a small notebook and a pen.

  Brett wrote a quick note, jammed the pen between the pages to hold the place, and handed it back to her. “If the guy says it isn’t ready, tell him I need it ASAP and wait for it. Okay? The place is just around the corner from here.”

  The confusion dissolved, replaced by fear. “Okay.” Though she’d never met the woman she said, “It’s nice to see you, Mrs. Jackson.”

  “You too, Tess. See you in a bit.”

  Brett paused to watch her walk to the car. When she’d gotten behind the wheel, he turned back to Marsha Jackson. Her gaze had settled on him, and she gripped her skirt in her fists.

  As Tess pulled away behind him, Brett said, “How’s your little boy, Mrs. Jackson? Is he doing better with the formula? ” He stepped over the threshold one pace, then two and lunged against the edge of the door with his shoulder shoving it back as hard as he could. The wooden panel hit someth
ing solid, initiating a startled yelp. The door thrust forward, the man behind it shoving back. Every muscle in Brett’s side screamed as he heaved against it again, mashing the tango back against the wall. The wood at the end of the door exploded near his head, though the report from the fired gun was muffled to a soft hiss. The shooter had a silenced weapon. Brett hit the door again and another round went off into the ceiling.

  The tango couldn’t aim the weapon behind the door, but Brett couldn’t disarm him, either. Brett swiveled around the edge of the door and jerked it forward, releasing him. His face bloody, his nose broken, the man jerked the weapon down to fire.

  Brett punched him in the throat. The gun went off, the round hitting the flat screen TV across the room. Brett gripped the silencer on the barrel of the weapon, and thrust it upward and back. The pop as the man’s finger broke blended with his coughing and wheezing as he clawed at his neck trying to breathe through his crushed trachea. He tumbled to the ground, the gun still looped around his finger. He lost consciousness and grew still.

  Brett jerked the weapon free of the man’s mangled hand. The French door shattered and Brett turned toward the new threat as the slugs hit the wall behind him. A man stood outside on the patio, taking aim once more.

  “Down.” Brett jerked Marsha Jackson onto the floor, raised the pistol, and fired twice in quick succession, striking the man once in the head, once in the throat. He fell face forward against the frame and slid down. “How many more of them are there?” Brett asked.

  “Just one. He has James and Alex out by the pool. They beat James after he talked to you. He’s—I don’t know if he’s still alive.”

  Jesus. “How long have they been here?”

  She began to cry. “Two days. They’ve been waiting for you to come back.” She began to rock.

  What had they done to her in those two days? Terrorized her, certainly. Rage built inside him. Thank God he’d sent Tess away to get help.

  A man stepped in front of the sliding glass doors with Alex Jackson in his arms. He pressed his Beretta up against the baby’s chin with steady pressure, forcing Alex’s head back until he began to cry.

  Marsha Jackson’s squealed and staggered to her feet, fear for her child etched in every line of her face. “Please don’t hurt him, he’s just a baby.” Tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks.

  This is how they’d controlled her for two days. A cold ,hard rage formed in the pit of Brett’s stomach.

  “Come join us by the pool, Ensign Weaver. And leave the gun behind.”

  The man’s English was good and held the same inflection as the Iraqis he’d worked alongside during his deployment. His dark brown hair was cut short. Acne scars roughened his skin, and his dark eyes glittered like obsidian. It was the man his mother had photographed. The same one who’d shot him.

  Brett laid the gun down on the floor. With his first step, he felt the pull and tug of his torn stitches. He’d probably ripped them all out. Fuck it. He strode to the French door, his steps crushing the shattered glass into the carpet. He turned the knob, pushed it open. He stepped over the body outside and followed the man as he backed toward the limp figure secured to a lawn chair next to the pool. Marsha Jackson followed behind him, her ragged sobs dogging his steps.

  ***

  Tess pulled the car around the corner from the house and parked. Her hands shook as she opened the note Brett had written. Hostage situation dial 911, 3 men. He’d said, “If the guy says it isn’t ready, tell him I need it ASAP and you’ll wait for it. Okay? The place is just around the corner from here.” Call 911 and wait for the police around the corner.

  Her hands trembled as she jerked her cell phone out of her purse and punched in the number. The pop-pop report of a gun reached her just as the operator answered and she jerked. Brett. Tears ran down her face. “Shots have been fired at four-thirty-three Locust Street. Three men are holding Captain James Jackson and his wife and baby hostage. My boyfriend Ensign Brett Weaver is in the house too. Please hurry.”

  “Ma’am, where are you calling from?”

  The dispassionate voice drove her anxiety higher. “Outside the house. Hurry—please hurry!”

  They weren’t coming fast enough. What was happening to Brett? What was happening to the Jackson’s and their baby? Tess unclipped her seat belt and shoved the car door open.

  “Ma’am, units have been dispatched to your location. Stay on the phone.”

  Tess reached beneath the seat and withdrew Brett’s pistol. Did it have to be cocked to fire? She knew it was loaded. Just holding the weapon in her hand made her tremble. “I have to go.” She pushed the button to disconnect the call. When the phone began to ring, she dropped it onto the driver’s seat and shut the door.

  She had to know what was happening. She had to do something. They could all be dying while she waited. She held the weapon pointed down against her thigh, as she’d seen Brett do, and cut across the unfenced yards back toward the house. Please God, don’t let anything happen to him. Tears streaked her cheeks and she brushed them away with a swipe of her shoulder. The privacy fence surrounding the pool blocked her way. She jogged around to the front of the house.

  The front door hung open and one of the hinges was partially pulled loose. The thought of entering the house numbed her limbs and leached the strength from them. Her legs refused to move. The gun suddenly weighed two tons.

  Tess clinched her teeth to still their chatter. Her breathing grew choppy and quick. She had to do this. She breathed through the worst of the fear, then straightened her shoulders. Wary of approaching the door head-on, she crawled onto the porch, and, reaching the opening, braced her back against the wall beside it for support, and shoved upward until she was standing. The house was quiet, too quiet. Her thigh muscles jerked as she swiveled, and thrusting the pistol out in front of her, she stepped over the threshold.

  A large man lay face down just inside. A startled yelp escaped her. The flat screen TV across the room had a hole in the center of it. A gentle breeze drifted in from the open French door, while the shattered glass scattered across the carpet reflected the late morning light. Tess circled around the mess and went to the door that wasn’t broken.

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  Brett’s voice carried to her from outside and she breathed a quick sigh of relief. How could she help him?

  ***

  While he waited for an answer, Brett assessed Captain Jackson’s condition and looked for signs of life. The man’s face was distorted by the beating he’d taken. His nose was flattened and both eyes were swollen shut. Red and purple bruises had already formed where blood had pooled beneath the skin. Brett couldn’t tell if he was still breathing, but his body slumped loose-limbed in the chair, his arms secured to the metal chair arms by duct tape. If he wasn’t already dead, he soon would be.

  “I want you to die and all your family with you. You Americans have killed my family, one by one.” The baby’s head flopped back, and he nearly tumbled backwards out of the man’s arms. He jerked the baby forward against his chest. “Perhaps I should kill this creature and end his suffering.” He ran the barrel of his pistol along the baby’s cheek. Marsha Jackson shrieked as though she’d been sliced with a knife.

  Brett’s stomach clenched with rage. The sadistic bastard. “And you know it was me that did this, how?” he asked, in an attempt to distract the man while he scanned the area for anything he could use as a weapon. The concrete that surrounded the kidney-shaped pool was as pristine and free of debris as the grass out front. A glass table and chairs positioned in one of the rounded curves had its umbrella up and offered the only spot of shade. A gas grill was shoved against the side of the house, the implements dangling from beneath the cover too far away to offer any hope.

  “Were you not among the men who blew up a building in Fallujah last April?”

  Jesus. That fucking mission kept coming back to haunt him again and again. “I was in a coma for a month after my deployment, an
d I’ve lost all memory of my last two weeks in Iraq.”

  The guy extended his arm and aimed the gun at him. “Your Captain told me it was you and this Derrick Armstrong.”

  “No he didn’t,” Marsha Jackson said behind him.

  The man raised one dark brow and with a careless motion dropped the baby into the pool.

  “No.” Marsha screamed and broke from behind Brett at a run. The man swung the gun toward her, tracking her movement. Brett lunged forward in an attempt to cover the distance between them, even as he knew he’d never make it. Like Lazarus rising from the dead, Captain Jackson heaved his chair backwards into the man, striking him thigh-high. The gunman staggered beneath the weight, the gun going up and discharging into the air. Jackson landed on his back and hit the concrete with a meaty thunk.

  Brett heard the splash of water as Marsha dove into the pool. Brett launched himself over Jackson to reach the gunman. He hit the man chest-high and his momentum carried them into the water. The tango swung the gun against the side of his head right over the scar. Brett’s ears rang and the strength drained from his limbs. Blackness threatened, and he fought it. Just as he’d fought it that night. A memory of Derrick Armstrong standing over him with a rifle broke through the blackness. Brett lost his grip on the man’s arm. The terrorist kicked away toward the side of the pool.

  He had to fight. They’d all die if he didn’t. Brett kicked upward, breaking the surface and gasping for air. The terrorist grabbed the side of the pool and started to heave himself up. Brett gripped the back of his shirt and jerked him back into the water. He looped an arm around the tango’s neck and, using his weight, dragged the man under. The terrorist thrashed and tried to head butt him. Brett wrapped his legs around the man from behind and allowed them both to sink. The gun dropped from the tango’s hand. He clawed at Brett’s arm, his movements desperate. Brett tightened his grip around his neck and held on.

  ***