Harvard's Education

by Suzanne Brockmann

  "I can," she told him. "I don't know how many times I've been called in to join a task force and then told to take a seat at the table and look pretty. No one wanted my input. They wanted any news cameras that might be aimed in their direction to see that they had women on staff. Like, 'Look, y'all. We're so politically correct, we've got a woman working with us.'"

  "That's why I didn't want to become an officer. Maybe I was just too leery, but I was afraid I'd lose my identity and become 'that black officer.' I was afraid I'd be a figurehead without any real power, safely stashed behind a desk for show." He shook his head. "I may not make as much money, and every now and then a smart-ass lieutenant who's nearly half my age comes along and tries to order me around, but other than that, I'm exactly where I want to be."

  P.J. kissed him. His mouth was so sweet, so warm. She kissed him again, lingering this time, touching his lips with the tip of her tongue.

  She could feel his mouth move into a smile. "I know you're thinking something impure now."

  She was, indeed. "I'm thinking that if you only knew what I was thinking, you'd discover my awful secret."

  He caught her lower lip between his teeth, tugging gently before he let go. "And what awful secret might that be?"

  "The fact that no matter what I do, I can't seem to get enough of you."

  His eyes turned an even warmer shade of whiskey brown as he bent to kiss her. "The feeling is definitely mutual."

  She reached between them, searching for him-and found him already aroused. Again. "You want to go four for four, my man?"

  "Yes." He kissed her again, a sweet kiss. "And no. And this time, no wins. You're going to be sore enough as it is." His gaze flickered to the drying bloodstains on the blanket.

  He'd been so gentle and tender after the first time they'd made love. He'd helped her get cleaned up, and he'd cleaned her blood off himself, as well. P.J. knew he hated the idea that he'd caused her any pain at all, and the blood proved he'd hurt her. Unintentionally. And necessarily, of course. But he had hurt her.

  Still, he'd also made her feel impossibly good.

  Harvard propped himself on one elbow and looked at her in the dwindling light. "Besides, my sweet Porsche Jane, it's time to think about heading out."

  The fear P.J. had buried inside her exploded with a sudden rush. Their time was up. It was over. They had a job to do. A man's life to save. Their own lives to risk.

  Harvard gently extracted himself from her arms and stood up. He gathered her clothes and handed them to her, and they both quietly got dressed.

  Before they went to John Sherman's stronghold, Harvard was determined to find them some real weapons. He'd told her earlier he intended to do that alone.

  P.J. broke the silence. "I want to go with you."

  Harvard glanced up from tying his bootlaces. He'd propped opened the rickety door to the hut to let in the last of the fading evening light. His face was in the shadows, but P.J. knew that even if he'd been brightly illuminated, she wouldn't have been able to read his expression. It didn't seem possible that this was the man who'd spent the afternoon with her, naked and laughing in her arms.

  "You know for a fact that I'll be able to do this faster—cleaner—without you." His voice was even, matter-of-fact.

  Yeah, she did know that. It took him more than twice as long to move quietly through the jungle when she was with him. And quietly was a relative term. Her most painstakingly silent version of quiet was much noisier than his.

  Without her, he could approach the fringes of the armed camp where Wes and Bobby were pinned down and he could appropriate real weapons that fired real, live ammunition.

  Harvard straightened, pulling the edges of his shirt together.

  P.J. watched his fingers fastening the buttons. He had such big hands, such broad fingers. It seemed impossible that he should be able to finesse those tiny buttons through their tiny buttonholes, but he did it nimbly—faster even than she could have.

  Of course, she was far more interested in undressing the man than putting his clothes back on him.

  "If something happens," he said, his voice velvety smooth like the rapidly falling darkness as he shrugged into his combat vest, "if I'm not back before sunup, get on the radio and tell Blue where you are." He took several tubes of camouflage paint from his pocket and began smearing black and green across his face and the top of his head. "Crash will know how to get here."

  P.J. couldn't believe what she was hearing. "If you're not back before sunup?"

  "Don't be going into that minefield on your own," he told her sternly, mutating into Senior Chief Becker. "Just stay right here. I'm leaving you what's left of my water and my power bars. It's not much, but it'll hold you for a few days. I don't expect it'll be too much longer before Blue can get a helicopter up here to extract you."

  She pushed herself to her feet, realization making her stomach hurt. "You're not planning to come back, are you?"

  "Don't be melodramatic. I'm just making provisions for the worst-case scenario." He didn't look her in the eye as he fastened his vest.

  P.J. took a deep breath, and when she spoke, her voice sounded remarkably calm. "So what time do you really expect to be back? Much earlier than sunrise, I assume."

  He set his canteen and several foil-wrapped energy bars next to her vest, then looked straight at her and lied. She knew him well enough by now to know that he was lying. "I'll be back by ten if it's easy, midnight if it's not"

  P.J. nodded, watching as Harvard checked his rifle. Even though the only ammunition he had was paint balls, it was the only weapon he had, and he was making sure it was in working order.

  "You said you loved me," she said quietly. "Did you really mean it?"

  He turned to look at her. "Do you really have to ask?"

  "I have trust issues," she told him bluntly.

  "Yes," he said without hesitation. "I love you."

  "Even though I'm a FInCOM agent? A fink?"

  He blinked and then laughed. "Yeah. Even though you're a fink."

  "Even though you know that I get up and go to work every day, and sometimes that work means that people fire their weapons at me?"

  He didn't try to hide his exasperation. "What does that have to do with whether or not I love you?"

  "I have a very dangerous job. I risk my life quite often. Did you know that?"

  "Of course I—"

  "And yet, you claim you fell in love with me."

  "I'm not just claiming it."

  "Would you describe me as brave?" she asked.

  "P.J., I don't understand what you're—"

  "I know," she said. "I'm trying to make you understand. Just answer my questions. Would you describe me as someone who's brave?"

  "Yes."

  "Strong?"

  "You know you are."

  "I know exactly who and what I am," P.J. told him. "I'm trying to find out if you know."

  "Yes, you're strong," he conceded. "You might not be able to bench press a lot of weight, but you can run damn near forever. And you have strength of character. Stamina. Willpower. Call it whatever you want, you've got it."

  "Do you respect me for that?"

  "Of course I do."

  "And maybe even admire me a little?"

  "P.J.—"

  "Do you?" she persisted.

  "You know it."

  "As far as finks go, do you think I'm any good?"

  He smiled.

  "At my job," she clarified.

  "You're the best," he said simply.

  "I'm the best," she repeated. "At my dangerous job. I'm strong, and I'm brave, and you respect and admire me for that—maybe you even fell in love with me for those reasons."

  "I fell in love with you because you're funny and smart and beautiful inside as well as out."

  "But I'm also those other things, don't you think? If I weren't strong, if I didn't have the drive to be the best FInCOM agent I could possibly be, I probably wouldn't be the person I am right now, and
you probably wouldn't have fallen in love with me. Do you agree?"

  He was silent for a moment.

  "Yeah," he finally said. "You're probably right."

  "Then why," P.J. asked, "are you trying to change who I am? Why are you trying to turn me into some kind of romantic heroine who needs rescuing and protecting? Why are you trying to wrap me in gauze and keep me safe from harm when you know damn well one of the reasons you fell in love with me is that I don't need any gauze wrapping?"

  Harvard was silent, and P.J. prayed her words were sinking in.

  "Go and get the weapons you think we'll need," she told him. "And then come back so we can go about bringing Joe home. Together."

  She couldn't read the look in his eyes.

  She pulled him close and kissed him fiercely, hoping her kiss would reinforce her words, hoping he'd understand all she'd left unsaid.

  He held her tightly, then he stepped toward the door.

  "I'll be waiting for you," P.J. told him.

  But he was already gone.

  Across the room, Blue McCoy shot out of his seat as if someone had fired a rocket under his chair. He swore sharply. "That's it!"

  Crash leaned forward. "What's it?"

  "The solution to getting Joe out. I said it myself. They're not going to let an American helicopter fly into the island's airspace."

  Crash laughed softly. "Of course. Let's go find a radio. I know who we can call. This could actually work."

  Blue McCoy wasn't ready to smile yet. "Provided Harvard can get the job done on his end."

  P.J. paced in the darkness.

  She stopped only to flip up the cover of her waterproof watch and glance at the iridescent hands. As she watched, the minute hand jerked a little bit closer to midnight.

  Harvard wasn't coming back.

  She sank onto the cool dirt floor of the hut and sat leaning against the rough wooden wall, her rifle across her lap, trying to banish that thought.

  It wasn't midnight yet.

  And until it was after midnight, she was going to hang on tight to her foolhardy belief that Daryl Becker was going to return.

  Any minute now he was going to walk in that door. He would kiss her and hand her a weapon that fired bullets made of lead rather than paint, and then they would go find Joe.

  Any minute now.

  The minute hand moved closer to twelve.

  Any minute.

  From a distance, she heard a sound, an explosion, and she sprang to her feet.

  She crossed to the open doorway and looked out. But the hut was in a small valley, and she could see no further in the otherworldly moonlight than the immediate jungle that surrounded her.

  The explosion had been from beyond the minefield—of that much she was certain.

  She heard more sounds. Distant gunfire. Single shots, and the unforgettable double bursts of automatic weapons.

  P.J. listened hard, trying to gauge which direction the gunfire was coming from. John Sherman's home base was to the north. This noise was definitely coming from the south.

  From the direction Harvard had headed to acquire his supply of weapons.

  Cursing, P.J. switched on her radio, realizing she might be able to hear firsthand what the hell was going on. She'd turned the radio on now and then in the hours Harvard had been gone, but there was nothing to hear, and she'd kept turning it off to save batteries.

  She could hear Wesley Skelly.

  "Some kind of blast on the other side of the camp," he said sotto voce. "But the guards around this structure have not moved an inch. We are unable to use this diversion to escape. We remain pinned in place. Goddamn it."

  P.J. held her breath, hoping, praying to hear Harvard's voice, as well.

  She heard Blue McCoy telling Wes to stay cool, to stay hidden. Intel reports had come in informing them that Kim's army was rumoured to be heading north. Maybe even in as few as three or four hours, before dawn.

  P.J. made certain her mike was off before she cursed again. Dear Lord Jesus, the news kept getting worse. They would have to try to rescue Joe Catalanotto knowing that in a matter of hours Sherman's installation was going to be under attack from opposing forces.

  That is, if Harvard weren't already lying somewhere, dead or dying.

  And even if he weren't, she'd only been kidding herself all evening long. He wasn't going to come back. He couldn't handle letting her face the danger. He may well love her, but he didn't love her enough to accept her as she was, as an equal.

  She was a fool for thinking she could convince him otherwise.

  Then she heard another noise. Barely discernible. Almost nonexistent. Metal against metal.

  Someone was coming.

  P.J. faded into the hut, out of range of the silvery moonlight, and lifted the barrel of her rifle. Aim for the eyes, Crash had advised her. Paint balls could do considerable damage to someone not wearing protective goggles.

  Then, as if she'd conjured him from the shadows, tall and magnificent and solidly real, Harvard appeared.

  He'd come back.

  He'd actually come back!

  P.J. stepped farther into the darkness of the hut. The hot rush of emotion made her knees weak, and tears flooded her eyes. For the briefest, dizzying moment, she felt as if she were going to faint.

  "P.J." He spoke softly from outside the door.

  She took a deep breath, forcing back the dizziness and the tears, forcing the muscles in her legs to hold her up. She set down her weapon. "Come in," she said. Her voice sounded only a tiny bit strained. "Don't worry, I won't shoot you."

  "Yeah, I didn't want to surprise you and get a paint ball in some uncomfortable place." He stepped inside, pausing to set what looked like a small arsenal—weapons and ammunition—on the floor.

  "Was that you? All that noise from the south?" she asked, amazed that she could stand there and ask him questions as if she had expected him to return, as if she didn't desperately want to throw her arms around him and never let go. "How did you get here so fast?"

  He was organizing the weapons he'd stolen, putting the correct ammunition with the various guns. Altogether, there looked to be about six of them, ranging from compact handguns to several HK MP5 submachine guns. "I cut a long fuse. And I ran most of the way here."

  P.J. realized his camouflaged face was slick with perspiration.

  "I tried to create a diversion so Bob, Wes and Chuck could escape," he told her. He laughed, but without humour. "Didn't happen."

  "Yeah," she said. "I heard." God, she wanted him to hold her. But he kept working, crouched close to the ground. He glanced at her in the darkness. She asked, "Are you sure you're all right?"

  "I had hardly any trouble at all. The outer edges of the camp aren't even patrolled. The place should've had a sign saying Weapons'R'Us. I walked in and helped myself to what I wanted from several different tents. The irony is that the only real guards in the area are the ones standing by the structure where the CSF team is hiding." He straightened and held a small handgun—a Browning—and several clips of ammunition out to her. "Here. Sorry I couldn't get you a holster."

  That was when she saw it—the streak of blood on his cheek. "You're bleeding."

  He touched his face with the back of his hand and looked at the trace of blood that had been transferred to it. "It's just a scratch."

  She worked to keep her voice calm. Conversational. "Are you going to tell me what happened? How you got scratched?"

  He met her eyes briefly. "I wasn't as invisible as I'd hoped to be. I had to convince someone to take a nap rather than report that I was in the neighbourhood. He wasn't too happy about that. In the struggle, he grabbed my lip mike and snapped it off—tried to take out my eye with it, too. That's what I get for being nice. If I'd stopped him with my knife right from the start, I wouldn't be out a vital piece of equipment right now."

  "You can use my headset," P.J. told him.

  "No. You're going to need it. I can still listen in, but I'm not going to be ab
le to talk to you unless I can get this thing rewired." He laughed again, humourlessly. "This op just keeps getting more and more complicated, doesn't it?"

  She nodded. "I take it you heard the news?"

  "About Sun Yung Kim's sunrise attack? Oh, yeah. I heard."

  "And still you came back," she said softly.

  "Yeah," he said. "I lost my mind. I came back."

  "I guess you really do love me," she whispered.

  He didn't say anything. He just stood there looking at her. And P.J. realized, in the soft glow of the moonlight, that his eyes were suddenly brimming with tears.

  She stepped toward him as he reached for her and then, God, she was in his arms. He held her tightly, tucking her head under his chin.

  "Thank you," she said. "Thank you for listening to what I told you."

  "This is definitely the hardest thing I've ever done." His voice was choked. "But you were right. Everything you said was too damn right. I was trying to change who you are, because part of who you are scares the hell out of me. But if I'd wanted a lady who needed to be taken care of, someone who was happier sitting home watching TV instead of chasing bad guys across the globe, I would've found her and married her a long time ago." He drew in a deep breath. "I do love who you are. And right now, God help me, who you are is the FInCOM agent who's going to help me save the captain."

  "I know we can pull this off," she told him, believing it for the first time. With this man by her side, she was certain she could do anything.

  "I think we can, too." He pushed her hair from her face as he searched her eyes. "You're going to go in that air duct and—with stealth—you're going to locate the captain and then you're going to come out. You find him, we pinpoint his location and then we figure out the next step once you're safely out of there. Are we together on this?"

  She nodded. "Absolutely, Senior Chief."

  "Good." He kissed her. "Let's do this and go home."

  P.J. had to smile. "This is going to sound weird, but I feel kind of sad leaving here—kind of like this place is our home."

  Harvard shook his head. "No, it's not this place. It's this thing—" he gestured helplessly between the two of them "—this thing we share. And that's going to follow wherever we go."