Blind Fury

by Gwen Hernandez

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice rough and scratchy on the long distance line. “Rob’s…” Mick cleared his throat. “He’s gone.”

  Her body went cold. “Gone?”

  “We got into a firefight while on a convoy this morning, and Rob was hit.” He hesitated. “He died at the scene.”

  Her throat tightened and she let out a strangled sound of grief.

  Mick blew out a long, shaky breath. “I’m so sorry, honey. I wish I could be there right now, but it’s going to take me a couple of days to get back. Someone from Claymore will be coming to see you, but I didn’t want you to hear the news from a stranger.”

  “Thank you,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper.

  Mick urged her to call Tara for support and signed off. Jenna stared at the phone in her hand without really seeing it.

  He died at the scene. The words swirled through her brain and brought her whole world crashing down. “No, no, no.” Little black spots danced in front of her eyes, and her stomach threatened to return her breakfast.

  Rob was done with private security. No more Afghanistan. He was coming home in two weeks. He couldn’t be dead.

  Her legs must have given out because suddenly she was on her hands and knees, staring at the wood floor. “Not Rob, too,” she said on a sob, pressing her forehead into the hard, cold surface. It wasn’t fair. She’d lost too much already. And now her brother, her protector, her only remaining family, was gone.

  Irreversibly, irrevocably gone.

  In the biggest picture on the mantle, her family of five was laughing on the beach during a Christmas trip to Hilton Head thirteen years ago. She’d been twelve, Jimmy ten, and Rob seventeen. Now she was the only one left. A reckless driver had seen to that. Her parents had died instantly, but Jimmy had hung on in a coma for six months before finally letting go. Rob had been fresh out of the Air Force with plans to go to school, but Jimmy’s medical bills were staggering. So Rob had gone to work for Claymore instead.

  Tears splashed onto the shiny wood between her hands, beading up on the buffed surface. If it were possible for a person’s heart to burst from too much grief, she’d be joining Rob any second. She wanted to curl into a ball and hide in the dark where she could cry her guts out.

  Instead, she stayed glued to the floor until her legs went numb and she was out of tears.

  God, she had to get a grip. With a deep breath, she wiped her eyes and stood on shaky legs. Her knees were sore, her toes tingling. She leaned against the front door and snatched up her tote bag from the floor where she must have dropped it. The interview.

  Somehow she managed to hold it together long enough to call Travers & West. The secretary clucked in sympathy at her reason for canceling, but explained that she couldn’t reschedule. They had plenty of applicants and would probably fill the job tomorrow. Jenna didn’t have the energy to push the issue.

  She slammed the phone down on the kitchen counter and stumbled down the stairs to her one-car garage. The tiny space was stacked to the rafters with boxes labeled in neat print. Soon Rob’s things would join them, and her entire family would be reduced to belongings packed lovingly into cardboard. Some people went to a cemetery to commune with their lost loved ones. Jenna hung out in her garage with the boxes. Maybe she was crazy, but it helped.

  “It’s too much!” she shouted into the whitewashed room as tears threatened again.

  Had she wronged someone in a past life? Done something heinous as a child that she’d blocked out? Maybe the Ryan family had picked up a curse somewhere along the way. She laughed—an unbalanced sound—and smoothed her hand across a box of travel souvenirs.

  Jimmy’s Swiss Army knife from Lucerne, a set of blue and white Delft plates from Holland, an obi—a Japanese kimono sash—her mother had picked up in Tokyo. Bits and pieces of the Ryans’ short lives, wrapped in paper and taped up because while she had no place for all the things left behind, she couldn’t bear to let them go.

  She wiped her eyes and slumped against the wall. She’d give anything to have Rob walk through that door with a hundred-watt smile and lift her into a bear hug. In fact, a hug would be really great right about now.

  Tara would be there in an instant if she called, no question, but Jenna wasn’t ready to share her pain yet. Instead, she sat there among her boxes until her joints turned stiff.

  Finally, she stood and dusted herself off before turning out the lights, and slowly made her way back upstairs. She’d call her friend later. Right now, there was only one thing that could make her feel better. She changed back into her workout clothes and set off for a nearby trail.

  Maybe if she ran hard enough, she could outrun the pain.

  “What did you find?” Ghost asked the imbecile on the other end of the line as he stared through the floor-to-ceiling window at the sun setting over the Potomac River.

  “Nothing more than the documents I took off Ryan’s body. Fury got to his things before I could.”

  “And you’re sure Ryan had more evidence?” He squeezed the phone until it dug sharply into his palm. Between these idiots and the asshole who’d discovered them, everything was at risk. The contracts, the money, the company. Everything.

  “Yes, sir,” Beavis said. “Rizzo saw him taking pictures.”

  “Fuck.” He had just over a week to clean up this mess or everything that he’d worked so hard to accomplish would crumble between his fingers like a clod of dirt.

  “I thought we might be able to get to his bag on the plane back to the States, but Fury kept it with him, and there were too many people around.”

  Ghost sucked in a deep breath. A good leader didn’t lose his cool. “There’s too much at stake for this to get out.” He rubbed his forehead. Goddammit. None of this shit was supposed to follow them to the States. “Find any evidence and destroy it before he and the girl figure out what they have.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And if they get in the way…”

  “I’ll take care of it, sir.”

  Ghost slammed his phone on the desk. You’d damn well better.

  CHAPTER TWO

  EARLY THURSDAY AFTERNOON, JENNA was wallowing in bed when the doorbell rang. She’d been trying to nap, but was instead staring at the stripes of midday sun that painted the ceiling, thinking about Rob. Tara’s head appeared around the bedroom doorjamb a minute later. “Mick’s here. I’m going to run a few errands. Do you need anything?”

  Yes. She needed Rob and the rest of her family back. She needed something in her life worth living for, because as it stood now, she couldn’t think of one compelling reason to get out of bed.

  Jenna sighed. Leave it to Mick to drop in without calling first. He was a master at hijacking other people’s schedules. Rob had called him spontaneous, but she wasn’t feeling that generous.

  Not that she had anything on her schedule.

  She sat up and shook her head at Tara. “I can’t think of anything.” The poor woman probably needed a break. Tara had been helping her with the funeral arrangements and forcing food down her throat for the last three days.

  “Okay. I’ll be back in a couple hours.” Tara gave her a quick smile and disappeared down the hall.

  Jenna glanced in the mirror above the blue dresser her mom had painted for her twelfth birthday. She looked like crap. After taking a shower, she’d dressed in sweats and corralled her curls into a ponytail, leaving her pale face bare of makeup. She hadn’t been expecting a visitor. Though in all honesty, she wouldn’t have had the energy to primp even if she’d known he was going to show up today.

  Bracing herself, she descended the stairs and found Mick standing on the threshold between the foyer and the living room, holding Rob’s mobility bag in one hand. His lean, six-foot-two frame filled the space, and she kept her distance so she wouldn’t have to tilt her head up to meet his brilliant blue eyes. “When did you get back?” she asked.

  “We landed a couple hours ago.” Gone was his ever-present grin. A crease cu
t a groove between his eyebrows and his jaw was clenched tight. Shadows under his eyes and the slope of his shoulders spoke of fatigue. He took in her outfit, his gaze spreading a warm tingle of awareness across her skin.

  She tugged nervously at her bulky top. “I would have cleaned up a little if I’d known you were coming.”

  “That’s why I didn’t call.” He dropped the bag, walked over, and wrapped her in his arms, his familiar scent of soap and something spicy kicking her heart into high gear.

  Seeing him in person made Rob’s death real, and she couldn’t stop her tears. Mick held her as she sobbed against him, pounding his hard chest with her fists, angry at him for giving her the bad news, angry that he was there to watch her fall apart.

  Angry that he was alive and Rob wasn’t.

  “I’m so sorry.” He absorbed her punches and squeezed her tightly, whispering in her ear, “I know, honey. I know.”

  Appalled by her outburst, she pushed back and wiped her face, turning away so she wouldn’t have to look at him when she finally got the nerve to pose her question. “How did it happen?” she asked, her voice thick. Good idea or not, she needed to know.

  He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly before answering. “Our lead vehicle hit an IED. While Dan and Rob and I tended to the wounded, the team became engaged in gunfire with a group of locals. Rob took a hit.”

  “What about his body armor?” He’d promised to wear it no matter how heavy or hot it made him. He’d promised.

  Mick gave a pained expression and ran a hand through his sandy-blond hair. “It wasn’t enough to protect him.”

  So not small arms fire? Clearly, Mick was trying to soften the blow as much as possible by giving her a sanitized version of the incident. The media and Claymore’s official representative had been equally vague, as had the State Department’s investigator. She knew all the tricks after being on the receiving end of bad news so many times. In fact, she should be an expert at getting it by now. But some things didn’t get easier with experience.

  “Why are you being so ambiguous?”

  “Because it’s easier than telling you the messy details. It’s hard enough remembering them,” he responded, his voice rough and low.

  She gave him a closer look and was surprised by the sight of his red-rimmed eyes. Had he been crying? It hadn’t occurred to her that he might be seeking comfort as much as giving it, but Rob had been his best friend. Here she was wrapped up in her own sorrow, not even thinking about what others had lost. Especially Mick. “I’m sorry. This has to be hard on you too.”

  “I’ll survive. We both will,” he said with a conviction and a seriousness she’d never seen in him before. He had always been so glib, ever ready with a quick joke when things got too heavy. Today he wasn’t hiding behind his slick charm.

  Would she survive? Possibly. Right now she wasn’t so sure.

  Her eyes on the floor, the fireplace, the chair—anywhere but his face—she said, “Thank you for coming.” Then she risked another glance at his eyes. “Will you be at the funeral tomorrow?”

  He gave her an odd look. “Of course I’ll be there.”

  She nodded and clasped her arms across her chest. What a dumb thing to ask. But being around him had always lowered her IQ by at least ten points.

  “You don’t have to do all this by yourself, you know.”

  “I know.” She focused on the wall behind him. “I’m not. Tara’s been helping.” And thank God for her. Without her, Jenna would be completely lost.

  “I’d like to help too.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets, apparently taking his cue from her unwelcoming posture. “Call me if you need anything.”

  “Yeah, sure.” If he was smart, he wouldn’t expect a call, but she nodded as she walked him to the door. He leaned in closer, as if for a hug, but she couldn’t let him touch her again, not when the feel of his arms was still imprinted on her skin.

  There was another time, a few years ago, when he’d been this close. The memory was still as vivid as the man before her. He’d been helping her and Rob move into this very house, and her brother had gone out to pick up lunch.

  Jenna was cutting open a box, but the blade slipped and sliced her palm instead. Mick heard her gasp and practically dropped the chair he was carrying in his haste to reach her side.

  “Jesus, Jay,” he said as blood dripped from her hand. He covered her palm with his own and led her to the tiny bathroom where he rinsed her wound and placed a wad of folded toilet paper over it.

  They sat there for several minutes while he pressed her hand between both of his, his expression fierce as he waited for the bleeding to stop. They’d never touched before, not really, and her stomach fluttered at the feel of his rough skin against her own.

  He glanced up with the most serious expression she’d ever seen on his face, the look in his ocean blue eyes making her heart race. “You scared me there for a minute. I saw the blood…”

  Heat crept up her neck and into her cheeks. At that moment she had wanted him to kiss her more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life. He didn’t.

  And now he stood in front of her, that same serious expression back on his handsome face, offering the solace she so desperately needed. But he was too tempting, and she was too vulnerable.

  She gave him her best effort at a smile and positioned herself behind the open door as he stepped through. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  He hesitated on the stoop as if waiting for a sign from her, but then nodded and jogged down the stairs toward his car.

  Jenna shut the door and plastered her back to the cool metal. She was messed up enough without adding the complication of Mick. But he was her last link to Rob, and God help her, she liked having him around.

  Three hours later, Mick looked through the windshield of his car and squinted against the reflection of the evening sun off the window of the Manassas tattoo parlor he’d just left. Gripping the steering wheel, he was shaky and nervous, like a chain smoker who’d gone too long without a hit.

  He had spent the last three days stuck in transport with the rest of his team—they’d all been sent home for an indefinite leave after the incident—and in spite of that transition time, the change from war zone to suburbia was disorienting. Home was both foreign and familiar.

  People here went about their lives, ignorant of the daily fight for survival that went on in so many parts of the world. Oblivious to how petty and meaningless their struggle to keep up with the Jones family was. He rubbed the dashboard of his Camaro. Hypocrite.

  But not really, because he’d bought this baby for speed, not looks.

  Mostly.

  He slammed the car into gear and peeled out of the parking lot with a satisfying squeal, keeping to a reasonable speed on the freeway. The car strained like a tiger on a leash, eager to be set free, until he passed Haymarket, an outer-ring suburb for those willing to suffer long commutes for larger, newer homes and manicured lawns.

  Then Mick dropped the hammer, opened up the throttle, and unleashed the horses under the hood. In seconds, the endorphins flooded in, his hands steadied, and his brain calmed. His pulse thrummed with the engine, and just like that, he could finally breathe again.

  God, he was such a wreck. Only a madman would need to go a hundred miles an hour to relax.

  A sign for food and gas flashed by and he slowed to a crawl—seventy—to exit. An empty bagel shop beckoned and he parked behind the building, hidden from the main road. He beat his forehead against the steering wheel a few times before sitting back in the seat, eyes closed.

  The soft tick of the cooling engine disrupted the otherwise silent interior.

  He’d promised to watch out for Jenna—whatever the hell that meant—but she didn’t want him around. Probably didn’t need him either. And when he was with her, she tested his restraint on every level. He could sense a wildness beneath her prim exterior that made him want to pin her to the wall and peel back her carefully crafted veneer of control.
Nothing turned him on more than the idea of that tightly reined woman letting loose.

  Maybe Rob had secretly hated him, because asking him to protect—but not touch—Jenna was like asking a starving man to box up a steak for someone else.

  He’d also promised to quit Claymore and stay in the States, but after being home for just two days, he was already restless. There was too much time to think here. And all the promises he’d made collided in his brain until his head felt ready to explode.

  Rob, Jenna, bullets, blood.

  There was only one way to stop the voices and images flashing in his head. Both disappointed and relieved by his decision, Mick started the engine up again and went looking for a bar.

  After letting Tara drag her out for Indian food, Jenna returned to her empty house. The oppressive silence lay over her like a blanket. The rooms would never again be filled with Rob’s deep laughter or his exhaustive musings on everything from the Peloponnesian War to veganism.

  He’d been gone more often than not over the past few years, but she’d always held onto the hope that he’d return. After all, without hope, what was left?

  Moving with leaden limbs, she dragged Rob’s bag over to the sofa. Damn, the thing had to weigh fifty pounds. How had Mick hefted it like it was a kid’s backpack? She opened the duffle and removed each item, sorting everything into piles on the coffee table. One to donate, one to decide about later, and one to go into a box in her garage along with the rest of the Ryan family’s belongings.

  Tara would probably be shocked that she was already beginning to mark her brother’s clothes for charity, but the activity soothed her, giving her a way to occupy her mind and hands.

  Underneath Rob’s clothes, Mick had packed the few personal items he’d found. A twin of the family photo on her mantle, a cheap cell phone, Rob’s toiletry bag, a pack of cinnamon gum, a large handgun, a rifle. Jenna stared at the guns, covering her mouth with her hand as images of Rob getting shot played through her head like a bad movie. How had it happened? Had he done something stupid or just been colossally unlucky?