by Tawny Weber
“So is circus school. But that doesn’t mean I’ll be signing him up for trapeze lessons.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re in tiger mode.” At Harper’s blank look, Andi curled her fingers into claws on either side of her chin. “You’re like a momma tiger protecting her cub from danger.”
Before Harper could ask what was wrong with that, Andi straightened one hand to wag her finger in the air.
“Except this isn’t danger. It’s camp. Singing around the campfire and learning to tie knots. It’s swimming and tire swings and hikes. It’d be a great learning experience. After all, education isn’t found only in the classroom.”
“What’d you do, swallow their brochure?” Harper muttered, her words lost in the refrigerator as she pulled out berries for dessert. But Andi still heard.
“I served on a board for underprivileged kids a couple of years ago. We had to provide a study of the benefits of programs like this in order to get funding. It really does make a difference for some kids. The independence, the skills and the friendships can be priceless.”
Harper’s scowl was hot enough to rot the glossy strawberries, but she couldn’t argue any of those points.
“Besides, if you don’t start letting go, you’re going to end up with a wimpy momma’s boy.” She paused for effect before adding, “Like Matt. You know, the man who wanted to bring his mother along on our vacations, whose mother still bought his underwear and who after being kicked to the curb for cheating, moved home with Mommy, who now makes him breakfast every day.”
Cute at seven, iffy at seventeen. And at thirty-two it was definitely pathetic. Even as they shared a grimace, Harper knew she’d be poking through her bank account later to see if she could juggle the registration costs. Not that she was totally convinced. But she was teetering.
“I’ll cover the fee,” Andi offered, giving her that last push over the edge. “Call it my contribution to loosening your inhibitions.”
“What does one have to do with the other?”
“If Nathan’s safely away at camp, you can do more than reconsider having sex. You can have it.”
And that was supposed to convince her?
The doorbell chimed before Harper could do more than shake her head in dismay.
“I’ll get that—you start reconsidering. When I get back, we’ll find that perfect third-date guy.”
“I’d put money on Nathan getting a kitten sooner than that happening,” she murmured as Andi swept from the room.
“I heard that,” the other woman sang out, her words echoing down the hall.
Harper’s frown intensified. All of this dating and sex talk was stupid. All it did was stir up thoughts of Brandon, bad memories and hurt feelings. And like anything to do with Brandon Ramsey, the second one thought occurred, a million followed. He was the poster boy for taking a mile when an inch was all she’d offered.
No more, she ordered herself. He wasn’t a part of her now, and her past was over.
“Registered letter for one Mr. Nathan Ramsey, care of Harper Maclean,” Andi said, coming back waving a large envelope. “Who’d get his name wrong?”
The bowl of cleaned berries suddenly shaking in her hands, Harper set it on the bar with care and stared. Her chest hurt. She couldn’t think for the buzzing in her ears.
Ramsey.
Harper’s heart raced so fast, it tripped over itself. How was that possible? Why whould Brandon contact Nathan? As far as he knew, she’d followed his instructions to end the pregnancy. How did he know she’d had the baby? How did he know Nathan’s name? Had he always known?
The air locked in Harper’s chest, vicious and tight, cutting off her breath, sending shards of pain knifing through her.
Why was he contacting her? Contacting Nathan? Was he going to try to get custody?
Or had his parents gotten wind of unaccounted Ramsey DNA and tracked down their heir apparent?
Harper looked toward the stairs with a desperate gaze. She should get Nathan. They should go. Now.
As soon as she thought that, Harper squared her shoulders.
To hell with that. Nathan was her son. This was her home. She’d be damned if Brandon or his rich parents were going to screw with either.
Still, her hand trembled so much as she took the letter that she dropped it onto the marble countertop as if it were on fire.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Andi poked at the letter with one perfectly manicured nail. “It’s from a Dane Adams, US Navy, registered mail. It’s gotta be important.”
Dane Adams? The Navy?
Relief poured through her so fast, so strong, that her legs almost gave out. Irritation followed fast, because it was still all about Brandon. So Harper eyed the envelope with intense distaste.
“Harper,” Andi moaned. “You’re killing me. Open. Open. Open.”
Knowing Andi would keep it up until she did, she huffed out a hot breath. Sliding her thumbnail under the flap, Harper reluctantly tugged the paper out.
She noted the official-looking insignia and the fancy lettering denoting it to be from Admiral H. M. Cree, Special Ops commander.
Her brow creased as she read.
The room narrowed, and all the air disappeared. The words spun into a swirling blur of black on white. She needed to sit down. But she managed only a single step before her legs gave out and she sank to the floor, the letter clutched in her hands.
“What is it?” Instead of pulling her back up, Andi dropped down next to her, gathering Harper into her arms. She tried to read the paper, but Harper couldn’t let it go. “Sweetie, what does it say?”
“He’s dead,” Harper murmured, her voice sounding as if it were coming from the other end of a long tunnel. “Brandon is dead.”
CHAPTER THREE
MOURNING THE LOSS of a brother was never easy.
SEALs, support personnel and civilians gathered in the backroom at Olive Oyl’s bar to toast the memory of a warrior and to share their grief. Lieutenant Brandon Ramsey was memorialized with words like honor and skill and dedication. Captain Jarrett had choked giving his toast, and a visibly grieving Petty Officer Dane Adams had to be led out after delivering a eulogy so heartfelt that it was hard to hear over the audience’s sobs.
But when it came time for the men who’d served on that ill-fated mission, the core team, to say goodbye to their brother, they kept it private and took it off the beaten path. Savino chose a bar in Lemon Grove, far enough from base for them to mourn freely. The place was just a few steps up from a dive, and seedy enough that nobody would feel constrained by good behavior.
“Kinda crap that they won’t offer a military funeral for the guy. Decorated SEAL and all that, he’d have liked the fancy send-off.”
“Bet he’d like being alive even more.”
“Shame that none of his family showed. Not even his kid.”
“Sometimes civilians can’t handle it.”
“Dude isn’t officially declared dead—chances are they’re holding on to hope.”
“No point. Even if they didn’t find enough of him to declare him dead, he’s gone. Still, the Navy’ll tie it up in red tape, drag it out as long as they can to avoid paying survivor benefits.”
“I hear he had an in to DEVGRU. Guy went down before he got a chance to snag an elite spot.”
“Poseidon is the real elite.”
“He didn’t get a shot at that, either.”
“Yeah. Totally crap if you ask me.”
All excellent points. Conversation floated around him as Diego kicked back in the corner. Boots propped on the table and his chair tilted back, he considered his next shot of whiskey.
“You’d think I’d be drunk by now,” he said, the wo
rds slurring in his ears.
“Dude, you are shit-faced,” Lansky corrected, his bloodshot eyes as round as dinner plates.
“Yeah?” Not sure why he didn’t trust Lansky’s word—after all the guy spent half his time drinking—Diego looked toward Savino. “You think I’m drunk?”
“I think Lansky might be a few ahead of you, but you’re well on your way.”
“I’d better catch up, then.”
“Yo, Torres. There’s a pool table back here. I figure you being three sheets to the wind is the best chance I’ve got to beat you.”
Diego pulled his eyes off his glass to look at Aaron Ward. He tried to return the guy’s smile, but found he could only shake his head.
“You go ahead. It’ll take another fifth before I’m drunk enough for you to beat me.”
Amid laughter and a few crude suggestions, everyone headed for the poolroom except Diego and Lansky. His cell phone chiming, Savino stepped away, too. Diego felt like a jerk, but a part of him was glad to see them go.
“The last guy to ask me to play pool was Ramsey,” Diego realized, feeling like shit all over again. “This sucks.”
Images of the mission played through his head like a movie reel. They’d fast roped from the helo, landing just over the hill from the enemy base. Powers, Lansky and Ward had headed into the compound to rescue the hostage while Ramsey, Prescott and Lee secured the control center to begin downloading secret files. Everyone had been in place; everything had run exactly as planned.
Until it hadn’t.
The explosion had come just as Lee had signaled the all clear. Lee and Prescott both moved with their usual stealth as they exited the building, Diego provided cover. Then it had all blown to hell. The explosion had taken out half the building, the fire burning too hot for any survivors.
Diego had been faced with the choice of going into the flames in search of Ramsey’s remains or getting an injured Prescott, the rest of the team and the extracted hostage the hell out of there.
He’d chosen the unthinkable.
He’d left a man behind.
Eyes hot, he poured more whiskey, knocking it back before pouring again.
“You didn’t fuck it up,” Lansky said quietly.
“Listen to MacGyver,” Savino ordered as he rejoined them from wherever he’d gone to take his call. The guy spent more time on the phone than a teenage girl. Diego figured he’d mention that when he was a little more numb.
“Why should I listen to him?” he muttered.
“Because you didn’t fuck it up. There was no way to retrieve Ramsey. The fire was too intense. When support hit the site the next day, there wasn’t even enough of him to ID. Your orders were explicit. Your first duty was to the hostage. You got him out of there and Prescott to medical care so he didn’t die. That’s enough.”
It wasn’t, though.
It’d never be enough.
“He was a damned good SEAL,” Diego said quietly.
“He was a strong officer,” Savino murmured, his eyes scanning the room.
“He was an asshole.”
“What?” Lansky’s eyes widened when Diego glared at him. “I’m supposed to lie? Like getting himself blown to hell suddenly makes the guy less of an asshole?”
“You never liked him.”
“And he never liked you. The guy wanted to take you down in a bad way. He’d have done anything to screw you over.”
“Would he?” Savino asked. His voice didn’t change. Nor did his expression. So Diego couldn’t tell why Savino’s tone pierced through the alcohol hazing his brain.
“What are you thinking?” he asked his commander, studying Savino’s face. He had to blink a few times to bring it into focus.
“That things aren’t always what they seem.”
Even well on his way to drunk, Diego could see the dots Savino was laying out. But they didn’t connect.
“Ramsey is dead. We saw him go up in flames when that command center blew.”
His throat dry as the images pounded through his brain again, Diego grabbed his glass.
Savino laid a hand on his arm before he could drink.
“What?” His gut clenched when he looked at the other man’s face. Serious as a heart attack didn’t come close.
“Sober up” was all Savino said before glancing at Lansky. “Make your excuses. Then the two of you take a room nearby. Don’t return to base until you hear from me.”
“What—”
“Sober up,” Savino said again as he got to his feet. Diego was drunk, but not so drunk he didn’t see the flash of concern on his commander’s face as he glanced toward the other room, where their team played a loud game of pool. Diego’s buzz starting to fade, he lowered his feet to the floor, unconsciously coming to attention.
“Let me know where you land. Just me.” He waited until Diego and Lansky nodded. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”
He left, calling a friendly goodbye to the rest of the team as he went. Then Lansky looked at Diego. Diego frowned back.
“What the hell?” Lansky muttered.
“I don’t know, but I guess we’re calling it a night.”
His head swimming in whiskey and confusion, Diego could pinpoint only two things.
One, they had their orders.
And two, Savino was worried. So whatever those orders led to, it was going to get ugly.
* * *
TWENTY HOURS LATER, Nic Savino strode through the night-drenched parking lot like a man on a mission.
Which, of course, he was.
The run-down motel was lit by one stingy streetlight; the others looked like they’d been shot out. Trash heaped against the cyclone fence as if it were trying to climb free, and the air smelled of the ocean on a bender, week-old fish, rotten eggs and rust. A bored-looking hooker leaned against the graffitied wall three buildings down, and the sound of an argument heading toward violent rang out over the desperate plea of a car alarm.
He noticed it all.
He gave none of it his attention.
His entire focus was on reeling in the fury pounding through his head before he reached room 207. He was a man known for his control, and he was going to need every shred of it to deal with this situation.
Situation, he thought bitterly. That’s what the admiral was calling it. Savino’s SEAL team was under investigation. Or as the directive from Naval Intelligence had put it, a duly authorized official had been assigned to look into Operation Hammerhead, which had resulted in the death of one team member, the hospitalization of another and the dissemination of classified information to the enemy, possibly for profit.
It hadn’t taken much to read between the lines.
They were looking at his team for treason.
His men.
Him.
Savino climbed the cement stairs to the second floor, stepping around the bum sleeping under a pile of rags in the corner of the landing, breathing through his teeth to avoid the stench.
Three doors down the concrete walkway, he knocked once, then walked in.
“Lansky, you have crap taste in motels,” he said by way of a greeting. The room was wood veneer and orange polyester coated with a thin layer of grilled onions.
“You told me to find a place close to the bar. This is close.” Lansky shrugged from his spot on the floor. His back against the flowered bedspread, he had a notebook on one side of him, a bag of chips on the other and a computer in his lap.
“How’d you get a laptop?”
“Guy on the corner was selling them.” Lansky flashed a boyish grin. “You didn’t think I was just going to sit here watching Kitty Cat work off his drunk, did you?”
In other words, Lansky was trying to figure out what was going on. Good. Savino considered the
shiny new MacBook Air. He knew it was hot. But it shouldn’t be traceable.
His gaze shifted to Torres.
He’d installed a rod in the bathroom doorway about three-quarters of the way up from the floor. Shirtless and with one hand tucked behind his back, he used the other to pull himself up, lowered and did it again. And again. His unshaven face was set, blank. Sweat poured and his breath huffed, telling Savino he’d been at it for a while.
Savino took in the man’s mood with a single glance. An IED was less dangerous than Torres right now.
“You get the pull-up bar from the same guy?”
“Found it by the Dumpster,” Lansky said, frowning as he peered at the laptop. “Mood this one’s in, he’d have ripped a pipe from the wall if I hadn’t come up with something.”
Torres’s only response was a grunt as he switched arms.
“He been at it long?”
That got Lansky’s attention. His frown didn’t fade, but he did look from Torres to Savino before shrugging.
“We been here, what? Almost a day, give or take? He’s clocked about two weeks PT in that time, and about two hours sleep.”
The team generally spent between ten and twenty hours a week on physical training, depending on their status. Torres had put that in already? It didn’t bode well.
Savino raked his hand through his hair. Giving in to the stress pounding in his head, he gripped the back of his neck as if he could squeeze the pain away.
Torres was a SEAL. He’d step up and do the duty when Savino assigned it. But the weight of it would be a lot easier to dump on the guy if he wasn’t in a pisser of a mood.
It was rare that Savino worried about that sort of thing. But this was a rare situation. And the duty would be more in the lines of a favor.
“You want a beer?” Lansky offered.
“Thought you were sobering up.”
“I’ve only had three. That is sober.” He tilted his head toward Torres, who’d flipped himself around so his knees were anchored over the bar and his head toward the floor, doing sit-ups. “He’s the one who was drunk anyway.”