Dance With Me (18 page)

“You should have left it alone.” she whispered and turned her head.

Chris had the good grace to look ashamed. “I know. And I’m sorry. I haven’t told anyone and I won’t.” He stood and turned off the lamp before turning to leave the room. “Take my advice though.” He turned back to her. “That kind of thing eats you alive from the inside out unless you deal with it.”

“I know,” Rebecca whispered, but he’d already left.

* * * *

The major turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. He’d been forced to break into a motel room instead of actually paying for it because…well, he’d been a bit messy after taking care of Javid and hadn’t wanted to scare the hell out of a desk clerk. He knew that eventually the terrorists would regroup, reorganize, and find a new leader. But that was someone else’s problem, not his. The additional informants were someone else’s problem too. Javid was taken care of and the organization was scattered for at least a few months. Maybe even a year. The major had done what he could. He’d completed this mission.

The major dried off briskly and pulled on the clothes he’d borrowed from one of the Delta Force soldiers. They were a little big, but they fit for the most part. The major was glad this particular Delta Force squad carried a change of clothes on missions. God knew why, but they did and he was glad for it. He hadn’t planned to live through his run-in with Javid and hadn’t considered what he’d wear afterward.

And he’d certainly needed clothes. It was a bloodbath. The police were going to have a field day trying to figure it all out. Thirty-seven total bodies scattered throughout fourteen different residences, no weapons, and no shooter. Once they found out who the victims
really
were—an anonymous tip would clue them in—they’d know what had happened. But they’d never be able to prove it, and honestly wouldn’t give it much effort. Because everyone knew the world was a safer place without Javid, and London would be happy to no longer be home to the upper echelons of a known terrorist organization.

He patted the bandage on his back to make sure it hadn’t come loose and winced when he touched the wound. One of the fuckers had sliced him across his back with a piece of broken glass. When it was all over the Delta Force medic had stitched him up, told him to go to a hospital, and left with his squad. Hospital. Like hell he was going to a hospital. It was just a damn scratch.

The major sat down on the bed and looked at the phone. He had to make two calls and didn’t know which one he wanted to make least. He sighed, picked up the phone, and punched in a number. Easy call first.

“Yeah.”

“I cut the head off the snake.” The head and a few inches, actually, but that went without saying.

“I saw that. How quickly can you get on a plane?”

“I can’t. I’m through.” And he was. Despite the fact that he’d decided to leave Rebecca alone—if she’d survived—the major was still done.

There were several heartbeats of silence before, “Come again?”

“I said I’m done. Out. Give me a drop for whatever I need to make it official.”

“Sir, I…I don’t understand. Are you injured?”

The major sighed and rubbed his forehead. “In more ways than you know.”

Another few moments of silence. Then, “You know there’s no way out.”

A long, tense silence filled the air. The major blinked against the sudden heat behind his eyes and pressed his palm to his forehead.

Then his contact said, “But I’ll do what I can. The drop information will be in the usual place.”

“Good. Thank you.” The major dropped his hand and sighed. He’d known no one was ever really out until they died. And a few months ago he was okay with that. But not anymore. Funny, he hadn’t considered these things when he’d made the decision to join.

“It’s been an honor, sir.”

The major almost laughed. He barely remembered what the guy looked like, had only met him face-to-face twice. “Yeah, you too. Listen…” The major stopped, hesitant to offer advice.

“I’m listening.”

“Just…don’t wait too long to do the same. There are plenty of replacements out there.”

Silence again. “Understood.”

The line went dead.

The major stared at the buzzing phone in his hand until the steady hum turned into beeping. He hung it up and continued to stare. He considered not making the call at all but dammit, he had to know. He clenched his teeth, picked up the phone, and dialed again. It rang and rang before finally going to voice mail. The major squeezed his eyes closed against the pain and tried another number. Paulson answered on the second ring.

“Paulson.”

“Did you find her?” The major didn’t feel the need to introduce himself. Paulson would know.

“Yeah,” Paulson responded in a grim voice.

The major’s heart dropped and his chest squeezed. “Was she…?” His voice was abrasive and low, but he couldn’t help that.

“No, she’s fine. Dehydrated and pissed, but all right. Not a scratch on her.” A feminine voice murmured softly in the background and Paulson responded, “Go back to sleep, baby. I’ll be right back.”

The major heard him moving, knew he was getting out of bed. “I won’t keep you. Thank you. For everything.”

Paulson spoke a little louder now, and the major assumed he was out of earshot of whoever he was afraid of waking. “She thinks you’re coming back.”

“I know.” But he couldn’t go back and the major didn’t explain further. Paulson would know why and understand.

“She’s got her own issues, you know.”

“Are you talking about New Orleans?” The major had known something was there from the beginning but had refused to let himself delve too deeply. But Paulson knew. Had Rebecca told him or had Paulson actually done a little digging?

“Yeah.” Paulson spoke quietly, the single word foreboding and heated. The major was alarmed at the anger he heard there.

“How bad?”

Paulson voice was hoarse when he responded, “Bad enough that it turned my stomach. Either find out for yourself, or ask her. It’s not my place to tell you.”

“Agreed.” The major hung up then and lay back on the bed, linking his hands behind his head.

What the hell would I find if I went to New Orleans?
The major racked his brain, trying to figure out what was so bad there that Rebecca would run all the way to Virginia to hide. He cataloged what he knew.

Her parents had died when she was eighteen, casualties of Hurricane Katrina. She moved to Virginia and went to college. She was a teacher. She hated to see child abuse and be helpless. She couldn’t tolerate disorganization.

That was it. That was the sum total of the major’s knowledge about Rebecca’s past. All he could come up with was child abuse, and while that was sick and twisted, it wasn’t enough to turn a SEAL’s stomach. The major exhaled and braced himself. He was going to have to go to New Orleans.

* * * *

One week later the major walked out of the CPS department in the New Orleans courthouse, his stomach in knots. It had all led to one social worker, Rhonda Jones, one woman who remembered the ordeal and was still dismayed over her helplessness. The major stood at the bottom of the steps for several minutes, looking around at the people entering and leaving, trying to dispel the nausea that had been clawing at his gut since Rhonda started talking.

It hadn’t taken much to get Rhonda to spill everything she knew. All the major had to do was say Rebecca’s name and the woman blubbered and spewed the entire sordid tale. The major shuddered. The information Paulson could have gleaned from an in-depth background check was just the tip of the iceberg. Even the story the major had heard from Rhonda had holes in it, holes only Rebecca could fill.

The major stood looking around, warring with himself. He should leave her alone, he knew that. But leaving her alone meant hurting her and after the story he’d just heard…he didn’t have the heart to injure her further, even if it was for her own good. Even going back to her meant hurting her though. It all boiled down to one question: would he wound her more by staying away or going back? The major blew out a frustrated breath and stalked to the parking lot.

Before he could even
consider
going back he had to decide what to do about his retirement. He’d been given two options on his identity. The major could go back to being Max and return to his family, with the stipulation that his military record in Black Ops be wiped from existence. The other option was to get an entirely new identity and start fresh…in a different country. It sucked, and the major wasn’t sure which one sucked more.

They would let him have a passport and visit the US, but he could never live there again. Officially, anyway. If the major wanted to live in Santa’s goddamn workshop, he would, and he’d like to see anyone try and stop him. Or even
find
him, for that matter.

Or he could return to being Max and claim that he’d never been killed, just held. After being released he’d been so distraught that he’d simply left without alerting the government or his family. He’d receive Vet benefits and an honorable discharge. But he would be able to claim no tactical or intelligence experience. Nothing. Just a bachelor’s degree in International Relations and a huge fucking blank space.

He wasn’t worried about money or a job. He’d been living on the government’s dime for more than a decade and had quite a chunk of savings. In an offshore account, of course; the major wasn’t stupid. More than a decade of unspent paychecks and “bonuses” added up and he could live on that for a long time. And a job would happen, even if it was something preposterous like…hanging drywall. The major sighed. He was good at tracking people and killing them with his bare hands if necessary, but not much else.

The thought halted the major as an idea began to take shape, taunting and tempting him with its possibilities. He didn’t know if it would work; he couldn’t have his cake and eat it too, after all. But it was possible, and with a little help, he might be able to pull it off.

The major slid into his car—another four-door sedan—and started it. He needed to make one last phone call, ask for one final favor. The favors were stacking up, and the handwritten note that had accompanied his drop had let him know these debts would eventually be called due.

“We’ll find you when we need you.”

Those were his options though, and the major would take whatever scraps they were willing to give him. Even if it meant he had to put a bullet in someone’s skull every now and then. Because no one ever really got out.

The major backed out of his parking space and pulled into the dense New Orleans traffic. He would make the phone call and add another chunk of his soul to the bill. Then he was heading east.

Chapter 14

“I’d really like to come in and have a drink.”

Rebecca watched Greg Tanner as he made the statement, hope evident in his wide eyes and nervous smile. She sighed as she opened the door and got out of his car.

“Look, Coach Tanner, it was really nice of you to chaperone the sock hop with me. But it was a dance for eight year olds. Not a date. Thanks for the ride though.”

“I know it wasn’t a date, Ms. Batiste. But I’d really like to have one.” He held a hand up before she could speak and said, “I know, I know.” He sighed and Rebecca wondered why she couldn’t fall for a man like him. Someone simple. “Can I at least walk you to your door? No funny business, I promise.”

“Sure. Why not?” She slammed the door and waited for him to climb out and come around. When he reached her side she began walking. He marched alongside her silently and pecked her cheek when they reached the door.

“If you ever change your mind…” He let the sentence dangle as he shrugged and turned to walk back to his car.

Rebecca watched him until he’d pulled away and driven off. Then she unlocked her door and went inside. She closed the door and leaned against it, exhausted. It was Friday, and Rebecca didn’t think she’d ever been so happy about that. It had been three weeks since she’d
really
slept; three weeks since she’d danced with Major; three weeks since he’d told her about his past. It had been a rough twenty-one days.

Rebecca locked the door, took off her shoes, and headed toward the kitchen without turning on a light. She poured herself a glass of orange juice and moved toward the living room to relax. She’d barely sat down when a voice came out of nowhere.

“Was that your date?”

Rebecca jumped so hard she spilled the orange juice down the front of her shirt and splashed some onto the floor. “Dammit!”

“Sorry.”

He didn’t sound the least bit sorry. Rebecca flipped on a lamp and set her juice down as she got to her feet. She looked at Max, her heart pounding hard against her ribs.
You came back. I knew you would.
He’d shaved the goatee and mustache, but a five o’clock shadow darkened his jaw. “Would it kill you to knock on the door?” she called over her shoulder as she started toward the kitchen for something to clean up the mess.

When she returned he smiled at her, a sad, little half smile that melted her heart. “Guess not. Next time, maybe.” He watched silently as she tried to clean up the spilled juice. “So was that your date?”

Rebecca looked up at him, exasperated. “No, Major…”

“Max,” he corrected her.

Rebecca jerked her head up and stood, abandoning the sticky juice and dripping dishtowel. “Max?” she whispered.

He ran his hands over his head. The hair was growing back thick and dark with a few sprinkles of gray. “Yeah. It’s official. I’m Max now. The major is gone.” He laughed, but it sounded irritated instead of humorous. “Never even existed. In fact, I received an honorable discharge eleven years ago. I’ve spent the last few years in Hawaii as a mixed-martial-arts instructor, giving self-defense classes. I decided to let my family in on that little secret and move back to the mainland.” He looked down while he spoke then back up at her sheepishly. “I haven’t gone to see them yet. But…” He stuck his hand out to her. “Max Collins. Owner and instructor of a new gym and martial-arts center.” He shrugged as Rebecca took his hand. “Don’t know what I’ll call it yet.”