Running Blind (23 page)

Sunday

Bravery is being the only one who knows you're afraid.

—David Hackworth

38

11:37 p.m., United Flight 383, Eastbound

Helluva wake-up call, Coop thought as he sat beside Rhonda on the flight back to Langley late Sunday night.

During the thick of the siege, when he'd thought he was going to lose her, when he'd thought he was going to die, he'd come to terms with something unexpected. And he'd known that if they got out of that mess alive, there were going to be some huge changes in his life.

And all of them started and ended with her.

Beside him, Rhonda thumbed through a Skymall catalog. She'd been quiet since this whole thing finished. Processing, he supposed. Violence was never easy to witness. And killing a man, no matter how bad he was, wasn't something she'd shake off in a week. Or even a month.

Staying with him at the trauma center while they filled him back up with blood and patched him couldn't have been easy for her, either. She hated hospitals. And because of him, she'd had to wait in one for hours.

So he knew she needed time. But there'd be plenty of that, he assured himself. Plenty of time to say what he wanted to say to her.

He closed his eyes and drifted, letting the pain medication ease the way. A week ago, he'd have said no way. Denied it like a star goalie denying a line-drive puck. But not anymore. He was ready to admit that with Rhonda, he might just want to have what Mike had with Eva. What Joe Green had with Steph. What any of the other guys had with their wives. They couldn't all be wrong.

But
he'd
be dead wrong if he walked away from this woman without letting her know that for the first time in his life, he wanted more.

Though his eyes were heavy, he found himself grinning. He, a confirmed bachelor who'd never met a woman he couldn't walk away from, had finally taken the fall. If he was being honest, he'd fallen the first time he set eyes on her six months ago. It had just taken him this long to figure it out.

“You doing okay?”

He jerked his eyes open at the sound of her voice. “I think so, yeah.”

She didn't look convinced. “Are you taking the pain meds the doctor prescribed?”

He smiled over at her. See? She cared.

Luckily, the bullet he'd taken hadn't done massive damage. It hurt like hell, and healing would take him out of commission for a while, but he'd be back to full speed in a few weeks. Blood loss had been his main problem, and once they'd filled him back up, his strength had returned to about 80 percent.

But right now, he was tired. Really tired.

“Cooper? Are you with me?”

He must have drifted off again. He forced his eyes open and grinned at her.

“Judging from the loopy smile on your face, I'd guess that yes, you're taking the pain meds.”

“Only because they made me.”

She smiled. “Why don't you try to sleep? The doctor said rest is the best thing to help you heal.”

“Yeah. Rest.” He yawned; his eyelids weighed a ton. “I'll probably need a full-time . . . nurse when we get back to McLean. Someone to . . . tuck me in at night.” Another yawn had him closing his eyes again. “Change my dressings. Hold me . . . if I have a bad dream. Any . . . volunteers?”

She mumbled something that didn't sound like a yes but he refused to believe was a no, and he didn't have the stamina to figure it out.

And then he fell asleep.

•    •    •

Rhonda had given Nate a full report from the military hospital while the doctors had worked on Cooper's shoulder. She'd called again before their flight left for home, telling Nate that they'd arrive on the red-eye, so there was no sense in him meeting them at the airport. She'd get Cooper to his apartment and to bed, where the docs had said he needed to be.

Afterward, she second-guessed herself. Maybe she should have let Nate take over with Cooper. But she was half afraid that in his medicated stupor, Cooper might make some grand announcement. Let it slip that they'd “been together.”

She was probably being paranoid, but she wasn't willing to risk it, so that's how she'd ended up helping him to bed around 2:00 a.m.

His apartment was neat and clean and tastefully decorated in grays and silvers, with a few pops of red for color. The living room was understated and masculine but not macho, and his bedroom was far from the den of iniquity she'd half-expected to find.

More muted grays, this time accented with black, charcoal, and a stunning shade of steel-blue, all of which she was peripherally aware of as she supported him with his good arm looped over her shoulder and her arm around his waist, while walking him carefully to his bed.

Which was king-sized, covered in a plush cream and blue duvet, with a soft black throw tossed over the foot of it.

“You're an angel,” he muttered as she helped him slip his arm out of his jacket—the other one was in a sling—and eased him down. “A Buttercup Bombshell Angel. You know that, don't you? You know that—”

“Yeah, yeah.” She cut him off, not wanting to be swayed by the gentle affection in his voice. “Exactly how many of those pain pills did you take?”

She gently helped him lie back, carefully squaring a pillow under his head, but he still winced when his shoulder met the mattress. “How many
did
I take?”

“Um . . . that's what I asked
you
.”

“I don't do well with narcotics. Did I mention that? Don't usually . . . take them. Sometimes they make me a little stupid.”

She couldn't help but smile. “Imagine that. Let's get your boots off.”

“You're so good to me. I love you for that.”

She froze, his left boot in her hand, then told herself to chalk the L word up to the medication and started on the laces.

“Was gonna wait. Was gonna give you time, but life . . . life's short, right? Didn't we just learn . . . firsthand . . . that life is . . . short?”

Her heart did a little stutter kick, and she knew she wasn't going to want to hear what was about to come out of his mouth. Medication talking or not. “Shush, Cooper. You need to sleep.”

“There never was a man—me being the man. You understand?” he asked, then kept on rambling as his eyes drifted shut. “Never was a man more aware . . . of how short life can be. I almost . . . lost you. My beautiful Buttercup Bombshell. You saved my life. Do you know . . . how much my . . . mother is gonna love you . . . for that alone?”

“Go to sleep, Cooper,” she insisted, and covered him with the soft woven throw.

“Almost . . . lost you,” he repeated, reaching blindly for her hand.

His words were slurred from the meds, and his mind wasn't filtering them the way it normally would, but there was an intensity in his tone that cut a little too close to the heart.

“I love you, Rhonda. I . . . I think I should . . . marry . . . me. Wait. No.” He cracked open an eye. “That was wrong, wasn't it?”

Everything about this was wrong. “Shut up, Cooper,” she said, but she couldn't make herself pull her hand away from his.

“Don't go. Please sit by me,” he pleaded, with so much need she felt she had no choice but to sit beside him. “I need to say this right.” His eyes drifted closed again, but he snapped them open, fighting to stay conscious. “Me . . . marry . . . me. No. Damn. Not me marry me. You. You marry . . . you. Oh, God. I can do this. You. Marry. Me.” He heaved a weary, relieved sigh. “That's it. Can you? Will . . . you . . .”

His eyes finally closed for good this time—and thank God, so did his mouth.

Because she didn't want to hear that question from him. She didn't want to believe he meant to ask it. It was the meds. The trauma. The full moon. Whatever.

She
didn't
want to hear it. Yet her heart beat with something that felt very much like longing. And very deep regret.

He'd forget about it in the morning.

He'd have to. Because what he thought he wanted could never happen.

Saddened, and angry with herself because she'd let him get to her, she turned on a bedside light in case he needed to get up in the night, then turned off the overhead light and closed his bedroom door behind her.

Then she made a phone call. “Hi, Bobby. It's Rhonda. Yeah. We're back. Thanks,” she said when he told her he'd be over in five minutes to spend the night with Coop.

Because she just couldn't stay here. Not now.

A quick trip to the kitchen assured her that someone had stocked the fridge with fresh fruit, milk, and a couple of takeout meals to tide him over for a day or so.

Then she checked in on him one last time, made sure his pain pills and a glass of water were within reach, and resisted the urge to crawl into his bed and sleep beside him.

After she let herself out of his apartment, she ignored the burning tears in her eyes as she got into the cab that she'd asked to wait for her.

She'd known for years that happily ever after would never be a part of her life. Even though Cooper had turned out to be so much more than he was supposed to be.

Because she could never be the woman a man like him needed.

Monday

There's no honorable way to kill, no gentle way to destroy. There is nothing good in war. Except its ending.

—Abraham Lincoln

39

8:15 a.m., ITAP HQ

Monday morning came early. Rhonda had only caught about two hours of sleep and was beat, but she needed to go into the office, even though Nate had told her she should take the day to rest up and then report on Tuesday for a debriefing and an appointment with the staff psychologist.

“Standard operating procedure,” he'd told her. “When a rookie discharges a weapon that results in a kill, they've got to see the shrink.”

She got that part. And she knew she needed to talk to someone about it. But she wasn't ready yet. Neither could she stay home, constantly fighting the urge to answer Cooper's repeated calls. Or, worse, go over to his apartment and see him.

She couldn't talk to him yet, because she remembered every word he'd said last night. And she was afraid that he might remember, too.

When she walked into the briefing room, she found Mike leading the charge.

“Rhonda, welcome back!” Santos, still wearing a bandage on his upper arm, shoved himself out of his chair and gave her a one-armed embrace. Then he pulled back. “What are you doing here?”

“Last I knew, I worked here.” She forced a smile for all the guys, who'd lifted their hands in greeting. They all had a look in their eyes—acknowledgment, even pride. She'd been through the fire, and their respect had never been more apparent. She was truly one of them now.

“You aren't supposed to report in until tomorrow,” Carlyle insisted. “We heard what a badass you were in Nevada, but even badasses need a little time to decompress.”

“I want to be here.” She looked past Carlyle's concerned eyes to her boss and willed him to understand.

He considered her thoughtfully. “You sure this is where you want to be today?”

“It's where I
need
to be.”

As the words came out, she realized that it was more than the desire to keep herself busy. She was here because she needed to be with these men. Her teammates. Her friends.

After what felt like an eternity, Mike gave her a nod. “Take a very quick five, everyone. Get your curiosity satisfied, hug her if you must, then get your heads back in the game.”

She felt like a rock star by the time the guys had “atta girled” her, hugged her, and teased her about whether Cooper's wounded ego was giving him more trouble than his gunshot wound, since she'd had to save his sorry self.

Of course, they all knew what an amazing feat Cooper had pulled off, taking down a crack team of Russian Spetsnaz, and she was quick to tell them that she was merely the cleanup crew.

After they'd all had their shot at her, she made her way over to Mike. “How's Eva?”

“First time out of bed yesterday. Only a couple of steps, but she promises there'll be more today.” Then he hugged her, too. “Glad you're okay.”

“You and me both. By the way, any word on Dr. Corbet?”

“He's going to be in the hospital for a while. Might need a second surgery on his leg, but he'll be fine.”

“I know he was in on the deal, but I feel so bad for him. Cooper told me about his wife and daughter. He just wanted to be with them.”

“We don't even know if they're alive. Sadly, we probably never will.”

“What happens to Corbet now?”

“That will be up to the Department of Justice. I'm hoping his age, his physical condition, and what he's done for us on the Eagle Claw project will weigh in his favor.”

She hoped so, too. But no matter how lenient the courts were, that still wouldn't reunite him with his family.

“Hey,” Mike said, snapping her out of her melancholy thoughts. “Nice work out there. We may have to make a field agent out of you yet.”

Déjà vu.
She made herself smile. “I'll stick with my computers, thanks anyway.”

“Speaking of which, selfishly, I'm glad you came in. We can use your help.”

“What's going on?”

“Yeah, boss. What's going on?”

Rhonda spun around at the sound of Cooper's voice.

Taggart stood beside him, an exasperated look on his face. “He was going to walk here if I didn't bring him.”

“Oh, for Pete's sake,” Mike said. “You don't have the sense God gave a rock. What the hell are you doing out of bed?”

Although the corners of his mouth were pinched tight with pain, Cooper managed to smile. “You didn't really think I was going to let this go down without me?”

Mike narrowed his eyes and scanned the room. “The idea was to keep him out of the loop so he wouldn't pull this stunt. Who let the cat out of the bag?”

“Taggart,” Cooper announced as cheerily as a man with a bullet wound could.

“You just couldn't stand to be on the shit list by yourself, could you?” Taggart grumbled, but the concern for his friend was very evident.

“It's lonely at the bottom,” Cooper said.

Rhonda finally recovered from the shock of seeing him and keyed in on what had been said. “Wait? Go down? What's going down?”

“They found Eva's shooter.” Cooper's words forced her to meet his eyes.

She saw no sign that he was on pain meds today. His eyes were clear, though bright with pain. Physical pain . . . and something more? Something that said she'd hurt him because she hadn't returned his calls?

Unsettled, she turned back to Mike. “Am I the only one who doesn't know what's going on?” She'd thought she was finally part of the team in every way, yet no one had thought to tell her this huge revelation about finding the shooter.

“Sit down,” Mike ordered firmly. “Everyone except you, Coop. You get your ass back home to bed.”

Cooper pulled out a chair and eased down into it. “You're going to have to make me. Sir.”

Mike glared at him. “I don't need this today.”

“Then let's not make it an issue. I got pulled off this investigation once. It's not happening again. If you insist that I walk out that door, I'm not coming back. Your call.”

The room went deadly silent.

Rhonda held her breath. She knew Cooper well enough to know that he meant it. If Mike made him leave, he would not be back.

She also knew a bit about her boss. He was fair but firm. If he issued an order, he expected it to be obeyed.

But these guys had a long history together. A history that made them brothers in every way but blood, though it hadn't always been easy.

All eyes were on Mike. No one even blinked.

Mike never looked away from Cooper. “Are you on pain medication?” Mike asked after a long silence.

“Don't need it,” Cooper said firmly. His washed-out color and the pinched look around his mouth proved him a liar.

“Just so we're clear, is that a no? You're not on medication?” Mike lifted a brow.

“I'm not on medication.”

“Too bad,” Mike said. “Otherwise, I might have overlooked your blatant defiance of a direct order.”

Cooper waited a long beat, pushed back his chair, and stood. “It's been real,” he said, and headed toward the door.

“Sit your ass back down,” Mike ordered. “No one said you could leave.”

Rhonda's heartbeat rose several ticks. Mexican standoff, anyone?

Mike let out a “why me?” sigh, then glared at Cooper. “You do what I say, when I say it, or your ass lands on the DL before you can complain about your boo-boo. Understood?” His choice of words might have caused a snicker or two, but the tone in which he delivered them and the graveness of the moment made it clear that this was no laughing matter.

“Yes, sir.” Cooper sat back down.

The tension in the room relaxed by about ninety turns of a tightly wound spring.

“Burns.”

“Yes, sir.” Rhonda met her boss's hard gaze.

“It was my oversight for not briefing you. Taggart. Nutshell it for her since you've got such loose lips.”

It took less time for Taggart to relate the startling information that their would-be assassin was their former CO's psycho girlfriend than it did for Rhonda to get over her shock.

“But . . . I thought she died in Idaho.”

“We all thought she did,” Taggart agreed, “right along with Brewster and a boatload of UWD followers and La Línea cartel members.”

“Then . . . how?” she asked, dumbfounded.

“The bitch apparently has nine lives. And we found out it was her because she practically drew us a map.”

Taggart told her about the package containing the bullets and how Mike had traced the designer 9mm back to the gun the paid assassin had used to try to kill him and Eva in Lima.

“Why would she lead you to her?”

“Because it's a game to her now,” Mike put in. “In the beginning, it was about revenge because we killed her boyfriend. She was supposed to take us all out last Monday. She failed.

“And now she knows she's failed again. The attack on the Area Fifty-One compound? She had her finger deep in that pie, too.”

“How do you know this?”

“The Russian ringleader you shot? In the hospital, he sang like a wounded canary. The attack had been orchestrated by a woman he knew only as Anya.”

“Our shooter?”

“None other. She was supposed to knock off the One-Eyed Jacks for them—something she'd probably have done for free—and clear the way for the Russians to scoop up Dr. Corbet and Eagle Claw. Thanks to her mole in the CIA—”

“What?”

“B.J. and Steph, pretending to be the assassin, smoked him out online. We arrested him yesterday,” Mike told her.

“Looks like Rhonda and I weren't the only ones playing ‘get the bad guy,' ” Cooper said, not doing a very good job of masking his pain.

“Yours had guns,” Mike pointed out. “This pissant was a communications clerk with an expatriated father who persuaded him to aid Mother Russia. Anyway, B.J. and Steph went to work digging for photos of Brewster. They finally found one with the woman at his side, and that led us to an ID and a profile.”

Mike's eyes were hard, and Rhonda could read his thoughts. He wanted this woman. He wanted her a week ago, before his wife had almost died from one of her bullets.

“Marjorie Reynolds, a.k.a. Jane Smith and a dozen other aliases. Blond, blue eyes, plain, average build. She'd blend in with any crowd. But not anymore—now we have a way to find her.”

“Facial-recognition software?” Rhonda's heart beat with excitement.

“Damn straight. Her photo is rolling through intelligence agencies around the world, along with an APB. If she shows up in any airport, any train station, hell, on the streets of New York City, some camera somewhere is going to spot her.”

“But the trick will be spotting her before she comes after another one of us,” Cooper said.