Swift Strike (SEAL Team 14 Book 2) (6 page)

Walvis Bay

Namibia, Africa

“
Y
ou look great
, honey
.”

“Sure, Claire.”

“No, really, you do. You look just like that cute little Michelle Williams when she cut her hair off for a part in that movie.”

“Thanks, Mother,” Lena said, shifting her gaze upward from the porcelain hand mirror to where her mother was dutifully hovering over her. It was a lie. And not even a particularly convincing one at that. Lena didn’t look anywhere close to being as beautiful or glamorous as Michelle Williams. Instead, she resembled a waifish, stick-thin tomboy who’d managed to get her hair caught in a weed whacker.

Okay, maybe she didn’t look
that
bad, but she still hadn’t gotten used to the dreadfully short pixie cut she was now forced to sport around for an indeterminable amount of time. But she just had to suck it up. Her hair would grow back eventually.

“You did a great job with this new ‘do, Shawnie,” Claire said, giving the only hairdresser in town who’d agreed to make a house call a big thumbs up. Lena sat there while her mother saw the hairstylist out the door. She listened to her mother make small talk before she heard the large, red marble front doors shut with a resounding
thud
.

At least she’d finally found her face again. When she first arrived at home, her mother had been shocked by her only daughter’s appearance. She’d lost over ten pounds as a result of her nearly two weeks in captivity. The rapid weight loss coupled with lack of suitable nutrients gave her a sickly, bruised, sunken appearance. Since she’d now gained back around five pounds, the dark circles under her eyes were starting to fade away and her face was brighter.

Much to Lena’s surprise, Claire had remained by her side the whole time. Even though she loved her mother, their relationship wasn’t one that could be properly classified as close. In lieu of spending time with her daughter, Claire had spent much of Lena’s childhood chasing down her next fabulously wealthy man. Needless to say, her mother could never have been classified as a Carol Brady. But at least she was here now, making a concentrated effort to connect with her daughter again. That had to count for something.

It was more than she could say for her father. Alfred Westlake wouldn’t be winning any “Father of the Year” awards anytime soon, that was for sure. His response to her rescue had been to send her an email message stating that he was “glad to hear that she was okay.”

“Just because you’ve had a little rough patch, Lena, doesn’t mean that you should just let your looks go,” her mother chided, breaking into her thoughts.

Lena scowled at her mother. A rough patch? Yes, Anna Claire LaCombe Westlake would characterize being kidnapped for weeks on end and victimized as “just a little rough patch.”

“You’re a pretty girl,” her mother continued, ignoring the glares her daughter was sending her way. “But you could stand to benefit from breast implants. I don’t know why you won’t even consider the notion. I had a size B cup and they did wonders for me. And you, with a size A, honey, you could use all the help you can get.” Claire shook her head and practically clucked her tongue upon mention of Lena’s paltry cleavage.

Lena’s cheeks burned. She should be used to Claire by now. Her mother, Queen of Tact, most certainly had a way with words. Lena had never met someone who was so skilled at merging words in such a way that both compliment and insult were so smoothly intertwined together. It was no wonder that Lena had struggled with body image issues for most of her teen and young adult life.

Her mother was the epitome of a “kept woman.” Her long silvery-blond hair was tucked behind her head in a fancy coifed up do. The cream-colored Nicole Miller pencil skirt that she wore along with a form-fitting lavender Escada blouse showed a woman who, even at sixty, was fully confident in her ability to turn heads. The refined grace that she effortlessly exuded when out at charity functions or even when doing something as mundane as going out to get her nails done, implied a woman who’d always had a silver spoon in her mouth. Not someone who’d scraped her way up to the top from the bottom of the barrel by pretty much just sheer determination alone. And now forty years removed, there was hardly even a trace of her coal country, West Virginian accent.

“Thank you for that, Claire. I can always count on you to point out my numerous imperfections.”

“Lena, you have such a pretty face. You’re not an ugly girl, dear, but men like women with curves. It’s just the way it is. They are visual creatures. You have to bring something else to the table. Something to get a man’s attention. And really, darling, what man is going to be attracted to a woman whose biggest concern is putting down oil lines in third world countries? It’s time that you settle down. You’ll be thirty-four soon. You need to find a man and get married, while you’re still relatively young.”

“Those ‘oil lines’ help to feed and house whole villages, Mother. This is about helping countries industrialize and pull themselves into the twenty-first century. It’s about providing jobs so that a Somalian father can now feed his children. It’s about supplying oil-powered heating so Nigerian children can attend school in the winter months without nearly freezing to death.”

Claire eyed her daughter carefully. “That may be why your engineering job is important for you, Lena. But I can guarantee you, it’s not about helping people for your father.”

“So you think I should just put my career at the backburner just to land a man who comes from a ‘good family’?” Lena asked, unable to keep the anger from her voice. Finding a suitable man in Claire’s terms meant that by default he would be an insufferable, pretentious, schmuck because her mother’s only criteria was that the man be wealthy.

“Have you ever thought to think that you wouldn’t have been caught up in this whole ordeal if you weren’t so dead set on your career?”

Seeing the shock in Lena’s eyes she continued. “I’m not saying that what happened is your fault. But you should be married by now. You have to start being more realistic about your prospects. I would think that this experience would put some things in perspective for you.”

“Sure, Claire.”

“I’m not being critical. I know that you think that I purposely try to needle you, but that’s not true. I want you to realize that there are more important things in life than engineering.”

“Like finding the next Donald Trump to ensnare? What do you call it, Claire, shopping around? Why did you even leave Florida, Mother?”

“I’m not trying to pick a fight with you, Lena. Maybe I’m not using the right words. Things will get better. You have to believe that. But you also need to start thinking about your future—outside of your career.”

Exhaling slowly, Lena slid off the chair to stand over by the large bay window overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Crossing her arms over her chest, she leaned her head against the cool glass. Counting down from ten—a little exercise she started when she was in her mid-teens to control her temper when Claire started one of her scathing tangents—she tried to block out ninety percent of what her mother had just said.

Claire was perhaps partially right—things would get better. Things were
already
getting better. It’d been three weeks since she’d been rescued by the SEAL team, and she was finally starting to get a grip on her emotions. Being by the ocean helped. Everything out here was simpler, peaceful.

The first week back was undeniably the hardest for her to slog through. She would wake up from sleeping, with intermittent bouts of horrific nightmares. Some nights she could still feel the pinch of the cold steel knife that’d been held to her throat. Any little thing had the potential to set her off into an uncontrollable fit of tears.

But now, she was proud to say, she hadn’t burst into tears for four whole days. Each new day brought her renewed strength. She’d even started to get into a routine, forcing herself to get out of bed and out of the pajamas that she’d donned for a week straight.

She could not kid herself, though. While things were getting better for her they would never be the same again. Going back to work at WG Oil was not really an option at this point. She could not walk back through those doors and act like nothing had ever happened. Her whole monotonous, predictable, perfectly ordinary world had shifted from its axis into a chaotic maelstrom. There had been so much loss in such a short period of time. The life as she knew it, before true evil had touched her, was effectively over.

Her decision not to go back to WG Oil did leave her with the very problematic question of employment. Frankly, Lena did not know what she would do next. The bulk of her trust fund was virtually untouchable until she turned thirty-five, and she would have to do something for money. She could look for another job at another oil production facility in Africa or maybe Asia. Or she could try to find an assistant professorship position in engineering at a university. Despite the uncertainty she now faced, it was still a relief to have possibilities, to have a future, especially since she’d been so close to death. But something still haunted her.

“I spoke with that FBI agent yesterday—Michael Gerard,” she said, turning back around to face her mother who’d taken a seat on the white leather settee in the corner of the living room. “He called to give me an update on the progress of their investigation. Steven’s remains still haven’t been recovered. They’re saying that there’s no indication that his body is still in the building. How is that even possible?”

“Lena, what happened to Steven and the others at the plant was horrific. Absolutely terrible. But you’re alive. You have to put this behind you. You have to stop thinking about what occurred. You have to move on.”

“How can I put this behind me, Mother?” she asked, incapable of keeping her voice even. “You know how much Steven meant to me. Everything that I know about engineering, everything that has made me a good engineer, I learned from him. And now he’s gone and we can’t even bury him.”

She’d known Steven since she was eight years old. As a close friend of her father’s, he’d spent a lot of time around their family. Even way back then, he’d been more approachable than the infallible Alfred Westlake.

After her parents’ divorce, Steven, or Uncle Steven as she’d referred to him, became an ever-present force in her life. He’d always encouraged her to follow her dreams. He’d become a father to her when her own father had for all intents and purposes abandoned her.

Steven had never married and he didn’t have any children, so there was no one left to fight for him. Lena feared that without this additional pressure, the authorities would just forget about him. He would just become another faceless statistic in the warnings of doing business in war-torn, perennially broken Somalia.

“Lena, I know that you were quite fond of him—”

“He was a very good man. One of the best men I’ve ever known. He didn’t deserve to die. Especially not like the way he did.”

“No one deserves what happened to Steven.”

“He was like…a father to me,” Lena admitted, using all of the willpower that she could muster not to let her voice crack.

“I know. The two of you were very close. Steven was also a very good friend to your father and me. It’s a terrible loss.”

“It just seems impossible that he’s gone, you know? I still keep thinking that he’s just going walk right through the door any day now. He was so full of life. So indestructible. Nothing could get him down, not even his bouts with cancer. And it’s not just him, either. Twenty-one people were killed at the plant. Twenty-one of my friends were killed. And for what? AnSawar didn’t even get a drop of the ransom money that they were asking for.”

“This situation isn’t fair, Lena. But you have to find a way to move beyond this. It’s not healthy for you to continue to fixate on circumstances that you cannot change.”

Moments passed by in vociferous silence until Lena spoke up again. “We still can’t bury his body. And the man who killed Steven wasn’t even found. How could that bastard have just escaped during the rescue operation? He could be anywhere by now. He knows my name, he could find out where I live.”

Claire’s eyes darted from Lena to the fireplace and then back to Lena. “That’s just not possible.”

“Of course it’s possible.”

“Why would this group go to all that much trouble? The naval representatives that I spoke with assured me that most of the men who were holding you hostage were killed in their rescue operation. Granted, I do not know much about terrorist organizations, but I’ve never heard of them making repeated attacks on the same person, unless that person was a government official. I just think that you are worrying for nothing.”

“Sure.”

“You shouldn’t live your life paralyzed with fear. I think you should contact Kevin.” Upon hearing Lena’s drawn out sigh, Claire rushed on, “I know that the two of you left things on bad terms, but I spoke to his mother a couple of months ago and he hadn’t yet moved on. He still asks about you. There’s still a chance that he could forgive you, dear.”

Claire was actually making sense this time—well, about everything except Kevin. She
was
probably worrying for nothing. Most of the terrorists had been killed. The few who hadn’t died were otherwise detained. She had never really thought of herself as a particularly violent person. She’d never wished death on anyone, but she couldn’t be particularly upset about the death of her captors. After all, AnSawar had murdered her friends—dozens of innocent people. So yeah, she was glad that these men weren’t going to get away with their crimes.