The Protector (45 page)

“Oh, Jackson.”
She regarded him in stunned surprise. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

He looked down at the carpet a moment, cleared his throat. “I’m just saying, if you ever need a friend—” his dusky complexion pinkened “—just someone to hang out with...I’d be honored.”

She searched his face for his intentions. “You should know that I’m waiting for Ike,” she said steadily.

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Then he’s a lucky man, but the offer still stands.”

He had caught her off guard, but why not? Most of her girlfriends had husbands to keep them occupied. She needed to get out more, especially in the evenings when time slowed to a crawl. “Okay,” she agreed. “That’d be great.”
 

“Okay,” he repeated, flashing strong, white teeth. “I’ll give you a call soon.”

With her step a fraction lighter,
Eryn
followed him to the door, called farewell, and watched him slip into the familiar Taurus, her gaze automatically scanning the street for danger.

Jackson could never be a substitute for Ike, but he might prove to be a friend. And she could really use a friend right now.
 

**

A frigid wind whipped along the dark, narrow streets of
Naw
Zad
, sending trash fluttering, cans rolling. Doors and shutters that hadn’t been blown off in the siege three years ago groaned on their hinges. Ike pressed his back against a crumbling wall and questioned the apprehension brewing inside of him.
 

The last time he’d seen
Naw
Zad
it had been laid to waste in an Operation called Cobra’s Anger. The massive Coalition effort had left hundreds of Taliban insurgents dead, including
Osman
of Helmand Province, the son of
Eryn’s
terrorist. Survivors had fled the ravaged city. There had been nothing left but gutted buildings, blood-stained streets, and wild dogs feeding off the refuse.

Upon his return four months ago, he’d been amazed to see over sixty shops thriving in the downtown area, as well as a bustling market. Afghani forces patrolled the streets hoping to dissuade the re-infiltration of insurgents, but no one could tell militants from farmers when they kept their guns hidden under their tunics.
 

Signaling his squad to wait, Ike queried his senses like a vine sending out tendrils. The cold air smelled of hard-packed dirt and stale sewage. An empty can rolled past their feet. In the distance a dog howled.

The intelligence supplied by the FBI had proven flawless in the beginning. Ike’s squad had surprised half a dozen Taliban—former students of the Teacher,
Farshad
—within weeks of their arrival. But as weeks turned to months, the remaining few got harder to find, leapfrogging from one village to another. The last man they’d cornered had shot himself in the head before they could lay hold of him. That meant only one thing: the insurgents were expecting them, and that was never good.

Sliding along the wall of a vacated building, Ike stole a peek at the next street over. The night-vision-enhanced visor on his helmet showed a wavering light shining in a second story window just across the street. The rest of the block appeared deserted. Their target had taken refuge in what had once been a hospital on the outskirts of
Naw
Zad
.

Ike’s thoughts flashed to an image of
Eryn
getting her chin stitched at the clinic in Georgetown. How bizarre that her world and this one had intersected the day that
Farshad
took her hostage in the RV.

Yanking his thoughts back to present time, he glanced at his watch. They had twenty minutes in which to reconnoiter the building and determine their points of entry. With the capture of the last of Farshad’s students, the movement being dubbed The New Face of Terror would die out before it ever gained momentum, sparing the families of military leaders from the horror
Eryn
had endured.

He couldn’t stop thinking of her, even though she’d ordered him not to. He risked his life every day for two reasons: to honor his fallen teammates and to make certain
Eryn
never lived in fear ever again. She might not be waiting for him. But this was all worthwhile, providing they got the job done right.
  

So focus, damn it.

Turning to his men, Ike conveyed his sighting with a series of hand signals, adding that he would take point. Typically, Rogue, who was small and light on his feet, went first. But the uneasiness that prickled Ike’s nape urged him to assume the greatest risk. The others were younger, less experienced.
  

Under the watchful eye of Rogue, Ivy, and Jones, he darted in a crouch across the road, hurtling a pothole left by aerial cannon fire. Rats, startled by his approach, squealed and scattered. The fact that they were here at all meant the pile of garbage stacked against the building was fresh.

Ike spared the reeking pile a cursory glance. As he shouldered his weapon and raised a hand to signal Rogue over, a sudden foreboding yanked his scalp tight. He glanced back at the trash a second time, signaled for Rogue to halt.

Plastic and bottles and boxes of broken glass had been carefully piled one atop the other.
Too carefully.
It was as if someone had meant to cover up a...
Fuck!
With a warning cry, he started to run.

He felt the hot blast of the improvised explosive device before he heard it. At the same time, the air seemed to shatter around him. He felt his left eardrum rupture.
Wump
!
The explosion sounded dull and hollow.

He became aware that he was hurtling through the air.
Oh, shit,
murmured a calm, emotionless voice just before a cinderblock wall, lit up by the explosion’s flare, slammed into his face.

**

As Jackson pulled his sleek Nissan GT-R along the curb,
Eryn
noted the brightly lit windows on both levels of her townhouse and wondered why her father was still up.

Jackson set the handbrake but kept the engine running. Heat poured out of the vents to ward off the February chill. In the six months they’d been friends, he’d kept his word about just hanging out. The fact that her father still lived with her might have deterred him.
 

“Well, thank you,” she said, sending him a strained smile. “That was fun.” They’d taken his eleven-year-old daughter to the Pentagon Row Ice Skating Plaza. Naomi Maddox had clung to
Eryn’s
hand all evening—when she wasn’t pushing
Eryn
into her father in an obvious effort to spark romance.

Angling his head to see her better, Jackson searched her expression. “What’s wrong,
Eryn
? Something’s bothering you.”
 

With a sigh, she eyed the naked elms that lined her street. When the trees sprouted leaves again, Ike would be back from Afghanistan. At least, that was what her father had told her. “We can’t do this anymore, Jackson,” she decided. “It isn’t fair to Naomi. It isn’t fair to you.”
 

He sucked in a deep breath and let it out. “We’re just friends,
Eryn
,” he said tiredly.
 

“Naomi needs more than that. You saw her tonight. She needs a mother.”

Bowing his shaved head, he kept quiet.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured, touching his coat sleeve.
  

He forced a smile. “Don’t be. I guess I’m still hoping Colleen will come back, the way Calhoun will.”

“Oh, Jackson.”
Twisting in her seat, she gave him a swift hug. “I wish I could make it better.”

He kissed her forehead. “It’s okay. I’m okay,
Eryn
. Don’t worry about me.”

She drew away, searching his stoic features for signs of suicidal thoughts. “We can still be friends,” she offered. “Just keep an eye out for the right woman, okay?”

“I will.”
 

“Good night, Jackson.” Pushing out of his low-slung sports car, she gave one last wave and rushed through the frigid air toward her door.

As she mounted the stoop, the memory of Ike’s forehead against her chest made her eyes sting. She wriggled her key into the lock, only to find the door unbolted.
  

Behind her, Jackson’s engine roared and receded. As she stepped inside, her father emerged from the living room.
One look at his haggard expression and she felt the blood drain from her face.
“What happened?”

He approached her slowly, put his hands on her shoulders. “It’s Ike,” he said, somberly. “He was hurt.”

Her house keys fell to the hardwood floor with a chink. “How hurt?”
 

“I don’t know. I got the news an hour ago. He was caught by an IED.”

“Oh, God.”
A vision of Ike looking like Anthony Spellman sprang into her head.
  

“They’re transporting him to Lanstuhl, Germany.”

Dark blotches obscured her vision. The hallway began to spin. Feeling herself fall, she groped for her father’s shirt. Her last thought as she felt him catch her was that she’d end up empty and alone, just like Jackson.

**

“Excuse me,” called a doctor, intercepting their march down the hospital corridor. “Only family members are admitted into ICU. Who are you?”
 

“I’m General McClellan.” The Commander’s tone conveyed the importance of his rank. “This is my daughter,
Eryn
. We’re here to see Isaac Calhoun.”

The doctor looked unimpressed. “Are you family?”

“No.”

“Then you can’t go in.”
 

“Please,”
Eryn
begged. “We just flew all the way from the

States.
Can’t you make an exception?”

“No exceptions.”

“Do you realize who I am?” Her father’s thundering question caused the staff at the nurses’ station to freeze and look at them.

The doctor’s lips curled. “Rules are rules. Plus, I’m a civilian contractor,” he added with a mocking lift of his eyebrows.
 

“How’s Ike doing? Can you tell us that?”
Eryn
pleaded. “He’s the Navy SEAL brought in from Afghanistan.”

The doctor thought for a moment, glancing down the hallway toward ICU. “Oh, yes. Well, he’s got a serious concussion, shrapnel wounds, and second degree burns. There may also be some spinal issues, but it’s too soon to tell. The good news is that he is responsive.”

“What...what does that mean?” A clammy sweat breached her skin. “What’s his prognosis?”

“Our most immediate concern is that he’ll slip into a coma and not come out. Right now his odds are fifty-fifty,” said the doctor dispassionately. “If he remains responsive, those odds will improve.”

She felt like she might faint again.
Fifty-fifty?

Her father put an arm around her as she sagged against him. Ike. She had to see him. She had to.
  

“I’m sorry,” said the doctor with scant sympathy. “If you’d like to pray with a chaplain, there’s one around here somewhere.”

Her father perked up.
“Chaplain.
Yes, we would,” he declared. “Find him for us, would you?”