Thin Ice (20 page)

“No new leads. We're waiting.” His frustration came over the line loud and clear. “This guy's covered his tracks well—but that doesn't mean something won't break, that he won't make a mistake. Don't give up hope.”

Easier said than done.

“I'm trying to stay upbeat.” It was the best she could offer.

“Good. Because all it takes is one slip, one solid lead, and we could nail him. Now, anything else we should discuss?”

She wished there was. Just listening to his voice calmed her. But he had other, more pressing problems to deal with than her case of nerves.

“No.”

“Then I'll head back to Finn's room. Mac and I are taking shifts in the recliner, and it's my turn.”

“Will I hear from you Monday?”

“Count on it.”

They said their good-byes, and Christy slipped the phone back in her pocket. The teens continued to chatter behind her, their conversation peppered with typical high-school topics—the angst of broken romances, complaints about an English lit assignment, and a spirited discussion about which nearby restaurant had the best deep-dish pizza.

Had her life ever been that uncomplicated?

Simple answer: no. About the age her social life would have kicked in, she'd relocated to Colorado Springs—and Olympic hopefuls didn't have time for dates and dances and pizza outings.

She pulled one skate off, then the other. Wiped the blades dry. Stared through the window at the emptying rink as the session wound down.

In hindsight, it was clear her teen years had been far from normal. Yet she'd never felt as if she was missing out. Skating had been all-consuming. Aside from the hours carved out for schoolwork, it had dominated her every waking thought. She'd pursued her dream with a single-mindedness that left little room for fun, family, or friends—of either gender.

She tucked her skates in the carrying case. Zipped it closed.

Even after she'd left competitive skating, life hadn't slowed down. The pace of the ice show world had been fast, and the
nomadic existence hadn't been conducive to lasting friendships. Nor had she had a chance to socialize in college. She'd been too intent on catching up to waste a moment on frivolous activities. And by the time she'd entered the workforce and established her career, the pool of eligible men—eligible by her standards, anyway—had dwindled . . . as Sarah pointed out whenever Christy balked at one of the dates her friend tried to set up for her.

One side of Christy's mouth twitched. Poor Sarah. Despite her best efforts at matchmaking, she'd struck out over and over again. It had been discouraging—for both of them.

Yet just when she'd begun to think that marriage and family had passed her by . . . in the midst of struggling to come to grips with the devastating losses of the past nine months . . . God had sent a ray of hope into her life in the form of a handsome FBI agent.

To everything there is
a season.

As always, the Good Book was right.

“. . . so cool, and he is so awesome!”

She glanced over her shoulder. Two of the girls had separated themselves from the group of teens, stopping less than three feet from where she sat to have a private conversation. And why not? She was over thirty. Invisible to a teen.

“I think he's going to ask me to the winter ball!” One of the girls gave a muffled squeal.

“I am so jeal!” This petulant comeback from the brunette as she tossed her long mane of hair.

“I still can't believe it! I mean, to think he wants to go out with me . . . this is epic! Whenever he gets close, my heart starts to race like after I run the hundred meter!”

The two girls rejoined the larger group as it began to drift toward the door, and Christy rose, skates in hand.

Maybe she hadn't missed out on the teen stuff after all.

Maybe she was simply a late bloomer.

Because even though she was twice as old as that girl in the throes of a crush, she felt the same way around Lance.

Too bad her plate was full of a lot of other stuff more important than English lit and pizza. Stuff that couldn't be put on the back burner.

For now, Ginny was her top priority.

And until they figured out what the kidnapper was up to, until she had answers about her sister, until this case was put to rest once and for all . . . romance would have to wait.

If Lance and Mark were right, however, this thing was wrapping up.

Unfortunately, only the kidnapper knew the exact timetable—and agenda.

Y
ou mean I'm stuck here overnight?” Lance glowered at the harried agent behind the ticket counter at the airport.

“I'm sorry, sir. The plane has a mechanical issue. I can book you on the first flight out tomorrow morning. It leaves at 6:20 and would get you into St. Louis at 7:25. We can also give you a hotel voucher for tonight.”

He shoved his fingers through his hair.

Great. Just great.

Spending Sunday night in Washington was
not
in his plans.

But his dilemma wasn't this woman's fault—and she still had to deal with the angry horde lined up behind him.

Reining in his temper, he rested one elbow on the counter. “Fine. I'll take the early flight and the voucher.”

Relief smoothed some of the tension from her features. “Give me a minute.”

While her fingers clicked over the keys and he waited for the printer to spit out a new boarding pass, Lance checked his watch. Seven o'clock. If nothing else, he'd get a decent sleep tonight—and he needed the shut-eye. At this rate, he could fall into bed by nine.

Unless you detour to Alexandria.

At the nudge from his conscience, he frowned.

No way.

Visiting Debbie wasn't on his agenda for this trip.

But it could be, now that he had a free evening. Mac was standing watch over Finn, and everything at Walter Reed was as under control as possible. Neither of his brothers needed him at the moment.

Meaning the excuse he'd used all weekend to defer a visit to Debbie didn't exist anymore.

Nevertheless, he wasn't ready to face the garbage he'd been sweeping under the rug for eighteen long months.

“Here you go, sir.” The agent handed him a new boarding pass along with a voucher for the hotel. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

She had no idea.

“Thanks.” He pocketed the pass and moved aside as the next angry customer braced his hands on the counter and proceeded to give the agent grief.

Should he pay Debbie an impromptu visit?

His temple began to throb as he wrestled with his dilemma. After the numbing fatigue and stress of the past seventy-two hours, his brain seemed incapable of analyzing that question.

A Starbucks caught his eye, and he picked up his carry-on. Maybe a caffeine infusion would jump-start his thinking process.

Once again he joined a long line—but this one moved a lot faster. And after a few slugs of an Americano laced with three shots of expresso, rational thought returned.

He could visit Debbie on a future trip. That was a definite option. He'd be coming back here a lot over the next few months, and he'd waited this long to deal with the situation. A few more weeks wouldn't hurt.

But why put off the inevitable? No matter when he showed up at her door, it was going to be tough. Wouldn't it be better to get it over with and stop procrastinating?

Yes. Go.

Caving to the prod from his conscience, he forced his legs to carry him to ground transportation and lined up yet again.

As he shuffled forward in the cab queue, he started to pull out his phone to call her. Paused. Slid it back into the holder. Better to leave himself some wiggle room. That way, he could change his mind at the last minute if he got cold feet.

Make that
colder
feet. They were already icy.

When his turn for a cab rolled around, he fished Debbie's address out of his wallet. He might not have gone to see her, but he'd kept tabs on her through his contacts in The Unit. Had known within days after she left Fort Bragg six months ago to return to Alexandria, where she had a supportive family.

Odd how he'd carried her address with him. As if by doing so, he could fool himself into thinking he was on the verge of going to see her.

Except now he was. In less than thirty minutes, according to the cab driver, they'd be pulling up outside her door.

He used every one of those minutes to try and psyche himself up for the visit. But when the cab halted in front of a modest, two-story duplex with warm light spilling from behind closed shades, he wasn't even close to being ready.

As he watched, a shadow moved past the window.

She was home.

So much for the less-than-noble hope he'd been harboring that she'd be out for the evening—and he could console himself with the excuse that he'd at least made the attempt.

While the driver stopped the meter and gave him the amount, he fought the urge to flee.

“This the right place, buddy?” The cabbie peered at him in
the darkness. “It's the only street I know with this name. Did you want to go somewhere else?”

Yeah.

Anywhere but here.

But he needed to do this.

“It's the right place.” He dug the money out and handed it over. “I'm going to need a ride to my hotel in about an hour. You want the business?”

“Sure.”

“Pick me up at the restaurant on the corner.” If Debbie threw him out—a very plausible possibility—he'd need a place that offered shelter from the cold while he waited for his ride.

“You got it.”

Lance slid from the cab, hefted his carry-on, and forced himself to walk toward the front door. A gust of frigid wind whipped past, a whorl of tiny ice pellets stinging his exposed skin. An omen of an approaching winter storm, perhaps?

But he was more worried about the storm that might kick up inside the house.

He stepped onto the tiny stoop, took a deep breath, and pressed the bell.

Five seconds later—long before he was ready—she pulled the door open.

In the space of a few heartbeats, he did a rapid assessment.

She looked better than she had at the funeral, when smudged hollows had hung below her lashes and she'd seemed haunted and lost. The shadows were gone now, her demeanor was more alive, and she'd cut her long blonde hair into a flattering shorter style.

Yet she was far thinner than he remembered.

He swallowed and searched for his voice. “Hello, Debbie.”

“Lance?” Could her eyes get any wider? “Oh my word, is that really you? Come in, come in.”

She angled sideways and swept her arm toward the room behind her.

Holding tight to the handle of his bag, he moved past her, into the living room . . . kitchen . . . dining room. The whole first floor was no more than one large room, with a small galley and tiny eating area at one end.

“What on earth are you doing here? Where have you been? Why didn't you get in touch?” She closed the door and faced him.

“I came tonight to answer all those questions.” He gestured toward the living room. “May I?”

“Yes. Of course. I'm sorry . . . I didn't mean to jump all over you. Can I take your coat? Would you like a drink?” She followed him to the center of the room.

“No, thanks. I can't stay long.” He hefted his bag. “I was actually on my way out of town, but my flight was cancelled. It seemed like a sign I should pay you a long-overdue visit.”

She patted the sofa. “Sit.”

After sliding his jacket off, he complied.

She perched on a chair opposite him, confusion replacing the initial warmth that had flooded her eyes. “Long-overdue is an understatement. You fell off the face of the earth after Taz . . . after I lost Taz. I saw you at the funeral, but . . .” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “The three of us had so many good times, and you and Taz were like brothers . . .”

Her gaze flicked toward the table at the far end of the couch, and he glanced over.

A framed photo of him and Taz in the Middle East was front and center. The two of them were grinning and holding a box of brownies Debbie had sent. It wasn't the best shot they'd ever posed for together—but it was the last one.

Taz had died two days later.

The coffee in Lance's stomach curdled.

“I had planned to talk to you after the funeral, but you ended up in the hospital and I had to report back.” The excuse sounded pathetic even to
his
ears.

“I know.”

Though she fell silent, her eyes asked the question she didn't voice.

But that was eighteen months ago. Where have
you been ever since?

The question she did ask, however, tore at his gut. “Did I do something to offend you?”

She thought it was
her
fault he hadn't gotten in touch?

Another wave of guilt crashed over him.

“No. It wasn't anything you did. It was something I did. Or didn't do.” He clasped his hands and leaned forward. “I need to tell you about what happened the night Taz . . . the night we were ambushed.”

“I know what happened. I had an official briefing.”

“You don't know it all.”

Now it was her turn to lean forward. “Then tell me.”

He did so, sparing himself nothing, laying the blame squarely where it belonged, while she listened in silence.

By the time he finished, his fingers were trembling. “The truth of it is, my pride and ego got in the way. I didn't want to have two failed missions in a row—and Taz paid the price for my bad decision. I should have listened to his doubts.”

Faint, parallel crevices etched her brow. “It sounds like you did. You checked with the other guys on the team, and with the base. No one else had any qualms.”

“No, but I knew Taz. His instincts had always been spot-on. I was looking for a reason to override them that night, and I latched on to the handiest excuse—impending fatherhood—even though I knew better. Taz would never have let personal issues affect his judgment on a mission.”

Debbie studied him for a moment as a tear welled in the corner of her eye. Spilled over. Trailed down her cheek.

She didn't appear to notice.

His stomach twisted, and he braced himself for the lashing he deserved.

“Don't be so sure.”

He blinked. Squinted at her. “What do you mean?”

She knitted her fingers together, tight enough to whiten her knuckles. “Did you know he was on the verge of leaving The Unit?”

The curve balls these past few days were coming faster than he could field them.

Taz leave The Unit?

No way.

Delta Force was his life.

But he'd thought the same about Finn and the Rangers too.

Was anything what it seemed anymore?

“I had no idea.”

“I'm not surprised he kept that to himself.” She sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “You weren't the only one who was beginning to wonder if being a father was compromising his combat judgment, making him too cautious, too risk averse. He told me about a couple of incidents in the month before he died where his hesitation could have had tragic consequences. It didn't, but knowing there would be a next time was eating him up. The last thing he wanted to do was endanger the other operators. Much as he loved Delta Force, he felt he had to get out.”

“I can't believe he didn't tell me any of this.”

“I can. He was still coming to grips with the decision himself. He hadn't put in the paperwork yet, but he was close.” She locked gazes with him. “Here's the thing, Lance. Ever since the night he died, I've been beating myself up. I should have pushed
him to get it done. He and I both knew he wasn't at the top of his combat game anymore—and we knew that could be deadly. I could have influenced him. Applied pressure. But I didn't want him to resent me for forcing his hand. Trust me, there's plenty of blame to go around for what happened that night.”

As Lance tried to absorb all she'd told him, only the muffled backfire of a passing car and the mournful howl of the wind intruded on the silence.

All these months, Debbie had been dealing with a boatload of guilt too—even if hers was misplaced.

Who'd have predicted he'd end up trying to console
her
tonight?

“Taz wasn't the type to bend to pressure, Debbie. You know that. The few times I tried it, he dug in his heels and got more obstinate.”

“A pregnant wife has a lot more leverage.”

That could be true.

“I still think you're being too hard on yourself.”

“No, I'm not. But I'm not trying to solicit sympathy. I just want you to know I don't blame you for what happened. Taz's ego was as big as yours. If your positions had been reversed, he might have made the same choice you did. He didn't like to fail, either. I knew about the juiced egos when I signed on—and I also knew that without that swagger and self-confidence, you guys wouldn't last a day on the kind of missions you were given. Those big egos were both a blessing and a curse. That night, they worked against you—but so did a lot of other factors.”

Before he could respond, a child's cry sounded from upstairs.

Debbie was on her feet instantly. “Josh is teething, and it's playing havoc with his sleep pattern. I need to peek in on him. Would you like to come up?”

Lance stood at once. “Yes.”

He followed her up the steps to a nursery illuminated only
by the dim light spilling in from the hall. The toddler was sleeping quietly again, sucking on a finger, as Lance paused beside the crib. He had Debbie's blond hair, but the mouth and chin were all Taz.

Part of his buddy lived on in his son.

Pressure built behind Lance's eyes, and the room blurred.

Debbie adjusted the blanket, smoothed the hair back from her son's face, and bent to place a gentle kiss on his forehead. Then she led the way back downstairs.

“He looks like Taz.” Lance stopped at the bottom of the steps.

“Yeah.” She turned and smiled at him. “He does.”

Lance did a sweep of the duplex. It was neat as any home with an eighteen-month-old could be, but the furnishings were basic. “So . . . are you doing okay? Do you need anything?”

“We're solid on the finance front, if that's what you're asking. And I'm learning how to be a single mom. I miss Taz every day—and I always will—but he'd expect me to carry on. So I went back to school to finish the course work for that teaching degree he was always pushing me to wrap up. Josh and I will be fine.” She folded her arms and swallowed. “It would be nice, though . . . when he's older . . . if he could hear a few stories about his dad from someone who knew him. Stories I can't tell.”