Authors: Stephanie Tyler
Kenny had known that the chastised shit was merely an act. So had Kelly Cromwell’s husband, apparently, since he’d gotten the paperwork for Navy boot camp for both of them in order.
It’s your choice
, Kenny had told them, shoved the papers across the table as the lawyers looked on.
Chris had signed immediately. Nick had been a tougher sell, refusing to sign until the last possible minute. Nothing Chris or Kenny—or even Jake, who’d flown in from Coronado especially to see his two brothers—said could convince him.
Chris had a pretty solid feeling what finally did was the realization that sitting in jail would be proving Walter and Deidre Winfield’s view of Nick right.
And Walter was now visiting Nick—fuck, no good could come from that. Or from this.
“I like the FBI just fine—we’re all on the same side, aren’t we?” He motioned for her to follow him, first into the kitchen and then to sit, and at first he thought she’d refuse, but she finally did take a seat on the opposite side of the table from where he stood.
She looked nice there, at the old scarred oak table.
He moved so he could sit next to her. “We do a lot of classified shit, Jamie. We get blamed for a lot that’s not our fault, so we’ve learned to stay tight. If you want to know where Devane is—and he’s currently on leave, so he’s not AWOL, just to clarify that—you’re going to have to give me a little more intel.”
“Your brother worked for a mercenary in Africa last year,” she said, and fuck, Chris had known that was going to come back to bite Nick in the ass.
You can’t be a SEAL and a merc at the same time
, Chris had told his brother when he’d discovered that Nick had done a job for a mercenary named Clutch when he was on a month’s leave.
“Do you know anything about it?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Look, I’m not trying to—” She stopped. “You’re sure?”
He wasn’t sure of anything anymore, but he was too superstitious to tell the same lie two times in a row. “Is Nick under investigation for something?”
“I can’t disclose that at present. Can you tell me where he is so I can speak with him?”
He snorted, drummed his fingers on the table in time with an invisible beat as he kept eye contact with her. But he wasn’t so much looking at her as looking through her, keeping an eye on her as he weighed the possibilities in his mind. “I don’t know where he is.”
“Fine, if you want to keep playing this game—”
“Do you know two agents named Simms and Ferone?”
“Why?”
“They threatened a friend of mine tonight. Said they were FBI.”
“What friend?”
He decided to take the risk. “Kaylee Smith.”
She cocked her head to the side as if trying to process that name. “Is Nick with this Kaylee Smith now?”
“You answer my question first.”
“Chief Waldron, you tell Ensign Devane that he’s got four hours to voluntarily surrender himself to me.”
“Where’s he supposed to meet you?”
She handed him her business card and he let his fingertips brush hers. When she pulled away, hard, he knew she’d felt the jolt of energy too.
“Nick can call to get that information.”
“What happens when the four hours are up?”
“He doesn’t want to find that out.” She got up without a second glance in his direction and let herself out of the house.
It didn’t take him more than three seconds to grab his bag, which was always at the ready, and follow her.
His fingers continued to itch—he rubbed them along the steering wheel as he followed Jamie’s basic FBI black Town Car at a safe enough distance all the way to the airport, to the section that housed the private corporate jets and the ones that the FBI and CIA used.
He waited to see if she’d leave her car, search the airport for Nick and Kaylee—and
shit
, he just hoped they’d already gotten off the ground. Nick wasn’t answering his phone, a good sign.
But no, Jamie didn’t leave her car. And so he settled in for a long four hours of surveillance. It was a lot like sniping … except here he didn’t have to remain belly-down on the ground and stock-still. He had the radio, could sing while he kept a watch on Jamie inside her car.
She just sat there expressionless, didn’t talk on the phone or read. Maybe she had the radio on, but if she did she never once sang along.
Music was in his blood, something that had always brought out a smile in him—albeit sometimes a wistful one. So he sat back and he watched and he waited for a smile that never came while he planned his next move.
12
Kaylee jerked awake as the plane jolted hard from turbulence and felt the unease settle into her body. She was completely spooked—tried to remember if she’d dreamed about something specific and told herself it had to be the tension from the situation. Calls from beyond the grave, someone trying to kill her and the missing Winfield heir sitting next to her on a private jet heading toward Africa.
Yes, that would certainly do it.
The airport in Virginia had been teeming with people—some milling around, some rushing to their destinations—and the cacophony of noise had made her already pounding head throb even harder.
Nick had ushered her as though she was a celebrity, his arm firmly around her, his large body shielding hers as he’d eased her through the throngs of people, bypassing security in order to head to the entrance of the private jet.
She hadn’t asked why or how he pulled this one off. She had her new, fake passport tucked into her pocket, her gun was still in her bag and she’d felt some of Nick’s weapons press her since he held her so closely.
“Keep your eyes down,” he’d said, and she guessed it was so they wouldn’t get picked up by the security cameras. She’d almost told him he was being too paranoid, and then she recalled the scene at her apartment and she’d bitten her lip instead.
By the time they’d taken off, she’d been exhausted and she’d let herself try to fall asleep.
She checked her watch and realized she’d slept—albeit an uneasy, toss-and-turn sleep—for nearly the entirety of the flight.
Nick was staring out the window into the mass of white clouds, newspaper tossed aside. “We’re almost there. You’ll need to change soon.”
He hadn’t broken his gaze from the window when he spoke and she didn’t bother to answer, merely pulled the blanket tighter around her to ward off the creepy feeling that still invaded her and noted that he’d left a pair of jungle fatigues next to her, plus a hat and boots.
“You’re not going to freak out on me, are you?”
She’d been staring off into space, hadn’t realized he’d dragged his gaze to her. “No. No freak-outs.”
“Good.”
How much did she really know about this man? Decorated Navy SEAL. Adopted. Two brothers, and a father who lived cross-country. And now she was taking him deeper into a web that Aaron’s past had woven for both of them.
And yet, she knew more about Nick than she had about Aaron when they first began hanging out. It wasn’t until after they’d run across the state line and gotten married that he’d revealed his juvenile record to her—that he’d been taken out of his parents’ house because both parents were drug abusers and Aaron had been caught stealing at school. She knew he’d done so for survival, and even knew that the stealing cars was more about thrills than money, despite his needs.
When she’d gotten arrested, she’d never been so scared in her entire life. The police hadn’t been nice, the way they were when they found her home alone after her mom took off. No, this time, there were only short, clipped voices, the reading of her rights and the sensation of handcuffs being roughly clicked onto her wrists.
She hadn’t been with Aaron that night, had gotten into a fight with her grandmother about her grades, which had been slipping since she’d started hanging out with Aaron. It was only a matter of time before she’d begun cutting classes and living up to her mother’s reputation.
She’d stormed out of the house and down the block and she’d walked and walked until she’d seen it—the beautiful black Ferrari parked in front an apartment building.
She had it coasting down the street in less than thirty seconds—her best time yet. Wind in her hair, the car turning her on as they took each other for a ride down the highway; she was never going back. She’d call Aaron when she got farther out.
That was how a sixteen-year-old brain functioned—act first, questions later.
She’d gotten somewhat better at that—tried to ask the questions first now, but impulse still reigned supreme.
“Why don’t you like to be touched?” she asked before she could stop herself. Around Nick, she didn’t want to stop herself from anything.
He closed his eyes, like the question pained him. “I like being touched just fine. I let you touch me the other night.”
“You start to, and then you stop. Hold my hands away from you, distract me.”
“It’s not a big deal. I wasn’t held a lot as a baby. Wasn’t touched. Doc at the base says that could account for a lot of my aversion.” He ran his hands through his hair before he continued. “I get this fight-or-flight response. Great in the field, not so great in bed. I can usually bite it back for sex… especially because all my relationships have lasted approximately five hours or less.”
She’d passed that mark—granted, not in the way she’d have liked to. “Have you tried to let someone help you with it?”
“I’ve tried,” he admitted as he stared at the ceiling. “It didn’t work.”
“Maybe one day it will. Things change,” she said. “Then again, so do people. Not always for the better.”
“What happened to your parents?” he asked suddenly, as if he’d been mulling it over since they’d spoken back at the house. Fair was fair—she’d brought up a topic he hated talking about, now it was his turn.
She shrugged, like it didn’t matter. But it did. “I never knew my dad. My mom left when I was nine.” Kaylee remembered waking up one morning with the realization that she was all alone in the small apartment.
She’ll come back tomorrow, she’d
told herself. And she told herself that every day for a week, until the food ran out and the cafeteria at school wouldn’t serve her without paying anymore. “I was raised by my grandmother. It didn’t go well.”
“Why? I thought grandmothers were supposed to be all nurturing and shit.”
That made her laugh softly, but only for a second. “I was too much like my mom. It was a problem.”
“I was nothing like my family at all—that was a problem too.”
She wanted to ask him so much more about that, but she didn’t. “My mom had a juvie record by the time she was fourteen. My grandfather died when my mom was young and my grandmother was raising her on her own. She was so embarrassed—their daughter from a good, God-fearing home hanging out with hoodlums.” She laughed again, because it was better than crying.
Sometimes, she felt as if she was still in mourning for the life she could’ve had if her mom had cleaned up her act, if she’d risen above her rebellion and just grown up. “I became a journalist because of my mother. I found her diaries hidden in the attic—that’s all she wrote about, what she wanted to be when she grew up. She must’ve forgotten about them when she ran away, and I found them and read them over and over again when I was ten. They were my lifeline.”
“Does your grandmother know what a success you are?”
“She died a few years ago. She knew about my job but that didn’t much matter to her—not after Aaron and the divorce.” She paused. “My grandmother worked for the church, believed in God, ran a household. She collected money for the poor, was at Mass every day of her life. And she was the meanest person I knew.”
“She hit you?” Nick asked, his voice almost a growl.
“She didn’t hit me. Not physically. But I swear sometimes her words hurt more than a blow ever could.”
“Great to have family,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.
“I’d like to think so,” she said sharply. “It’s something I want. I’m really looking forward to having a family, to starting from scratch. I know they say you can’t choose your family—”
“They’re wrong. Love trumps biology every time.”
She thought about his brother, about the fact that Nick had been adopted into a family at fourteen—and wondered how that had happened, if they knew who he really was.
She had a feeling they did, that they’d go far to protect him. If they’d ever accept her was the question.
For Nick, love had trumped biology and for that she managed a real smile as she thought about her own future. “I hope you’re right.”
The plane was slowing in preparation for landing. He looked out the window, then asked, “You’ve never tried to find your mom?”
“No. In my gut, I know she’s dead, but sometimes I wonder if she’s out there somewhere… if she got clean and sober and has another family and she’s just too ashamed to reach out. I mean, I represent her past.”
As she said that, the jet touched down. As they taxied down the runway, she threw the blanket off and grabbed the clothes.
The bathroom was small—too small to move around in—so she merely pulled the curtain that separated the cabin from the food prep area and changed.
When she finally did go into the bathroom, she looked in the small mirror, the camouflage close to her face, the hat pulled on so her hair didn’t show, and she almost didn’t recognize herself.
The fatigues were big on her but she rolled the sleeves a bit and then nearly tripped on the bottoms as she walked back toward Nick.
He was sitting on the floor, having dressed in similar clothing. He’d pulled on his shirt and was currently holstering a weapon, and he stopped to assess her as she walked toward him.
Without saying a word, he closed the distance between them and began to work on the sleeves, unrolling and rerolling them expertly so they weren’t flopping around uselessly. And then he moved to button the jacket she’d left open over the T-shirt.
“It’s going to be hot, I know, but you need to keep this closed.” His hands brushed down the front of her body, even as his gaze held hers.
“We won’t stand out in these clothes?”
“Trust me.” He knelt down and helped her ease into the boots he’d brought for her—tucked the pants into them and laced them for her, and she resisted the urge to bend down and run her fingers through his hair, to join him on the floor.
When she was finally properly attired, he stood. “I’m sorry your family’s all fucked-up.”
She wanted to hug him, but she didn’t. The guilt of not having told him the truth ate away at her, especially after his sincere words. “Thanks. Your brother… he seems nice. Will you tell me about your family sometime?”
“Sometime. All set?”
“Yes. Sarah will meet us on the tarmac.”
“Keep your head down and stick close to me. No matter what happens, we don’t separate. Just hold on, Kaylee. Do you understand?”
The heat and humidity hit his face like a heavy cloak the second the door of the private plane opened, and immediately Nick thought about Kaylee’s breathing, at the same time he scanned the throngs of people, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
There were people dragging boxes—in Africa, boxes taped together and luggage were interchangeable; 9/11 hadn’t changed much about the way this country managed their airports.
He went down the small flight of metal steps first, Kaylee close enough on his six to nearly trip him.
She
was
freaked. He didn’t blame her, but he’d need to keep a much tighter watch on her.
The story about her family hit him harder than he’d thought, and he almost wished he hadn’t asked, hadn’t wanted to even consider getting closer to her.
But who the hell was he kidding—it had been too late for that from the second he’d seen her.
She’d looked so damned earnest, innocent, even, and although he knew better, he could still get a glimpse of the little girl with freckles sprinkled lightly across the bridge of her nose who wanted to be a reporter when she grew up.
He tried to reconcile that picture with the car-stealing young girl and the beautiful woman in front of him who was in more freakin’ trouble than she could possibly understand, and he quickly gave up. She was complicated—maybe more so than he was—layered and willing to be peeled. That was the big difference between the two of them—and now was not the fucking time to think about any of this, it was time to think about how to stay alive.
His gut clenched as if something wasn’t right, but it did so every time he set down in this country—most of the time, things weren’t right here, and they certainly weren’t right in his world.
Still, he pushed past the people dragging their own checked luggage from the bellies of the overcrowded planes toward the airport, past soldiers with machine guns who were everywhere, despite the fact that security didn’t seem to be a priority.
The car was waiting on the south side, just off the edge of the tarmac, near the back road leading toward the underbelly of Uganda. It was just where Sarah had promised it would be, a white bandanna tied around the antenna.
But the car appeared empty, and he looked around for signs of anyone as he pulled his Sig stealthily and kept it down at his side.
Empty or not, the damned car would be his. Whoever this Sarah person was could catch up later.
But as they got closer, a woman came around from the other side of the car—she had a rifle around her neck, a sleeve of tattoos down one arm. She wore a tank top and camouflage pants and looked like she could handle herself.
Kaylee extended her hand. “Sarah, hi, I’m—”
“You’re K. Darcy. Aka Kaylee Smith. And I hear you need a ride to the DRC.”
But it wasn’t Sarah speaking those words. Kaylee froze at the sound of the familiar voice as he stared down the barrel of a large rifle.