Anything, Anywhere, Anytime (8 page)

She squeezed.

Then she was gone. So fast that even with battle-honed reflexes he didn't have time to react. Damned if he wasn't standing stunned stupid like some teenage boy after his first peek at a dirty magazine.

The woman may have left, but the brand of her cool touch stayed. He tamped down an unwelcome heat pumping through him with a very mature ferocity bearing no resemblance to horny teenage hormones. He clenched his fingers to strangle away the feel of her hand there. Closed his fist around...

A piece of paper?

The slip crumpled, crackled in his grip. He'd received—and ignored—room numbers scrawled on napkins before, but this wasn't some dive bar in Bangkok. His fingers unfurled. The paper mushroomed open like an exploding bomb. Fragmented lines became bold handwriting, words without a room number in sight.

Help me. I seek asylum in the United States.

Jack figured ambushing Monica would work best.

Lounging against the mess hall wall, he waited for her to nab her meal tray and pick her seat. A wall of windows baked the room with unrelenting rays that trickled a fresh layer of sweat over his body. His shower would have to wait.

She would just have to put up with his presence like they agreed in their deal. And maybe he wanted to look at her. Talk to her. He'd missed her these past months.

His own damn fault.

He could almost hear his father chuckling, followed by a thump on the back for his son who'd landed in trouble.
Nothing lik e your priestly brother, are you, my boy?

His father didn't mean it as an insult or a compliment. There were just clearly defined roles in his family.

Tony was the good kid. Jack was the wild one. And each, in his own way, was supposed to look out for their two sisters. Tony, with morality checks. Jack, by kicking ass.

Monica peeled off from the chow line and strode toward an empty end of a table, far from people and conversation.

Too bad, Mon. Pushing away from the corner, Jack dusted the flaking plaster off his arm and plowed through the clutch of personnel dumping trays and grabbing extra water bottles on their way out.

He dropped into the chair beside Monica. "Everything go okay with the vaccines?"

Smooth, Romeo. Damn, but he could use a little of Tony's sensitive oratory skills at the moment.

She startled. "Jesus, Jack. You sure do know how to sneak up on a person."

Not half as stealthy as that little number who'd almost hit on him a couple of minutes ago. But one Korba scowl worthy of his old man woken up from a nap had sent the local flirt-bunny scuttling in the other direction. Just what he needed, Monica wigging out over some imagined encounter. "Still wanna spank me?"

That earned him a smile. Ooh-rah.

"Too exhausted." She moved her spoon from her bowl to her mouth in automated rhythm.

Silence settled, uncomfortable when once they could have sat beside each other for hours without talking.

Four months ago he would have followed her to her room, tugged her boots off and rubbed her feet. She always thought he was doing her some big damned favor. Little did she know how much those pretty feet of hers turned him on. The rest of her was so tough, but her feet were soft. Slim. Delicate bones and arches masked by combat boots.

The contrast yanked him inside out even now.

Maybe it also had something to do with the fact that he'd finally, found the one thing she needed from him.

Call him a knuckle-dragger, but if he wasn't kicking ass for a woman, he wasn't sure of his role.

"Monica?" a masculine voice rumbled above the din of diners and clanking dishes.

She glanced over her shoulder, up to the Navy Petty Officer in fatigues standing behind her, an oversize blond farm boy whose cowlick defied even a buzz cut to swirl into a left part—Blake Gardner, her sister's ex-boyfriend. Defensiveness fell away from Monica in sheets, a feat Jack wished he'd been able to make happen.

Springing to her toes, she threw her arms around the Navy SEAL'S thick neck. "God, it's good to see you."

Fraternization be damned, the enlisted SEAL hugged her back. "You, too, Monica. You, too."

Jack winced at the stab of jealousy. A self-centered thought, considering the blond wonder god standing in front of him was currently living in his own personal hell since Sydney Hyatt had been taken.

They pulled apart. Monica's smile wobbled. Gardner didn't have a smile at all, not that Jack could blame him. He couldn't even stomach thoughts of Monica being in her sister's place. "Have a seat, man."

"Thank you, sir." Gardner tugged out the metal chair beside Monica.

"Call me Jack."

"Sure," Gardner answered without complying to the request. He canted forward, forearms bulging beneath his rolled-up uniform sleeves as if the building frustration from inaction strained at his skin. "And I do mean thank you."

Jack nodded once in return. No more needed to be said, and doing so would only throw baggage out there in front of Monica he didn't want examined. Women didn't understand and a part of him didn't want Monica exposed to the primal rage that pummeled a man when someone threatened his woman.

His woman? Hell, the prickly Monica who battled over being called babe would have the Cro-Magnon label out in a heartbeat.

But this wasn't about him right now. And it wasn't about Monica, either. Jack angled closer. "She's okay."

Gardner flattened his hands on the yellowed laminate covering the table. Fingers splayed with veins bulging as the man stayed quiet.

"We've got daily satellite images fed in. Hell, you'll be looking at them when we brief up your team for your drop. We would know if things had gone to shit in there. She's alive."

'For now." His fingers curved into fists.

Monica squeezed his forearm. "And she'll damn well stay that way."

Gardner's fists relaxed and he leaned back. Lines smoothed from his face, the unspoken code in place again.

Men didn't indulge in emotional crap. Men acted. Kicked ass. And that terrorist compound had a serious ass kicking coming its way very shortly. Don't dwell on what couldn't be controlled.

Gardner reached into his pocket for a pack of gum, folded a piece into his mouth as he looked around the mess hall. "Damn, you Air Force pukes got a cushy life. Maybe that's why one Navy SEAL can whoop any Chair Force dude's butt."

Oh, yeah. And men also razzed each other. None of the warm, fuzzy emotional garbage.

Monica elbowed him. "Great, when you boys tussle, I work overtime patching you both up."

Jack shrugged. "No problem, Gardner. You can feel free to hike home. Won't bother me to skip out on flying through antiaircraft fire. I'll have an extra beer waiting for you."

They shared a laugh. Rivalry between the branches was a common, welcome routine because in the end game, their combined forces were essential to survival. But the predictability of an old jab felt damned good in a world flipped to hell.

Hearing Monica laugh felt even better. And right now he didn't even care who made her laugh, as long as those dark circles faded from beneath her eyes.

Gardner pushed back from the table, secured his M-4, as lethal as the Army Ranger's M-16 but smaller, more compact. "Time for me to turn in. Just wanted to say hi to Monica." He ground down on his chewing gum, jaw clenching. "It'll be good for Sydney to have you here—after."

She just nodded. Sunlight through the wall of windows glinted on her unblinking eyes.

While Gardner strode away, Jack waited for the I-told-you-so about being there for Sydney. But it didn't come. Monica picked up her spoon again and started eating the crappy goat stew.

Likely exhaustion stemmed her smart comeback. But a part of him insisted it was something a helluva lot more daunting.

That maybe she didn't even care enough about him anymore to fight.

Shoveling food into her mouth even though grief killed her taste buds, Monica wished she didn't care so much. About her sister. About Jack. Even about Blake Gardner walking away with pain radiating from him in waves her doctor spirit couldn't miss.

God, but exhaustion made a person maudlin. That had to be the reason for the sense of impending doom when she should be rejoicing over how soon she would be seeing her sister.

From the sleeve of his flight suit, Jack whipped out a pack of Kool-Aid. "Are you okay?"

"Better than Sydney."

"You know, Mon..." He paused, reaching for her water bottle and tipping her favorite flavor inside. Green bloomed within the bottle. "This isn't a 'whose pain is worse' game."

He passed her the drink, waited until she sipped before releasing her gaze.

Why did he have to be so nice right now with the Kool-Aid, like those foot-rubbing moments? "I know.

Sorry for snapping. I do better when I don't think about it."

"That, I can understand." He propped his beard-peppered cheek on one fist. "Hashing through what-ifs is fine if it brings about a decisive plan of action. But talking just for the negligible benefits of an emotional catharsis? Hell, what good is that?"

The words bubbled in spite of her. "I just get so damned mad." She stopped short. "Ah, hell. There goes your theory about staying quiet. Guess I can't help but discuss it. Woman thing." She tipped back her water bottle.

Lime exploded along senses she'd thought numb seconds before. Kind of like a dose of Jack did.

"At least you're speaking to me. Hell, Mon, I'll discuss those damned doilies my grandma loves to spread all over the house if it will keep you talking. And you have every right to want to tear Ammar al-Khayr apart yourself."

"I don't mean him." Her fingers fiddled with the fork, flipped it, bent a twisted tine back into shape.

"Although I wouldn't turn down the chance to plant a land mine under his feet."

The fork clattered to the table. Monica's shaking hands fell to her lap. "Her. I get angry at my sister, which is the dumbest damned thing. But she shouldn't have been here at all, Jack. Blake warned her what could happen and she just insisted it was her job, risks and all." Her fingers twisted, twined, tore the napkin into bits she wadded in her fist. "You're probably laughing right now thinking how you gave me the same warning."

"I would never laugh at you."

"But you're thinking it."

"I'm not so entrenched in the Dark Ages I can't see the difference." A half smile kicked up. "Don't get me wrong. I still don't want you here, but I understand that you're trained to protect yourself."

"I'm not reckless, Jack." She pitched her shredded napkin on her tray.

"Hearing you say that doesn't stop me from worrying."

Intensity hummed under his lazy demeanor, threatening to swallow her whole in a luscious lime haze of thoughtfulness mixed with dogged determination to get his way.

Her eyes fell to the straightened fork, shifted to the torn napkin. Well, hell. She'd cleaned up one mess, only to make another. The story of her life. "How could she not understand how precious her life is?"

He rested his hand beside hers: Not over it. Not touching. But there. Close. She didn't move, except for a twitch of her pointer finger, an involuntary movement toward him as her instincts overrode her intellect.

Finally he had time with her and he wasn't pressing his case as she would have expected. She told herself it had more to do with exhaustion than the fact he felt sorry for her—the woman who'd punted him out of her life.

Then his hands slid away with the moment. "Sleep deprivation has a way of making us all turn morbid without solving a thing."

He rose, waiting for her to join him, and she didn't argue. She'd accepted his presence just as he would have to accept they would be parting at her door in a few minutes.

Her hand fell on his arm. "Thank you, Jack."

He stopped, suddenly didn't look at all tired, that slumberous bedroom gaze of his having nothing to do with sleep.

She waited for the move. The Jack Korba push. Instead, he simply smiled. "Always glad to lend an ear."

"No. I mean for—'' she waved to encompass the room of soldiers and dust and focus on a mission "—for all of this."

"I don't want your gratitude. I would be here even if your sister wasn't one of the hostages."

"I know. And thank you for that, too."

Her eyes held his, then flicked away to settle beyond him on a cluster of uniforms encircling a female figure pushing a cart of water bottles. The woman moved with an odd familiarity. Incredulity niggled at Monica.

No. It couldn't be.

The slight figure ditched her cart and hustled toward the hall, turning sideways at the last second. Her very familiar face flashed in full view aided by the stark bulb overhead.

"What's wrong?" Jack's question barely penetrated.

She couldn't answer. Couldn't process what she was seeing.

"Mon, snap out of it."

She forced her mouth to move. "Oh, God. What is she doing here?"

"She who?" He glanced over his shoulder. "The water girl? She's probably drawing a beat on some other lonely bastard."

"It's my sister." She forced the words past numb lips.

His head swung back around fast enough for whiplash. "Monica, Sydney's still in the camp. I looked at satellite feed with Colonel Cullen in the mobile command center while we were airborne."

Shock shifted to anger. Of all the times for a family reunion. "No. Not Sydney. My other sister, Yasmine."

Her half sister from their mother's second marriage. A prickly, spoiled brat who'd resented every rare minute of their mother's annual visits to see the two children she'd abandoned.

Jack pivoted on his boot heel toward the woman darting around a corner, Colonel Cullen making tracks toward her with a battlefield march. Monica stifled a semi-hysterical bubble of laughter. She'd prayed so damned hard to see her sister soon, and apparently her prayers had taken a downward swoop for darker forces to answer, bringing Yasmine.

Not a Hyatt, but a sister all the same.

Sydney Hyatt curled up on the cot, back flat against the cement wall in her cell. Her home for months, such as it was.