Breaking Through (Book 2 of the SEAL TEAM Heartbreakers) (46 page)

***

Tess pulled the car around the corner from the house and parked. Her hands shook as she opened the note Brett had written.
Hostage situation dial 911, 3 men.
He’d said, “If the guy says it isn’t ready, tell him I need it ASAP and you’ll wait for it. Okay? The place is just around the corner from here.” Call 911 and wait for the police around the corner.

Her hands trembled as she jerked her cell phone out of her purse and punched in the number. The pop-pop report of a gun reached her just as the operator answered and she jerked.
Brett.
Tears ran down her face. “Shots have been fired at four-thirty-three Locust Street. Three men are holding Captain James Jackson and his wife and baby hostage. My boyfriend Ensign Brett Weaver is in the house too. Please hurry.”

“Ma’am, where are you calling from?”

The dispassionate voice drove her anxiety higher. “Outside the house. Hurry—
please
hurry!”

They weren’t coming fast enough. What was happening to Brett? What was happening to the Jackson’s and their baby? Tess unclipped her seat belt and shoved the car door open.

“Ma’am, units have been dispatched to your location. Stay on the phone.”

Tess reached beneath the seat and withdrew Brett’s pistol. Did it have to be cocked to fire? She knew it was loaded. Just holding the weapon in her hand made her tremble. “I have to go.” She pushed the button to disconnect the call. When the phone began to ring, she dropped it onto the driver’s seat and shut the door.

She had to know what was happening.
She had to do something.
They could all be dying while she waited. She held the weapon pointed down against her thigh, as she’d seen Brett do, and cut across the unfenced yards back toward the house.
Please God, don’t let anything happen to him.
Tears streaked her cheeks and she brushed them away with a swipe of her shoulder. The privacy fence surrounding the pool blocked her way. She jogged around to the front of the house.

The front door hung open and one of the hinges was partially pulled loose. The thought of entering the house numbed her limbs and leached the strength from them. Her legs refused to move. The gun suddenly weighed two tons.

Tess clinched her teeth to still their chatter. Her breathing grew choppy and quick.
She had to do this.
She breathed through the worst of the fear, then straightened her shoulders. Wary of approaching the door head-on, she crawled onto the porch, and, reaching the opening, braced her back against the wall beside it for support, and shoved upward until she was standing. The house was quiet, too quiet. Her thigh muscles jerked as she swiveled, and thrusting the pistol out in front of her, she stepped over the threshold.

A large man lay face down just inside. A startled yelp escaped her. The flat screen TV across the room had a hole in the center of it. A gentle breeze drifted in from the open French door, while the shattered glass scattered across the carpet reflected the late morning light. Tess circled around the mess and went to the door that wasn’t broken.

“What the fuck do you want?”

Brett’s voice carried to her from outside and she breathed a quick sigh of relief. How could she help him?

***

While he waited for an answer, Brett assessed Captain Jackson’s condition and looked for signs of life. The man’s face was distorted by the beating he’d taken. His nose was flattened and both eyes were swollen shut. Red and purple bruises had already formed where blood had pooled beneath the skin. Brett couldn’t tell if he was still breathing, but his body slumped loose-limbed in the chair, his arms secured to the metal chair arms by duct tape. If he wasn’t already dead, he soon would be.

“I want you to die and all your family with you. You Americans have killed my family, one by one.” The baby’s head flopped back, and he nearly tumbled backwards out of the man’s arms. He jerked the baby forward against his chest. “Perhaps I should kill this creature and end his suffering.” He ran the barrel of his pistol along the baby’s cheek. Marsha Jackson shrieked as though she’d been sliced with a knife.

Brett’s stomach clenched with rage.
The sadistic bastard.
“And you know it was me that did this, how?” he asked, in an attempt to distract the man while he scanned the area for anything he could use as a weapon. The concrete that surrounded the kidney-shaped pool was as pristine and free of debris as the grass out front. A glass table and chairs positioned in one of the rounded curves had its umbrella up and offered the only spot of shade. A gas grill was shoved against the side of the house, the implements dangling from beneath the cover too far away to offer any hope.

“Were you not among the men who blew up a building in Fallujah last April?”

Jesus.
That fucking mission kept coming back to haunt him again and again. “I was in a coma for a month after my deployment, and I’ve lost all memory of my last two weeks in Iraq.”

The guy extended his arm and aimed the gun at him. “Your Captain told me it was you and this Derrick Armstrong.”

“No he didn’t,” Marsha Jackson said behind him.

The man raised one dark brow and with a careless motion dropped the baby into the pool.

“No.” Marsha screamed and broke from behind Brett at a run. The man swung the gun toward her, tracking her movement. Brett lunged forward in an attempt to cover the distance between them, even as he knew he’d never make it. Like Lazarus rising from the dead, Captain Jackson heaved his chair backwards into the man, striking him thigh-high. The gunman staggered beneath the weight, the gun going up and discharging into the air. Jackson landed on his back and hit the concrete with a meaty thunk.

Brett heard the splash of water as Marsha dove into the pool. Brett launched himself over Jackson to reach the gunman. He hit the man chest-high and his momentum carried them into the water. The tango swung the gun against the side of his head right over the scar. Brett’s ears rang and the strength drained from his limbs. Blackness threatened, and he fought it. Just as he’d fought it that night. A memory of Derrick Armstrong standing over him with a rifle broke through the blackness. Brett lost his grip on the man’s arm. The terrorist kicked away toward the side of the pool.

He had to fight. They’d all die if he didn’t.
Brett kicked upward, breaking the surface and gasping for air. The terrorist grabbed the side of the pool and started to heave himself up. Brett gripped the back of his shirt and jerked him back into the water. He looped an arm around the tango’s neck and, using his weight, dragged the man under. The terrorist thrashed and tried to head butt him. Brett wrapped his legs around the man from behind and allowed them both to sink. The gun dropped from the tango’s hand. He clawed at Brett’s arm, his movements desperate. Brett tightened his grip around his neck and held on.

***

Tess ran to the side of the pool as Marsha Jackson surfaced with the baby. She set Brett’s Sig down on the concrete and reached for the child. His eyes looked glazed, and he wasn’t breathing. Tess laid him on his back on the concrete, clapped her hands loudly and thumped his shoulder then pressed her ear to his chest. Nothing. She began CPR. His small chest seemed so fragile, she prayed she wasn’t doing more harm than good. She counted off the 30 compressions, then placing her mouth over his mouth and nose, and gave him two short breaths. 

Marsha dragged herself from the water and sat staring at her, her slack expression dull with shock.

Siren’s sounded in the distance, growing louder by the moment. Tess fought back the urge to scream when Brett still didn’t surface.
Please come up. Please.

“Go get help, Mrs. Jackson. Go out front and wait for the police. Tell them we need help.” She bent to put her mouth over the baby’s again. After half a breath, the baby choked and spit up water. Tess rolled him on his side and patted him on the back. His sharp cry was a beautiful sound.
Thank God.
Tess staggered to her feet holding the baby against her shoulder.

“Brett." She tried to shout, but the sound was choked off by fear. "Please—"

A figure rushed upward and breached the surface with a gasp. Brett’s dark blond hair clung to his head like a cap and he gasped for air, one breath, then two. His movements slow, he swam to the side of the pool, dragged himself up on the concrete, and fell back on the hard surface. His chest heaved while he caught his breath. Blood stained the bottom of his t-shirt and Tess knelt next to him and raised the cloth. The gaping wound where his stitches had torn loose had instant nausea crawling up her throat.

Scooping up the pistol from the side of the pool, he stared at the weapon then at her. “Jesus, Tess. I can’t believe you came in here.”

“I thought you were drowning, and the baby wasn’t breathing, so I couldn’t come in after you.” Though she fought to keep the tears from coming, they coursed down her cheeks. Brett dragged her close, wetting her clothing. She didn't care. All that mattered was that he was there, alive, holding her. He continued to hold her and the baby while they both cried, and the sirens screamed right outside the fence.

CHAPTER 37

Silence, oppressive and heavy, hung over the room. After hours of struggling to breathe, Evan had quieted. Russell continued to hold his hand though his chest no longer moved. The nurse came in with a doctor in tow to check his respiration and heartbeat.

“He’s gone, Dr. Connelly,” she said softly.

“I know.”

The two words spoken with such finality nearly broke Clara’s heart. She rose from her chair and, motioning for the nurse, went out into the corridor with her. She handed the woman a piece of paper with the funeral home information on it, then leaned back against the wall. The doctor exited the room. He nodded to her and wandered down the hall. She remained where she was, offering Russell some time alone with his son. Exhaustion dragged at her limbs, and when Russell came to the door, it was a struggle to straighten from her position.

“Do they have what they need?” Russell asked.

“Yes.”

“Let’s go to the apartment,” he said. She retrieved her purse and he took her hand in his.

Leaving the hospital, they stepped into a different world. The late afternoon sun had knocked the chill out of the breeze, but there was a strangeness to the sound of their shoes on the concrete, the movement of the traffic, the clearness of the sky. How could all this still be here when Evan wasn’t?

“What have you got in that thing?” Russell asked, motioning to her bag. “It weighs a ton.” 

“Just some things Evan gave me to hold on to.”

The weight of the shoulder bag seemed to increase with every step, and when they reached the car Clara was glad to toss it in the back seat. She tilted her head back against the seat and studied Russell’s hands on the wheel. They were strong hands, large hands, healing hands. Those hands had healed thousands of other people’s sons and daughters, including her own. Those hands had held his son’s for hours, had soothed him when he was at his worst. And now they gripped the wheel to take them back to the apartment where they’d both rest and try to put the pieces of their hearts back together.

As though he were aware of her thoughts, Russell laid his hand on her leg and she placed hers over it.

When all this was settled, and they had some time to adjust to being just the two of them, would she still feel like this? Would he still feel the same for her? She hoped he would, because she couldn’t imagine her life without him anymore.

At the apartment building, they stepped off the elevator and walked down the hall to Evan’s apartment. Russell paused before putting the key in the lock.

“If you want, we can stay at a hotel for the night, and then come back in the morning,” she said.

He shook his head. “I want to sit in his reading chair and touch the book he was reading before he came to see me.”

Emotion rose to the back of her throat, but she swallowed it down. She nodded.

He unlocked the door and shoved it open, then stepped back to allow her to enter ahead of him. Clara froze as she eyed the room. The closet door stood open and books covered the floor of the narrow entrance hall and spilled into the living room. From where she stood, she could see the couch cushions lay askew.

Russell followed her gaze. “Son of a bitch!” He stepped past her, and skirting the books, strode down the hall. After a moment’s pause in the living room, he continued into the bedrooms.

Clara placed her feet with care so as not to step on the books and stood surveying the kitchen. Every cabinet door and drawer stood open. This was not a burglary. It was a search. A slow burning anger began to build inside her.
That bitch.

Russell returned to the living room, his features were taut with rage. “This was Gloria, wasn’t it?” He ran his fingers through his hair grabbing the sides of his head with his hands as though it might explode. “I can’t believe I ever had a single thought or feeling for that—” He dropped his hands. “What the fuck was she looking for?”

Clara pulled the padded envelope partially out of her bag. “For this. It’s proof against her husband. It’s Evan’s proof. And tomorrow morning, we’ll deal with it—you’ll deal with it, when you take it to the proper authorities. And they’ll arrest her husband and make her life hell. Which, in my opinion, is exactly what she deserves.”
The bitch.
She drew a deep breath and tried to beat back the righteous anger. She shoved the envelope back in and set her bag on the rumpled couch.

He drew a deep breath. “I could call the police and press charges against her for this, but she probably has a key and would say she had just as much right to be in the apartment as I do.”

“Yes.” She bent to pick up a copy of
Bonfire of the Vanities
from the floor and smiled as she read something underlined and commented on in the margin. She extended the book to him and he turned it to read what was written and smiled.