Breaking Through (Book 2 of the SEAL TEAM Heartbreakers) (8 page)

“Yeah, but you and Mom are already used to the guys. She’s not.”

“What’s to get used to? It’s a barbecue,” Clara said.

Shit. He’d have to tell them. “I wasn’t thinking of her getting used to us. It’s the other way around. She’s a reporter for a local newspaper.”

He glanced at Hawk to check his reaction and caught a frown.

“It’s not like you guys go around talking about SEAL tactics or secret missions when you’re with your families, Brett,” Clara said.

“As long as she comes with the understanding that this is a family barbecue and not an interview opportunity, it should be fine,” Zoe said.

His sister was too damn trusting. She hadn’t seen that avid hunger in Tess Kelly’s eyes. The woman was eager for any kind of scoop. Maybe he could use that to his advantage. But he wouldn’t allow her to use his family or friends.

“I think I’m going to shoot for something a little less rowdy for a first date. I haven’t gotten to hang with the guys much, so I’m going to go solo this time. Maybe I’ll bring her next time.”

The tension at the table relaxed and the conversation turned to Zoe’s interview and news from back in Lexington, Kentucky.

When Zoe and Clara rose to clear the table, Brett used a hand signal to get Hawk’s attention.

“Balcony in two,” he mouthed.

Hawk nodded. “Sure.”

Brett wandered through the living room, opened the sliding glass door, and, leaving it open behind him, went out onto the balcony.  In the west, smattering wisps of cumulus clouds drifted across a dark purple sky. Brett braced his elbows atop the railing and looked down into the street below. Clean sidewalks, streetlights, and evening traffic, a welcome sight after the dusty streets in Iraq. He breathed in the fresh breeze that whipped across the platform, and he detected a hint of the ocean. He’d never gotten used to the smell of raw sewage fouling the streets in the towns they’d cleared of terrorists.

Hawk wandered out to stand beside him, a beer in each hand. “It looked as though you could use this.” He offered one of the bottles.

“Thanks.” Brett accepted the moisture-glazed container and rolled it between his hands. “I had a visit from a couple of NCIS agents today at the base. In fact, they sent a detail to drive me back to Jackson’s office for questioning.”

Hawk’s expression sharpened, his gray eyes intent. “Why?”

“Do you remember Derrick and me going on a protection detail before our mission?”

“Yeah. Headquarters needed a couple of SEALs to impress some Iraqi liaison. You guys drew the short straw and had to deliver his kid home. You were only gone a couple of hours.”

Brett straightened and set the beer on the plastic table. “I need you to remember everything you can about when we left, how long we were gone, and what time we got back. If you saw us when we returned. Anything about that detail.”

“It would all be in the report.” Hawk’s black brows clashed. “Ah shit! You were injured and weren’t able to file a report.”

“Would Derrick have done one?”

“He may have after the mission. He should have. We couldn’t take a dump without filing one. What’s going on, Cutter?”

“The kid we escorted home disappeared after we dropped him off. NCIS is circling me and Derrick. They’re looking for an excuse to hold us responsible. I think someone high up is trying to find a scapegoat instead of the truth, and because of Derrick’s current status, they’ve found an easy answer.”

“You’d have had cover front and back, Cutter. You wouldn’t have traveled alone.”

“They’re dead. All of them.”

“Jesus—” Shock streaked across Hawk’s features, then his expression blanked.

“My ass is hanging out there with this, Hawk. I can’t remember shit about that week.” Brett shoved both hands through his hair. “They think we did something to the kid.”

“No way.” Hawk shook his head. “Derrick maybe, if he’d been alone. Toward the end of the tour he was strung out. But you were still rock solid. You wouldn’t have stood by while he hurt the kid, and you wouldn’t have laid a hand on him yourself. I’d stake my career on it.”

Brett drew a deep breath. Having Hawk back him up beat some of the edges off his worry. “Thanks for saying that.” But Hawk’s beliefs weren’t tangible evidence. He drew a deep breath. “Will you pull up Derrick’s report and see what he filed?”

“Yeah, I can do that.”  Hawk took a swig of his beer. “When we were investigating who was responsible for your injury, Greenback said you tried to counsel Derrick and Flash just before the mission. He said Derrick was upset about something. You may want to talk to him. See if he remembers anything.”

“Roger that.” Finally, something proactive he could do.

“There’ll be radio transmissions logged. When you dropped the kid, you’d have radioed to let base know he’d been delivered.  There’ll be a record somewhere.”

“I hope so. Otherwise—”

“Don’t go there. We’re going to sort it out.” Hawk slapped him on the back.

Despite Hawk’s reassurance, Jackson’s words still taunted him. All of this was tied to Derrick Armstrong’s anger management problems. In Iraq. Here at home. Brett’s gut clenched. And it was going to cost him everything if he couldn’t fucking remember.

CHAPTER 7

Tess Kelly ground her teeth against the angry words and scowled at her editor, Elgin Taylor, from across his cluttered desk. How many times did they have to have this argument?

The thin walls did nothing to block the telephone ringing somewhere down the hall. The smell of burnt coffee intruded from the kitchenette just off the main office. Though his office looked out onto what had once been the bullpen of the paper, very few people stirred there. Reporters today could work from anywhere and submit the story with one click of their mouse.

“Your lifestyles article was good, Tess. Why can’t you be satisfied with a brush now and then with politicians, military personnel and their wives? Why do you want to be in the thick of things?”

Because that’s where all the good stories are. Because my father wouldn’t be standing on the sidelines.

Shifting her weight, she drew in a deep breath and folded her arms against her waist. “I’ve been doing the stories you assign me for more than a year, Mr. Taylor. When you hired me, you promised you’d give me the opportunity to stretch my wings as a reporter. The events I usually cover are not what I would call an opportunity.”

“You’re offering our readers something they want to read, whether you’re interested in it or not. We have to pander to our readership in order to survive. Do you know how many traditional papers are going down? We’re all having to go to this ePub bullshit to keep the doors open.”

“The ePub model is allowing you to reach a wider audience while saving resources and money, sir. More people can subscribe and read our paper without the cost of printing or distribution. It’s the same paper, just a different delivery format.”

“Maybe I should transfer you to the marketing department since you understand it so well,” he said, his tone sour.

God forbid
. “What will bring in a wider readership, sir, are hard-hitting stories that play on current interests. We’re sitting in an area rich with story opportunities. Going at them from a sharper angle will garner wider attention. I don’t have to tell you that.”

Taylor sat up, resting his elbows on his desk. His thick gray hair, more salt than pepper, gleamed beneath the florescent lights.  “Sharper angles, huh? Any time you start talking sharper angles, I have to call the legal department and vet something to make sure we don’t get sued.”

“I’ll always have three dependable sources before I write the story, Mr. Taylor.”

He waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “I know.” Then he scrubbed his face irritably. “The problem is that, for every story we find, there are five people jumping on it, and it’s blasted across the television news, blogs, and cell phones before we can even get it into print. It isn’t the quality of your work, Tess.” His gaze raked her face. “You’d be better off trying to join some local news program and getting your face on camera. You’re pretty, young, and sharp. You’d probably make it to the top in nothing flat.”

“I don’t want my face on television. I’m a writer, not a public speaker.” She drew a deep breath. “Most stories are written in a hit, then move on, format. The human element is totally missed. I want to delve more deeply into issues, not just skim the surface. Most of the stories we cover are about people. Why can’t we concentrate on bringing the human-interest angle to the forefront instead of the issues? Once your readers identify with the people involved, they’ll want to read more.”

His brows rose, speculation in his gaze. “What do you have in mind?”

Tess’s cell phone rang. She jerked it from her pocket and glanced at the ID. The number seemed vaguely familiar.  She pressed the on button. “Hello.”

“This is Brett Weaver.”

An instant rush of adrenaline surged through her system. Heat rose to her face, and her heart raced. “Yes. What can I do for you?”

“Will you join me for lunch at the Sheerwater today?”

Aware of Taylor listening to her end of the conversation, she hesitated. “Is there some specific reason you’re asking me to lunch?”

“Besides the fact that you’re beautiful, and have gorgeous legs?” His husky male tone shot sex appeal across the line.

She bit her lip to hide the instant response that triggered a flush to her skin and dampness between her legs.
How could he do that with just his voice?

“There will be a story in it for you.”

Was he just playing her? Or was he serious? SEALs had a reputation for being players. But he was asking to meet in a public place. A very beautiful public place.
A hotel.

An image of the two of them in one of the rooms exploring—
Oh, shit.
She couldn’t go there.

What kind of story could he possibly have for her? Nothing with too much political substance. He’d not risk his career to offer her any military secrets. But if she didn’t go, she’d never know what he wanted.

His patient silence on the other end of the line broke through her anxious speculations. “What time?” she asked.

“How’s eleven?”

“Eleven will be fine.”

“I’ll see you then.”

Tess hit the off button, and her attention shifted to Taylor. “That was,” she started to say Brett Weaver but changed it to, “a source. Possibly a lead on a story.”

“Was he asking you out on a date?”

A sudden shot of anger made her voice tremble. “I don’t date my sources, Mr. Taylor. You know we women are liberated enough that we don’t have to resort to using our bodies to—”

He raised a hand. “I was out of line.” Taylor said, cutting her off.

Tess took several deep breaths to calm herself. Had every man in this business remained stuck in the chauvinistic seventies like her father? “He says he has a story for me.”

“About?”

“An inside look at the SEALs. In particular, Brett Weaver.”

“The guy who did the speaking engagement yesterday.”

“Yes. People are interested in him because his buddy allegedly tried to kill Weaver and his sister along with some girl he was dating. This guy may be willing to tell me about that.”

“If you can get info and corroborate it I may be tempted to allow you to do the series you’re angling for. You were angling for a series?”

She hadn’t been, but a series would be great. Female readers would eat up one about SEALs. Perhaps he wanted to discuss why he’d been escorted back to base yesterday. He’d played it down, but there had been more than one tense moment in his encounter with the two military policemen.

Excitement jogged through her system and her heart caught the rhythm. Maybe he’d actually open up, and she’d find out what was going on.

And pigs could fly, too.

***

Clara spooned meringue atop the banana pudding. Everyone liked banana pudding, didn’t they? He wouldn’t think she was being pushy by delivering something home-cooked to his door. Would he?

She couldn’t shake the image of Russell Connelly standing with his son, his very ill son, at the airport. Every time the thought came to mind, it gave her heart a squeeze. They’d both looked so … alone.

Strong arms came around her waist from behind and she jerked, startled.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Brett said as he gave her a squeeze. “That’s a lot of banana pudding, Mom. Think the team will be up to eating all that?” He kissed the top of her head.

“I think your team could eat sauerkraut and wieners cooked in an old Marine Boondocker. They all have cast iron stomachs.”

Brett laughed. “Yeah, they pretty much do.” He released her and leaned against the kitchen cabinet next to the stove.

“I’m fixing a pan for Dr. Connelly and his son.”

“Oh. I haven’t seen him since I was discharged and turned over to Dr. Stewart.”

“I ran into him at the airport.” She set aside the mixing bowl and spoon, opened the oven door, and slid the two glass casserole dishes into the oven.

After setting the timer, she focused on Brett. His skin was tanned, his hair, always blond, tipped with lighter tones from being in the sun. Dressed in a t-shirt and running shorts, he looked fit and strong. But there were shadows beneath his eyes as though he hadn’t slept. Was there more going on than just a difficult relationship with a commanding officer?

“You know I can sleep on the couch. You didn’t have to give up your bed for me,” she said.

“I’m fine on the sofa bed, Mom. I can sleep anywhere. Why are you making banana pudding for Dr. Connelly?” he asked, speculation in his gaze.

“His son is ill. You know how I used to make you banana pudding when you were sick?”

“Yeah. ‘It goes down smooth and replenishes your potassium.’ How old is his son?”

“I’d say close to your age. Maybe a little older.” She touched his smooth-shaven cheek. “Dr. Connelly was so good to you when you were his patient. I just want to do some small something in return.”

“How are you going to get it to him?”