Cover of Darkness (29 page)

"Bryn? Baby, can you hear me?" He set her on the ground and took her face in his hands, reassured by the steady throb of her carotid pulse in the hollow beneath her ear.

"She'll be fine," Luke said.

Dec glowered at him. "Don't fucking touch her again, do you hear me? I could have handled it without hurting her."

Luke stopped in the midst of reloading his rifle, gazing back at him with unnerving, icy eyes. "Yeah, I saw how well you were handling it."

Dec looked away, feeling dirty. Would he end up like Luke if he stayed in the Teams long enough? Only to wake up one 272

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day and not recognize the man staring back at him in the mirror?

The whirring of the inbound chopper saved him from thinking about it anymore. When it touched down he lifted Bryn to one of the crew members and climbed aboard, pulling her inert form into the cradle of his lap. When Ali and Luke swung in beside them, she moaned and stirred, eyes flickering beneath her closed lids.

"We're on the helo," he told her, keeping his voice low and soothing. "Just a while longer. We're going to land near the closest city and get you to a hotel."

Her lashes fluttered, then she was looking up at him with dark, confused eyes.

"Hi," he said. "You feeling okay?"

She winced. "My neck hurts."

"Yeah. Getting knocked unconscious will do that to you."

His fingers moved to massage the pain, moving over the knotted muscles where a bruise was already forming. He sent another dark glance at Luke, who was manning the doorway as they flew over the target to reconnoiter, then made another pass when he commanded it.

"Clean-up crew's on its way," the pilot informed them.

"They'll get DNA to ID the tangos."

Bryn stiffened in his arms, and he knew she'd just remembered the body buried in the wreckage. Dec didn't know what to say so he simply held her, willing her to take what comfort she could from him.

They flew to the outskirts of Najaf, then used a borrowed pickup to drive to a small hotel. Bryn remained silent 273

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throughout the hour-long journey, staring stonily ahead through the windshield, holding herself rigid between him and Ali. He wet a spare t-shirt with some water and scrubbed most of the camouflage paint from her face, as gently as possible, but she still wouldn't look at him. Maybe she thought he was a murderer now. The idea hit him square in the gut.

When he helped her down from the truck at the hotel her legs buckled, and he and Ali held her up between them, trying to draw as little attention to them as possible as they crossed the darkened parking lot. They waited in the back stairwell until Luke came to give them their room keys, and pretty much carried her up the eight flights to her room. Dec went in with her while Luke disappeared down the hallway to their shared room.

Ali took off after him and the door shut behind them with a thud. Pushing away, Bryn headed to the bathroom, but not before he saw her slim shoulders quaking with silent sobs.

"Bryn—"

She shook her head. "I need to...be alone," she quavered.

"Please."

And so he stood there like an idiot while she locked herself in the bathroom to cry her heart out.

God, he hated this. Hated the fact she'd gotten involved in the first place, and the fact she'd had to witness the awful things she'd seen today. There was nothing he could say or do to erase those things for her. The least he could do was let her grieve in private. He dragged his hands over his hair, down his face.

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With a heavy heart, he made sure her door was securely locked and went to his own room. As he entered Luke grunted in greeting, cell phone in hand. The hiss of the shower running made him assume Ali was in the bathroom. "Clean-up team got the samples. They're at the lab now. Damage was too bad to confirm whether Tehrazzi was in there."

Yeah, well, when a hellfire missile hit a mud building, there usually wasn't much left afterward.

"Don't think we got him, though. I took a shot at someone on horseback leaving the scene. Might have winged him. We'll find out soon enough."

Horseback? Why the hell would Tehrazzi be on a horse? He stalked over to the sink and grabbed a washcloth, ran the faucet and scrubbed at his war paint. Luke tossed him a bottle of Head and Shoulders—he'd be damned if he'd say thank you—and he squeezed some onto the washcloth without a word. As always, the camo came off like magic. For good measure he splashed handfuls of cold water on his face, wondering what in hell to do about Bryn.

Shit, she was going to be so traumatized, PTSD was going to seem like a picnic. He knew those kids' deaths had ripped a hole in her soul. His wasn't feeling good at the moment, either. He'd never been responsible for a child's death. God, he felt like puking. He dried his face, Luke watching him in the mirror.

The older man leaned back in his chair, laced his hands behind his head. "So, how's our girl doing?"

Dec rinsed the sink out. "She's locked herself in the bathroom."

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A beat passed. "Better not leave her alone too long. She's probably damn sore."

He gave Luke a scowl via the mirror. "Ya think?"

The other man ignored him, went to pick up the remote from the nightstand and started flipping through the channels. He decided on a news program and settled back against the headboard, crossing his ankles and looking for all the world like the most relaxed guy on the planet. Without taking his eyes off the TV, he asked, "So, you gonna leave her in there by herself?"

"She said she wanted to be alone."

"Bad idea."

"Really." He'd love to tell the guy what he could do with his unsolicited opinion.

"Yeah. Leaving her alone right now is a piss-poor idea.

Gives her too much time to think." More flip-flip with the remote.

Yeah, well, after today any chances he had with her were pretty much over, so what did it matter? And even though he longed to go to her, he couldn't cross that line until this mission was over. He'd already come close a few times, so he damn well couldn't be trusted alone with her. His rational brain would shut down, rendering him a mass of primitive male instinct, dying to comfort her any way she'd let him.

And he knew she would let him.

Luke sighed. "Look, McCabe, this is off the record. I'm not worried about you compromising our mission because of the way you feel about her."

"I don't—"

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He held up a hand. "Save it, son. I wasn't born yesterday, and my eyesight is just fine, even if I am an old turd. So here it is, Lieutenant. You want her, you better get your ass in there within the next two minutes, or it'll be too late."

Dec could hardly believe his ears.

"Yeah, I'm getting fucking soft in my old age. Just go already," he continued, checking the cell phone on the nightstand. "Trust me, you'll regret it for the rest of your life if you don't."

Dec had no idea what that cryptic comment meant, but understood the wisdom behind it. Even if the sight of him turned her stomach right now, she shouldn't have to deal with the aftermath alone. "Don't wait up."

Luke's lips curved, but his eyes were fixed on the TV. "Get your ass out of here."

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A few minutes after Dec left, Ali emerged from the bathroom and mumbled something about going out for a while. As the door shut behind him, Luke sighed and flopped against the pillow, suddenly tired to the bone. The day's operation was just one in a long line of missions he'd undertaken in the name of duty, but in some ways it felt like the one that would seal his fate in hell. On the backs of his closed lids, he could see Bryn's face as she took off after those kids, her expression when she'd crawled through the rubble to dig like a desperate animal for the small foot poking out from the debris.

He thought of Tehrazzi. Tried to figure out what he would do. Right after the warhead had exploded, some sixth sense had made Luke double back to the edge of the village.

Through his NVGs he'd seen the outline of someone galloping away on horseback. Without a doubt, Tehrazzi. He'd taken a shot even though the rider was well out of range, and thought he might have clipped one of them—Tehrazzi or the horse—

but then he'd heard the yelling over his radio and had to run interference with Bryn to get everyone on the helo before anyone unfriendly came looking for them.

In his mind he replayed the moment he'd fired his weapon, staring through the scope at Tehrazzi's fleeing back. He could have sworn the horse stumbled an instant after he'd pulled the trigger. Yeah, he might have hit it. Talk about putting a 278

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hitch in your giddy-up. Tehrazzi would go mental if anything happened to his horse.

He'd have to wait and find out if anything came of it. He hadn't been able to see anything when the chopper had taken a quick pass. Maybe the clean-up team would find something.

With a sigh, he rubbed his gritty eyes. Kids were always the hardest to take. And if it was bad for him, a hardened shell of a man, he didn't want to think about what Bryn was feeling. As a social worker, any contact with kids would compromise her to a certain extent, but to see two blown to hell in front of you... Shit, he'd have spared her that, if he could have. He only wished he could have gotten to her sooner, knocked her out before the missile hit. Hell, he wished she hadn't been there at all, but what choice did they have?

Didn't matter now. Besides, he'd tried to make amends by sending McCabe after her. God knew she'd need a warm body right about now to hold onto. As he recalled his warning to Dec about regretting his actions, that familiar pain started up in his chest, a splitting sensation, like someone was using a rib-spreader on him. Nothing to be done for it, and he'd sure as shit tried everything to make it go away. Booze, women, drugs, war. Nothing worked, and he only ended up feeling worse for his efforts. So he'd quit all that years and years ago. Way he figured, the searing ache was his punishment, richly deserved.

After all, he'd been the one to walk away from Emily.

Of all the things he regretted in his life, that was the one that towered above all the others—the Empire State Building 279

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in a subdivision of two-story houses. In over twenty-five years, not a single day had passed without him wishing he could undo that single unforgivable act.

That day his wife had startled him at the sink and he'd turned on her with that hunting knife, pinning her against the refrigerator with the blade pressed against her throat. He'd winced at the terror and the horror in her eyes. Then he'd thrown the weapon across the room to bury itself deep into the wall and she'd shrunk from him, like she expected him to come back and finish her off. But instead of staying and trying to somehow work it out, he'd taken off. Packed his bag and climbed like a zombie into his truck, leaving her screaming and begging him to stay. When he'd taken one last look in his rearview mirror, she'd collapsed in a heap on the driveway, sobbing. God, the memory of it still made him sick with despair and self-loathing.

At the time, he'd told himself he was doing the right thing.

It was safer for her and their son if he went away, let them build a new life for themselves. He couldn't be trusted around them, was too highly strung to function as a husband and father. No telling when he'd snap, but he would one day, and he sure as hell didn't want to be around his family when it happened.

Even now, all these years later, he'd rather swallow a bullet and blow the back of his head off than hurt them. Since he'd been out of the service, he'd managed to dull that lethal edge somewhat, insulate that part of him that was a trip wire waiting for a trigger. But he didn't delude himself that he was 280

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normal. After all he'd seen and done, there was no chance of that. He was, and would always be, a killer.

And although he knew and hated that, some sick part of him held out hope for Emily and him. He smirked bitterly.

Jesus, he was a selfish bastard even to wish for that. She had to be the most forgiving human being on the planet, because by some miracle she still loved him, though he didn't understand it. And on the rare occasions they spoke on the phone, he was careful not to say anything that might give her false hope, after all the years of hurt and separation between them.

Christ, what a life he'd carved out for himself. It seemed no matter where he went, he left a trail of destruction in his wake, a walking natural disaster. He really had to scale it back, he thought, reverting to the day's operation. Maybe it was time to take his business to the next level, establish a permanent site stateside, hire a crew he trusted. He was getting too damn old for this shit.

On that happy thought he let himself slide into a doze, his pistol resting beside him on the nightstand. When his cell rang his eyes snapped open and he came fully and instantly awake, checking the call display, expecting news about the forensics.

The displayed number froze him like he'd been tasered. His heart rate tripled like he was sprinting, his mouth dry as sand.

His ex-wife.

As he sat there like a shell-shocked idiot and stared at the phone, it rang and rang. Two more rings and it would divert 281

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to voicemail. Yeah, he should just let it go. Talking to her right now would be like pouring gasoline over himself and lighting a match. Whatever she was calling about couldn't be good, since she only made contact when someone had died.

Or, like the last time, because their son had been shot.