Into the Night (3 page)
"Sir," Jenk said. Tick tock.
"Let's run," Muldoon ordered them, ordered himself. "Come on, let's move out of here. Now."
He could do this. Down the trail, one step at a time. Eventually he'd reach the helo and someone would give him some ice and the pain would start to recede.
"Can you really run, Mike?" Wildcard was back beside him then, slowing to Muldoon's pace. It was probably the first time in his life he'd lowered his voice to be discreet.
"Yes." Muldoon didn't want to talk, not to Wildcard, not to anyone. He needed all of his energy focused on moving forward. But he was in command. He couldn't just disappear. "Where's—"
"I passed her off to Cosmo," the chief told him, anticipating his question. "I thought maybe after she realizes we really did save her life, she'll be eternally grateful and he'll finally get laid."
Muldoon had to laugh. "You're a good chief."
"You bet your ass I am. I take care of my men." He looped Muldoon's arm around his shoulders. "It's the right leg, right, sir?"
"I'm okay." Muldoon wanted to pull away, but the truth was that putting some of his weight onto Wildcard let him move faster. And the faster he could move, the faster his team would get to safety. A SEAL team was only as fast as its slowest member—which right now was him. Which pissed him off, royally.
"You're not okay. You said shit," Wildcard pointed out. "Nearly two years in Team Sixteen, and you finally said a four-letter word. In fact, I think it was 'shit, shit, shit, shit.' A quadruple. So what is it? Ankle?"
"Knee."
'Twist it?"
"No. I don't know. I landed on it, and... I'll be fine."
"Fucking hurts like a bitch, huh?"
"I'm okay," Muldoon said again. "Let's kick it faster."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Wildcard somehow knew to be silent then. And the night became a blur of bombs still falling, of Jenk's reports every thirty seconds of how much time they had left, of his and the chief's ragged breathing, of red-hot, searing pain.
He heard the helo before he saw it, and then there it was— one of the most beautiful sights he'd ever seen.
Muldoon counted heads as his men climbed aboard, then the pilot swooped up and into the sky and got them the hell out of there.
The pain caught up with him as Lopez cut open his pants to look at the watermelon that had once been his knee. He puked quietly into one of the helo crewmember's helmets until, much to his intense embarrassment, his world tunneled, and he fainted.
He woke up groggy and disoriented as the helo landed. Wildcard was there, and Muldoon grabbed his sleeve.
"Everyone okay?"
"Yes, sir. We're safely back on the carrier, Lieutenant. Mission accomplished."
"Good." His head felt so heavy, but his knee didn't hurt anymore, thank goodness. He tried to sit up, but Wildcard and then Lopez was there, holding him down.
"Hey, hey, Mikey, where do you think you're going, man?"
"I'm okay," Muldoon said.
"He's fucking trying to walk off the helo," Wildcard said over his head to Lopez.
"Sir, I don't know for sure," Jay Lopez told him, "not until we get you into X ray, but I think you probably fractured your patella."
"Fractured... what?"
"Remember the time Captain Muldoon ran down a mountain in Afghanistan with a broken kneecap?" Wildcard said.
His words didn't make sense. "Meant to tell that reporter— I'm not a captain."
"Lieutenant, I gave you something for the pain," Lopez said, speaking slowly and clearly, "because you broke your kneecap."
"And then ran a few miles," Wildcard added.
No way.
"But I'm okay," Muldoon said as the ship's hospital corpsmen carried his stretcher off the Seahawk. There were intravenous tubes attached to the back of his hand. It was surreal. "No, really, you guys, I'm okay."
"That you are, Lieutenant," Wildcard said.
His men watched as he was carried past. As usual, Cosmo said it best, giving him the Navy SEAL equivalent of a full salute. "Hoo-yah, sir. Glad you're on our side."
Chapter 1
Months later
In the space of forty-five minutes, White House public relations assistant Joan DaCosta had been demoted from an admiral all the way to a lieutenant, junior grade.
She tried not to take it personally, or as a quantitative measure of her perceived importance here on the base, but rather as a crash course in U.S. Navy rankings.
Interestingly, not only did the face time get shorter and shorter with each step she was pushed down the chain of command, but the men inside the gleaming white uniforms got younger and more handsome.
Not that the admiral wasn't worthy of his own page in a hunk-of-the month calendar with his thick salt-and-pepper hair and that solid mix of both laughter and worry lines around his eyes. Since he was the Commander of Naval Special Warfare Command—or CDRNAVSPECWARCOM in Navy speak—Joan would have been concerned if he hadn't had a worry line or two.
He'd greeted her upon her arrival in Coronado, and she'd instantly relaxed. She'd met Admiral Morton "Call me Chip" Crowley several times before on her own turf, back in Washington, D.C. He was that rare type of person who actually listened while others spoke.
But her sigh of relief proved to be a little premature when Crowley gently and almost apologetically passed her off to Rear Admiral Larry Tucker, the base commander.
Tucker was a bona fide dumbass, and she knew it even before he opened his mouth. In her job, she'd met enough self-important dumbasses to accurately ID them at first glance.
And Tucker, with his too-handsome face and his impeccably combed hair—each strand inventoried and strategically placed to hide the fact that it was thinning—was a textbook case.
He was also a slime ball. He held her hand much too long after their handshake, his gaze lingering on her breasts, with a smile that said, "We both know you want me, because I am, after all, Mr. Wonderful."
Ick. He was wearing a wedding ring, which was a great big double ick.
Joan wanted to wash her hand as he bombastically reassured her that he would personally take charge of security on the base for the President and his daughter's upcoming visit.
She didn't know whether to be ecstatic or horrified at that news. Did it mean Tucker would be too busy Being Important to deal with the day-to-day details, i.e., all those little things on her agenda? Or did it mean that he'd be getting out his Krazy Glue and permanently bonding himself to her side?
The glue stayed in his desk, thank God. And she was far too relieved to be insulted when Tucker clearly got a rush of superiority as he lobbed her in the direction of one significantly lower ranking Lieutenant Commander Tom Paoletti, who was merely the commanding officer of SEAL Team Sixteen.
Merely.
Team Sixteen was the group of SEALs the President had specifically requested meeting during his upcoming visit. Team Sixteen was the group of SEALs with the incredible record of outstanding bravery and efficiency and ingenuity and stamina—all those things that made a huge difference when fighting a war against terrorism.
The rear admiral went off to be superior somewhere else as Paoletti ushered Joan into his office with a brief handshake.
And, oh my God. Wasn't he delicious? He was a Man, with a capital M and no hint of smarm about him. The broad chest, the jaw line, the glint of intelligence in his hazel eyes...
Joan managed to keep herself from checking out his butt in those cute, pristine white uniform pants they all wore. She'd hated it when Tucker had done it to her, and she was determined not to disrespect Paoletti in the exact same way.
But, oh dearie, dearie me.
The commanding officer of Team Sixteen was about her age, maybe a few years older. His hair—or lack of it—was doing that Bruce Willis thing, and he took it just like Bruce. Like a real man, he was just going to let it disappear without a fuss. It so obviously didn't matter to him. And why should it? With a body like his...
She forced herself to focus on his face. On his hands. No wedding ring.
Stop it, Joan!
He was talking in a smoky voice about how honored the team was to be chosen to receive a presidential citation. "I understand the President's wish to visit the men on the base here in Coronado. And my team and I, of course, will be willing to give him a complete tour, if he should, in fact, decide to come—"
Joan cut him off. "Excuse me, Commander, I guess you haven't heard, but the visit is on the official schedule, and has been for quite some time. As far as I know, President Bryant will be here only for the morning, to present the citation and observe a demonstration, but his daughter will be arriving in a few days. And she'll definitely be taking a tour."
The muscle jumped in his jaw as he looked at his watch. He was not a happy camper. Joan wasn't sure why, although she suspected she knew. President Bryant's daughter Brooke, from his first marriage, was known throughout the world as "the wild child" despite the fact that she was pushing forty.
It was Joan's job to provide public relations opportunities in which Brooke would be unable to embarrass either herself or her father as she "helped" with his reelection campaign.
Brooke Bryant was actually quite a nice person. But she'd had terrible luck as far as news photographers went. Whenever she made a mistake, someone had always been there to record it for posterity and throw it onto the front page of USA Today.
And okay, admittedly Brooke had made her share of mistakes. She was notorious for falling in love with total shit-heads and then acting stupid after finding out just how much of a shithead her latest boyfriend truly was. And since the shithead index in Washington, D.C., was pretty high, she'd had plenty of opportunities to expand her resume of mistakes.
Lieutenant Commander Paoletti was probably imagining the embarrassment of having pictures of Brooke falling off some Navy pier plastered on the front page of every major news publication and all over the Internet.
"This is something we'll need more time to discuss," Paoletti told her. "I'm really sorry, I wish I could talk right now, but I have another meeting I have to get to. I've made arrangements for you to tour the base this afternoon—in about ten minutes, actually, if that's okay with you."
"That's fine."
"We'll connect later," he told her. "If not today, then tomorrow or the next day. I'm going to leave you now in the very capable hands of Lieutenant Casper Jacquette, my XO."
"I'm free for dinner." Joan followed the commander out of his office. Connect was such an interesting word choice for him to have used. She was a firm believer in the "you cannot win if you do not play" adage, and she'd always had a real thing for Bruce Willis, "If that's convenient."
"Oh," he said, scratching his chin. "No. Thank you. Tonight's not good for me. I've already got plans to meet my fiancée."
Aha. Information received. And so gracefully and painlessly delivered, too. "Completely understood." Joan smiled to make sure he understood, too, so that there'd be no awkwardness or embarrassment. "You can't blame me for trying, Commander."
"Thank you," he said easily. "My ego thanks you, too." His smile was a killer. Whoever this fiancée was, she was one lucky babe. And probably in a real rush to get a wedding band on Paoletti's ring finger. "You're welcome to join us. I'm sure Kelly wouldn't mind."
"Unless it's really urgent that we talk tonight, I'll pass," Joan told him. "I'm still on D.C. time. I should really use this evening to de-jet lag." She was going to be in town for about four weeks, taking a vacation after Brooke's visit. Normally she'd just try to stay on East Coast time, but if she spent anything more than a few days out of her usual tune zone, her body naturally adjusted. She might as well try to get it over with all at once.
"Maybe we can all do lunch later this week," he said. "I happen to know that Kelly really would like to meet you. The West Wing is her favorite TV show."
Joan laughed. "Tell her that working there is great, but not as great as it would be if Josh Lyman really were in the next office over."
Commander Paoletti laughed, too, as he led her into another room. He had a terrific laugh. What a shame. But no real surprise. The smart, handsome, honorable, gracious, nice ones were always already taken.
It was just as well. The dead last thing she needed was to get involved with a Navy SEAL that she was working with. Talk about idiotic choices.
No, even if there were no fiancée, Tom Paoletti and his liquid eyes and sexy laugh and fantasy body were best placed in the look-but-don't-touch category.
And, since it was really just eye candy that she wanted, Paoletti's XO—whatever XO meant—was top shelf and a fine replacement.
Lieutenant Jacquette was a strikingly handsome and enormous African-American man—not so much tall as he was broad. And it wasn't the fat kind of broad, either. No, he was just plain huge, with the kind of shoulders that looked wide enough to carry the weight of the entire world, if need be.
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