SEAL Under Siege (Men of Valor) (3 page)

But that wouldn’t do either of them any good.

“Look, Ms. Hayes, I am sorry that you went through that experience. I’m sorry about what happened to you in Lybania, but I already did as much as I can for you. Now you have to keep living your life. Do you have a pastor or priest you could talk with? Maybe he could help you work through this.”

Her shoulders fell, the last remnant of hope in her features vanishing. “All right. Thank you for your time.”

She turned, shuffling toward the office door, and a band around his heart squeezed. He’d done the right thing sending her away. So why did it feel so wrong?

Just as she reached the door, she tucked a hand into the pocket of her colorful skirt. As she spun on the spot, she held out something that she’d pulled from within. “I almost forgot. One of the guards dropped this in my cell after talking to the American man.”

He reached for the scrap of paper and unfolded it to reveal a crude sketch.

“Doesn’t it look kind of like—”

“—the harbor,” he finished for her. There could be no doubt about the docks and shoreline. He’d run along the beaches in the sketch for nearly ten years. He knew every ship and slip.

And apparently someone else did, too.

“But I don’t know what that says.” She pointed toward a line of scrawled symbols.

He squinted at the text. “It’s not Arabic, but it’s not far off, either.” He pointed to the third and fourth word on the page. “This looks like one and two, but it’s not. It’s different.”

“You read Arabic?”

He glanced up from the words written on the map. “Enough.” That was a bit of an understatement. He was actually almost fluent in it and could read nearly anything. But she didn’t need to know that. A few secrets always came in handy.

“I think it’s a dialect from the hill country. I only picked up a few words of the different dialects while I was there, but it would seem to fit.”

He nodded. “Might be right.” So why was someone writing in Lybanese on a map of his harbor? His gut clenched as he realized her story might be true after all. But why would they be after Staci? Who would think her a real threat?

“What did you overhear exactly?”

Her eyes shone for just a moment before she blinked her hope back under control. “One of the guards said something about the pieces needed to build the bomb. He said they had almost everything they needed, and when it went off, everyone would know they wouldn’t be intimidated by America’s military. And then the American said he’d place it, and it would be just like fireworks.”

That wasn’t much to go on. “What else?”

She chewed her lip again, running a finger over the side of her face for the tenth time. “I guess they were talking about this map. I think the American was pointing out landmarks and such.”

“Then what happened?”

“They were still talking when someone else came into my cell.”

His stomach jolted, his hands forming fists completely on their own. He didn’t want to know, but he had to ask. “What did he do?”

“He tried to get me to confess to breaking the law by giving away bibles. When I wouldn’t confess, he left and the other guy, the one who had been talking to the American, came in to take his turn. He was angry I wouldn’t give in, and I don’t think he noticed when he dropped the map. I scooped it up when he had his back turned. After that, everything is kind of fuzzy until you showed up.”

“You mean, this all happened the day of your rescue?”

She nodded.

“Did the Timmonses hear the American, too?”

“No.” She locked her hands in front of her, her skirt swishing like a bell as she swayed. “They had separated us after our second week.”

“Why?”

She looked away, and he felt the gut punch as sure as if one of the other guys on his team had thrown it. That was a stupid question. Pretty girls in Lybania being held by ruthless terrorists...

He’d seen enough of that country to know, and he could only pray that she’d been spared the worst, that her physical scars were deeper than her emotional and spiritual ones.

His pulse pounded in his ears, suddenly ready for a fight. But he’d already taken on the guys responsible for the pink spreading over her cheeks and the bright red scar in front of her ear that she kept trying to cover.

“It wasn’t anything like what...” Her voice trailed off, and she cleared her throat. “That is, they were waiting for someone. For their leader, I think.” The pink in her cheeks turned into flames.

Thank God his team had rescued her when it had.

But even if she’d avoided the physical attack, knowing what was coming had to have left a few emotional scars. It was brave of her to have taken the map in the first place. At a time when she’d been at such high risk herself, she’d thought of others, and had tried to gather evidence she’d hoped to use to keep people safe. That said a lot about her. And it made him even more reluctant to turn her away.

Maybe he could look into this in his free time. He didn’t have any training missions on the schedule for the next few weeks. Could it hurt to at least keep his eyes and ears open for an American placing a bomb somewhere in San Diego that would send a message to America’s military? It was a huge city and highly unlikely he’d see anything, but at least he could put her mind at ease.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“You will?” Her voice skyrocketed, and she plastered a smile into place.

“Yes.” He looked at the door then back at her. “Leave me your phone number, and I’ll call you if I find out anything.”

“And how should I contact you?”

“Through your PAO. She’ll pass any messages to me.”

“And who should I ask her to pass them to?”

She hadn’t missed a beat and was intent on getting his name. “Lieutenant Sawyer.”

“All right.” She scribbled her phone number on a sticky note and handed it to him before opening the office door. “Thank you, Lieutenant Sawyer. For two weeks ago and for today.”

“You’re welcome, Ms. Hayes.”

“Please call me Staci.”

“All right.”

As she flounced out the door, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. Her dark curls bounced with every step, her shoulders in perfect posture. She may have sustained a flesh wound to the arm and a cut on her face, but her three weeks as a hostage hadn’t damaged her backbone.

When the outside door of the trailer clanged shut, he walked back to his office, ignoring the stares of Willie G. and Zach—Zig—McCloud.

Zig whistled low and long, elbowing his teammate in the ribs. “I guess it pays to have rank. I’d go to the academy, too, if I had pretty girls like that coming to thank me.”

“What’d she give you?”

Tristan clutched the scrap of paper in his hand, forcing down the knot in his stomach. It shouldn’t matter that they were teasing him. He’d sure teased them over the past couple years.

But Staci Hayes wasn’t a SEAL groupie. She didn’t hang around the pool hall waiting for a SEAL to show up. She hadn’t gone looking for a warrior.

He’d gone looking for her.

And she deserved better than the speculation of two of his men. “Willie G. and Zig, go clean up the training boats.”

Zig opened his mouth, about ready to argue, then realized that it wasn’t a request but an order.

“Yes, sir.”

They stalked off, leaving him some time alone with the crude map and a head full of questions. As he sank into his desk chair and leaned back until it popped, he replayed Staci’s words over and over. Had there really been an American man consorting with Lybanian terrorists? If so, where on this map were they planning to place the bomb they’d mentioned? And what did the message on the map really mean? Thousands of hours practicing languages were useless if he couldn’t read the one in front of him.

The map didn’t contain a convenient X to mark the spot or even a circle to pinpoint which part of the coast might see the explosion. But it did contain the coastline of Coronado Island. From the airport to the naval stations, Harbor Drive, and even the golf course.

It represented too many people. Too many possible victims.

And he had nowhere to start.

The best he could do was a call to a friend in the FBI’s counterterrorism unit and a former cryptology instructor for the navy.

After leaving messages with just enough information to get him a return call, he shut down his computer and grabbed his bag of workout gear, slinging it over his shoulder as he strolled out of the building and past the two SEALs hosing down a rack of RIBs—Rigid Inflatable Boats.

“Have a good weekend, boys.” He waved, not even trying to hide his smirk as he reached the parking lot. Throwing his bag into the bed of his truck, he jumped up, sliding behind the wheel.

As he pulled onto the main street that ran most of the length of the naval station, he tried to focus on the rare two-day weekend ahead of him.

He’d promised his sister, Ashley, that he’d put together the crib for his soon-to-arrive nephew. And she wanted to do some more shopping for baby clothes before Matt—her husband as well as Tristan’s senior chief—returned from demo training in Chicago.

Maybe she’d let him off the hook for the shopping trip if he put together the crib and matching dresser.

He waved a civilian pedestrian across the walkway. She was halfway to the next parking lot over before he realized she was his afternoon visitor. She was coming from the administrative offices, probably just finished with the interview training to prep her for upcoming media appearances about her ordeal. He’d already seen her picture in the papers, but she’d yet to make a morning show appearance. Lt. Commander del Rey, the PAO, was probably talking Staci through the schedule.

Staci slid into her green sedan and pulled out of her spot, winding between the thinning crowd of other vehicles. She had reached the exit of the parking lot by the time the white delivery van behind Tristan honked.

He laughed at himself for being so easily distracted and waved out the window, pulling up to one of the guardhouses at the front gate of the base.

“Carl, how you doing, man?”

The broad-shouldered Samoan snapped to attention in the door frame of the little hut. “Good. How about you, Lieutenant Sawyer? How’s your sister?”

“Oh, you know. Waterstone took off to Chicago for training, so Ashley moved back in with me in case the kid comes early.”

Carl laughed. “You know any kid of the senior chief’s is going to show up early.”

Tristan’s shoulders shook as he waved at the younger man and pulled off the base, right behind a green four-door with a rusted bumper.

He tried to catch a glimpse of her chestnut hair, just to make sure it was Staci, but from the seat in his truck, he couldn’t confirm. It didn’t stop him from following her over the bridge and into San Diego traffic.

He passed an exit for I-5, which he should have taken to pick up Ashley.

So why was he following someone he wasn’t supposed to have any individual contact with? He didn’t have a good reason, just an instinct telling him to make sure she got home safely.

A glance in his rearview mirror showed the same white van from the base still on his six. It hung back but took every turn he did. Every turn the green car did.

His gut clenched after the third turn.

There was only one way to know for sure who the van was following.

At the next cross street Tristan slowed down and put on his blinker to turn right. The green car pulled almost a block ahead as he turned onto the side street. As soon as he’d cleared the turn, the white van gunned it past Tristan’s truck.

Somehow he’d ended up literally in the middle of something, and now that he was out of the way, that van had a clear shot at the green car. At Staci.

He shoved his gear shift into Reverse and slammed on the gas, spinning the steering wheel and completing a full one-eighty before turning right back onto the main road. In one quick motion he took off after them, joined only by the smell of burning rubber.

He caught up to the van about four blocks later as it maneuvered itself to pin the sedan against the deserted sidewalk in front of the gated entrance of a convenience store.

Air caught in his throat until he schooled it into measured breaths, keeping his hands steady despite the rush of adrenaline that coursed from the top of his head to his fingertips.

Like it or not, he was part of this now. No way was he going to let a fool in a van hurt the girl he’d risked his neck to rescue on the other side of the world.

The van let up for a moment, and Tristan hoped he might be able to get between the two vehicles. But his hopes were in vain. A second later, the van crashed into the side of the green car, sending it careening into a light pole.

THREE

S
taci jerked against the shoulder strap of her seat belt, which stole her breath but kept her head from cracking against the steering wheel. The car was too old to have air bags. There was nothing but the seat belt to protect her.

With one eye pinched closed and the other only open partway, she surveyed the white van with tinted windows as it sped away after running her into the light pole. As she clawed at the seat-belt buckle and fought for air, she sank against the steering wheel, every ounce of strength dripping from the bottom of her feet through the floorboard.

Maybe if she held her head between her hands, the world would stop spinning.

And maybe if the world would stop spinning, she could pull her thoughts together.

She pressed her palms harder into her forehead, but the earth still seemed to be whirling out of control. As she fell toward her car door, it suddenly disappeared, replaced by a pair of hands that cradled her against a broad chest.

“Whoa there.”

The voice was deep and strong like the hands, but she couldn’t manage to open her eyes far enough to look into his face.

“Did you hit your head?”

She rubbed it absently, unable to pinpoint if the pain came from the spinning inside or a throbbing outside. “I don’t think so.” The last word came out on a wheeze, and she pushed against the cotton covering his shoulder—his unmovable shoulder—for any ounce of space.

“Careful.” He loosened his grip, but not enough.

She managed a shallow breath. “I’m okay.”

“I’m not so sure about that. Just stay with me for a second.”

Something about his words pricked at her memory. They were familiar like a sweet dream.

“Stay with you.” She swallowed and gasped for air and with it the strength to open her eyes.

The arch of his nose and curve of his mouth were just as surprising—and welcome—as the first time she’d seen them.

“Lieutenant Sawyer?”

He shrugged the shoulder where her hand still rested. “Hello.” His eyes twinkled, and something akin to humor crossed his face. “We’ve got to stop meeting this way.”

“Why are you here?” But it didn’t really matter.

“Well...” His lips puckered to the side, a row of fine lines wrinkling his forehead as he stewed on her question. “Just in the right place at the right time.”

“Guess this means it’s all real, isn’t it?”

For a moment he looked as if he were going to play dumb, pretend he didn’t understand what she meant, but as she blinked up at his face, he nodded. “I guess so. But I wouldn’t worry about it. We’ll find him.”

Any other day, any other situation, she’d have argued with him. He was trying to pacify her, but she didn’t need it. At the moment, though, she just needed to lean into him and let him make sure she got home in one piece.

So she did.

* * *

“Thank you for your help. I don’t know how I’d have gotten home without you.”

Tristan stood two inches inside the front door of Staci’s town house on the hardwood of the entryway, staring into a sea of white. Her carpet, furniture and curtains. All of it gleamed.

Hadn’t she ever had a dog? Or a kid brother? Or a visitor?

Sterile as a hospital room.

“Sure thing. No problem.”

She looked toward the back of the house, crossing her arms over her chest and grabbing her opposite shoulders. “Can I get you a glass of water or a soda?”

“No, thanks. I should get going.” He motioned to the door. “The paramedic said you should try to get some rest. You’ll probably be pretty sore tomorrow.”

Just as his hand connected with the doorknob, she grabbed his other arm—then dropped it as if he burned her fingers. “What do I do if he comes after me again?”

He let go of the door and reached to give her elbow a reassuring squeeze before letting his hand fall to his side. She sure hadn’t appreciated his touch that afternoon. “I doubt he knows where you live. Is your name on this property?”

“No. My parents bought it as an investment property a couple years before I left for Lybania. A friend of mine stayed here while I was gone.”

That was good. Anyone could look up property owners in the county recorder’s office, but Hayes was a common name. “You’ll be safe. And your car will be in the shop for at least a week, so he won’t be able to use it to ID where you live. Do you have someone who can run errands for you, if you need?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re all set.”

“But what if...”

Her tone gouged at his stomach, and he couldn’t walk away. She wasn’t playing the part of a lost little girl nor tempting him with her feminine charm. Fear shook her voice, and those three little words carried a heavy weight of meaning.

She knew the truth as clearly as he did.

Someone was after her. And until he was caught, she wouldn’t be safe.

He closed his eyes, fighting the urge to do what he’d done in Lybania. But he couldn’t just pick her up and carry her to safety. He wasn’t supposed to have any contact with her. And explaining to his CO that he’d watched her get run off the road wasn’t going to change the rule.

She would be safe enough in her home for now. And he could turn this whole thing over to his buddy in the FBI.

But he couldn’t walk away from the tremor in her voice.

“If something happens, call me.” He moved his hand as though he was wielding a pen. “Do you have something to write on?”

She shuffled papers in a mail organizer, finally pulling out a white envelope with a clear, plastic window, shoving the paper and a pencil into his hands. He scribbled his number down and handed it back to her.

She smiled, the light never quite reaching her eyes. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He turned to go but stopped with the door only partially open. “Try to get some rest this weekend.”

She followed him to the cement slab that could hardly be called a porch, despite its overhang. “All right.”

He made it to the last of three steps before her voice stopped him again.

“Wait.”

He glanced over his shoulder, squinting into her soft features, her pink lips glistening in the evening sun.

“If I have to phone, what do I call you?” She held the envelope in front of her.

“L.T. is fine.”

“How can I trust you if I don’t even know your first name?”

His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. The last time a woman had tried so hard to get his first name, the first use she’d made of it had been to ask him out on the date that started a one-year-long relationship. She’d said his name so sweetly before she’d kissed him, slow and thorough.

That last time.

Before he’d boarded a transport and left her all by herself.

But Staci wasn’t Robin. And she certainly wouldn’t be kissing him. If there wasn’t a first, then there couldn’t be a last kiss.

“Tristan. But hardly anyone calls me that.”

“Why not?”

He put his hands on his hips, still squinting up at her from the bottom of the steps. “They just don’t. Everyone on the team has a nickname, and we use them.”

“All right.” She took a breath then quickly added, “L.T.,” as if it were an afterthought. And for a split second he wished she’d called him by his real name. “Thank you.”

She waved the envelope again, and he jogged toward his truck, suddenly eager to be away from the woman who made him think about memories that were best forgotten.

* * *

Staci left her cereal bowl on the kitchen counter at the sound of the doorbell, pulling the belt of her robe tighter around her waist as she shuffled toward the front door. Peering through the windows on both sides of the entry, she confirmed that her tiny porch was empty before unlocking the deadbolt and opening the door just enough to look into the morning sun.

The delivery man must have run back to his truck, leaving only a package by the front mat. As she bent to pick it up, every muscle in her body screamed. She groaned against the pain in her ribs and chest as her muscles flexed and tightened.

Wasn’t she supposed to be feeling better? Three days was plenty of time to recover from a car accident that didn’t even break her skin. Right?

She hefted the box, nearly dropping the unexpected weight and falling right alongside it.

Maybe three days wasn’t quite long enough.

Another try boasted better results, and she held the package against her stomach to ease the pressure on her strained back as she pushed the door closed behind her. Setting the brown paper-wrapped package on her counter, she spied the return label.

From Rebecca Meyers.

Why was her sister, Becca, sending her a package when they’d seen each other a week ago? And why had she spelled out her whole name? They’d been calling each other by their first initials since she was ten. Even now, B’s kids called her Auntie S. And even if she were going to use her name instead of her initial, Becca had never actually gone by Rebecca.

Her stomach lurched and she pressed a hand to it, suddenly uninterested in the cereal still floating in its milk.

Staci pushed the package toward the far end of the counter, staring hard at the brown paper bag used to wrap the box. Hadn’t B given up paper and plastic in favor of more environmentally friendly reusable bags?

So many things about this weren’t right.

She grabbed her phone and punched in her sister’s phone number. After four rings, B’s melodic voice singsonged, “This is Becca Meyers. Sorry I missed you. You know what to do, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“Hey, B. It’s just me. Just...um...” No cause to scare her sister. Nope. She could handle this. “Just wanted to tell you that I love you. Talk to you later.”

As she pressed the end button on her phone, her gaze flicked toward the white envelope stuck to the refrigerator, and her heart skipped a beat at the very thought of calling Tristan—L.T.

What if the box on her counter was nothing? Then she’d look stupid for taking up his time with something ridiculous. But then, what if it was something dangerous?

She backed up until she bumped into the kitchen island and then swung around that. Putting the waist-high counter between her and the package wasn’t enough, so she kept going, hoping she might suddenly get X-ray vision if she tried hard enough.

No such luck.

After a five-minute showdown with the box, she doubled her fists beneath her chin, took a deep breath and stepped back toward the counter. She’d never know what was inside if she didn’t open it.

The paper was thick and coarse as she picked it back up. And set it right back down, her heart thumping and ears ringing.

“You’re being silly.” She meant to encourage herself, but it backfired.

She’d been held hostage, had overheard a plot to blow up something and been run off the road. If being silly meant being cautious about the chance of danger, then this was the time for silliness.

Snatching the envelope from the fridge, she punched the numbers into her phone. On the second ring: “L.T.”

“This is Staci.” She quickly added, “Hayes. Staci Hayes.”

She could almost hear the sigh in his voice and see the sag in his shoulders. “What can I do for you?”

“Someone dropped a box off on my front porch this morning, and it has my sister’s return address. But I don’t think she sent it.”

“Why not?”

“She used her whole name.”

“Her whole name?” His tone clearly asked “Are you serious?” even if his words didn’t.

Of course she was serious. “We’ve always gone by nicknames, but the return address has her whole name on it. And it’s wrapped in a brown paper bag, which she’d never use.”

“How big is the box?” His voice picked up like she had his attention.

She held her hand along the side of the box. “About eight inches by eight inches.”

He must have pressed his hand over his phone, but she could still hear his words as he leaned away from it. “Willie G., get Zig and River and the bomb kit. Meet me at my truck in two minutes.”

Her stomach dropped and she scrambled back, tripping over her own feet to get out of the kitchen and away from the unknown threat. Her phone fell from limp fingers and bounced on the hardwood floor.

It squawked at her as her gaze shifted back and forth between the brown box and her black phone. She didn’t have to pick it up. She could just run. Get out of the house and call the police.

Or she could stick around and figure out who was behind her car accident and the most recent unwelcome gift.

Scooping up her phone was as painful as picking up the bomb had been. Whether from the bruise across her sternum or the rush of blood to her head, every one of her muscles throbbed.

“Staci? Are you still there?” L.T. sounded impatient.

“I dropped my phone.”

“Listen.” His tone turned softer than she’d ever heard it, yet he was still completely in control. “I need you to stay calm. Put as much distance as possible between you and that box. But do not go outside.”

She glanced down at her ratty robe. “Why?”

“Do you remember when I got you out of Lybania, and I told you to do everything I said without question?”

She nodded, her gaze still locked on the special delivery.

“Stay with me. You’ve got to do the same thing now. Trust me. We’ll be there in twenty minutes. Just go into your bathroom, close the door and get into the bathtub.”

“All right.” Her throat refused to swallow, dry and tight. “Twenty minutes?”

“Nineteen.” Something—probably his truck—roared to life. “Do you want me to stay on the phone with you?”

“I’m okay. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

He hung up without pomp, but her feet refused to move.

What if the box exploded while she stood there, tearing her home and body to shreds?

The police would find her shrouded in bits of ratty bath robe.

That was enough to get her moving, running to her room and slipping into workout pants and a long-sleeved shirt. And then into the tub.

The porcelain was hard against her back as she pulled her knees up to her chin and waited for her world to explode. She’d never get to be the aunt she wanted to be to her nieces. She’d never even have a chance to get married. She’d never know if there was a man willing to marry her despite what she couldn’t give him.