Bree’s mother, Lark, sat with Bree, though she’d chosen the shady spot beneath the lovely sugar maple that would soon shade their entire backyard. Lark had dressed in light-tan clamdiggers and a comfy, oversized red t-shirt, sprinkled with black dots meant to look like watermelon seeds. She’d cut her blonde hair short, in anticipation of summer’s heat and humidity. Bree was tempted to do the same. But for now, she’d piled her long, mousy-blonde hair high on her head and held it in place with a cheap plastic claw.
Her priorities had changed. After living for so long with so little, she found the overabundance of everything in America appalling. So much food in the grocery stores. So much online shopping. So much stuff. And by default, so much waste. Americans truly had no idea how the rest of the world lived.
When she’d finally arrived stateside, she’d been emaciated, dehydrated, and ridden with parasites. After seeing several specialists and spending a week in bed, she’d felt better. Her cardiologist prescribed meds to control her irregular heartbeat. A-fib put her at a higher risk of stroke, but it could easily be controlled. Never in a million years had she expected she’d need a heart doctor, but there she was, so, so thankful for modern technology.
“You look tired, Bree honey,” her mother whispered. “Why don’t you go in and lay down? Take another nap. It’s okay. I’ll stay out here while Robin plays with that crazy balloon.”
Lark volunteered at the nearby pre-school, while Brandon, Bree’s father, managed the grounds at a local private golf course, in exchange for free golfing. For a retired insurance agent of fifty-five, Brandon didn’t look his age. Maybe because he thoroughly enjoyed mowing the greens and fairways, managing the extensive sprinkler systems, as well as retrieving a ball or two from roughs on quiet days. It kept him busy, tan, and the picture of health.
“I’m okay. Besides, I’m going into the city first thing next week. I’ve been off too long. It’s time I get back to the grind, and I’d rather not look like a ghost when I go in.”
“I still don’t think you’re well enough. Surely that boss of yours can give you another week or two off.”
“What then, Mom? Another week after that? And another after that? No. I’m going back. I need to.” I have to. Bree ran a hand up the back of her neck, combing the loose tangles that had escaped her clip away and trying not to snap at her mom. There was no way to get back to the carefree, upwardly mobile woman she’d been before she’d taken the assignment to sneak into the Eastern Anatolia Region. She wasn’t that person anymore, and she was tired of explaining it to her parents.
They didn’t understand what she’d lived through or how that disaster had changed her. They tried, and Bree loved them for everything they did for her and Robin, but there was no way they could relate. The only person who knew how she’d felt was nowhere in sight, and she wouldn’t seek him out anyway. Kruze was the last person she needed in her life. Even if she wanted to find him, she didn’t know where to start, or who he worked for. He had her number. The proverbial ball was in his court, not that she expected he’d know what to do with it. Keeping in touch wasn’t one of the things he was good at. Heaven forbid he step outside of his very narrow skillset.
Bree had come outside with Robin to get a little sun, not advice. Her mom and dad thought she still looked sickly. Well, guess what? They were right. Even she couldn’t argue that. She was pale and the dark shadows around her eyes were more prominent than when she’d first come home. But she didn’t know how to fix that—or herself. Some mornings, she hated getting out of bed. Just opening her eyes took more effort than it should. Robin was the only one that kept her going. Her mom’s continual reminders weren’t helping.
Bree shook her head to clear the panic rising inside like another damned tsunami. Already trembling, she worked up enough spit to swallow, hoping her mom didn’t turn around and see the beads of sweat popping up on her forehead. Anxiety stalked her as relentlessly as the nightmare of that hole. She was a ping-pong ball, caught between the blood-chilling ghosts of yesterday and anxiety’s wicked hot flashes of today.
God, she was tired. She’d seen her family doctor for depression, and she was supposed to attend the group therapy session he managed tomorrow night. Dr. Packard actually listened, not that she’d told him much. But Bree trusted him. He was young, and had once been an Air Force medic like the ones at Incirlik Air Base, who’d been so good with her. He’d given her a prescription for anxiety, because—hello, PTSD. She was nervous and edgy. Bree was downright bitchy, and she knew it.
Worse, claustrophobia had settled into her mind like an invisible snake. She never knew when it would strike, clamp its jaws on her brain, and turn her into an out-of-control, screaming maniac. To avoid making an utter fool of herself, she avoided her parents’ garage, setting her butt inside her mother’s tiny Smart Car, walking alone, pretty much walking anywhere. She couldn’t do those things anymore, didn’t force herself to, either. Not after the panic attack she’d had on the flight over the Atlantic after her rescue.
Weirdly, the wide-open space of that Black Hawk hadn’t affected her one bit, but sitting in a crowded commercial jetliner with all those people, a veritable wall of seat backs around her, and the endless rows of overhead storage compartments hanging off the ceilings, had proven too much. Even thinking about it now dumped a load of acid into her stomach. She’d spent most of that trip standing in the aisle on her feet, until a kindly flight attendant, another vet, a woman soldier, recognized the signs and offered Bree conversation and a margarita in a plastic solo cup.
After downing four more margaritas while chatting with the attendant in the rear galley, Bree had finally returned to her assigned aisle seat. After one last margarita, she’d put the seat back and had fallen asleep. She’d probably snored the rest of the trip. Who cared that her friendly flight attendant had to wake her up once the jetliner landed at JFK? She’d survived the damned flight! That was what counted. The other passengers could like it or lump it. She didn’t care!
“No dear, but it’s easy to see you’re still depressed, and you’re so nervous these days,” her mother murmured. “Your dad and I worry more about you than Robin.”
“I’ll be fine,” Bree lied to get her mom off her back. “Honest. The quicker I get into the office, the faster I’ll be back to normal.” Whatever that is. “I just need to work and keep busy.” Because I’m going out of my mind sitting around here all day and night, and every time I hold still, all I do is think of Kruze! Damn him for always being so… so… handsome and sweet. And damn his green eyes! Why couldn’t Robin look like me? Why’d she have to look just like him?
“I heard you last night.”
“Mom…” Bree bowed her head and stared at her feet. She didn’t know what to say to that quiet revelation. So, yeah, I scream in the middle of the night now, and I’m prone to cry at the drop of a hat. So I keep all my windows open. So that doesn’t always do a damned thing to help. So what?!
Bree closed her eyes, biting back the mouthy demon that lived under her skin these days. Until her nightmare in Turkey, Bree and her mom had been best friends and shopping buddies. They’d finished each other’s sentences, and sometimes, their noisy chatter had driven her dad crazy. Bree just didn’t know how to talk to either of them anymore. The only ones who understood what she’d lived through, were both veterans with combat experience. Well, make that three. Kruze had certainly pegged her during their short time together. Not like that helped. Her life had become a vicious circle, and she was sick of hurting the people she loved. She needed help—or a margarita.
“You know, you’re right. I do need a nap,” she told her mom quietly, then called brightly to Robin, “Hey, baby girl, I’m going inside for a while. You stay with Nana.”
With a squeal, Robin slapped her pesky balloon, then skipped over to Bree with a cheerful, “How come, Mommy? Are you tired again?”
Aren’t I always? Bree pulled her chunky daughter onto her lap and circled her
arms around the little girl’s tummy. “I’m tired a lot, huh?”
Robin’s cute lips puckered into an adorable pout. “Did you eat all your breakfast this morning, like a good girl? Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and it’s supposed to give you lots and lots of energy to do anything you want!” She packed those last words with so much innocence and joy, as if eating the right foods could solve Bree’s problems.
“I did, sweetheart. I ate before you woke up.”
“Oh, yeah?” Robin crossed her arms over her chest and frowned, those dark brows of hers knitted into censure that could match that of an old-fashioned school marm. “What did you eat?”
“Two pieces of Nana’s banana bread and one cup of coffee.” Which wasn’t all that healthy, but Bree doubted Robin knew that.
“Did you take your vitamins, too?” Oh, this precocious child. Everything Robin did made Bree smile.
“Every last one, and I brushed my teeth. Wanna look?” Bree opened her mouth extra-wide, teasing.
Robin peered beyond Bree’s teeth with all the seriousness of a child who loved her mom and knew what was best for her. That she hadn’t suffered a minute of separation anxiety spoke entirely to the love Bree’s mom and dad had for their only grandchild.
“Well,” Robin sighed dramatically. “I guess you need a nap then, because I don’t see nothing wrong inside your mouth or your teeth, neither. They’re really white, Mommy, and you don’t even have bad breath. Give me a kiss, and don’t let the bed bugs bite!”
Grinning inside, Bree bowed to the order of the adorable tyrant on her lap and kissed the tip of Robin’s freckled nose. “I love you, sillykins.”
Robin stretched her sun-warmed arms around Bree’s neck and squeezed as tight as a three-year-old could. “I love you, Mommy, and I’m giving you extra tight hu-u-u-gggs—” She groaned as she squeezed. “—cuz I’m the best bed bug in the world, and us girls like to snuggle!”
“Yes, we do. Take care of Nana, okay?”
“Okey dokie! Nighty-night!”
Bree watched her sweet baby race back to her red balloon with a lump in her throat. Wouldn’t it be nice to feel that carefree again?
“Look at that little one go,” her mother murmured. “There was a time I couldn’t keep up with you, either.”
“She’s growing up too fast,” Bree said, regret choking her. She was failing as a journalist, a daughter, now as a mother. She was sinking, but she didn’t know how to save herself.
Bree lifted to her feet, needing to get away before she fell apart. “I won’t be long. Don’t let her get too much sun.”
Her mom’s attention was still on Robin. “Hope you start feeling better soon.”
“Don’t hold your breath.” Bree leaned over and pressed a kiss to her mom’s cheek. “Sorry I’m grouchy all the time. I really am trying.”
Her mother looked up at her, and for the first time, Bree noticed the tiny silver hairs at her temple. “So are we. We just don’t know how to help you, sillykins,” her mom whispered what she’d always called Bree. “We love you. Don’t forget. Promise me.”
Bree acquiesced instantly. She wasn’t the only one suffering; she recognized that. Her mom and dad had been through so much these last months. First, the kidnapping and worry if they’d ever see their daughter again. Then, the joyful return that had morphed into screaming nightmares, stress, misplaced anger, and misunderstandings.
“I promise, Mom.” Bree kissed her cheek again. “Don’t give up on me.”
Her mother grabbed Bree down onto her lap, as if she were as small as Robin. “Moms and dads never give up on their children, Bree. You should know that by now.”
“I do. Really, I do. Please don’t cry.” Bree hugged her mom again, then lifted to her feet before Robin noticed Nana’s tears. Then they’d all be crying.
“Sleep tight.” Her mom sounded just like Robin.
“Be back soon,” Bree replied as she walked away from all she held dear.
The house phone rang on her way through her parents’ home to the back stairs that led to hers and Robin’s corner of the world. They’d occupied the entire second floor since Bree gave up her NYC apartment when she’d found out she was pregnant. Because of morning sickness, she’d needed her parents’ help desperately then, and they’d been thrilled when she’d asked if she could come home. More so when she’d delivered a healthy granddaughter six months later.
Bree picked up the receiver, wishing her mom would cancel this foolish, old-fashioned landline. They didn’t need it. The world ran on iPhones, the internet, and Wi-Fi these days. They needed to rely on their cell phones. But her mother insisted the only way someone from her past could ever locate her, on the incredibly small chance anyone was out there looking for her, was over her trusty landline.
Bree answered the beige relic with a crisp, no-nonsense, “Banks’ residence. Who’s calling?”
The voice at the other end was male with a distinct foreign accent, probably Pakistani or Indian, and wanted to sell her a warranty on a car she didn’t own.
“No, thank you.”
But before she could hang up, the creepy telemarketer asked, “Brianna Banks? Is this Brianna Banks I’m speaking with? The reporter? Do you work at USA Timeline?”
She jerked the receiver away from her ear as if she’d been stung by a bee. She stared at the damned thing, her heart screaming in her chest like a freight train gone off its tracks. She couldn’t breathe. Could barely force a swallow. How’d this guy know her name, who she was, and where she worked?
She slammed the receiver into its cradle, hard, wishing she’d broken the damned phone. No more! She’d never answer this stupid landline again. It had to go! That bastard wasn’t just a telemarketer. He knew her name! A name that wasn’t in any phone book on the planet. It had to be Berfende! Or Josephus! They’d found her!
Just that fast, Bree was back in the narrow hole in the cold, dead ground, where sunlight had never shone, where despair had literally sucked the life and hope out of her. Lord! She wanted to scream and cry and tear her hair out. If Berfende knew her name, he also had her address! He could find her! He was coming!
For a heart-stealing moment, she considered reaching out to Kruze. He’d know what to do. She’d been safe with him. He’d surely come to her rescue again, especially when she told him that he had a… a…
No. No. No. Bree would never reach out to Kruze. She would NOT use her baby girl to keep herself safe. Never. Ever. This was just a panic attack.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Picture palm trees and turquoise skies over white sandy beaches and calm ocean shores. Breathe in. Breathe out. Picture dolphins beyond the shore and seagulls floating on a gentle, fragrant breeze. Breathe in. Breathe out, damnit!
Fighting for composure, Bree zeroed back on her intellect and forced her pulse to slow down. She breathed slowly and steadily. At last, her chest expanded somewhat calmly. She was managing her panic attacks. She was! She could do it. She would, damn it.
Because… Because… That call had to be a fluke. Yes, that’s all it was. Somehow her name had gotten onto a call list. Companies, even hospitals, sold their customers’ and patients’ private information all the time. Yes, that had to be what happened. She was just a name and a number on a list out there in the ether. Nothing more. And the man on her parents’ landline couldn’t be that same bastard from Turkey. No way. He was half a world away. She was stronger. She hadn’t come this far to crash now. She could be smart and sensible again.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Her lungs weren’t working furiously hard any longer. She could do this. For Robin and her parents, she could do anything.
Bree swallowed hard at the expertly crafted lies she was telling herself. Despite her best efforts, all she had to do was think of Josephus or Berfende, and her heart took off like a racehorse. She refused to use her baby girl to keep herself safe, but these panic attacks were killing her. The only thing that helped was h
er heart medication, but it left her tired and depressed. Dragged out. She hated to take it so she took it as little as possible. Which was why she needed a nap. She wanted Kruze, damn him! She needed those thick, strong arms of his wrapped around her. That was when she’d felt the safest. She needed him to tell her to shush, that she was safe with him. That he had heard her, that he had listened, and that he believed her.
But would he believe her if, by some miracle, he’d given her a way to contact him, and she called and told him she’d just heard from Josephus or—Lord! General Berfende? Would anyone b-b-believe her?
Chapter Twelve
“You want me to do what?” Kruze asked, not going to say yes just because his buddy from back in his SEAL days, Wayne Packard, call sign Torpedo, needed a favor.
“Come to Morristown while you’re in the area. My treat. You can stay at my place, I’ll even feed your ornery ass, and I’ll make it worth your while, promise. I really need you, bro.”
That earned Wayne a loud guffaw. “Need me? Ha! Why? I’m no psychiatrist, and I don’t do stand-up comedy.”
“Trust me, I know. You’re as funny as a pig fart in a crowded elevator. But seriously—”
“Hey, now that’s funny. I could tell your patients a couple of dumb-jock jokes. That’d cheer them up.”
Kruze was still chuckling when Wayne turned serious. “This isn’t that kind of meeting. I’m leading a group therapy session tomorrow night, and I need someone with me who can inspire these people to keep moving forward. To not give up just because life dealt them a shitty hand.”
“And you think that person is me?” Kruze was incredulous. There was no way he’d go to Morristown, New Jersey, just to waste a night acting like he was someone else.
“Yes, brother. That person is most definitely you.” Wayne paused. “I was there, remember? If anyone had a reason to give up after Panama, it was you. But you didn’t. You kept on keeping on, and look at you now. You’re some kind of secret agent, spec ops guy who works for nobody knows who. You’re a survivor, and you live in a swanky lodge close to the Canadian border. You’re rich as fuck. Plus, you’ve proven you’re tougher than the crap that happened in your past. You pushed forward and—”
Damned (SOBs Book 4) Page 9
