The Price of Valor

by Susan May Warren

  She turned, and her eyes widened. She shook her head.

  What?

  He headed down the hall toward her and she backed into the room she’d just come out of.

  He followed her inside.

  She was standing in the middle of the room, her hand wrapped around her waist.

  “What is going on?” He walked over to her, took her by the shoulders. “Where were you? Are you okay?”

  She just looked at him.

  “Do you know that the Secret Service is looking for you right now? They think you’re a terrorist, Sig! They showed me evidence of websites pulled off my computer. And bank deposits and—”

  She had started to hyperventilate. Quick breaths that made her hunch over.

  He took her in his arms and pulled her down to the sofa. “Breathe. Slow down. Just breathe . . .”

  She grabbed his arms, met his eyes.

  And he saw it. Fear. Something unhinged inside Signe he’d never—not once—seen before.

  No, wait. He had. The night her grandfather died. The night he’d found her in the barn, completely unraveling.

  The first time she’d hyperventilated.

  “Signe, it’s okay. You’re going to be okay. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Just breathe with me, okay?”

  She nodded, and he began to slow her down, to breathe with her. “In, out, in . . . out . . . thatta girl.”

  Her breaths evened out, her hands on his arms.

  It was then he noticed the bracelet. Pretty. But he hadn’t seen it on her earlier, had he?

  “What’s—”

  “I need some fresh air. Open a window.”

  He tried the window behind the sofa. It didn’t budge, so he opened the sliding door.

  She got up and came over to the door. He stepped outside, turned.

  She closed the door behind him.

  What?

  “Sig?”

  Her gaze met his through the glass, her palm pressed flat.

  “You just keep coming after me. And you shouldn’t, Ham. You shouldn’t!”

  Tears creased down her cheeks, but a muscle pulsed in her jaw. “You’re too much. You get in the way and . . . I don’t want you in my life. Just stay there and leave me alone!”

  The words arrowed right through him, found his soul.

  Then she turned and left.

  Left.

  He stood there in the cold night, unable to move.

  What had just happened?

  “Signe!” His voice cracked through the air and he slammed his hand on the massive pane, but it only shook.

  Shatterproof.

  No. This couldn’t be right. She couldn’t have played him this entire time.

  “I love you, Hamilton Jones.” She’d said it tonight, looking straight into his eyes, no guile in sight.

  She couldn’t, just couldn’t be lying.

  “I don’t want you in my life.”

  He pressed his hands on the cold glass. “Signe!”

  His voice reverberated through the darkness.

  Fine. He reached for his cell phone and let out a yell.

  He’d checked it in with his coat.

  Which meant he was up here alone.

  He sank down on the balcony, his face in his hands. Okay, think.

  But all he could hear were her words. “You get in the way.”

  The past breezed in, darkened his soul. He pressed his hand to his chest, to the pain there.

  He might be having a heart attack.

  God, what . . . I don’t understand.

  And in the chill of the night, he heard nothing. No words of wisdom, no profound truths from deep in his soul.

  Simply silence.

  No, simply quiet.

  Just his heart beating. Him, alone.

  Him, alone, in the cellar.

  And his mother’s hymns.

  “No power of hell . . . no scheme of man . . . can ever pluck me from his hand.”

  He didn’t need a voice.

  Because he had the truth. “It sounds like you’re being sifted, Ham. The enemy wants to win this one. Don’t let him. God calls you to be a warrior. To train, to wait for his command. And that’s why you have to lean hard into him. Fill your mind with prayer, with Scripture, with truth.”

  He fisted his hands, then pressed his forehead down on them, breathing hard. “I don’t know what’s going on, Lord, but I know I have you. Fix this, please. I’m here, whatever you need me to do.”

  He looked up at the stars, barely visible against the lights of the city, but there, named, winking down at him. And if he knows the stars, he knows us too.

  “What if this is about you, Ham?” Orion’s words from the cabin came back to him.

  No . . . what? Except, Signe had to know he’d try to find her.

  Which meant, so did everyone else. Like Isaac White. And by proxy Jackson, who knew who Ham was to White.

  “I’m nobody.”

  “Not to me.” Oh boy.

  He didn’t know what they had on her, but in his gut, he knew Signe’s worst fears were somehow playing out—that Jackson was using her.

  She had to be. He refused to believe the alternative.

  His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, lights from the street below illuminating the building.

  He got up. Stared down.

  Yeah, his hands got a little slick at the thought of trying to climb down. But he might be able to get to the next balcony. All he had to do was find an open door.

  He stood at the edge of the metal balcony and measured the distance to the next one. In the darkness, he couldn’t be sure, but it looked about six feet.

  Ho-kay.

  He climbed up on the metal railing, holding on to the building, digging his fingers into the chips in the granite.

  This wasn’t all that different from climbing Mount Huntington. He just had to hold on.

  No, he had to jump. Leap six little feet. The length of his body.

  Not a problem.

  The wind whipped at his legs and his fingers were starting to numb.

  Now. Go—

  “What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?”

  The voice jerked him, his foot slipped, and just like that, he was falling—

  “Whoa!” Hands grabbed him and he somehow caught the railing, his feet kicking midair. The man pulled him up and over the balcony. “Holy cow, you’re heavy.”

  Holy cow? Ham set his feet on solid ground, then looked up.

  Ford Marshall stood there looking at him like he’d lost his mind. “It’s not that bad, dude. Life is worth—”

  “I wasn’t jumping.”

  “Looked like it.”

  “You—okay, what are you doing here?”

  “Scarlett said you were in trouble. She sent me up here.”

  “What—how?”

  “She’s got the entire thing on video. Just come with me. Signe is on the run.”

  “Yeah she is. She trapped me—”

  “I know. C’mon!” Ford took off out of the room, and Ham followed him, trying to wrap his brain around what was happening. “How did you find me?”

  Ford was jamming his thumb into the elevator button. “Signe is wearing one of those contact cameras. Scarlett got it for her.”

  “Contact cameras?”

  The doors opened. “I don’t know, man. It’s for a dog?”

  Ham had nothing as they got in.

  “Signe came to Scarlett today after the ceremony and asked her to get one of them. Apparently, they have a camera and are used with K9 SAR dogs.”

  Right. “Yes. We got trained in that before Italy.”

  “So, Signe is wearing one. Scarlett got the entire thing on video. Apparently, she met with VP Jackson, and then this other guy—Scarlett said he’s Middle Eastern.”

  “Chechen?” Ham looked at the floor numbers. Must go faster.

  “Maybe. He’s disfigured. And he gave Signe a gift.”

  Disfigured.

&
nbsp; The man at the Ferris wheel. Ham couldn’t breathe. Aggie had been right and the fact that Tsarnaev had been that close to her . . .

  He wanted his hands around the man’s throat.

  But then, “Wait, a gift? Was it a bracelet?”

  “Yeah. We’re not sure what it is, but when she locked you on the balcony, we figured it wasn’t good.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “A storage closet on the main floor.”

  “A storage closet?”

  The doors dinged open and Ford led them out into the hallway.

  Logan Thorne stood in the center of the lobby, his back to Ham.

  Ham grabbed Ford and slipped down the hall. “Don’t tell anyone where she is. We can’t let the Secret Service find her.”

  Ford frowned but nodded. “Down this hall.” He took off in a run to a quiet hallway behind the ballroom, now rocking with songs by country singer Benjamin King.

  “Down here.” Ford turned another corner, and Ham spotted them—Jenny, Aria, and Scarlett standing around a door.

  Scarlett looked up. “She’s not saying anything.”

  “Maybe she can’t,” Jenny said quietly.

  Ham frowned at her. “Why?”

  “Because, if she could, why didn’t she tell you what was going on?”

  Because she’s a terrorist? The thought pinged through him, but he pushed it away.

  No. No she wasn’t.

  “Signe. Open the door.”

  Nothing.

  “Okay.” He turned to Ford. “Find Logan Thorne and tell him I told you to evacuate the building. I don’t know what’s going down, but we don’t need to take any chances with this many people here. And that’s an order.”

  “He’s not under your command anymore, Senior Chief.”

  “No. But he’ll understand.”

  Ford took off.

  “What are you thinking?” Jenny said.

  “I think Signe has been right this entire time and now she’s in trouble. And I’ve got to figure out a way to help her.”

  Jenny looked at Ham. “For whatever it’s worth, Signe loves you. I know she does.”

  Ham drew in her words like a fresh wind. “Yeah. Now, you three . . . get out of here. But don’t go out the front. Go out through the kitchen—maybe the loading docks.” He looked at Scarlett. “Especially you. I need you to keep that video footage safe, okay?”

  She nodded. Jenny and Aria followed her down the hall to the stairwell.

  Then he sat down beside the door.

  “Shorty, it’s just you and me now. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here until you come out.”

  She said nothing.

  “Signe.”

  “Go away, Ham. I have to do this. Alone.”

  “Do what?” Oh Signe. “Do what?”

  Again, she said nothing.

  So, he stuck his fingers under the door.

  And when she wound hers through his, he just about started to weep.

  This time, evil would not win.

  Orion had stalked down the hallway outside the ballroom, that one thought pinging through his head. He’d seen Martin, dressed like a waiter, head toward the elevators, and now he stood, watching the numbers flicker on to the eleventh floor.

  What went up had to come down.

  He’d thought he’d seen a ghost, really, when he spotted the man, and for a second, he couldn’t move, the recognition was so strong. Then, just like that, it came back to him. “Take them in the back and kill them.” Martin had said it in Russian, to his thugs, but Orion understood it, or most of it, words he’d picked up while in the service.

  And sure, maybe he’d gotten that wrong, but as he stared at the waiter, he knew in his bones it was his second chance.

  He’d grabbed Jake, his gaze on his prey as he left the room. “I see Martin, the guy from Italy. Tell Ham.”

  Then he’d taken off after the guy.

  Just missed him as he stepped onto the elevator.

  Orion debated taking all eleven flights up, but maybe he’d just park here and wait for the next elevator.

  Shoot—no, he hated waiting.

  He hit the elevator button. C’mon!

  The other elevator opened, and he got in.

  But a man and woman got in with him, and then held the doors for two more people, and he tried to push out, but they blocked the doors and they closed on him.

  He leaned back, folding his arms, staring at the numbers, calling himself all sorts of stupid.

  One couple got off on the third floor. Really, they couldn’t have walked up?

  Worse, they held the door as they chatted with their friends, making plans to meet up in the bar later.

  Orion nearly kicked them out, unfolding his arms, taking a breath.

  They laughed at a joke and then the other couple came back inside and let the door go. The man wore a suit, the woman was in a thick wool coat over a dress and boots. She turned to the man and said something in his ear. The man smiled.

  For a second, Orion was back in the car, kissing Jenny, his heart breaking for her terrible secret.

  Once he took care of business with Martin, he wouldn’t mind hunting down this Brendan fellow . . . But he knew about mistakes and regret and maybe the guy hadn’t walked away intact.

  So instead, Orion would just help Jenny heal, show her every day that she wasn’t the sum of her mistakes. “We’re in this together.”

  The other couple got off at eight and Orion’s nerves buzzed under his skin as he stepped up to the door, watching the numbers light up.

  Ten . . . eleven.

  Please, let Martin be here, somewhere—how he was going to find him, Orion didn’t have a clue, but—

  The doors opened. And, as if God had heard him, Martin stood right there.

  For a second, they simply stared at each other, Martin still dressed in his waiter disguise.

  Orion smiled. “Miss me?”

  Then he launched at Martin.

  Martin sidestepped him, sent a punch at his head, but Orion ducked and grabbed his hand, twisted, turned, and slammed his fist into Martin’s ribs.

  Martin bounced away, grunting, and turned. “I see we’re still angry about Italy.”

  Orion drew in a breath just as Martin came at him.

  He deflected his punch, trapped his other arm and slapped away the cross punch. Then he swung Martin’s arm back into a bar, locking his elbow. He chopped his other hand into the back of Martin’s neck, bending him over into submission.

  And that’s how it’s done.

  Except Martin slammed his fist into Orion’s bad knee, and of course—of course—it had to give out. Just for a second, but long enough for Martin to twist away.

  He rounded, kicked Orion in the chest, sent him into the wall, and took off down the hall.

  Nice. Pain shot up his leg, but not enough to slow Orion down. He hit the stairwell and spotted Martin already two flights down.

  Orion took the stairs three at a time, more, nearly jumping from stairwell to stairwell, and frankly any pain vanished by the time he hit the ground floor.

  He’d made up time, Martin just ahead of him.

  And that’s when he spotted Jake. Blessed Jake who was wandering in the hallway outside the ballroom.

  “Jake!”

  Martin took off toward the other stairwell at the end of the hall.

  “Don’t let him leave the hotel!”

  Jake sprinted for the stairwell.

  A security officer came out of the ballroom, took a look at Orion, disheveled and sweaty, and tried to step in front of him.

  Orion shoved him out of the way, kept running.

  It slowed him down enough for him to hear a shout when he reached the stairwell.

  Way to go, Jake.

  Except, when he opened the door, he found Jake on the middle landing, on his knees, bleeding hard from a cut in the head. A fire extinguisher lay nearby.

  “Jake—get up!” Orion ran past
him. “Get help!”

  He landed on the service floor and threw open the door. Housekeeping carts, linen baskets, a long supply closet. He slowed, Jake’s trauma echoing in his mind. Martin could be hiding. Or he could be long gone, heading for the loading docks.

  “Yeah, I’m still hot about Italy. C’mon, Martin. Don’t run away.”

  He crept down the hallway, out into the next room.

  The catering kitchen. The place was a hum of activity, shouts from chefs, the clank of utensils, the smell of baked goods and sense of chaos.

  A massive vent hung from the center of the room, over a long stainless steel oven-and-stove workspace. Along the wall, giant walk-in refrigerators and freezers gleamed, reflecting the hanging lights.

  And, throughout the space, line cooks and chefs worked on plating hors d’oeuvres for the party upstairs.

  Orion walked in, looked around.

  The kitchen led to another hallway, more stairs, and by the sign posted, the loading dock.

  Martin was gone.

  Orion stood there, his jaw tight, and a female waitstaff looked over at him as she carried in an empty tray from upstairs.

  It was her widened eyes, her shout, that saved his life.

  He turned just as Martin’s knife came down at him. Orion threw up an arm, and the blade sliced through the flesh of his forearm.

  He didn’t even feel the pain as he grabbed Martin’s wrist and sent a punch across his jaw.

  Martin ripped himself away, breathing hard.

  Orion ignored the blood from his arm.

  Around him, the room had stilled.

  Run. Orion heard his instructor—and that of every other hand-to-hand combat class he’d taken—in his head. First rule of knife fighting—someone was going to get hurt.

  Yeah, well, today it was Martin.

  “You’re not getting out of here,” Orion said, using his peripheral vision to look for a weapon. Or defense.

  “And you think you’re going to stop me?” Martin lunged again at Orion.

  Orion jumped away, kicked at his hand.

  “Run!” Orion shouted to the crowd but kept his eyes on Martin’s hand. He came at him again, and this time Orion grabbed his wrist and brought it down to his hip, trapping it.

  Martin hit him in the face.

  The world blacked, but he held onto his wrist, twisting with Martin as they banged around the room.