by Trish Loye
Perhaps because she wasn’t blonde, with a smart ass attitude, and steely green eyes? And her name wasn’t Sutton.
Where had that come from? He hadn’t thought of his ex in months—okay, maybe weeks—but lately she’d been popping up regularly in his mind. Annoying as she’d always been.
“Sir?” The young woman even frowned prettily, her mouth in a full-lipped pout.
Still, no desire stirred. And what the hell did this woman see in him? He was still in fighting shape, but his dark hair had gray peppering the sides and his dark eyes had lines radiating out from them. He looked good for forty-seven, but he wasn’t twenty-five anymore. His knees reminded him of that every morning before his run.
She cocked her head and her slight frown deepened.
Shit. Now he seemed like some absent-minded professor.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Feel free to email our agency and someone will get back to you.”
“Oh,” she said. “But, I’ve never had a chance to talk to a real Navy SEAL before and...”
And that was the attraction factor. Not him, but the fact that he was a SEAL. Even if he had been interested before, knowing that left him cold. The elevator doors opened and he stepped inside. “Good luck, ma’am.”
The doors slid shut on her surprised face.
He drove to his hotel room on auto-pilot. He had two more seminars in Washington before he could head back home to just outside San Diego.
He’d just entered his hotel room when his cell rang. He frowned at the unavailable number. “Marchetti,” he answered.
“Commander Marchetti,” the man’s voice said. “I’m glad I caught you. This is Silas Branson.”
Ryan frowned. Branson had been a Navy SEAL until he’d hurt his back awhile back. Why was the man calling him? “Lieutenant Commander Branson,” he said. “It’s been a long time. What can I do for you?”
“I was hoping we could meet. I have something I’d like to discuss with you.”
Ryan racked his brain, trying to remember what he knew of the man. “Aren’t you working for the DHS now?”
“Yes. I’ve been with them for a while now,” Silas said.
Ryan wondered how the guy liked riding a desk, considering even this part-time consulting gig made Ryan itch to face a tango or two, just to remember what it was like to feel alive. Would it be worse to know about the action and to not be allowed to be a part of it? “How do you like it?”
“Why don’t we have a drink tomorrow when you’re done teaching, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
An odd sense of expectancy crept into Ryan, fueled by the fact that he hadn’t told Silas he was a consultant. “Why? You need help pushing all those papers?”
“Something like that. I’ve got an offer I hope you can’t refuse.”
2
The next morning, Sutton ate her usual fried egg on toast for breakfast and drank a cappuccino from her too-expensive-but-worth-every-dollar espresso machine. She sighed. It was good to be home and sleep in her own bed.
Costa Rica had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. Anna had raved about it after going there on vacation once. So Sutton had spent these past weeks lying on the beach, surfing, and hiking through nature reserves.
She picked up her camera and flicked through some of the shots. She’d taken hundreds of pictures of sunsets, the ocean, the jungle, the wildlife, the locals. It had been soothing to indulge in the hobby she hardly ever got time to focus on.
Her pictures covered the walls of her apartment. Most taken of places that she wasn’t allowed to say why she’d been there. None of the pictures had anything to do with her missions, but each had meaning to her.
The child carrying a basket on her head had been taken when she’d been in Somalia. The closeup of the old woman in the hijab had been in Iran. The brilliant mountain sunset had been Afghanistan. She had others and each reminded her of her life.
But the largest one was in her bedroom. Another sunset. This one on a beach, taken ten years ago. More and more often of late, each time she looked at it, some part of her yearned for that beach, for that man.
And as always, she tucked that yearning away. She’d chosen the life she had, a life of service. Besides, the man from the beach had moved on.
She’d met the woman he’d moved on with. In hindsight, it hadn’t been her smartest idea to show up at his beach house without warning, six months after their breakup. She snorted at the stupidity of her younger self. The dark-haired woman who’d answered the door had been wearing a skimpy bikini. And had the body to pull it off. Sutton had gotten out of there before he could come to the door and she could embarrass herself further.
The years since had made the memory almost funny. Almost.
She glanced at the clock and then gave the dishes a quick wash. When she checked her phone, she realized someone had called during the early hours of morning when she’d been asleep.
She frowned. It was from a strange number, but when she played the voicemail, she recognized the caller—Mark Rollins, her friend and an analyst on her team.
* * *
“Hey Sutts, call me when you get this. I’m at my grandfather’s grave. It’s peaceful here. If...If you ever need to find...answers, you should come here... I...I think I’m in trouble. I don’t know who to trust. Call me.”
* * *
Sutton frowned and pressed Call Back. It told her the number was no longer in service. Something in his voice made her heart thump harder. She dialed Mark’s cell next. It went to voicemail. She tried once more with no luck. She ran a hand through her hair and then called another friend.
“Hey, Tony,” she said when he picked up. “Have you heard from Mark?”
Tony Wallis also worked in her section. Was it sad that most of her friends were also her coworkers? But Tony was different. He was the 2IC of the team. As the second-in-command, he followed Edworthy’s orders from the op center, but he was in charge of the team on the ground. He’d been dating Anna for just over a year before the...incident. They’d kept their relationship professional, but Sutton knew them both too well. Anna’s death had hit Tony hard as well.
“Sutton? I heard you were back in town. Why haven’t you called?” A chair creaked and she imagined him leaning back from his desk. “Are you coming in today? Shit is hitting the fan here and it’s fucking everywhere.”
“Yes, I’m back,” she said, ignoring the shit-fan-everywhere comment. Shit was always hitting the fan in their job. “Listen, I got a really weird message from Mark. Have you heard from him?”
“No.” His voice lost its easy-going quality. “What was the message?”
“He thought he was in trouble. Did he come into work today?”
“No. I haven’t seen him. Want me to check with Edworthy?”
“Sure. I’m going to drop by Mark’s place, see if I can track him down. Can you tell Edworthy?”
“Sure. Want backup?”
“No, I should be okay. He’s probably just off sick.”
“But that’s not what your gut is telling you.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Trust those instincts,” he said. “Keep me informed.”
“Wilco.”
“And Sutton? Make sure you get your ass into work after that.”
“Is this about the leak?” She tapped her fingers on the counter. A traitor was bad.
“Yeah. They’re forming some kind of special team to investigate it. Edworthy and I are on it.”
She wanted some of that action. “I want in. Who’s leading it?”
“Some fancy SEAL commander. Probably all brawn and no brains.”
She knew better than most that SEALs were some of the smartest men out there. They had to be in order to pass all of their training, but she didn’t argue with Tony.
“I gotta run, Tony.”
“Let me know about Mark.”
She didn’t reply, just hung up, strapped on her shoulder holster and weapon, grabbed a dark, zip-up hoo
die for warmth, and strode out of her apartment. A weird urgency had taken hold of her, pushing her to find Mark. One of her feelings.
Dread curled in her stomach at that thought and she moved faster.
Ryan organized his notes while he stood at the front of the boardroom. He had five minutes before he was supposed to start yet another leadership lecture, to yet another group of management personnel, at yet another business.
He stifled a yawn. At least he was meeting Silas at five today. He could only hope that Silas wasn’t yanking his chain and maybe there was something—hell, anything—more interesting to do than this. The teaching wasn’t bad, but he needed more. He wasn’t done contributing yet. He hated feeling washed up at freaking forty-seven.
Please let it not be a fucking paper-pushing job.
At two minutes to nine, his phone buzzed. He recognized the number as the one Silas had called from yesterday. A slide of his finger and he answered.
“Marchetti.”
“Commander. Is there any chance you can make it down here by noon?”
He hated saying it. “I’m teaching today.”
“Something...of national importance has come up. We could really use your skill set.”
Ryan looked at the twelve men and women he had to teach today. They either held coffees and seemed barely awake, or they stared at their phones. Future business leaders. None of them would complain if he condensed the class into just the morning.
“I’ll be there,” he said.
It had taken Sutton thirty minutes in rush-hour traffic to get to the other side of the city where Mark lived alone in a condo near the water. No one answered when she buzzed his apartment. Beyond the locked glass door, on the far side of the lobby, a younger man in his early thirties, wearing gym gear, stepped off the elevator. Sutton dug in her hoodie’s pockets as if searching for keys, being careful to hide her holster. The man barely glanced at her when he pushed open the door and walked past.
She didn’t know whether to grimace or smile that she didn’t look like a threat. She was hitting forty-two this year. And although she kept herself in good shape—a necessity for the job—she knew she wasn’t someone who would attract a lot of male attention. She didn’t have big boobs or major curves. She had always been pretty average except for her blonde hair. Though, when she bothered with mascara, she had had compliments on her gray-green eyes. But she’d never been drop dead gorgeous, and for that she tried to be thankful, because it meant she could slip unseen into places, and every man who did notice her usually underestimated her.
Well, every man except one. But she was trying not to think about him anymore.
She stepped in behind the man before the door shut. He didn’t look back or notice. She punched number six in the elevator. At Mark’s door, she took out her lock pick set and started to insert the first pick when she realized the door was already unlocked.
The hair on her scalp prickled. She quickly shoved her picks away and pulled her Glock out. She pushed open the door soundlessly and entered, closing it behind her.
The front hall of the condo opened into the main living area, with the kitchen to her right and a wall of windows straight ahead. Bright morning light shone throughout the unit. She could see the Potomac River in the distance. The design scheme was an eloquent gray, navy, and steel, which suited her tech-savvy friend.
She moved into the living area and to the left. Everything was silent and still. When she passed the leather couch, she found Mark. He lay on his side, tied to a dining room chair that had been tipped over, his face turned away. Sutton rushed to kneel at his side. “Mark!”
She set her weapon down, wanting it close, and pressed her fingers against his neck, automatically searching for a pulse, even though she knew it was useless. His skin wasn’t cool, but it wasn’t warm either. His eyes stared sightlessly beyond her. Bruises decorated his throat as well as his face. Blood had dried on his face and seeped from cuts on his chest, making his white T-shirt tie-dyed with red. His body hadn’t set into rigor mortis yet so he’d only been dead a couple of hours.
A couple of hours.
Someone had killed him. Someone had killed her friend. They’d made it through years of missions together and someone had killed Mark at home? She bit her lip, swallowing a scream, and forced herself to gather her thoughts and process the scene.
His hands tied behind the back of the chair.
His palms cut. Defensive wounds. He’d fought back. She swallowed hard.
Bruises decorated his face, body, even his hands. Someone had beaten him, brutally. But why?
“What the fuck did you get yourself into?” she asked, her voice low and hoarse. She reached into her pocket for her phone to call 911.
A shift in the air behind her whispered of movement. Her attention laser-focused, sharp and lethal. Instinct made her grab the gun from the floor and roll toward the window. Something slammed into the ground behind her. She jumped to her feet, bringing the gun up.
A blur of black cracked across her wrist and pain spasmed through her arm. She dropped her weapon. Shit. She leapt back to give herself more room.
Her assailant wore dark clothes and had a balaclava over his face. He held a short black stick, like an old-fashioned cop’s baton, in one hand and drew a hunting knife with a serrated edge from a waist sheath with the other.
Great. A multitasker.
He swung the stick at her again and she leaned back, dodging the fast strike, but kept an eye on the knife. He swung again and again, making her stay on the defensive. It took her a moment to get his rhythm and then on the next swing, she stepped in, caught his arm and pulled, using his momentum. His knife arm struck next. She caught it with her other hand. She faked a knee to the groin and he shifted his weight to counter. With him off-balance, she pulled his arms hard, bringing him closer, and slammed her forehead into his nose. It hurt her head, but it would hurt him worse. He grunted and his muscles went slack for a split second. She let go of the baton hand and slammed the heel of her palm into his throat.
He swung the baton at her and she managed to shift enough so it hit her shoulder rather than her head. Pain radiated down her arm and it went numb for a moment. Shit, he was strong. She couldn’t let him hit her head. She shoved at him, trying to get space to maneuver.
He yanked his knife arm from her grip and slashed at her. Pain seared her forearm in a line of molten metal. She cried out and stumbled back. He swung the baton again. She lifted her other arm to block and he shifted the angle of his blow to come under her arm and strike her ribs. She hunched away from the blow, but it still forced the air from her lungs. Nausea and pain swept through her.
She tried to get away, to move back, to think and ended up falling over an end table. He’d have her if he caught her on the floor.
Get up. Get up. Get away.
She rolled and scrambled, grabbing the back of the couch, trying to stand. He jumped for her and landed on her legs, his weight pulling her back to the ground. She held onto the couch and wiggled one leg free. She kicked hard at that black mask. Once. Her boot heel glanced off the top of his head. She waited a beat until he looked up and she slammed her heel into his face.
He released her. She scrambled to where her gun lay.
His harsh breaths sounded right behind her. Her fingers fumbled. He aimed a kick at her head. Her fingers touched cold metal and relief poured through her. She fell flat, avoiding the kick, and pulled her weapon up, aiming at his chest. An easy shot.
But she didn’t pull the trigger. This wasn’t a mission or a foreign country.
“Don’t move or I’ll shoot.”
He swung his leg into a kick and she fired. The gun barked loudly in the confined space of the condo. He fell back against the wall, the round taking him square in the chest.
With a hand to his chest, he staggered to the front door and hobbled out. She scrambled to her feet and ran after him. He wouldn’t get far, but he was still dangerous and she didn’t want him to
hurt anyone in his attempted escape. She ran after him, only then noticing the blood dripping down her arm and the ache that radiated through her ribs with each panting breath she took. But even with her injuries she wasn’t going to let this asshole get away. He’d killed Mark.
She would get justice.
In the hallway, the far door to the stairs swung shut. She raced to it. How’d he get there so fast with a chest wound? She punched the door open, her gun raised in case her attacker waited on the other side. She’d expected him to be lying on the stairs. Instead, she had to lean over the railing to see him leaping down the steps.
Shit. He must be wearing a vest. The point-blank range shot would have had to hurt like hell, but he wasn’t bleeding out and obviously he could breathe. Damn it.
She tried to keep up with him and managed not to let him get any farther ahead as they pelted down six flights of stairs. He disappeared through the door to the lobby and she raced after him, slamming through the door and out past an elderly couple who gasped at her bruised and torn appearance. She tried to keep her gun down and out of sight as she ran onto the sidewalk and looked for her assailant.
She spotted someone moving fast a block away. She took off, knowing she wasn’t as fast as she used to be, but she ran four times a week and worked out just as hard. She might not be able to out-sprint this guy, but if she could keep him in sight she might be able to outlast him.
If her aching ribs let her.
She pushed away the pain. This was for Mark. She would find this guy and bring him in.
She ignored the gasps and looks she got as she raced down the sidewalk carrying her weapon. The attacker turned sharply into an alley. She slid into it, bouncing off a brick building, and put on speed again. She leapt over a fallen trash can and stumbled on the other side. Her strength was ebbing.
No. She had to catch this guy.
The end of the alley opened onto another street. He was already across. She looked both ways as she ran, dodged one car, cursed another and leapt for the sidewalk. Something struck her hard from the side and she fell, hitting the pavement, scraping skin and bruising everything that hadn’t already been bruised. She took a second to take one breath and pushed herself to her feet, looking around. What had happened? Where was Mark’s killer?
