Westy muttered a string of curses that sent Hannah’s eyebrows toward her hairline.
Garret turned his attention to the judge, the glum-looking Admiral Pease, whose poker face betrayed no response to Lovitt’s story. “Your Honor, I am finished questioning this witness,” Garret announced. “At this time I relinquish him to the defense.”
Finally! It was Commander Curew’s turn to take the floor. As the defense lawyer approached the bench, Hannah noted with dismay the creases in the woman’s uniform.
“Commander,” the young lawyer began, her wavering voice betraying intimidation, “you say that you initially intended to have Lieutenant Renault back on your team. Please enlighten the court as to your reasons.”
Lovitt glanced at Jaguar, his expression regretful. “Before his captivity, Renault was once a promising young officer. I thought he deserved a second chance.”
“Before?” Commander Curew jumped on the word. “Is it not true that as a prisoner in the People’s Democratic Republic of Korea, my client retrieved valuable intelligence which will be used to fight the war on terror?”
Lovitt’s shoulders twitched. “That is true,” he conceded.
“And were you not commending Lieutenant Renault for his bravery the day that you lured him out onto the PC?”
“Lured?” He took offense to her word choice.
“With the promise of return to active duty,” she explained.
“He was more than eager to accompany me aboard the vessel,” Lovitt protested.
“And yet, within moments of boarding, you claim that he expressed unwarranted fears and misgivings? You claim that Rodriguez, feeling nervous, fingered his weapon. Is it possible, Commander, that Lieutenant Renault had good reason for feeling threatened?”
“No, no. Rodriguez kept his weapon pointed at the floor. It was Jaguar who snatched it out of his hands. He shot me for no reason!”
“In regards to the .45-caliber pistol that you carry out at sea, had you withdrawn the weapon at this point?”
“No. I was stunned. I couldn’t believe I’d been shot by one of my own men.”
“And then you fainted.”
“Yes.”
“In that case, you never actually saw Lieutenant Renault fire on PO3 Rodriguez.”
Lovitt blinked. “Well, that’s correct, but no one else could have done it.”
“And when you regained consciousness,” she continued, ignoring him, “Rodriguez was bleeding and the lieutenant had left the pilothouse. It was then that you heard gunfire.”
“Yes.”
“Coming from the rear of the boat.”
“Correct.”
“Why would the SEALs shoot at unarmed sailors, Commander?”
Lovitt searched for an answer and shook his head.
“Was it possible that the sailors on board had weapons and were firing back? After all, PO3 Keyes was shot while attempting to fire an antitank gun into the heart of the patrol craft.”
Lovitt seemed unprepared to answer the question. “Well, certainly there are weapons in the armory aboard the boat,” he allowed. “The sailors may have armed themselves to protect me, but I never saw their weapons.” He slanted a nervous glance toward the prosecuting attorney.
“If there are weapons aboard the PC, Commander, why didn’t you arm yourself with one of them?”
“I couldn’t have moved toward the aft portion of the boat without being seen,” he argued.
“I see. So you thought to protect yourself by threatening to shoot the V-22 Osprey helicopter but you had no real intention of firing at it.”
“Objection,” Captain Garret sang out. “Your Honor, the defense is making my client repeat the same testimony that he has already given. Where is her argument?”
Admiral Pease sent a disapproving frown at the defense counsel. “Commander, if you have an argument, kindly get to the heart of it.”
Commander Curew drew herself up with indignation. “Very well. Allow me to offer an alternative interpretation of the events occurring on board the USS Nor’easter on August the nineteenth.” In a surprisingly clear narrative, she presented the version that the SEALs would shortly attest to, suggesting that Lovitt had secrets to hide and, hence, a motive for killing Jaguar, which he had attempted to do the year before in North Korea.
Throughout her narrative, Lovitt remained impassive, but Hannah imagined she could see tiny beads of sweat forming on his brow.
As Commander Curew concluded her argument, Captain Garret came to his feet. “Your Honor,” he opined, his tone dripping with scorn, “the defense makes a mockery of your courtroom with her fantastical interpretation.”
Admiral Pease frowned down at Commander Curew. “You are leveling some heavy allegations, Commander,” he observed. “It is my hope that you are not wasting this court’s time by leading us on a wild and wasteful goose chase.”
“Your Honor, I will prove to this court that my statements are valid and that my client has been wrongfully accused.”
“Hmmph,” said the admiral, clearly unconvinced.
The faces of the jury also reflected skepticism.
Just wait, Hannah thought. With all the evidence they had stacked against him, and a little bit of luck, Commander Curew was bound to make good on her promise. Jaguar would walk away a free man, and Lovitt would spend the next decade or so behind bars.
But by four in the afternoon, the direction of the trial was still uncertain. As Commander Curew had predicted, Captain Garret hindered her argument repeatedly, calling into question the validity of every scrap of evidence undermining Lovitt’s integrity. While the burden of proof was supposed to fall upon the prosecution, it didn’t seem that way to Hannah.
With little progress made, the trial was called into recess until the following morning.
Though they’d been sitting still for the better part of the day, the SEALs were slow to file out of the benches. Luther looked around at his companions’ long faces. “Let’s go to Rascal Jack’s,” he suggested. “We need to let off steam.”
“What’s that, a bar?” Hannah asked, rubbing her sore backside.
“It’s a pool hall,” Westy answered, watching Garret’s wife as she waited for her husband to finish conferring with his assistant.
“Do you play pool?” she asked Luther.
“Westy does.”
She looked back at Westy, whose gaze hadn’t wavered.
“You’ve been staring at that woman all day,” she told him.
“She’s good,” he said, stepping to one side so she could sidle by him.
Hannah took another look. Mrs. Garret wore no makeup, a beige dress, and tucked her mousy brown hair behind her ears. “Good at what?” she wondered out loud.
“Being invisible,” he replied, his blue eyes bright with curiosity. “Makes me wonder why.”
Hannah snorted. “Isn’t it obvious? She doesn’t want to be here. Her husband’s an ass, and she’s miserable.”
Westy cut her a startled look.
“Come on,” Hannah urged. “She’s not your problem. I’ll challenge you to a game of pool.”
“Just so you know, Westy’s going to win,” Luther divulged, shepherding them toward the exit.
“Well, thank you for the vote of confidence,” Hannah retorted, “but you’ve never seen me play.”
When he’d made his suggestion that the SEALs head over to Rascal Jack’s, Luther hadn’t counted on Hannah being the center of attention. Not that he could blame the SEALs, old and young alike, for gathering around her stool.
She wore a butter-yellow pantsuit that made her look stylish and savvy. She bantered with the men, demonstrating an ability to hold her own while SEALs pressed closer, drawn to her like moths to flame.
Swilling a club soda with lime, Luther found himself craving a tumbler of scotch—something with enough punch to take the edge off his agitation. So what if twenty guys were drooling over Hannah? They’d talked about this. His plans and hers didn’t jive. They we
re incompatible. He had no claim on her.
Bear, who occupied the stool to his left, gave Luther a knowing look. “Man, you are so hot for her, I can see steam comin’ out of your ears.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Luther growled.
Bear chuckled. “In that case, maybe I’ll take a shot at her myself.”
He edged off his stool to join the other men.
Luther squeezed his lime into his Perrier and sent a seed flying.
A shuffle of feet had him glancing to his right. Westy had come to Hannah’s rescue. He was leading her toward a pool table, one hand on the small of her back. Luther swiveled on his stool to watch them.
SEALs gathered around the table with Bear and Vinny at opposite ends. The chief gestured for Hannah to break.
She did, hitting the clustered balls with such force that she sank three of them, claiming solids.
On her second turn, she nailed another one.
Luther stopped watching the table and started watching Hannah. As she stalked around the end of the table, the material of her pantsuit clung to her sleekly muscled thighs. She considered the various shots available to her, her bright hair bouncing and shifting. He remembered how soft it felt, sliding through his fingers.
Hannah settled for a shot that required her to lean way over the table. Twenty pairs of eyes admired her curves. Luther felt his blood pressure rise. Hannah brought the stick back, and pow! she hammered the cue ball, sending yet another solid into the corner pocket.
Bear and Vinny hooted with appreciation. At his end of the table, Bear fluttered a five-dollar bill in the air and pointed to Hannah. Vinny nodded. The bet was on.
And Westy hadn’t even had a turn yet.
Hannah eyed the field. Indicating the side pocket, she leaned down and banked the red solid off the far right wall, straight into the center hole.
“Ho, ho, ho!” Bear exclaimed. There was only one solid left, a green one nestled against the short end of the table on Teddy’s side.
Hannah studied it from all angles as she orbited the table. Come on, baby, Luther thought, cheering for her silently.
She looked up abruptly, meeting his gaze through the crowd. Don’t call me that, Luther imagined her saying. He smiled faintly, and she looked away, frowning as she brought her focus back to the game.
The crowd grew hushed, considerate of the concentration required to keep her lead. The music in the jukebox throbbed in the background.
You can do it, Luther thought as Hannah gave the world’s most difficult shot her very best effort.
She almost succeeded. The ball fell just shy of the pocket, leaving Westy the opening he needed to secure his reputation.
Vinny pulled a five-dollar bill from his wallet, licked it, and plastered it to his forehead. Luther groaned, recalling that Vinny was—what?—nineteen years old?
As Westy moved around the table sinking one ball after the next, Luther watched Hannah’s expression. Given her wry smile, she had to sense that Westy was going to beat her. It didn’t seem to bother her. Her equanimity, along with everything else about her, impressed him.
I want to keep her.
The thought came out of nowhere. Luther put his glass down before he dropped it.
No, no. It’d barely been a month since he dumped Veronica. He’d sworn to himself that he’d never ever date another woman who didn’t share his vision of family and fidelity. Compatibility was everything.
But I want Hannah. I can compromise.
It wasn’t in his nature to be flexible. All his life, he’d envisioned marriage to a sweet and sexy and domestic female. They’d have three kids, two boys and a girl.
Hannah was sweet and sexy, but she wasn’t the least bit domestic. She wanted to work overseas, for God’s sake. She had plans of her own.
But maybe they could work around that. He went overseas himself, all the time. If they could see each other several times a year . . . There had to be a way to make it work. There wasn’t another woman like Hannah. He’d be a fool to let her go!
He came abruptly to his feet and walked to the table just as Westy sank the eight ball. The crowd parted for him like the Red Sea for Moses. Westy glanced up from his winning stroke and caught sight of him. He grinned with approval as he laid his stick down.
Luther stepped over to Hannah. “Can we talk?” he asked quietly, his heart beating with mixed fear and hope.
“Sure,” she said, looking puzzled. She thrust her pool stick at Bear. “Where?” She looked around.
Rascal Jack’s was packed with SEALs and regulars trickling in. There wasn’t a private corner anywhere. The music was too loud.
“Let’s go outside,” Luther suggested. The late September sky had mellowed to a color not unlike the juice they’d sipped by the pool in Guantanamo. Newman’s bodyguards were in the parking lot. How dangerous could it be to get some fresh air with two dozen SEALs within calling distance?
The cool air came as a welcome contrast to the bar’s smoky interior. Luther hunted for a place to sit. His legs were feeling shaky, like they did right before high-altitude, low-open parachute jumps. What if Hannah turned him down?
But the curb was filthy, littered with trash, spilled beer, urine, and God knew what else. Rascal Jack’s shared a parking lot with a tattoo parlor and a dry-cleaning shop. It wasn’t the most romantic spot to ask Hannah to start a relationship with him.
The scrubby pine trees at the back of the buildings offered privacy, but he preferred to keep close to Newman’s bodyguards.
Luther honed in on the tailgate of his truck. Leading Hannah over to it, he wiped the dust off the bed liner so they could sit without sullying their dry-clean-only outfits.
Hannah eased onto the tailgate and waited. Uncertain where to start, Luther stared straight ahead, past the chain-link fence that separated them from Oceana Naval Air Base’s landing field. A cargo plane, a C-5 Galaxy, the size of a whale, lumbered up the runway in preparation for takeoff, its engines flaring. With the crimson sunset beyond it, the view was almost picturesque. And if that damn plane could get off the ground, Luther thought, then so could his relationship with Hannah.
The engines roared, giving him added time to organize his thoughts. The nose of the Galaxy went up. For the longest time, it seemed to hover just above the ground before climbing ponderously into the sky. Hannah waited.
“You know how you asked me what I want the other night?” Luther began, glancing at her quickly.
Her wide eyes struck him as especially green. “Yes,” she said.
“My plans aren’t set in stone, you know.”
She searched his face, needing clarification.
Luther gave up beating around the bush. “I think you’re amazing, Hannah,” he admitted. “I want to have a shot with you. If I have to change my expectations, then I will. I just don’t want to let you go when this is over.”
She looked stunned, completely bowled over.
“Guess I took you by surprise,” he added, because the silence was killing him.
She drew a deep breath, then huffed it out again. “Oh, Luther.” She was about to say something more when her gaze shifted past him, toward the tattoo parlor. “What the . . . Get down!” She threw herself at him, tackling him into the bed of the truck.
In the same instant a hiss and a thunk made Luther realize that a bullet had just punctured his vehicle inches away from where he lay now, on his back with Hannah on top of him. He pulled her head down, wriggling toward the side of the bed, hoping it would shield them. “Where’d that come from?” he asked.
“Shooter on the roof,” she said in a thin voice.
Damn it, where were Newman’s bodyguards? Luther snatched the cell phone off his webbed belt.
Thunk. A second bullet embedded itself in the truck bed, just inches from Luther’s thigh. “Shit!” he whispered, twisting his body, so that Hannah was on the inside, protected.
That was when he saw the blood.
On h
er head, just above her temple running into her hairline. The color of her hair failed to camouflage the scarlet stain, oozing into her roots. His look of horror had her reaching up with her fingertips. “The bullet just grazed me,” she said, but her face looked pale.
Luther ignored his shock long enough to peek over the edge of the truck bed. He caught sight of the shooter, standing up on the roof of the tattoo parlor, trying to improve her chances of hitting them. If his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, it was Tanya Obradovitch.
He’d been right, damn it. The Individual was back in action.
Luther made a call that went straight through to Galworth and Stone, who were probably playing gin rummy in their Winnebago, damn them.
“Yes, sir,” Stone answered cheerfully.
With a few choice words thrown in, Luther summarized their situation. Not twenty seconds later, a shot was fired from the Winnebago, then another. Luther braved a second peek. Tanya Obradovitch was retreating.
Galworth and Stone burst from the Winnebago in the same instant that Navy SEALs peered out of Rascal Jack’s, summoned by the sound of gunfire. Luther caught sight of Westy, who hurried toward him.
“What’s going on, sir?” He glanced at Hannah and paled. “What the fuck?”
“The Obradovitch woman was on the roof there, taking shots at us. Go get her,” Luther ordered.
“Take her inside, sir. I’ll cover you.” Westy stalked to his car. He threw open the back, pulling out his pistol and submachine gun. He tossed the latter at Vinny who came up behind him.
Luther gathered Hannah into his arms. “I can walk,” she said. He ignored her, taking care not to jostle her as he carried her into the building, nodding at those who held the doors.
He could hear Westy breaking volunteers into teams of two and sending them in different directions. Tanya Obradovitch would be apprehended shortly.
The jukebox still blared. Luther laid Hannah on the pool table’s velveteen surface. The few remaining patrons gathered curiously around. “Call an ambulance,” Luther told one of them as he swept the few remaining balls aside. “How do you feel, baby?”
She pretended to glare at him, her face pallid with shock. “I told you never to call me that,” she said.
In the Dark Page 20
