Reckless Deceptions

by Karen Rock

He strapped on a Kevlar vest and grabbed an AR-15. On his signal, the SWAT team stormed the apartment building and breached the front door with a battering ram. He leapt inside, the butt of the rifle on his shoulder as he peered down its scope. “Clear,” he shouted after sweeping the area. One by one, the team followed, advancing slowly until they’d swept the entire space.

  A trickle of unease formed in his belly. The place was empty. Tipped off by the weapons trafficker Ryan had failed to stop, the terrorist cell must have fled, ambushing the surveillance team in the process.

  A wave of anger boiled inside him. How’d they know about the surveillance? About his meeting with the Speaker? Ryan scanned the scene, noting monitors without their hard drives and raw, bomb-making materials like nitroamine, plasticizer, mineral oil, and synthetic rubber, ingredients used to create the C-4 explosive in the Amman attack.

  Anger and shame were nails he’d swallowed. He felt them even though he’d technically done nothing wrong…which was exactly the problem. By rigidly adhering to protocol, he’d missed the bigger picture. If he’d taken Erica’s advice and searched the apartment rather than surveil it first, he wouldn’t have lost critical evidence and allowed the cell time to escape. Worse, Al Monitor, head of Jabhat al-Nusra, was on US soil…. Jamal had confirmed it, and C-4 explosives were Khalid’s signature.

  Was the group planning to bomb the Saudi Consulate’s party or a softer target? Ryan’s teeth ached from how hard he ground them as he scoured the area for clues.

  One thing was certain. No one in Dallas was safe until they stopped the plot.

  Chapter 11

  Three days later, as multiple agencies chased one dead end after another, the terrorists remained at large. Ryan, on the other hand, was trapped. His head throbbed. His blood pounded through his body and his heart beat so hard he felt the pressure not only against his ribs, but against the VFW’s wall behind him. All around him, members of the Seventh Division Special Ops Unit and their families mingled, awaiting the awards ceremony.

  He gripped the cool metal circle in his pocket and focused his thoughts on the upcoming ceremony instead of his frustrating search. Would his gift please his father or piss him off? Dad hated sentimentality. Yet watching his father grow frailer, as if he wasn’t dying so much as fading, prompted Ryan to do something solid and tangible…. A symbol of…what?

  Their fucked-up relationship? His screwed-up feelings?

  He rubbed the back of his tense neck. Once Dad was gone, his mother would stoically pack away his father’s belongings as she had with Brent. Everything connected to his dad, from his favorite mug with the oversized handle to the James Michener book collection he and his brothers added to every Father’s Day, would be relegated to the attic. No reminders to prolong their grief. Ryan would have accepted—hell—approved of those practical actions before. Stiff upper lip and all that shit.

  Yet seeing life through Erica’s eyes challenged his beliefs. Cowards didn’t express their feelings, she insisted. Did fear drive him and his family? Avoiding emotions was an escape from hurt. The downside, though, meant losing out on joy, excitement…love. His gaze flicked to Erica. From the moment he’d laid eyes on her again, his head and heart had spun.

  Dressed in a bright yellow sundress, her red hair swept up in a ponytail that showed off her long neck, she looked radiant as she chatted with his mother. No other word described her. She cast light from wherever she stood. He’d invited her to run interference between him and his family as she had at the birthday party, a buffer from the cold silence shrouding his father’s illness. And he needed her warmth. Her fire.

  Needed her. Period.

  The thought rolled heavily in his gut. When they’d broken things off after Amman, he hadn’t allowed himself to regret losing her. In fact, he’d denied feeling anything at all. Working alongside her again kicked the crap out of that stupid belief. Every emotion returned threefold. He hadn’t been unable to get her out of his head or stop touching her, losing himself in her. Whenever he pictured leaving Dallas without her, the invisible belt around his chest cinched another notch.

  He withdrew the Medal of Honor replacement he’d commissioned for his father and traced the inscription engraved on its back. Brent Lawrence Arnell.

  “He’s going to love it.” Erica joined him, fingering the medal’s blue neck band.

  Ryan shrugged and kept his poker face. It was no easy feat with Erica near and the citrus scent of her filling his nose. Looking at her fresh-faced beauty, no one would suspect she’d gunned down one of the world’s deadliest terrorists just days ago. The contradiction of her—soft and hard, tough and compassionate—added up to a fascinating woman.

  “He will.” Erica cocked her head, and her ponytail swished across her shoulders.

  “Guess we’ll see,” he muttered. After years of rejection, he didn’t expect much when it came to pleasing his father. Still, the boy longing for approval and love remained. Maybe emotions were like energy—they couldn’t be created or destroyed. They just were.

  Like his feelings for Erica.

  She was a balm to his hardened heart, soothing it. Opening it. He’d forgotten how good being with her made him feel: lighter, freer, energized…the kind of adrenaline rush that left him giddy and happy to be alive. But was that enough to sustain a real relationship? Erica expected more than he was comfortable giving. Yet he was falling for her again, harder than before. And for the first time, thinking three moves ahead didn’t clarify the future.

  Erica reached behind her and fiddled with the band holding her ponytail. “Any word on Greg Pullman?”

  “FBI’s following a lead in Sacramento. Our surveillance video picked up the name of a business he’d written on a pad by his phone.” He flipped the medal between his fingers.

  “Don’t be nervous.” Erica’s soft hand landed on his arm.

  He clamped his twitching mouth shut and spoke through clenched teeth. “I’m not nervous.”

  “Liar.”

  “It was a stupid idea anyway.” He glanced at his father, who was white-knuckling his wheelchair’s arms as he strained to sit ramrod straight amongst his fellow brothers-in-arms. All wore blue neckband ribbons, their Medals of Honor resting atop their neckties. All except his father. The back of Ryan’s eyes burned as he recalled his stone-faced father wordlessly handing his medal to his brother’s undertaker ten years ago.

  “Why would you say that?” Erica ducked her head to catch his eye.

  He shoved the medal back in his pocket. What the hell had he been thinking? “Because my father doesn’t like sentimental gestures.”

  “Maybe he’s just bad at showing it…. Seems to run in the family.”

  Ryan tapped his chin. “Now where have I heard that before?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You haven’t since you don’t seem to hear me.” When he didn’t respond, she sighed. “Are you really not going to give it to him?”

  “Another time.”

  “Why’d you replace it, then?”

  He blew out a breath. Jesus. She wouldn’t quit. This needling should annoy the hell out of him…and it did…but another part felt it like the return of sensation to a numb limb…. For so long he’d been taught to be dead on the inside. Erica woke him up, one stinging rush at a time.

  “I didn’t want him to be the only one here without one.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “And what else?”

  “Jesus, Erica. What do you want me to say?” He paced away. She followed.

  “The truth!”

  “I—I—”

  An emcee tapped on a microphone and the amplifier whined. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about to begin our program. Could we have our Medal of Honor recipients on stage at this time?”

  Ryan cut his eyes to the stage’s wheelchair ramp, knowing his father would resist using it for fear of looking weak, and swore under his breath
. “Be right back.”

  A half-dozen strides carried him to his father, who waved away his brothers’ offered help. “I can see fine from here.”

  “Sweetheart.” Ryan’s mother smoothed a hand over his father’s ill-fitting suit. “Everyone’s here to honor you.”

  “I don’t want them staring at me like this.”

  Erica extended a hand. “With a woman on your arm? You’d be the envy of the room.” Everyone’s mouths dropped open at Erica’s arch statement. “How about we go up together?”

  Ryan’s father stared up at her, blinking fast. “I—uh—not—”

  “Everyone will think you’re faking to get Erica to help you,” Ryan put in, earning him a nod of approval from her.

  A cheeky grin formed on his father’s lips. “Don’t know if my wife would approve.”

  “I’m on board, but no funny business, Pete,” Ryan’s mother warned, eyes sparkling. “Erica, feel free to swat him if he crosses the line. You never know with this one.”

  A sputtering laugh rumbled from his father’s chest, and he heaved himself upright, clutching the wheelchair for balance. “I’ll behave. Let’s go, girlie.”

  Ryan watched, mouth agape, as Erica appeared to lean on his father, clutching his arm, for all appearances making it seem like she needed his help mounting the stairs in her improbable heels. The sight did something funny to Ryan’s heart. A strange, stretching sensation. Its beat felt harder, the sound louder as it pressed against his lungs, making it hard to breathe. How neatly Erica managed the situation without stealing his father’s dignity. She’d honored him, and Ryan should, too.

  Before they reached the folding chairs, Ryan strode on stage and, after a whispered exchange with the emcee, took the podium.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said into the mic. “My name is Ryan Arnell. My father is Lieutenant Colonel Pete Arnell, one of the men you’re here to honor for their heroic work in saving the Seventh Division on June 12, 1968. In a minute, distinguished speakers will detail how this lone scouting unit, outnumbered and outgunned, beat back a Viet Cong ambush against all odds. But I have a personal story of heroism to relay, first. One about my dad.”

  He glanced behind him, and his father’s fierce scowl backhanded Ryan across the face. Fire flamed in his cheeks. His fingers curled around the podium’s edge, and he willed himself to speak his feelings. “Ten years ago, my father lost his oldest son, Lieutenant Brent Arnell, in Kabul.” His chest loosened as he said his brother’s name for the first time since his funeral. The word launched from his lips like an untied balloon and danced overhead. Free.

  A murmur rippled through the crowd. In the third row, his brothers stared up at the ceiling, blinking hard. His mother pressed a fist to her mouth, and her eyes brimmed.

  “Brent entered the military to follow in our father’s footsteps. He wanted to honor him and serve this great nation. He understood the sacrifices he might have to make. As a parent, my father accepted the sacrifice our family might be forced to make as well. And when we heard Brent had died, my father, the hero, didn’t flinch. He did what he could to honor a fallen soldier. A fallen son. He sacrificed his Medal of Honor so Brent could be buried with it.”

  Some in the crowd sniffled. Others blew their noses. The back of Ryan’s neck flushed hot as he felt his father’s glare.

  Ryan pivoted, pulled the medal from his pocket, and lifted it to eye level. The gold plating gleamed beneath the overhead lights. “And while my father has made many sacrifices in life, this is one I can’t let go unrecognized. I commissioned another Medal of Honor, which I’d like to present to him as a courageous soldier who served his country, his fellow brothers-in-arms, and our family through our darkest times.” He met his father’s gaze, and the anger faded, leaving sorrow and something else, something Ryan had never seen before…. Was it pride?

  His heart thudded.

  Dad wobbled upright, clutching Erica’s hand. Ryan snapped a salute and slipped the medal over his head.

  Cheers and applause erupted. Before Ryan could straighten, his father gripped his arm. Ryan held his breath. Was his father going to thank him? Say he was proud? Loved him?

  “Thought you’d make this son of a bitch cry, didn’t you?” Dad whispered.

  Erica’s mouth dropped open as Ryan stepped back. He studied his stern-faced father and shook his head, burying his disappointment deep. “Not a chance, sir.”

  A glimmer of a smile accompanied his father’s firm nod. “Dismissed, son.” He eased back down to his seat.

  Ryan ignored Erica’s attempts to catch his eye and pressed his lips together. He didn’t want her pity. This was between him and his father.

  Or maybe there’d never been anything between them at all.

  * * * *

  Three hours later, Erica and Ryan sat in his car outside her apartment. A country tune played softly through the speakers, and summer air poured through the open windows.

  “That was beautiful.” A warm breeze lifted a strand of her hair and fluttered it across her chin.

  He slipped the lock behind her ear, relishing the feel of her skin against his. “What was?”

  “Giving your dad the medal.” She leaned her cheek into his palm. Ryan dropped his hand, and she squinted at him in the half-light cast by a distant streetlamp. “What did he mean when he said you’d wanted to make him cry?”

  Ryan tensed. “Let’s call it a night. We’ve got the consulate party tomorrow and—”

  Her eyes narrowed, and her brows dipped to meet over her nose, the expression she wore when she’d sniffed out something important in an interrogation. “Why are you avoiding my question?”

  He fiddled with the keys dangling from the ignition. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because I want to know you. The real you. Not the bullshit perfect agent, the man…. The one who danced with me in a midnight rain.”

  He drew in a long breath, then released it. Erica. She knew exactly what to say to sweep past his defenses. They crumbled at her feet, taking him with them. “It’s just a stupid little story.”

  “If it’s about you, I want to hear it.”

  His jaw locked. His stiff shoulders rose to his ears. Where to begin? “My father ruled our family like a military unit. Discipline, performance, following orders.”

  “But you love him, right?”

  He grimaced, wishing she’d drop this line of questioning…but he was dealing with a crack interrogator. He’d been a fool for opening himself up even this small bit. “My father only wanted our obedience, not our love.”

  “It doesn’t mean you can’t still give it. You choose the relationship you have with your dad. Not him. You.”

  The back of his throat burned as he digested her words. Erica couldn’t understand his relationship with his father. It wasn’t that simple.

  Was it?

  He ran a hand over his hair, as if combing away the memories. “My father nicknamed me Cryin’ Ryan.”

  Her brows shot up. “Excuse me?”

  “Forget it.”

  Which, of course, dog-on-bone, Erica would not. “Why would he call you that? You never cry.”

  “Not anymore.” The urge to open up to her throbbed inside. He rubbed his chin, trying to decide where to begin. “When I was little I used to cry. A lot. My mother called me sensitive. Artistic. My brothers used to take bets on how long it would take one of them to make me cry.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  Of course she’d be disgusted by his weakness. He’d be a fool to think anything different. “I’d try not to cry, but I—”

  “No. I mean horrible of them.” She ripped out her elastic band, and her hair tumbled around her shoulders in a shower of red. “What assholes. Your parents allowed this?”

  He almost smiled at her outrage. Instead he turned to face her, his arm looped o
ver the wheel. “Not my mother. But Dad laid down the law. We never disobeyed orders.”

  “Never?”

  “Except once.” He clenched his fists, willing the words to come. “After a dinner party to celebrate my father’s latest promotion, he ordered me to play something for his military cronies. His superior was there, I remember, and a visiting general.”

  “Talk about intimidating. How old were you?”

  He closed his eyes, swallowing as he tried to gather up his emotions. “Nine.”

  “Jesus. What’d they expect to hear? ‘Chopsticks’?”

  “I learned my first Mozart concerto by my seventh birthday.”

  Erica scooted back in her seat, then drew her knees up and hugged them. “You’re a prodigy.”

  “Was.”

  “So you refused to play?” Erica twirled her hair so hard it looked like she was trying to pull it from her scalp.

  “I was afraid I’d freeze up and forget the piece.”

  “And your father insisted?”

  He winced, memories cutting him. “He told me to get my ass on the piano bench, or he’d make sure I couldn’t sit for a week.”

  Erica brought her fist down on her knee. “Your mother should have intervened. That’s child abuse.”

  “Corporal punishment.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Plus, it apparently hurt him way more than it hurt me.”

  “How are parents allowed to say shit like that?” Anger crackled in her voice, and he was grateful she didn’t offer any condolences. Her pity.

  “My father wasn’t exactly looking for permission, and he brooked no arguments…not even from my mother.”

  “So you played the piece?”

  He shook his head. “I froze. Everything flew out of my head. I just stared at the keys. Then a lady laughed, and I started crying. My father hauled me outside and made me stand on the bottom step. I couldn’t move an inch until the last guest left. Not even to sit or lean.”

  “How long?”

  “I think the party ended at two a.m. I cried the whole time. Probably every tear I ever had or would have,” he said.