by Dee Davis
“Another day,” Avery said, coming up to stand beside them. “For now, let’s just be grateful we got the shooter. For all we know, this guy called for reinforcements, and although I’d put money on us in a firefight I’d just as soon avoid one, if possible. So I’m thinking we need to move fast if we want to search the building.”
“Roger that,” Nash said. “So you think there’s anything to find?”
“Only one way to know for sure.” Drake grinned, then strode off for the building, the others quickly following.
At the door, they stopped, backs to the wall, as Avery reached out to open it.
“Wait,” Tyler said, quickly feeling along the frame for signs that there might be some kind of booby trap. “It’s clean.”
“All right then,” Avery said, “I’ll go first.”
The big man swung into the doorway, leading with his gun, and after calling “clear,” the others followed him inside. The first floor was a one-room affair. Ratty furniture was scattered around with seemingly no thought to decoration. A sofa lay overturned, and a table had been flipped on end. Behind it, a fireplace smoldered, half-burned papers spilling out onto the hearth. Boxes littered the floor, and an open crate stood in the center of the room.
“Looks like weapons,” Tyler said, motioning to an old Soviet stamp on the side of the crate as she peered inside. “I’m guessing, from the indentations, old PK machine guns.” She lifted a bed of man-made straw to reveal what had most likely been a second layer of weaponry.
“A holdover from the Soviet/Afghan war?” Nash asked.
“That or maybe just old cast-offs.” Tyler shrugged. “The Russian black market is full of serviceable but outdated equipment. And there are always people ready to buy.”
“Like our boys here.”
“Guy up here was packing a PK,” Drake said, leaning over the stairway banister. Nothing to identify him. But there’s crap all over the floor up here, too. Looks like whoever was using this building moved out on the fly.”
“Leaving dead dude to hold the fort?” Simon quipped. “Talk about hazardous duty.”
“Everyone fan out for a look,” Avery said as he bent to pick up a torn piece of paper. “Maybe we’ll still find something.”
“Most of the paper is too burned for anything to be legible,” Simon said, sifting through the singed rubbish. “But there’s a notebook here that looks salvageable. The covers are toast, but the pages inside are relatively untouched.” He held out the charred notebook. “Unfortunately, I can’t read Arabic. Nash, what about you?”
“I can speak it fairly well,” he said, taking the notebook from Simon and flipping through the pages with a frown. “But I’m not nearly as good at reading it. It’d take me a couple of days to make any sense of this.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Avery shook his head. “We can get someone at Langley to translate when we get back.”
“Well, it’s definitely schematics of some kind,” Nash said.
“So we’ve got weapons and diagrams.” Avery frowned. “Seems to verify our intel that this was more than a simple village.”
“Not to mention having their own personal sniper,” Tyler added. “My guess is that he was finalizing clean-up with an eye to our arrival.”
“And when forced into action, he started shooting.”
“Yeah. And I’m betting it wasn’t a voluntary assignment,” Tyler said. “He had to have known it was suicide.”
“Maybe he thought he could scare us off.” Avery took the notebook from Nash, carefully stashing it in his pack. “Or maybe he thought it was a fast ticket to all those virgins.”
“Well, wherever he ended up, maybe his hasty exit will play to our advantage somehow.” Simon was back to sifting through the refuse in the fireplace.
“Damn well better,” Avery said, “because it seems like lately, no matter what we do, we’re always just a few minutes behind the ball. Anybody got anything else?”
“This count?” Drake asked, coming down the stairs holding out a small black box. “Looks like an external hard drive. I found it mixed in with some other destroyed electrical equipment.”
“Don’t know what you expect to get off that.” Simon wiped the soot off his hands as he studied the box in Drake’s hand. “Looks to me like someone took after it with a hammer.”
“I’ve seen Harrison resurrect worse,” Avery said. Harrison Blake was the team’s IT guru. “Hell, if we’re really lucky maybe there’s something on it that’ll connect to the Consortium.”
CHAPTER 1
New York City, Hospital for Special Surgery
So on a scale of one to ten, how would you rank the pain?” Dr. Weinman asked as he probed the deep scars running across Simon’s thigh.
“Three,” Simon said, fighting against a grimace, pain radiating up into his hip. The long hike through the Afghan mountains plus the stress of the firefight had aggravated his injury, his pronounced limp causing Avery to send him to the orthopedist for a look-see.
“So a six.” The doctor released the leg and scribbled something on his chart.
Simon opened his mouth to argue, but Weinman smiled. “Look, I’ve been patching up people like you for most of my career. Which means I’m more than aware that in your world, a three would definitely be a six for the rest of us. God’s honest truth, probably more like an eight or nine.”
“Apples to oranges,” Simon said, his smile bitter. “The rest of you wouldn’t have a leg full of shrapnel. So am I cleared for duty?”
“Yeah.” Weinman shrugged. “You’re good to go. There’s no new damage. But I’m afraid as long as you insist on engaging in the kind of work you do, there’s always going to be risk. And sooner or later, there’s going to be additional injury. So it’s not a matter of if, but when.”
“Nothing I didn’t already know,” Simon said, jumping off the table to get dressed.
“I assume you’re still working with the PT?” the doctor asked, glancing up over the top of his glasses.
“Actually, I’m not. With the new job, there just isn’t time to come all the way into the city. But Sunderland has a great gym. And I’ve memorized the moves by now. So it’s easy enough for me to work out on my own.”
“Well, I suppose that’ll have to do,” the doctor said, still scribbling in the chart. “Just be careful not to push too hard. Do you need something for the pain?”
“No, I’m good.” Simon shook his head as he shrugged into his shirt. The pain meds only dulled his brain, slowing his reflexes. And in his line of work, that wasn’t an option. Besides, he prided himself on being tough.
“There’s nothing dishonorable about managing pain,” Weinman said, correctly reading Simon’s train of thought.
“Look, I said I’m fine.” Simon blew out a breath, forcing a smile. The doc was only trying to help.
And if Simon were truly being honest, he’d have to admit that sometimes, in the middle of the night when the pain threatened to overwhelm him, the pills were his only ticket to oblivion. But he’d seen what had happened to men he’d fought with when the meds had taken control. And he wasn’t about to let himself go down that path. No matter how fucking much it hurt.
“It’s up to you.” Weinman shrugged, closing the chart and rising to his feet. “But if you change your mind, I’m only a telephone call away.”
“Good to know. But I’ll be okay.”
“All right then. We’re done.” Weinman paused, his gaze assessing. “Until next time.” Leaving the words hanging, he turned and left the room, and Simon blew out a long breath.
The bottom line was that he knew he was on borrowed time. His injuries had been severe enough to force him out of the SEALs. And sooner or later, they were probably going to mean an end to his career with A-Tac, at least in the field.
But for now, he was determined to carry on. He was a soldier. Pure and simple. And just because he could no longer be a SEAL, he didn’t have to settle for some piddly-ass desk job. A-Tac was as goo
d as it got when it came to working counterterrorism. And he was lucky to have found a home there.
And he sure as hell wasn’t going to fuck it up by letting his injury get in the way. Anyway, all that mattered now was that he was good to go. Which meant he could get back to Sunderland—and the hunt for the Consortium.
He walked out of the exam room, striding down the hall, ignoring the twinge of pain shooting up his leg. Compared to a couple of years ago, this was a cakewalk. And the way he figured, another year and it would hardly be noticeable. Everyone in his line of work lived with injury. It was part of the package. It just wasn’t something most people could understand. Their idea of the fast lane was eating fried food on a Saturday night—his was perpetrating a raid on an Afghan terrorist encampment.
He waved at the receptionist as he walked through the waiting room and pushed through the doors of the clinic. Dr. Weinman’s offices were on an upper floor of the hospital, the corridor leading to the elevator lined with windows looking out over the FDR Drive and the East River. Outside, beyond the congestion of the highway’s traffic, the river was flowing out toward the harbor. A tugboat, barge in tow, was making its laborious way upstream. Above the swiftly flowing water, the skyline of Long Island City stood illuminated against the bold blue sky.
It was the kind of day that made a kid want to skip school. And suddenly Simon was struck with the thought that everything was right with his world, the past firmly behind him and the future beckoning bright. It had been a long time since he’d felt hopeful about anything. Hell, with his past, who could blame him. But maybe it was time to move on. There wasn’t much point in letting the past, or the future, for that matter, hold too much sway. Better to live in the now.
He laughed at the philosophical turn of his thoughts. Had to be the hospital. All that life and death crap. He stopped for a moment at the door to a large waiting room. Inside, a small army of nurses were triaging patients, most of them nonambulatory, with bleeding wounds and broken limbs.
But the blood was fake, and the moaning and groaning more about theatrics than pain. A disaster drill. He’d seen a notice in the elevator on the way up. Judging from the chaos ensuing inside the room, he’d have to assume it wasn’t going all that well. Of course, if it been the real thing, the hysteria would have been much worse. But this was just play-acting, and thankfully, he didn’t have a role to play. With a rueful smile, he turned to go, then stopped, his brain conjuring the picture of a blue-eyed blonde in green scrubs.
Frowning, he turned around again, certain that image must be wrong, that his mind had merely superimposed a memory onto a stranger. He rubbed his leg absently as his gaze settled again on the woman. She had her back to him, her sun-streaked ponytail bobbing as she talked to another woman also wearing scrubs. She was waving her hands, her slim fingers giving additional meaning to her words.
Even from behind, he knew that his instinct had been dead on. He knew the curve of her hips. The turn of her shoulders, the grace of her long, lithe legs. He recognized the way she stood, the way she moved. Hell, he’d have known her anywhere. And then she turned, as if somehow she’d felt his presence, her eyes widening in surprise and then shuttering as she recognized him.
His mind screamed retreat, but his feet moved forward, taking him across the room until they were standing inches apart. Behind her, out the window, he could still see the river, the blue of the sky almost the same color as her eyes.
“J.J.?” The words came out a gruff whisper, his mind and body still on overdrive as he tried to make sense of her being here in New York.
“I go by Jillian now,” she said, her voice just as he’d remembered. Low and throaty. Sexy. “It’s easier.” There was a touch of bitterness in her words and a tightness around her mouth that he’d never seen before.
He paused, not exactly sure what to say. It had been a long time. And he hadn’t thought he’d see her again. Memories flooded through him. The smell of her hair. The feel of her skin beneath his fingers. An image of her standing with Ryan in her wedding dress, eyes full of questions, Simon’s heart shriveling as he chose loyalty over everything else.
J.J. was Ryan’s girl. She’d always been his. Since they were practically kids. And one drunken night couldn’t change that fact.
Ryan was his best friend and he’d failed him—twice. Once an eon ago at a college party, and the second time, years later, in a compound in Somalia. He’d managed to avert disaster the first time, common sense and loyalty overriding his burgeoning libido. But in Somalia, he hadn’t been so lucky, and because of his decisions, Ryan was dead. J.J. had lost her husband. And there was nothing Simon could do to make it right.
“I can’t believe you’re standing here,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s been a while since I saw you last.”
“Four years,” she replied, the words a recrimination.
“You look the same,” he said, wishing to hell he’d never seen her. He didn’t need this.
Again she laughed, but this time with humor. “You always were a flatterer.”
“Yeah, well, I guess some things never change,” he said, studying her face. There were faint lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. And her hair was longer and slightly darker than before. But over all, she looked like the girl he remembered. Except for the smile.
J.J. had always been smiling. Or at least that’s the way he’d chosen to remember her. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been anything but happy. He’d never forget the pain etched across her face as she’d accepted the flag that had been draped across Ryan’s casket. Simon had promised to come by later that day. But instead he’d left town. And never looked back.
“You look good, too,” she said, her eyes moving across his face. “So what brings you to the hospital?”
“Check-up,” he sighed, rubbing his leg. “But it’s all good. I’m healthy as a horse.” And babbling like a fucking idiot. She’d always been able to reduce him to baser levels.
“I’m glad,” she said. “I heard you left the team.”
“Didn’t have much of a choice.” He shrugged. “But I landed on my feet, and I’m doing okay. What about you? You a nurse now?”
“Something like that.” She nodded. “Speaking of which, I suppose I ought to be getting back to it.”
“Right,” he said, the silence that followed stretching awkwardly between them.
And then, with an apologetic shrug, she turned back to her “patients,” and Simon forced himself to walk away. Hell, the past was better left buried. Hadn’t he just been having that exact thought?
He stepped back into the corridor, and then, despite himself, turned for a last look. She was bending over a man with a rudimentary splint on his arm, her fingers gentle as she probed the imaginary wound.
Almost involuntarily, his gaze rose to the window, his senses sending out an alert. A high-pitched whine filled the room, the glass on the windows shaking. The sky disappeared as the window turned black. For a moment, everything seemed to move in slow motion. And then, all hell broke loose as the windows shattered and something rammed through the side of the building, the walls shredding like corrugated cardboard.
People screamed, and Simon called her name. “J.J.”
One minute she was standing there, eyes wide with confusion and fear, and the next—she was gone.
The air was acrid with the smell of smoke combined with the metallic odor of gasoline. Jillian’s eyes opened as self-preservation kicked in. Visibility was almost nonexistent, the lights either blocked or extinguished. Neither of which made sense. She tried to push to her feet, but her body refused the order, and panic laced through her as she tried to figure out what was going on.
The last thing she remembered was Simon. Which was odd in and of itself considering how long it had been since she’d last seen him. She shook her head, trying again to move but finding her limbs still unresponsive. Despite the choking smoke, she forced herself to breathe, letting the rhythm of her rising chest soothe
her into calmer thinking.
She was in the hospital. She’d been leading an emergency preparedness drill. And Simon had walked into the room. So at least she wasn’t crazy. But then everything after that was a little more hazy. She remembered a whoosh of air followed by what had sounded like crumpling metal and shattering glass. A car accident of the nth degree.
But there was no way there’d been a car on the fifteenth floor of the building—which left only a couple of possibilities. The least being a bomb. The worst something on the scale of 9/11. She opened her mouth to scream, but smoke filled her lungs and she coughed instead, the inside of her throat burning with the effort.
She turned her head, trying to see. The smoke had thinned slightly, and she twisted up, stretching until her body rebelled, her muscles spasming with the effort. Drained, she dropped back to the floor, but not before she’d ascertained that she was pinned underneath something. Heavy and metal, from the looks of it, although whatever it had been, it wasn’t anymore. Again she tried to fill her lungs with air—this time breathing shallowly, mindful of the smoke.
“Help,” she called, the word coming out somewhere between a whisper and a croak. She could hear people moving, screams filtering through the metal surrounding her. “Help,” she cried again, louder this time.
“J.J.?” a voice broke through the barrier. Simon. “Is that you?”
“Yes,” she called, her voice rising as she was filled with both hope and fear. The metal above her groaned and shifted, the pressure on her legs increasing. “I can’t move. I’m stuck.”
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice nearer now.
“I don’t know.” She shook her head, even though he couldn’t see her. “But I don’t think so. There isn’t any pain.” The fact wasn’t necessarily a positive sign considering she was pinned, but panic wasn’t going to help anything.
“That’s good,” Simon said, his voice more reassuring than she could have imagined. “Now we just have to figure out how to get you out of there.”
