The Defiant Hero

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Lieutenant Jazz Jacquette was gently turning the knob so that the door was unlatched. As Jazz nodded at Nils, Sam could see his full lips twitch. From another man, it wouldn’t have meant anything, but from SEAL Team Sixteen’s grim-faced executive officer, it was the equivalent of an all-out grin.

  The Marines were expecting an easy victory. They were expecting that the SEALs would back down and go home. But in approximately seventeen seconds, Nils and his men were going to kick some serious Marine butt.

  Nils gave a hand signal. Stand by.

  Sam held up fingers as he watched the seconds tick down. Four. Three. Two . . .

  He used all of his weight to kick the door open, and it went like clockwork. He and Jazz went in first, moving fast, in sync, shoulder to shoulder to stay out of each other’s firing range. He saw the absolute surprise on the guards’ faces, saw the weapon down on the table, saw Chang safely off to the side.

  Sam’s weapon was already up, and he fired, neatly taking out the guard on the right as easily as Jazz handled the guard on the left.

  It was over in less than two seconds.

  Nils moved toward Chang—he and WildCard cut the captain free.

  “You’re badly outnumbered,” Sam heard Chang say.

  “Just stay close, stay down, and we’ll get you out of here, Captain.” When the light hit Nils a certain way, he looked a little like that movie star, Ben something. The one who’d dated Gwyneth Paltrow. Except Nils could play earnest and sincere better than any Hollywood actor Sam had ever seen.

  And they were off, back out into the hall, moving swiftly toward the front entrance.

  Sam could hear the sound of explosions, more of them now, one right after the other, rapid-fire. It sounded like an all-out frontal assault. And knowing the Marines, they would respond to it as if it were an all-out frontal assault, sending their men out in force to meet the threat.

  Except the threat was already behind them. Within them. Inside them.

  Team Bravo had set off smoke grenades in the lobby, bless their devious little hearts. It made it impossible to see—or to be seen.

  They led Chang right out the front door, pretending to cough and choke along with the Marines, hiding amidst the chaos.

  The area around the compound was thick with smoke as well. And all of the big floodlights had gone dark—Chief Frank O’Leary’s handiwork, no doubt.

  There was only one sharpshooter in all of the U.S. military who was better than O’Leary, and that was Lieutenant Junior Grade Alyssa Locke. Who, rumor had it, had resigned her commission as an officer in the Navy just shortly after she and Sam did an op together up in New England, last summer. Was it something he’d said? Was it everything he’d said? God knows they hadn’t hit it off the way Sam had wanted them to. . . .

  Focus, he ordered himself. This was neither the time nor place to devote even the smallest percentage of his concentration to Alyssa Locke.

  The coldhearted ice bitch.

  The coldhearted, drop dead gorgeous, impossibly beautiful, achingly exquisite ice bitch. With her eyes that were the color of the ocean, a startling contrast to her smooth, light brown skin, and that mouth. That incredible mouth. Lord have mercy, Alyssa Locke had the kind of lips that would have sparked erotic fantasies in a Puritan.

  Sam had a recurring dream in which Locke would turn to him and smile that certain kind of smile that meant heaven was just a heartbeat away. She’d moisten her lips with just the very tip of her tongue and . . .

  “Watch it, Starrett!”

  Oh, Jesus, he’d stepped on Lopez.

  “Sam, we’re almost there, but I need you with me,” Nils said softly.

  Crap. Scolded out by his best friend.

  Damn Alyssa Locke.

  Nils did a quick head count as he approached the extraction point, the men around him barking like seals to let the Marines know who’d bested them.

  Chief O’Leary, Ensign Mike Muldoon, Jenk, Rick, Steve, and Junior. His Team Bravo was all there, as were the trucks that would take them back to the base.

  Nils had done it. He’d fucking won the no-win scenario.

  There was a helo there as well, he realized. A puddle jumper.

  And—surprise, surprise—Lieutenant Tom Paoletti, commanding officer of SEAL Team Sixteen, was standing beside it, arms crossed. Nils hadn’t expected to see his CO tonight. Not out here, anyway. And there was another man next to Paoletti, but he was even farther in the shadows and Nils couldn’t make out his face.

  Was the CO mad or was he merely cold? It was too dark to see his eyes, but there was something of a chill in the desert air.

  Petty Officer Second Class Mark Jenkins more than made up for Paoletti’s seeming lack of enthusiasm. Jenk practically did a cartwheel. “You did it, Lieutenant! You beat the no-win scenario!” He started another round of barking among the men.

  “By cheating.” The man beside the CO stepped into the light, raising his voice to be heard over the din.

  Shit. It was Admiral Larry Tucker. What was he doing here?

  Senior Chief Wolchonok came and planted himself beside Nilsson, an unmovable rock, ready to go into battle with him for a second time that night. And the rest of the team fell right in behind him—including Captain Chang. Nils nearly laughed aloud. The elation he’d felt at winning was nothing compared to this show of support from his teammates. He looked Tucker straight in the eye. Come on, dickhead, give it your best shot.

  “There was a security breach of the computer system last night.” Tucker glared at Nils. “I assume you’re behind that, Lieutenant? Or maybe you’d like to go back to being an ensign again? Maybe three years wasn’t enough.”

  Ah, Christ. Bring that up, why don’t you?

  But from behind him, Nils heard Sam Starrett cough into his hand, “Asshole,” and he had to struggle not to laugh.

  Lieutenant Paoletti stepped forward. “Admiral Tucker—”

  But Tucker had fixed his death-ray gaze on WildCard, who was doing his best to look angelic—not an easy task for a guy who looked an awful lot like the devil incarnate. “This smells like one of your stupid tricks, Mr. Karmody. Before this is over, we’re going to find that you’re involved, aren’t we?”

  “No, sir,” WildCard said.

  Nils knew he meant “No, sir, you’re not going to find anything.” WildCard was a hacker extraordinaire. He didn’t leave calling cards. At least none that Tucker or his staff would be able to find.

  “Personally, Admiral,” Paoletti said mildly, “I’m of the opinion that if Lieutenant Nilsson and Petty Officer Karmody did hack into the computer to gain knowledge of tonight’s training op, they should be commended for their attempt to go into this mission as fully prepared as possible. If this situation were real, and that was an Iraqi computer they’d compromised—”

  “But it wasn’t an Iraqi computer. It was a U.S. Navy—”

  “I really don’t see the difference.” The CO had the balls to interrupt the admiral. “SEALs are trained to seek unconventional alternatives and options for every given situation. Lieutenant Nilsson should be commended for his initiative.”

  Nils realized that while he was speaking, Paoletti had managed to move so that he, too, was standing beside him, with the team. “Good job, Lieutenant,” Paoletti said. He held out his hand.

  Nils shook it. “Thank you, sir.”

  From over on his left, Wolchonok let out a resounding, “Hoo-yah!” It was a cry that the rest of the men, both officers and enlisted, echoed.

  The senior was grinning at him, and Nils smiled back, knowing he’d remember this moment for the rest of his life.

  A vein stood out on Tucker’s forehead. “Lieutenant Paoletti, are you—”

  “Going to have a beer with Lieutenant Nilsson and my men? Definitely.” Paoletti cut him off again, turning this time to the men in Nils’s Bravo Team. “What, do you guys have tomorrow off or something, staying out like this all night?”

  They shrugged, and Jenk answered for
them. “No, sir, muster’s at oh-five hundred. We’ll be there.”

  “Let’s see if we can’t spell this out so Admiral Tucker will be sure to understand,” Paoletti said. “We have here an ensign, a chief, and four petty officers who—even though I didn’t hand out this assignment, even though this was their time off, including their time to sleep—have spent an entire night participating in a training op. And the reason they’ve done this is . . .” He looked at O’Leary. “Can you help me out here, Chief?”

  The taciturn chief shrugged. “Because Nils—Lieutenant Nilsson—asked.” The other SEALs nodded.

  “Because Lieutenant Nilsson asked,” the CO repeated.

  Tucker was finally silent, and Nils actually felt sorry for the SOB. When was the last time anyone did anything for him simply because he asked instead of ordered?

  “You guys have tomorrow off,” Paoletti told them. “Good job tonight. All of you. Lieutenant Howe,” he called to the waiting helo pilot, “I think the admiral’s ready to return to the base. I’ll be driving back with my men.”

  Poor Teri Howe. She had to fly back to Coronado with only Admiral Tucker for company. She sent a longing glance in Mike Muldoon’s direction, but as usual, the newest member of Team Sixteen was oblivious. He was already in deep discussion with the senior chief.

  Nils held his breath until Tucker was safely on the helo and off the ground.

  Lieutenant Paoletti turned to Nils and sighed. “What am I going to do with you, Johnny?”

  “Just promote him to admiral, L.T., and get it over with,” Sam Starrett drawled. “Then he can fight it out with Tucker himself.”

  “Let’s get moving.” Wolchonok began herding the team.

  “I support your creativity, Lieutenant,” Paoletti said to Nils as they headed for the trucks. “You know I do. But we’re going to have to have a talk. Tomorrow. Fifteen hundred. My office. This stunt’s going to get some attention, and not just from Admiral Tucker.”

  Nils shook his head. “Please don’t ask me to apologize for winning, L.T.”

  “I’m not going to do that. But we might need to do some explaining.” Paoletti’s cell phone shrilled. He glanced at his watch, and Nils automatically checked his own timepiece.

  It was 0343. Who was calling the CO at this hour? Was it possible Tucker was so determined to crucify him that he’d already started spreading the word?

  Paoletti found the pocket that held his phone as it rang again. “This can’t be good.”

  “Oh, Tommy,” WildCard singsonged obnoxiously. “It’s your wife!”

  As Paoletti opened his phone and stepped aside to take the call, Nils quickly moved to intercept WildCard. He wasn’t the only one. Wolchonok and Jazz Jacquette also made a beeline for the gangly SEAL.

  “She’s not his wife,” Wolchonok said bluntly. “So shut the fuck up.”

  “Whoa,” WildCard said, blinking. “I was just kidding, Senior. I was—”

  “It’s becoming something of an issue for L.T.,” Nils explained, his voice low. “He wants to get married, and she keeps putting it off.”

  “Who, Kelly?” WildCard was genuinely surprised. It was obvious that for once he hadn’t meant to be an asshole.

  “Yes, Kelly,” Jazz told him. “Every time L.T. tries to pin her down to a wedding date, her pager conveniently goes off.”

  WildCard laughed. “No way. She’s crazy about him. Whenever she comes to see him at the base, I swear, it’s not even five minutes before he locks the door to his office and—”

  Jazz gave him a silencing look as Lieutenant Paoletti shut his phone with a snap and approached them.

  “Problem, sir?” Wolchonok asked.

  “That day off’s going to have to wait,” the CO announced. “That was Admiral Crowley on the phone. He wanted to know if I knew where Lt. John Nilsson was.”

  Oh, shit. Nils had always thought of Crowley as one of the good guys. The admiral was a SEAL himself. If he was pissed about this . . .

  “We’ve got to move,” the CO continued. He was talking to Jazz and Wolchonok now, but the rest of the team had stopped to listen, too. “The entire team’s going wheels up ASAP. We’ve been ordered to provide assistance to an FBI counter-terrorist team in DC. There’s a hostage situation in the Kazbekistani embassy.” He turned and looked at Nils. “And the hostage taker will only negotiate with Johnny Nilsson.”

  Three

  MEG HELD ON tightly to her gun as she stared across the men’s room at Osman Razeen.

  All three of her hostages sat on the floor, their hands carefully on their knees. But only Razeen’s eyes were open. He stared back at her, watching her as intently as she watched him.

  Did he know why she was here? Could he tell just by looking into her eyes that she would kill him, ruthlessly, if she had to? Did he even suspect that she might well be his assigned executioner?

  It had been ten hours since she’d sent the fat man out of the room, and there was only silence in the hall outside. Ten hours—and she was completely exhausted. Who would’ve guessed sitting on a bathroom floor could be so completely draining?

  It was definitely time to check in.

  Ten hours was plenty of time for the FBI or the Mission: Impossible team or whoever the heck was out there to rig their miniature cameras and high-powered microphones, running them into this room through the air vents, or up through the plumbing in the sinks and—why not?—even the toilets.

  Meg cleared her throat and spoke for the first time in all those hours. “I want to know if Ens. John Nilsson has been contacted.”

  The two other hostages opened their eyes. They glanced at each other, and one of them opened his mouth to speak.

  Meg cut him off. “I wasn’t talking to you.” She raised her voice only slightly. “I know you can hear me. I’d like my question answered, please.”

  From the bottom of her handbag, her cell phone rang.

  She’d imagined them yelling the answers to her questions right through the closed bathroom door. She’d feel right at home—that was one of Amy’s favorite forms of communication.

  Oh, God, she wanted Amy.

  She let the phone ring until she was sure she could answer it without her voice wavering. She couldn’t sound weak. She couldn’t let them think they could just walk in here and take the gun away from her.

  Even if that was the truth.

  Taking a deep breath and holding the gun with her right hand, she reached into her bag with her left, her eyes never leaving her hostages. She flipped the phone open.

  “Guess you figured out who I am, huh?” She tried her best to sound flip, casual. As if she were a hardened terrorist who’d taken hostages a dozen, no, a hundred times before.

  “Ms. Moore, my name is Max Bhagat and I’m—”

  “Has John Nilsson been found?” All those relentless sales calls from AT&T and MCI were finally paying off. After years of practice, Meg didn’t even feel compelled to wait until he took a breath before she cut him off.

  “Ms. Moore, it would help a great deal if we knew—”

  Meg hung up the phone. She couldn’t talk to him. She couldn’t listen. Max Bhagat was an FBI negotiator. A professional. He had to be. And she couldn’t afford to let him distract or confuse her. It had to be John she spoke to. Only John.

  The phone rang again, and she let it go for six long rings before answering.

  “That was a yes/no question,” she said. No hello. Right to the point. She’d never been so rude in all her life. “Let’s try it again. Has John Nilsson been found?”

  There was only the slightest pause before Bhagat replied. “Yes.”

  “Is he coming?”

  “Yes.”

  “His ETA?”

  “We just located him. It’s hard to know exactly—”

  “Guess.”

  “Six or seven hours?”

  Oh, God. “Six hours. Make it six,” she said, and hung up the phone. Six more hours. Dear, sweet Jesus, help her. Another six hours and she w
ould be dead.

  Tired, she corrected herself. Please, God, only dead tired.

  Dead would no doubt come later.

  When they were pulled out of the back of the van by a man who wasn’t wearing a mask, Eve knew that she and Amy wouldn’t be left alive.

  It was almost absurd, after the life she’d led, that it should all end here.

  She’d survived the tragic death of both her parents at age fifteen.

  She’d survived moving from her beloved southern California all the way across the Atlantic Ocean to England, a country where the drizzle seemed relentless and the sun never shone quite as strong—a country she’d learned to love with all her heart.

  She’d survived the War. The terrible war with Nazi Germany. She’d lived through the Battle of Britain, as the German Luftwaffe bombed the English coast night after excruciatingly endless night.

  And—speaking of excruciating—she’d survived the disco era, too. She mustn’t forget about that.

  The thought would’ve been ridiculous enough to make her smile even as she was roughly dragged up the overgrown path to a ramshackle two-story house, if it hadn’t been for Amy.

  Face it. Eve had lived darn near forever. Three quarters of a century was a long time. And while she wasn’t eager for it to be over, she’d lived a full life and could gracefully accept whatever fate had in store for her.

  But she could accept no such thing for Amy.

  The girl was still almost completely out of it from whatever drug they’d both been given to knock them out. Eve carried her awkwardly, with her hands tied in front of her, even though her bones creaked from sitting still for so many hours, even though she barely limped along.

  The thought that Amy’s life was about to end was obscene. Meg’s daughter was so young, so beautiful. She had Meg’s glorious dark eyes. And even though she had her perfidious father’s hair, on Amy it was gorgeous—thick and dark, a tumble of curls down her back.