Last Man Standing

by Cindy Gerard

  “I talked with Jenna last week, just before she left for Wyoming. She was going to take the baby and spend a little time with her parents.”

  Little Ali Lynn was two months old, had come into the world a squalling seven pounds, eleven ounces, just in time for Christmas, and had reduced one of the fiercest warriors in the Western hemisphere to Jell-O. Gabe had been pure putty the moment her tiny pink fist had clamped around his little finger.

  At any rate, Jenna was out west, and they didn’t know where Gabe was—only that he was out of the country and still out of touch.

  “Need to make a quick stop,” Joe said and pulled into the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour convenience store. “Sit tight. Get warm. I’ll be right back.”

  Stephanie huddled deeper into the navy blue parka, steeling herself against the rush of frigid air when he opened the door and got out.

  Her mind had been running at warp speed ever since they’d landed. Mike had purchased throwaway phones for all of them and they’d exchanged numbers before they’d parted, but she still needed to get in contact with Rhonda. She needed her laptop and her software programs so she could get her search programs set up. And she was worried about B.J.

  Because Dalmage had no way of knowing that she was involved—thank God she’d used a fake name at his Freetown office—they decided it was finally safe for her to turn on her own personal cell phone. When she found a message from Rafe asking her to call ASAP, she was glad she had.

  Rafe had been preoccupied but eager to talk to her.

  “We found odds and ends. Nothing we’ve been able to tie together yet,” he said when she asked about their search into Dalmage’s background. “And we’re fresh out of time here.” Rafe had sounded anxious. “B.J.’s in labor. Though she promised she wouldn’t, she waited too damn long to tell me,” he’d added, frustration mixed in with pride. “I swear, if she had her way, she’d be clenching a piece of leather between her teeth and squatting by a riverbank. We’re on the way to the hospital now.”

  That was B.J. She was as tough as nails and could out-stubborn a mule. Stephanie couldn’t stop a smile. “Is she doing okay?”

  “She’s swearing like a storm trooper, but she’s not threatening to take a knife to any of my important parts yet. So I think it’s safe to say she’s doing okay.”

  Despite everything, she’d laughed. “Give her my love. And tell her to behave herself.”

  “Please don’t make me tell her that,” he pleaded. “She’ll hurt me.”

  She’d laughed again, picturing the fiery blonde who took advice about as well as a stone floated.

  When Joe had motioned for her that they had to get going, she’d sobered abruptly. “Rafe. I hate to ask you this, but when can you send me what you’ve got on Dalmage?”

  “Already did. It’s encrypted, so it’s safe until you download it. Gotta go, cara. I’ll be in touch.”

  That conversation had been over an hour ago. Not that she expected word anytime soon, but Stephanie was both eager and anxious for B.J. And envious. What she and Rafe had together—the give, the take, the fire, the burn—it was the kind of love that inspired songs and books and movies. For that matter, all of the BOIs seemed to have found that special connection. Gabe and Jenna, Sam and Abbie, Johnny D and Crystal, then just last year, Wyatt and Sophie had figured out the magic formula. Even Doc, formerly a confirmed bachelor, seemed well settled and deeply in love with Val. And how could she not look toward Nate and Juliana as a shining example of what love could endure and still evolve to something strong and lasting and magical?

  The driver’s side door opened and Joe slid back inside with another blast of cold air. He handed her a sack full of groceries.

  “You okay?” he asked, pausing before shifting into reverse to search her face under the dome light.

  Was she okay?

  No. She was not okay. She wanted what her friends had. She didn’t have any idea if Joe would ever be able to open up to her, to lay the groundwork for the kind of relationship that would sustain them both for the long haul.

  “I’m fine.” She tried not to let the simple, domestic act—Joe shopping for groceries and handing them to her like they were Mr. and Mrs. Couple—send her into a funk that would only feed her brief pity party.

  She was not going there again. She didn’t want to be the kind of woman who did.

  When he kept staring, concern etched on his strong face, she said brightly, “I hope you’ve got a frozen pizza in here.”

  “Pepperoni,” he said with a smile, because he knew it was her favorite, then shifted into reverse. “There’s also milk, eggs, bacon, bread, OJ, ice cream bars, and cola.”

  “You’re the best shopper ever. Let’s fix some of everything.”

  A few minutes later, they parked in the underground garage of the high-security apartment complex. Joe punched in a series of security codes that got them into the building, then the elevator, and finally inside Gabe and Jenna’s tenth-floor apartment.

  Stephanie knew apartment 10C well. She and Jenna had spent a lot of time here together—many times, like now, in the wee hours of the morning—waiting anxiously for word that the guys had made it back safely from a mission.

  She walked into the kitchen and set the sack of groceries on the counter as Joe turned on lights and hiked up the thermostat. The large, open loft-apartment had a spacious living area that opened directly to the dining room and angled left to a big galley kitchen filled with contemporary cherry cabinets, gleaming stainless steel appliances, and black granite countertops.

  French doors behind the dining table to the left of the kitchen opened to a terrace that ran the width of the apartment. In the spring, Jenna filled every nook and cranny with potted plants and blooming flowers. This spring, Stephanie suspected, the terrace would also be home to a playpen.

  But now the dark slate tile was covered with several inches of snow and the comfy lounge furniture was stored away. Stephanie settled the cold food in the fridge, then, hugging her bare arms against the chill, walked over to the terrace doors. Ten stories below only a smattering of cars braved the streets, moving at a snail’s pace in the freshly plowed snow while a new shower of fluffy white flakes drifted down, intent on undermining the snowplow’s best efforts.

  It had been on a night like this that Joe had come to her apartment, then dropped his bombshell and left her. God. Had it only been a little less than six weeks ago? It felt like an eternity had passed.

  She felt Joe’s presence behind her, looked over her shoulder, and saw by the look on his face that he wanted to talk.

  She didn’t. Not yet.

  “I’m going to go find a sweater,” she said with an exaggerated shiver, and headed toward the hallway leading to the master bedroom. “Want me to find something of Gabe’s for you to wear?”

  He looked a little haunted but also a little relieved, and didn’t press her. “No. I keep a couple of changes of clothes in the guest bedroom. I’m going to hit the shower,” he added. “I’ve been thinking about hot water and a shave ever since we touched down.”

  “Good idea.”

  “You want to shower first?” he offered.

  “We can both shower. I’ll take the master bathroom. You can use the guest bath.”

  Gabe and Jenna’s walk-in shower was large enough to accommodate a marching band, but Stephanie headed down the hall by herself.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be with him. Wasn’t that she didn’t ache with arousal at the thought of taking him to her bed. She wanted it fiercely. But somewhere over that sack of groceries, she’d made a decision.

  No matter how badly she wanted him, no matter how badly he wanted her, she felt too vulnerable right now. She needed to leave sex off the table until they’d exposed Dalmage and ended this nightmare.

  Whether she could draw that line and not cross it until there was nothing to distract them from working this through—or, she added soberly, walking away—she didn’t know.

&nb
sp; She really didn’t know.

  She reached into the shower, turned on the faucet, then stripped while the water warmed up. She didn’t want to walk away. But she would. She stepped into the stall and tipped her face up to the steaming spray.

  She would walk away and not look back if he couldn’t give her what she wanted. What she deserved. What he needed to give, if he were ever to move past the darkness and into the light.

  19

  Joe was munching on a piece of crisp bacon and stirring a skillet full of scrambled eggs when he heard Stephanie enter the kitchen.

  “Smells like cholesterol heaven,” she said with a smile.

  “Sorry, I started without you.” He extended the plate of bacon.

  She snatched up a piece like it was candy. “He who cooks, eats first—and you can use the calories.”

  Yeah. He could. His black T-shirt didn’t exactly hang on him, but the XXL usually fit glove-tight. And even with his belt tightened a couple of notches, his cammo pants still hung a little low on his hips. Now that his gut was able to handle real food, he was going to pack in the cals like there was no tomorrow to get back up to fighting weight.

  Until the ribs healed a little more, though, hitting the gym was going to have to wait.

  “Oh. My. God. This is ambrosia.” Stephanie’s eyes were closed in ecstasy as she ate the bacon. “It’s going to be a long time before I’ll want to eat rice again,” she added, opening a cupboard and pulling out two plates. “What can I do?”

  Two pieces of toast popped out of the toaster. “You can butter those if you want.”

  “Hope you like it slathered. I’m in a mood for indulging.”

  She found a knife and went to work while he scooped eggs onto the plates, then carried them to the table he’d already set with silverware, juice, and milk.

  “You’re just a model of efficiency, aren’t you?” She sat across from him and opened a napkin onto her lap.

  “What I am is hungry. Pass the salt, would you?”

  Then he dug in and tried not to think about things that would get him into trouble. Like the way she smelled, shower fresh and flowery. Or how she looked, a soft blue sweater hugging her breasts and a pair of Jenna’s well-worn jeans fitting her like a second skin.

  Her hair was damp and she’d woven it into a thick braid that lay over her left shoulder, its tail reaching the top of her breast. She looked wholesome and as happy as a lumberjack, digging in without an ounce of restraint, and Jesus God, it hit him right in the solar plexus how close he’d come to losing her.

  A wave of light-headedness swamped him. He stood abruptly, pushed away from the table, and walked over to the terrace doors. He stood with his forehead pressed against the cold glass, his heart hammering like a battering ram, his gut knotted so tight he could barely breathe.

  He closed his eyes, tried to get it the fuck together . . . but images flashed like strobes behind his eyelids.

  A booted foot kicking him in the ribs as he lay curled on the floor in the stench and the filth. One hundred eighty-four iron bars. Waking in the dead of night to the hiss of a viper coiled inches from his face. The truck rolling over with him trapped inside. A pool of blood beneath a holy man’s head.

  And superimposed over it all was the memory of Stephanie in the jail—and God, oh, God, the things they would have done to her.

  “Joe.”

  Her whisper jarred him back to the present.

  “Joe.”

  The touch of her hand on his back settled him.

  “It’s okay. You’re okay. We’re okay. Come on,” she said gently. “Your eggs are getting cold.”

  He reached for her hand; waited for her to meet his eyes. “I know you don’t want to hear this. But I’m sorry, Steph. I am so, so sorry that I dragged you into the middle of that nightmare. Jesus. If . . . if something had happened to you—”

  “Nothing did. Nothing’s going to. Now come on. You need to eat. We both do.”

  Her fingers linked with his, and squeezed. “We’ll eat, get a few hours of real sleep, and then we’ll figure out how to bring Dalmage to his knees.”

  “I was scared to death for you!” Rhonda rushed into the apartment at seven that morning and hugged Stephanie hard before setting her away and leveling a scowl. “Don’t you ever fucking scare me like that again, and before you ask, no, I was not followed. All this cloak-and-dagger crap is creeping me out. What is going on?”

  “First of all, I love you, too, sweetie. Thanks for coming on such short notice—and for taking . . . vacation?”

  “Sick leave,” Rhonda said, faking a theatrical cough.

  Steph squeezed her friend’s shoulders as she helped her out of her coat. “And let me just say? Wow. Thanks for not making me feel like wallpaper.”

  “And let me just say? Wow. Thanks for not making me feel like wallpaper.”

  It was rare that Stephanie ever saw Rhonda when she was not turned out in full camera-ready mode. Even in her pink Juicy sweat suit, ponytail, and makeup-free face, though, she was adorable.

  “This is what you get when you call at the butt crack of dawn. You want glam-shot material, you’ve got to give me at least two hours’ prep time.”

  “Which we don’t have,” Stephanie said, picking up the two laptops Rhonda had brought with her.

  Stephanie wasn’t certain what had compelled her to leave her laptop, with Rhonda, but it had been a majorly insightful decision.

  “Thank you, God, is that coffee I smell?”

  “And improvised breakfast pizza.” Stephanie headed for the kitchen and poured Rhonda a cup. “Joe scrambled a ton of eggs and fried a couple pounds of bacon last night before we turned in. I layered the leftovers onto a pepperoni pizza that should be ready any minute.”

  The oven timer dinged just then.

  “God, I’m good.” She grinned and hunted up a pair of oven mitts.

  “So,” Rhonda said, leaning her hips against the counter and warming her hands on her coffee mug while she watched Stephanie slice into the pizza. “Where is Walk-Away Joe?”

  Stephanie glanced over her shoulder. “Be nice. And don’t let your jaw hit the floor when you see him.”

  “Why? Does he have a gaping hole in his chest from where you ripped his heart out and stomped it? And I ask that with nothing but hope in my own heart.”

  “I said, be nice.” Stephanie turned to face her friend. “He wasn’t in very good shape when we got him out of that prison. He still has a way to go to recover.”

  “Oh.” Rhonda actually looked contrite. “Is he okay?”

  “He will be.” She hoped. “How many slices?” she asked, shifting the conversation away from Joe.

  Last night, after they’d eaten and cleaned up the kitchen together in a careful silence, Stephanie had said a quick good night and disappeared into the master bedroom.

  She’d lain in bed and questioned her decision until she’d finally fallen asleep. She’d been tempted a hundred times to join him in his bed and just hold him. If anyone needed holding, it was Joe. But holding would have led to caressing, then to kissing, then to making love. And as good as it would have felt, as much as they both needed the comfort, the pleasure, the release, it would have been the wrong thing to do in the long run.

  “Steph?”

  She realized with a start that she’d zoned out on Rhonda. “Sorry. What?”

  “So where is he?” Rhonda had taken her coffee and a plate with a slice of pizza to the dining room table and was in the process of booting up her laptop.

  “Still sleeping.” She hadn’t heard a sound since she’d gotten up. It had been after three when they’d finally turned in. She hoped it meant he was simply catching up on some much-needed rest, and not that he’d lain awake too long last night like she had.

  “Good stuff,” Rhonda said digging in. “Spin class, here I come. In the meantime, why am I here? What’s going on?”

  “It’s big,” Stephanie warned. “Really, really big.”

&
nbsp; “Ho-kay.” Rhonda searched her face. “Care to give me a point of reference?”

  “Greer Dalmage.” Stephanie’s heart picked up a beat just saying his name out loud.

  “The U.S. liaison to the UWAN,” Rhonda said, her eyes narrowed as she dug the information out of her memory banks. “And I just heard he’s on the president’s short list for the sec of state position. What about him?” she prompted.

  Stephanie laced her hands together on the table. “Dalmage is responsible for Bryan’s death.”

  Rhonda inclined her head as if she hadn’t heard her right. Apparently the look on Stephanie’s face convinced her that she had.

  “Responsible? As in, he was the one who screwed up the mission?”

  “As in, there wasn’t any screwup. Dalmage was a colonel on the ground when Task Force Mercy was there. He ordered the RUF attack on the guys. None of the team was supposed to survive that night.”

  Rhonda’s face paled. She sat back in her chair, eyes wide and wary. “Whoa. Wait. A colonel in the U.S. Army ordered an attack on his own forces? Did you just hear yourself?”

  Fifteen minutes later, after Stephanie spelled it out as clearly as she could, and Rhonda had pumped her with questions, Rhonda knew everything that Stephanie knew. More important, she believed her.

  “Oh, honey.” Rhonda reached across the table and covered Stephanie’s hands with hers. “That sonofabitch! We can’t let him get away with it,” she said decisively. “What do you need from me?”

  “Anything and everything you can find on Dalmage. Any activity in foreign markets, especially Sierra Leone. Any business partners. Links with foreign governments. Financials. Anything that you can dig up.”

  “Going back how far?”

  Stephanie had already booted up her laptop and opened her e-mail. She waited while hundreds of messages filed into her in-box. She was looking for only one: Rafe’s message. “Let’s go back fifteen years. That will get us within the window of time when Task Force Mercy was deployed in Sierra Leone.”