Suzanne Brockmann - Team Ten 08 - Identity Unknown

by Suzanne Brockmann

  The rain was falling unmercifully now, streaming off the brim of her hat in a solid sheet.

  "I'll have to climb out after him," she shouted to Casey.

  He used one hand to wipe the water from his face, little good that it did. He shook his head. "No. I'll do it."

  "Are you kidding? That branch won't hold your weight!"

  "It might not hold yours."

  "Hold onto my legs," Becca told him. "If the branch breaks, I'll hang onto it, and you can haul us both out of the water."

  He didn't like it, but she didn't give him a chance to argue. She just started inching her way out along that branch.

  She could feel his hands on her legs, his fingers hooking around the bottom edges of her jeans. She could see Chip's pale, frightened face as lightning flashed again.

  The boy was edging toward her, even as she was moving closer to him.

  She was so close. Another foot and a half, and—

  It happened so fast.

  A piece of wood barreling downstream caught Chip full in the chest, and with a shriek, his handhold on the branch was broken.

  Becca heard herself scream as the boy, eyes wide with terror, fingers reaching for her, was swept underneath the water.

  She felt herself hauled upward and nearly thrown onto the shore and sensed more than saw Casey scrambling back up and over the rocks. She grabbed for her flashlight, holding it high, illuminating the river, praying for a glimpse of Chip's brown hair, praying he'd manage to grab hold of another branch.

  She saw him!

  Dear God, no! The boy was being swept downriver. Another few seconds, and he'd hit those rapids.

  But then she saw Casey, running along the river bank, heading directly for the place where the river turned. She saw him dive, a graceful, athletic movement.

  And then he was out of range of her light, and she saw nothing more.

  Mish knew without a doubt in the stretched-out seconds that he hung suspended over the raging water that he knew how to swim.

  And he didn't just know how to do the dog paddle. He knew how to swim. As uncomfortable as he'd been while riding Stormchaser, here in the river he was completely in his element. He was at home in the water unlike anywhere else in the world.

  He hit the river with a splash and it grabbed him, tugging, pulling, yanking him downstream. He went with it, using its power to push him up back toward the surface. Only when his head was above water again did he fight the current, searching for any sign of Chip.

  He saw the debris coming—it looked like a solid chunk of a telephone pole—but he didn't have time to get completely out of the way. It hit him solidly in his left side, pushing him under and spinning him around, the white blaze of pain made worse by the water burning his lungs.

  He kicked and stroked against the pain, surfacing with a rush, coughing out the water he'd inhaled and gasping in a blessed flood of air.

  And the kid was swept right into his arms.

  If he hadn't believed in the workings of some kind of higher power before, he did now.

  Mish let the force of the water take him again, using

  his strength as a swimmer merely to steer them toward the rocky shore.

  And then he was crawling out, his side on fire, Chip still clinging to his neck, both of them sobbing for air. And Becca was there, helping pull the kid to even higher ground. She then reached for him.

  Lightning flashed, and he saw that she'd lost her hat. Her dark curls were plastered to her head and beneath her jacket, her shirt was glued to her breasts. It wasn't a shirt, he realized. She was wearing a white nightgown. And absolutely nothing underneath. She had an incredibly gorgeous body, but it was her eyes he found himself wanting to see again. Brimming with the warmth of emotion and relief, her eyes were impossibly beautiful.

  He could have sat there in the rain all night, just waiting for the lightning, so he could get another glimpse of her face.

  But Becca scooped Chip into her arms and pushed herself to her feet. "Let's get back to the ranch."

  Ted Alden, Chip's father, came out of their cabin. "The doctor says he's got a few broken ribs, but his lungs are clear and his blood pressure's strong. We'll monitor that through the rest of the night—make sure there've been no internal injuries we don't know about."

  The rain had stopped, and the clouds were breaking up. Becca could see the first faint stars shining hazily in the sky. She nodded. "Do you need help? You look as if once you fall asleep, you're going to stay asleep for a day or two."

  Alden ran his hands down his face. "No, we've got the alarm clock set. And Ashley's set hers, too. Just in case."

  "Well, I'm here if you need me."

  "Thanks."

  Becca turned to go, but he stopped her.

  "We've caused nothing but trouble this trip. Are you going to ask us to leave tomorrow?"

  She had to laugh. "You mean, like the way I asked Travis Brown to leave?" She shook her head. "No, I'm trying not to make a habit of running paying guests off with a shotgun. It's bad for business."

  "Thank that cowboy again for me," Alden said. "If the two of you hadn't been there, Chip might've..."

  Chip would have died.

  Becca knew what Ted Alden couldn't bring himself to say aloud. His son would have died. The hell with her— she'd had very little to do with saving the boy's life. The truth was, if it weren't for Casey Parker, they would be dragging that river right this very moment, searching for Chip's crushed and lifeless little body.

  Becca swallowed a sudden rush of intense emotion. She had to blink hard to push back a surge of moisture in her eyes. "I'll thank him," she said quietly. "Kiss Chip good-night for me, all right?"

  Alden nodded, easing the screen door shut behind him.

  It must have been the fatigue bringing all these waves of emotion to the surface. Becca couldn't remember the last time she'd cried, yet here she was, ready to curl up into a soggy ball and weep like a baby.

  Everything was all right. The boy was safe. But she couldn't keep herself from thinking about what might have been. She couldn't help remembering that look of pure fear on the little boy's face as he was swept out of her reach, Why didn't you save me? echoing in his eyes. If Chip had died, his face would have haunted her for the rest of her life.

  If Chip had died...

  What if Casey hadn't been there with his amazing abil-

  ity to swim like some kind of sea animal? What if the river had swept Chip past him? What if... ?

  Her insides churned and bile rose in her throat. She had to sit down, right there on the edge of the muddy road, and try her damnedest not to retch. She clung to her wet jacket, wrapping it tightly around her, praying for the nausea to pass.

  "Are you all right?" The voice came out of the darkness, soft and gentle.

  "Yeah," she lied, not wanting to look up and into the bottomless depths of Casey's eyes, not wanting him to see that she was shaking. "I'm just... I'm..."

  She felt him sit down next to her, felt his closeness and warmth. He didn't say anything. He just sat there as she tried to breathe, as she desperately tried to regain her equilibrium and stop this damned shaking that was rattling her very brain.

  When he finally did start to speak, Becca thought she might've been imagining it. His voice was so soft and perfectly woven into the velvet tapestry of the predawn.

  "You know, I don't think I've ever ridden a horse before," he told her. "At least not since I was a kid. I don't know why I haven't tried it—it was great. Exhilarating. Kind of like flying. But you already know that, right? I can picture you as the kind of kid who was born astride a horse." He paused, but only briefly. "When I was riding Stormchaser, I remember thinking it was kind of like being on a motorcycle, except this thing I was riding had a brain and a soul..."

  Becca knew exactly what he was doing. He was gentling her, soothing her with the softness of his voice, the way someone might talk to a frightened animal. The way she'd spoken to Stormchaser just that morn
ing. And as Stormchaser had, she clung to the sound of that gentle

  voice. It was the only thing solid and steady in a night that was spinning and shaking.

  No, it wasn't the night that was shaking. She was shaking. And crying, she realized. Although there was nothing she could do to stop her tears. Nothing at all.

  He was still talking, describing his ride, describing the way he'd put the bridle and saddle on Stormchaser. His words were unimportant and she stopped listening, focusing only on the rise and fall of his voice. And when he reached out and touched her, gently, lightly running one hand across her shoulders and down her back, she didn't pull away. She didn't want to pull away. Instead she leaned toward him, letting him enfold her in his arms.

  He held her as she trembled, rocking her slightly back and forth, infusing her with his warmth, encircling her with his solid strength. "It's okay now," he murmured over and over. "Everything's okay."

  It was working. She could feel her nausea begin to fade, felt herself relax into his strong arms.

  And he was strong. His slenderness was only an illusion. His arms and chest were solid muscle. She hadn't missed that fact when she'd gone in to wake him up and found him half-naked in bed. He had no extra fat or weight on his body, none at all. Yet his arms were soft, too. Gentle.

  He continued to stroke her back, then ran his fingers gently through her hair, murmuring words of reassurance. He held her close without being threatening, offering only comfort, falling into silence as her trembling finally stopped.

  She let her head rest on his still-damp shoulder, let her eyes close, let all of the awful what-ifs float away.

  Except for one. What if this man whose arms felt so good around her turned his head and kissed her?

  Becca opened her eyes. That was a completely crazy thought. She pulled herself away from him, pushing herself to her feet.

  She shivered slightly, cold without Casey's arms around her, as the first glimmer of dawn started to light the eastern sky.

  He was still a shadow, sitting in the grayness. Becca backed away quickly, both afraid that he might break the silence, and afraid that he might not.

  *'There's no way I could ever pay you enough for what you did tonight," she said softly. Oh, she could think of one way she could certainly try to repay him, but she firmly pushed that wayward thought away.

  "I didn't pull the kid out of the river for money," he said.

  "Oh, no," she said, afraid she might've offended him. "I didn't mean that. I just meant... I wish there was some way I could thank you for what you did." Her voice shook slightly. "And for sitting here with me just now."

  "Sometimes the hardest part of the battle comes after it's over," he said quietly, "when the adrenaline level drops and there's nothing left to do but think about what went down."

  Becca lingered as the sky continuously grew lighter, knowing she should say good-night and put a healthy distance between herself and this man. She was drawn to his gentle voice and quiet smile more than she wanted to admit. And as for his arms...

  "Were you in the army?" she asked, instead of taking her leave.

  He was silent for several long moments, then he pushed himself to his feet in one easy, fluid motion. "Are you sure you want to start a conversation right now? You look as if you could use about twelve hours in bed."

  With him? The thought popped into her head and she tried her hardest to pop it right back out again. What was wrong with her tonight? "You're right," she said. "I'm just... I'm still..."

  He held out his hand. He had big hands, strong, capable-looking hands that were callused from hard work. Attractive hands that were attached to attractive arms.

  "Come on," he said. "I'll walk you back to your cabin."

  Becca shook her head. "I'm okay." She was afraid to touch him again. Even just his hand. "Thank you again, Casey."

  He nodded, dropping his hand. "I have a nickname," he told her, "that I prefer to answer to. It's Mish. I know it's...unusual, but it's how I think of myself."

  "Mish," she repeated. "Is it Russian?"

  "No. It's short for..." He laughed almost selfconsciously. "It's short for 'Mission Man.'"

  Mission Man? "What does that mean?"

  She saw another flash of his straight white teeth in the growing dawn. "I'm not sure I know myself. It's just a handle I was given by a...a friend."

  Becca backed further away. "Well, thank you. Mish." She paused. "We should...probably set up a time to talk in the morning," she told him awkwardly.

  "Whenever you like," he answered simply. "You know where to find me."

  Chapter

  Lt. Lucky O'Donlon sat alone in the back corner booth, in a deserted section of the Denny's on Water Street in Wyatt City, New Mexico, finishing his breakfast.

  Water Street. Yeah, right. The entire street—the entire town—was dry as a bone. He'd woken up after a ten-minute combat nap this morning, yawned, and his lip had split. God, he missed the ocean.

  He and his team had arrived in Las Cruces later than he'd anticipated. By the time they'd gotten their hands on an inconspicuous-looking car and driven all the way through the desert to Wyatt City, it had been well after midnight. Lucky had grimed himself up, said goodbye to Bob and Wes, gotten out of the car nearly a mile away from the First Church, and had walked over to the homeless shelter there.

  As he now watched, Bobby and Wes sauntered out of the shiny new motel across the street from the Denny's, clearly in no huge hurry to meet him for their scheduled

  sit-rep. In fact, Wes stopped to light a cigarette in the parking lot, cupping his hands to shield his match from the wind.

  Bobby nimbly plucked the cigarette from Wes's lips and tossed it to the gravel, grinding it out under his size-seventeen-and-a-half boots. And, as Lucky watched, they argued for the nine-thousandth time about Wes's inability to quit smoking.

  Or rather Wes argued, and Bobby ignored him.

  Bobby headed for the restaurant, and Wes followed, still arguing. They were showered and shaved and looking far fresher than Lucky. They were both wearing jeans and T-shirts, and Wes actually had a weather-beaten cowboy hat jammed onto his short brown hair.

  Bobby, with his darkly handsome, Native American features, looked like he could be one of the locals in Wy-att City. Wes looked exactly like what he was—Popeye the Sailor man in a cowboy hat.

  "I'm gonna quit," Wes was saying as they came into the restaurant and headed back toward Lucky's table. "I swear I am. I'm just not ready to quit right now."

  Bobby finally spoke. "When we're out on an op and we're buddied up, I can smell the smoke on your breath from yards away. And if / can smell you, so can the opposition. You want to kill yourself by smoking, that's your business, Skelly. Just don't kill me."

  For once in his life, Wes didn't have anything to say.

  Bobby sat down next to Lucky, clearly preferring, like the lieutenant, to keep his back to the rear wall. Wes slid all the way over on the other side of the booth, sitting half-turned, his back against the mirrored side wall, so that he, too, could see the rest of the restaurant. Good habits died hard.

  Too bad bad habits died hard, too. Bobby was dead

  right about Wes's smoking. When they were out in a group, the scent of a cigarette smoked six hours earlier could conceivably put them all in jeopardy.

  Bobby gazed at Lucky. "Whoa, you smell ripe. Sir."

  "And you both look as if you had ample opportunity to shower after a great night's sleep."

  "The room was very nice, thanks."

  "Yeah, I'm looking forward to seeing it from a prone position with my eyes closed," Lucky told them. Unfortunately that wasn't going to be soon.

  He hadn't gone to the church to sleep. He'd been there to check the place out thoroughly—to sneak and peek and find out as much about the shelter as he possibly could. He'd spent most of the night chatting up the volunteer workers, finding out how the system worked.

  "The shelter's purely a church-run organization," he
told Bob and Wes. "The only rules are no drugs, alcohol, weapons or women on the premises. And the men have to be out of both the building and the neighborhood before : a.m. because the facility's used as a preschool starting at :."

  "Anyone remember seeing Mitch?" Wes asked.

  Lucky shook his head. "No. And they don't keep records of the men who use the shelter. But they do have records in the church office of the volunteers who work the different shifts. One of you is going to have to go into that office and charm a list out of the church ladies who work there. We've got to find out who was on duty the nights we think Mitch might've been there."

  Wes pointed to Bobby. "He'll do that. Church ladies give me a rash."

  Bobby shrugged. "I'll do it—if you quit smoking."

  "Oh, God." Wes slumped forward so his head was on the table. "Fine," he said, his voice muffled by his arms.

  "I'll quit smoking. You just keep any church ladies away from me."

  Bobby turned to Lucky. "Luke, I've been thinking. If Mitch came into the shelter in disguise..."

  "Yeah, I've been thinking that, too." Lucky signalled the waitress to freshen his cup of coffee. She poured cups for Bob and Wes, too, and told them she'd be back in a minute to take their order. He waited until she was gone to continue. "If he doesn't want us to, we're probably not going to find him."

  "Provided he's still alive," Wes said darkly.

  Lucky took a sip of his now-hot coffee, feeling it burn all the way to his stomach. "How well did you guys get to know Mitch Shaw last year when we were working with Admiral Robinson?"

  Bobby looked at Wes, and Wes looked at Bobby. Guys who had been swim buddies for years, the way these two had, could have entire conversations with a single glance.

  "Not very well," Bobby admitted. "He pretty much kept to himself."

  Wes looked at Bob again. "Or hung out with Zoe Lange."