Don't Let Go

by Marliss Melton

  “Let’s go,” said Gus. He’d fulfilled his orders to find the missing CIA agent.

  Pulling her down the stairs with him, he spoke through his interteam radio. “I found her, Vinny. Exit the building, pronto. She needs medical attention.”

  “I’m fine,” Lucy insisted. In the next second, an explosion rang out, vibrating the hull of the warehouse. “This exit’s closer,” she said, tugging Gus toward a hidden door.

  Sweeping his NVG’s behind him, Solomon caught sight of Harley sprinting toward him. The sniper dove into a berm, elbow-crawled to the ledge, and opened fire on the enemy. Tat-tat! The soldier bearing the missile launcher staggered and fell. The missile misfired with a roar and slammed into the ground nearby.

  Kaboom!

  The explosion prompted a flurry of activity. Soldiers poured from the vehicles to defend their goods. Harley promptly mowed them down.

  Solomon kept a finger on the trigger of his MP5, but he was more intent on clearing a path for himself than killing the traitors. Running in a zigzag pattern, he ran full speed into the truck that held Miguel. The officer in the truck shouted in astonishment, clutching Miguel as he cringed from the open window.

  “Give me the boy,” Solomon commanded, recognizing him as one of the young men he’d trained, a promising soldier. “And then I suggest you run, Santiago.”

  Santiago passed Miguel wordlessly through the window. It was Miguel who protested. He took one look at Solomon’s painted face and screamed in terror. It was all Solomon could do to hold on to him with one arm as he pulled him clear, leapt off the sidewall, and retreated, firing to cover himself.

  He probably would have been shot—both he and Miguel, if Harley’s eagle eye wasn’t trained on the shooters firing from inside the vehicles.

  “Mako and Harley, pull back now!” said Haiku, who was apparently manning the SATCOM. “I repeat pull back. The Cobras are en route.”

  Over the clatter of continuous machine-gun fire, Solomon detected the gunships’ approach. Following an all-out sprint, he slid, butt first, into the berm next to Harley. Miguel shrieked and struggled in his arms. He hushed him, putting his gun aside to hold him with both arms, gently but firmly. “It’s almost over,” he reassured him in his ear. “I’ll take you to Jordan. Jordan’s waiting for you.” For us, he added mentally, hoping that was really true.

  Miguel grew still at the sound of Jordan’s name. The eerie, otherworldly throb of the Cobras grew louder.

  Gus and Lucy burst out of the warehouse, setting off an alarm. The sound of a nearby firefight made the wail of the alarm seem negligible. By now the entire Populist Army knew where they were. He checked his watch and thumbed his mike. “Haiku, request Trident 1 to pick us up at the LZ in twenty minutes. We have two, maybe three civilians with us,” he amended, just in case Solomon was able to retrieve the little boy.

  “Yes, sir. Speaking of civilians, sir, this one is waking up. I needed Vinny.”

  “We’ll be there in a sec.” But then he looked up at the sky. “No, we won’t. Here come the Cobras. Get down.”

  Solomon peered up, making out the Cobras’ silhouettes—no running lights—as they coasted high overhead. Fire flashed suddenly in the muzzles of the missile launchers. Solomon clapped his hands over Miguel’s ears and rolled overtop him to protect his little body.

  Just in case.

  But the gunships rarely missed. With a zing and a boom, boom, boom, boom, they took out the four trucks in an instant, turning them into hunks of twisted, burning metal.

  It became immediately apparent what was in the trucks. The Cobras vanished, but subsequent explosions continued to shake the earth.

  At least twenty minutes passed before a deathly silence descended. Fires flickered over the charred remains of the convoy. The stench of burned flesh made Solomon cringe. He eased apologetically from Miguel and found him catatonic.

  Cradling him like a baby, Solomon rose on rubbery legs. He cut Harley a grateful but grim look and struck out toward the warehouse.

  When they’d sprawled to the earth, it hadn’t been clear whether Gus had shielded Lucy with his body or she’d shielded him. Both lay half-over, half-under the other as the earth shook and multiple explosions lit the sky, battering their eardrums. Throughout the ruckus, he studied his college sweetheart, marveling at just how much she’d changed.

  “Why didn’t you answer me inside the warehouse when I called for you?” he asked during a temporary lull in the chained explosions.

  “I think I blacked out for a minute,” she replied.

  But he sensed that she was lying. Why would she lie?

  Something in Lucy’s pocket was gouging his thigh. He could only assume she’d found whatever she’d come for. Good for her.

  Finally, silence settled in the dusty, foul-smelling air. Gus pushed to his feet, helping Lucy up. “Echo Platoon, rally up at the Hummer,” he commanded. “Let’s get out of here while we still can. Do you have your car key, by any chance?” he asked Lucy.

  “Not anymore, but I keep a spare under the bumper.”

  “Excellent,” Gus murmured, relieved not to have to carry the wounded all the way back to the LZ.

  “I need Dramamine,” Jordan pleaded as she peered through watering eyes at the physician standing over her. She’d been whisked, half-conscious, from a helicopter, dreaming she was trapped in a wind tunnel. She could sense the exact moment she’d been wrenched from Solomon’s arms and conveyed on a stretcher into this cold, sterile chamber. Where am I? she’d asked, as a balding man in uniform examined her.

  You’re aboard the USS Theodore Roosevelt. It’s an aircraft carrier.

  Immediately, the queasiness she’d fought to keep at bay got the upper hand. She couldn’t exactly feel the pitch and roll of the vessel, only hear the throbbing of its engines, but just knowing she was on a ship at sea made her ill.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized now. “I can’t give you Dramamine.”

  “Why not?” she cried, battling the urge to vomit.

  He hesitated. “Because you’re pregnant,” he said, gently.

  Jordan snatched her head up, then cringed at the pain it caused. Pregnant! “What? But that’s impossible.”

  “The test is ninety-nine percent accurate,” he patiently replied.

  A soft, fuzzy feeling tickled Jordan’s insides. How could she be pregnant? Well, duh, but . . . It had been impossible with Doug.

  “Any guess as to how far along you are?” inquired the doctor.

  “A couple of weeks at most,” she breathed, caught up in amazement. Oh, my God. She was pregnant with Solomon’s baby!

  “And have you ever been pregnant before?”

  The question doused her in cold reality, and fear followed on the heels of joy. “Once,” she admitted, closing her eyes. Nausea welled up immediately, and she spent the next few minutes emptying her stomach. “I miscarried,” she admitted, hoarsely, “at sixteen weeks.”

  “We’re going to put you on an IV drip,” decided the doctor, nodding at his female assistant. “We don’t want you dehydrated.”

  They moved out of her line of sight, opening drawers, wheeling an IV holder next to her cot.

  As the needle slipped into the vein on the back of Jordan’s left hand, tears swarmed her closed eyes. Why now? she agonized. How?

  Memories of her lovemaking with Solomon drifted warmly through her mind. She’d never experienced passion so complete. Solomon was one of a kind. He’d blown into her life, caught her up in his energy, and swept her off to his kingdom, Camelot, where everything had intense and overwhelming quality to it.

  What would his reaction be if she told him she was pregnant? She winced, wondering if he’d just assume that she had lied to him or that she’d intended to trap him into marriage. God forbid, though he had every right to be suspicious, given his history with Candace.

  And yet the odds of carrying a baby to full term were slim, anyway. Chances were she’d lose their baby regardless of Solomon’s re
action.

  Oh, how could fate do this to her now? And why, when it only meant more heartache, more despair?

  “I want to see Miguel,” she begged, needing to be reassured that the child she had was in one piece and unharmed from their ordeal.

  “In a moment,” the doctor promised. “Let’s get you comfortable first.”

  She seized his sleeve as he reached across her. “I. Want. To. See. Miguel. Now,” she articulated fiercely. But then she promptly retched, thrusting him aside to lunge for the pan on the counter by her cot.

  “Put the boy on the table,” ordered the female physician in the adjoining examination room.

  Solomon, who cradled Miguel like a baby, didn’t move. “You can examine him in my arms,” he insisted. He’d sworn he wouldn’t relinquish the boy to anyone but Jordan. The gesture was symbolic of his repentance. He should never have separated the two in the first place.

  The doctor opened her mouth to reprimand him, caught the dangerous gleam in his eyes, and thought better of it. “Fine,” she acceded, stepping close to flash a light into Miguel’s vacant eyes. “Hey, little guy,” she crooned, getting no response. “You doing okay?”

  “He needs to see Jordan, ma’am,” Solomon growled. “The sooner the better.”

  The officer frowned at him as she ran her fingers over Miguel’s skull and beneath the blanket he was wrapped in, checking his spine and legs. “She’s being evaluated at the moment, Senior Chief. I’m sure you’ll be able to visit her soon.”

  “How soon? Until Miguel sees her and knows she’s okay, he’s not going to respond.” The same was true for him, only, thanks to his training, he was capable of walking and talking and looking like he wasn’t going irrevocably out of his mind.

  The physician sighed and moved away. “The boy’s in shock,” she diagnosed. “You’re doing the right thing keeping his feet elevated, keeping him warm. I’m giving him a mild sedative.”

  “No needles,” Solomon growled, pulling the boy protectively closer. “—ma’am,” he added at the officer’s exasperated glare. “Please, all he needs is Jordan.”

  “I’ll check with Commander Sperry,” she snapped, stalking away.

  As she disappeared into the adjoining room, Solomon detected the sound of Jordan retching. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. Please let her be okay.

  Miguel stirred, and Solomon’s eyes snapped open. They exchanged a startled look. But then Miguel filled his lungs with air and shrieked in terror, nearly flipping out of Solomon’s arms.

  Tightening his hold on the boy, Solomon thrust his way into the examination room and nodded. “Mira,” he said to Miguel. “Look. Here’s Jordan.”

  Miguel stilled and stared. Solomon did likewise.

  Jordan was curled into a fetal position, her cheek on the edge of the mattress, her lip bruised, her face green, her eyes bloodshot. She extended a trembling hand toward them. The other was connected to an IV tube.

  “Senior Chief!” scolded the female officer. The balding doctor and his assistant also glared at him.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Solomon demanded, even as he stepped forward, so that Jordan could put her hand on Miguel’s cheek and murmur reassurances. Miguel’s tense body immediately relaxed.

  “She has a concussion,” answered the commander, “a bruised rib, and a twisted ankle. The concussion is making her queasy,” he added.

  “And I’m seasick,” Jordan croaked, struggling to sit up, to take Miguel from him.

  “Lie back down,” Solomon commanded with concern. “I’ll put him next to you.”

  As he deposited Miguel on the bed, she drew the little boy against her, hushing him as he started to cry, this time with relief. Her own eyes flooded with tears that slid down her cheeks, unchecked.

  Leaving Solomon helpless. He hooked a foot around a stool, dragged it closer, and sat down, making it clear to the others that he wasn’t leaving. “We’d like to be alone,” he said to them.

  The commander glanced at Jordan first. “We’ll give you five minutes,” he agreed, waving the others out before him.

  Solomon waited for the door to clang shut before he threw an arm around both Jordan and Miguel, holding them fiercely. “Jordan?” he queried. “What can I do, sweetheart?”

  To his dismay, she simply shook her head, turned her face into her pillow, and silently wept.

  What the hell? She was supposed to be happy. He’d done everything in his power to ensure that she was happy. He’d taken on the Elite Guard, for God’s sake, to rescue Miguel. What more could he do?

  “I saved Miguel’s dossier,” he blurted, thinking maybe she was still worried about getting Miguel into the country. “It’s in your backpack, in Vinny’s locker.”

  She sniffed and pulled her face out of the pillow. “He told me on the chopper what you did to get Miguel. Oh, Solomon. How am I ever going to thank you for that?”

  Marry me. He caught back his proposal in the nick of time. For a man who’d lost his faith in love before meeting Jordan, maybe he was moving a little too quickly.

  “You don’t owe me anything,” he refuted, brushing back the hair that was stuck to her damp cheeks. He frowned at the cut on her lower lip and the bruise on her cheekbone. “What did those assholes do to you?” he wanted to know.

  That made her face crumple and more tears brim.

  “Oh, Jesus, Jordan.” The blood drained from his face as the worst possible scenario formed in his head.

  “No.” She fluttered a hand and vehemently shook her head. “No, Solomon, they didn’t rape me.”

  “You’re sure.” That would explain her emotion, her tears.

  “Positive.”

  He believed her. Still, recalling the danger she’d put herself in, he scolded her with belated rage, “God damn it, Jordan! You could have died by going back. Miguel could’ve died. You’re goddamn lucky this turned out as well as it did!”

  “I’m sorry,” she cried, reaching for him, pressing her damp face into his shoulder. “I’m sorry I left you without telling you first. I hated not being honest with you—”

  He hushed her, cutting her apology short, loving the feel of her head on his shoulder. “Stop. You don’t owe me an apology. I should have let Miguel come home with you last time, or at least found a way to bring him back earlier. It’s my fault.”

  His apology made her cry harder.

  She was exhausted and shell-shocked, Solomon decided, wanting desperately to cheer her. “Look, sweetheart,” he cajoled, speaking in a gentle voice that would have raised the eyebrows of teammates, “you’re scaring Miguel. He needs you to be strong for him. See?”

  Miguel leaned against her, his dark eyes reflecting confusion as he looked back and forth between them. Jordan lifted her head with a sniff and a forced smile. “I’m okay, Miguelito. Estoy bién. I’m just so happy that you’re here with me, and that Solomon is here with us.” Her eyes immediately overflowed, belying her words, making Solomon extremely uneasy.

  “We’ll talk more after you rest, Jordan,” he decided, unable to witness her distress any longer.

  “Don’t leave!” she implored, clinging to his wrist. “I still can’t believe I’m alive, and you’re alive, and Miguel is safe with us. Please stay.”

  “You’re exhausted,” he insisted, hoping rest would put a happier expression on her face. He couldn’t stand to see her like this. “And I haven’t slept in forty-eight hours,” he added, knowing she would put his needs above her own. A knock sounded at the door.

  That was Solomon’s cue to leave. He stood up, leaned over, and kissed Jordan’s clammy cheek. “It’s going to be okay, love,” he whispered, amazed to hear that four-letter word slip off his tongue so easily. “Soon we’ll be back at home. Silas will be so happy to see you. Everything will be exactly the way it was before.”

  She nodded, but for some reason, she was crying again, crying like her heart was breaking.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jillian wiped the
back of her hand across her moist forehead, then heaved the saddle off the horse’s back and turned toward the table with it. A rending sensation in her lower abdomen made her gasp and hesitate. Tenderness transformed into a sharp, unaccustomed pain, and she dropped the saddle, clutching her abdomen and doubling over as the pain became intense.

  She waited for it to ease, panting with shallow breaths. She’d had two babies before. This pain was not familiar.

  She shuffled slowly toward the office, thinking that perhaps she could just sit and rest and she’d be fine. Rafael had been right to caution her. She was working too hard, considering the baby was due in four weeks.

  She never made it to the office. Rending agony brought her to her knees. She stared at the dust motes rising out of the straw to sparkle in the late-afternoon sunbeams. The pungent scent of hay and horse manure filled her nostrils as she dragged in a breath and called feebly for help. “Graham!”

  Of course, he was probably on his computer, wearing headphones, and he couldn’t even hear her. “Agatha!”

  Warm moisture crept down her thighs. Her water must have broken. Glancing down, she was horrified to see the crotch of her shorts turning scarlet. It was blood. She was bleeding.

  Trained as an ER nurse, she guessed immediately what was wrong. Abruptio placentae. The placenta had detached itself from the wall of her uterus. As a result, her baby would be deprived of oxygen. She, herself, could bleed to death.

  “Oh, no.” She had to get help—now. She tried to get up, but the pain was too intense, and movement brought blood gushing out of her. “Help!” she cried, dragging herself toward the barn’s open doors. “Graham! Agatha! Someone help me!”

  She was about to pull herself twenty more feet into the office when Graham thumped out of the house. “Mom? Are you calling me?”

  “Help me!” she cried, fighting to subdue the panic that coiled around her throat. “Hurry!”

  In the next instant, his shadow fell over her. “Mom!” he cried, his voice breaking.