Troubleshooters 02 The Defiant Hero

by Suzanne Brockmann

  This time, when he kissed her back, he wasn’t quite so gentle. This time her mouth—no, her entire body—felt on fire.

  It was terrifying. And wonderful.

  And over far too soon.

  Ralph was breathing hard when he pulled away from her. She was, too—and her heart was pounding. And if it hadn’t been, the heat in his eyes would’ve kicked it into double time.

  “You will have dinner with me tonight,” he told her.

  Eve nodded. Yes.

  He smiled then, and she knew she had no choice.

  She reached around him, into the pocket of her dress, and took out the note she’d written just last night.

  She scrambled to her feet and flung it over the side of the boat.

  Ralph came to stand beside her as she watched it float for a moment, the ink slowly running and turning the paper blue, before it started to sink beneath the surface.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  “Nothing.” She wouldn’t tell him—she couldn’t tell him. Not now. If he found out the truth now, after kissing her that way, he’d leave. She knew he would. And she’d be unable to bear that.

  Instead she’d somehow manage to bear deceiving him.

  She gave him a bright smile. “Shall we finish the play? Where were we? Romeo’s dead and poor Juliet just found his body.”

  “No more kissing,” Nick said.

  As Ralph handed Eve her copy of the play, he smiled, and she knew. There’d be plenty more kissing.

  Just not in front of Nick.

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Ten

  NILS HADN’T LIED to Lieutenant Paoletti. Not really.

  The SEALs had been assigned to continue to be on standby at the K-stani embassy. Even though there was no longer any threat, even though Meg had escaped with Razeen, the FBI wanted them to remain.

  The tape loop was going to be kept running, to avoid the embarrassment of having to explain the current situation not just to the Kazbekistanis but to all the CNN and other news cameras positioned outside. The SEALs’ presence would help with the charade, at least until Meg Moore and Osman Razeen were apprehended.

  Tom Paoletti had looked hard at Nils when he’d asked for the next thirty-six hours off. “Do you have a guess where Meg Moore is?”

  “No, sir,” Nils had said, looking Paoletti straight in the eye. And it wasn’t a lie. Nils wasn’t guessing. He knew where Meg was. “I need a whole lot of uninterrupted sleep.” That wasn’t a lie either. He needed the sleep—he simply wasn’t going to get it.

  Paoletti nodded. “Go and crash.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “John.”

  Nils turned back.

  Lieutenant Paoletti looked tired, the lines in his tanned face more pronounced than usual. “This probably isn’t going to have a happy ending. You know that, right? Meg’s either way over her head with Razeen—in which case he may well have already overpowered her and . . .”

  And killed her. Nils nodded. He knew that. There was a chance he wouldn’t be tracking Meg with WildCard’s system, but rather Meg’s body.

  “Or she’s working with Razeen,” Paoletti continued, “in which case she’s not who you thought she was. In which case she never was.”

  “I’m aware of that, L.T.”

  “Good.” Paoletti didn’t try to force a smile, the way some people might have. This sucked, and they both knew it. He didn’t try to pretend that it didn’t. It was one of the many things that made him a great CO. “I’m sorry, Johnny. Go get some sleep.”

  “Yes, sir.” Nils turned and went, feeling like shit on a stick for being unable to come clean with the man.

  He and WildCard had nearly made it out of the lobby when Senior Chief Wolchonok flagged them down. WildCard was needed back at the other hotel. There was some kind of technical glitch with the backup tape loop that only the boy genius could handle.

  WildCard told the senior he was on his way, handed Nils his laptop, and gave him a crash course in his tracking system. Nils would need to use a cell phone hooked into the computer, and he could run the laptop with an extension cord that plugged into any car’s cigarette lighter. Easy as pie.

  WildCard went in one direction, Nils in another. He rented a car, picked up some coffee, and within thirty minutes was heading south on Route 95.

  Nils knew Sam would be pissed that he’d gone after Meg by himself, but every minute that he delayed, she was getting farther away. And while he wasn’t exactly UA—guilty of an unauthorized absence—there were elements of potential goatfuck written all over this.

  Yes, if he managed to find Meg and bring both her and Razeen back alive, everything would be cool. But if something went wrong, the FBI was going to start shouting about aiding and abetting and obstruction of justice and God knows what else. It was bad enough that Sam and WildCard were involved. Nils couldn’t bring any of his other teammates into this mess.

  The sound of the tires against the road was much too soothing and Nils turned on the radio to keep himself awake. He didn’t have time to be exhausted, but his body was struggling to stay alert. The fatigue came in waves—he had to fight harder when it hit. Country music blared, and over it, Lieutenant Paoletti’s voice seemed to echo, tinny and distant, like some disconnected DJ who didn’t realize the mike was still on.

  If she’s involved with Razeen, she’s not who you thought she was.

  This wasn’t a good sign. When Nils started hearing voices in his head, echoes of conversations past, he was well on his way to falling asleep.

  And at 80 mph, that could be messy.

  He opened the hot top on his coffee and took a sip even though it was still close to the temperature of molten lava. It burned all the way down.

  Pain was good. Pain meant he was awake. He took another even bigger slug, making his eyes tear. Christ, even his stomach felt scalded.

  Paoletti’s words still echoed, but he was over the hump. He was awake, and by the time he finished the large cup of coffee, the caffeine would have kicked in.

  If she’s involved with Razeen, she’s not who you thought she was.

  That was for damn sure.

  Best case scenario had Nils catching up to Meg when she stopped to get some sleep at a roadside motel. He could get through the cheap lock on the door in a heartbeat and once inside . . .

  Worst case scenario had Nils walking in to find Meg and Razeen together, in bed.

  Yeah, that would be just about as bad as it could get.

  Well, maybe not. It might be a little bit worse if Meg then told him she and Razeen had hidden a nuclear device back in DC, and it was set to go off in thirty seconds.

  “I don’t know anything about you.”

  Meg’s voice rang so clearly, Nils glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure the backseat of this rental car was still empty. No, her voice had definitely only been in his head.

  He took another slug of coffee. Come on, caffeine . . .

  Come on, brain, stay alert.

  It had been—what?—nearly three years since she’d said those words to him? Yeah, it was that summer, six months after they’d first met in K-stan. They were having a picnic down by the Lincoln Memorial. Nils had been in DC for over ten days by then—his inquiry having been postponed for the sixth goddamned time.

  He’d figured it out. The foreign service office was waiting for Daniel Moore to arrive back in the States. Apparently he was involved in some diplomatic mission that took precedence over the inquiry, something important enough to put a Navy SEAL ensign on hold for nearly two weeks.

  Not that Nils had particularly minded.

  After he’d finished helping Meg paint Amy’s bedroom, he’d found other excuses, other reasons to show up at her apartment.

  And she’d welcomed him.

  Probably because he was playing things completely cool, restraining himself from throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her into her bedroom, to
ssing her onto her bed and . . .

  He always greeted her with a smile instead of a soul kiss. He always tried to stay at least three feet away from her, and he never, ever grabbed her in the elevator and nailed her to the wall.

  Even though he wanted to more than just about anything.

  He played nice, and his reward was that they had lunch and dinner together every day.

  And he comforted himself when he was alone in his hotel room at night by telling himself that lunch and dinner were far more than Daniel Moore was currently getting from her.

  “I don’t know anything about you.”

  She’d said it while eating a grape Popsicle. He’d never been so jealous of a piece of ice before in his life.

  “What, are you kidding?” he’d asked. “I’ve done nothing but talk about myself for the past week. I feel like I’ve been interviewed by Barbara Walters. What don’t you know? I was born on Long Island, when my mother died I lived with my father and my uncle and his wife. We covered this. I attended Milfield Academy—the best private school in the state—went to Yale, joined the Navy—”

  “You talk about it as if it’s someone else’s life,” she said. “As if you’re listing facts you’ve memorized or—”

  He looked at her. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  She instantly apologized. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make it sound as if I don’t believe you.”

  “But you don’t believe me.”

  “I do. John, I just . . .” She leaned toward him. “I want to know the rest. I want to hear all the parts you’re leaving out.”

  Nils was silent. What could he say to that?

  She touched him then. She put her hand on his knee.

  “How come you never want to walk past the Vietnam Memorial?” she asked quietly.

  He looked down at her hand, knowing that if he were flip, she’d probably take it away. Still . . . “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,” he said.

  “We’ve been down here on the Mall three different times this week, and each time you’ve gone way out of your way to avoid it.”

  Nils glanced in the direction of the Wall now. He knew he could probably satisfy her with some bullshit response. He could tell her the Vietnam Wall wasn’t something he wanted to spend much time looking at. He could admit he found it too intense, without really telling her why. He could say that it wasn’t something he could just walk casually past. Being career military and all . . .

  And she would probably be satisfied. He took her hand, lacing their fingers together.

  “My father and my uncle Al were both there,” he said instead. “They both served in ’Nam.”

  Meg was surprised, and he watched her try to fit that information in with everything else he’d told her about his family. He’d told her about the family business—without going into detail as to exactly what type of business it was. Food industry, he’d told her, and although it was the truth, it was a very stretched truth. His father and uncle had owned a fishing boat. And after they’d lost that, his dad had had a job as a short order cook at the local diner for about a month or two.

  Food industry. Right.

  “Al lost his leg,” he told her now.

  “I’m so sorry.” Somehow she’d moved closer, so that her thigh was now pressing against his, so that she could reach up to brush a lock of hair back from his forehead.

  Please, God, don’t let this woman ever stop touching him. Nils kept talking, wanting her to stay close, wanting her to know.

  “Neither of them came home in body bags, but at the same time, neither of them ever really came home.” He’d never said this to anyone before. He’d hardly even let himself think it. “Whenever I look at it—the Wall—and I see that list of names, all I can think is, why aren’t their names up there, too, you know? They should both be listed among the casualties. You didn’t have to die in ’Nam to lose your life there.”

  Meg’s eyes were wide. “I don’t get it,” she said. “How does the son of a Vietnam vet become a professional warrior?”

  “SEALs aren’t warriors, Meg. We’re peacekeepers. What we do is prevent wars. And if they start before we can get there, we do whatever we have to do to end ’em, fast.” Nils shut his mouth, embarrassed. What was wrong with him? John Nilsson didn’t rant like that. He rarely raised his voice.

  “Thank you,” Meg said.

  He looked up at her. She was so close. All he had to do was lean forward a few inches and . . .

  Meg released his hand and moved back, away from him, as if she’d just realized she’d been nearly sitting on his lap. “May I ask you another personal question?”

  Nils laughed. “Suddenly you feel the need to ask permission?”

  She hugged her knees in to her chest, looking up at the hazy clouds. There was the slightest breeze that ruffled her dark hair and kept the afternoon from being too oppressively warm. “This one’s really personal.”

  He lay down next to her on the picnic blanket, dying to take her into his arms, but careful, as always, not to get too close. “Shoot.”

  “Do you have a girlfriend back in California?” she asked.

  He laughed as he propped his head up on one elbow. That was an easy question. “No, I don’t.”

  She turned to look at him. “Then, what do you do for sex?”

  Nils choked and had to sit up, fast. “I can’t believe you just asked me—”

  She rearranged her legs so that she was sitting tailor style as she laughed at him. “I told you it was kind of personal.”

  He looked at her over the tops of his sunglasses. “Kind of . . . ?”

  She actually blushed even though she was still laughing. “Okay, so it was a really rude and intrusive question. It’s none of my business, but I like you and—”

  “If there really is a God, you’ll finish that sentence by saying that you want to have sex with me.”

  She laughed even harder, pushing at him slightly. “No, that’s not what I was going to say. Don’t be ridiculous. I just . . . You’re such a nice guy, John, and you probably don’t get a lot of time off, and it just—I don’t know—seems a shame that you aren’t taking advantage of this week. There are probably a million single women in this city who would love to have dinner with you. With hardly any effort you could—”

  “Get laid?”

  “Maybe find someone special, and yes,” she said, rolling her eyes, “get laid, too. In a good way.”

  “Is there a bad way to get laid? Gee, I wasn’t aware.”

  “You know what I mean. I’m not talking about a cheap one-night stand. That’s dangerous these days, anyway. I’m talking about a meaningful relationship with someone—”

  “Special. Right. Well, maybe I’ve already found someone special.” Nils didn’t know what demon made him say that, but it instantly took all the teasing and fun out of the conversation.

  Meg wouldn’t look at him. She began gathering up their garbage from lunch—sandwich wrappers and the paper that had been around her Popsicle. “I have a friend named Joelle. She’s single, she’s really sweet—pretty, too. She’s about your age and she’s—”

  “Horny?”

  She looked up at him, recrimination in her eyes. Not funny. “She’s special.” She went back to organizing the garbage. “I was thinking about that embassy function tomorrow night. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go as my escort. I’m afraid—”

  “You’re afraid that you like me too much,” Nils realized. Holy Christ. That’s what this was about.

  “These past few weeks have been great,” she said quietly, and he tried to focus, to listen, “but it’s not real, John. I can’t give you what you need, and all you’re giving me is . . .” What? He was dying to know, but she broke off, shaking her head. “Look, it would be a lot easier to be friends with you if you were dating someone, anyone. If not Joelle—”

  “How do you know what I need?” he asked.

  The look she gave him would ha
ve been comical if he’d felt like laughing, if his heart hadn’t been lodged somewhere between his Adam’s apple and his bronchial tubes. “I’m sorry, you are so not the priest type. I know what you need, Nilsson.”

  “Well . . . maybe getting laid’s just not a priority for me right now.”

  She gave him another look. “Now why don’t I believe that?”

  “Not all men are like Daniel,” he told her. “We don’t all think with our dicks. Excuse my crudeness.”