Troubleshooters 05 Into The Night

by Suzanne Brockmann

  "This is America," Mary Lou said. "Women don't belong to men in America."

  "Yes," he said, "they do."

  "Well, Lord," she said. "If that's what you think, then good riddance to you. You're not someone I want as a friend anyway."

  "Are you not Sam's wife?"

  "Well, yes, but he's my husband, too."

  "That's different," Ihbraham said.

  "No, it is not," she argued.

  "Yes, it is," he said. "Even here in America, the land of the free. Sam is a little more free than you are. And you are both more free than I am."

  He glanced at his wristwatch, and Mary Lou knew it was really just a matter of seconds before he left. Lord help her, mad as she was at him, she didn't want him to leave.

  "Why don't you come inside and have some iced tea and we can argue about this out of the heat?" she said. "Please?"

  He sat there silently for several long moments, just looking at her. "You would invite me into your house?" he finally said.

  "Is there a reason I shouldn't?" she countered.

  "In some countries, such an offer would be considered an invitation to have sexual relations," he told her. "An offer to enter a woman's home, to be there alone with her—"

  "Yeah, and in some countries the penalty for a woman who has sex with a man she's not married to is death. The man gets a rap on the knuckles and the woman is beheaded. I don't Jive in some countries, thank you very much," she said. "And neither do you. My invitation was for iced tea. Don't get weird on me now, Ihbraham."

  "You have never invited me inside your home before," he pointed out.

  "Okay," she said. "You're right. You're absolutely right. I'm dying to have sex with you. Right on the living room rug. In front of my baby daughter, no less." She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "You know, I'd almost forgotten that you were a man. But apparently you're just as stupid and hormone-crazed as the rest of them. And you've got some really dumb foreign ideas to boot. I thought you were an American."

  "I am."

  "Then act like one!" She marched away from his truck, to Haley's playpen, scooping up her daughter before she turned back to look at him. "Just out of curiosity, is that really what it would take?" she asked. "For you to be friends with me again? A quickie while my husband's at work and my daughter's down for a nap?"

  He shook his head. "Mary Lou—"

  "Why don't you come back in a couple of hours," she said, "and see just how desperate I am for someone to stick around."

  He was looking at her as if he couldn't tell whether or not she was kidding.

  Trouble was, Mary Lou wasn't quite sure herself.

  "I'm sorry I upset you so much," he said, and put his truck into gear.

  She watched as he drove away.

  The phone rang, and Mary Lou hurried inside the house out of force of habit.

  Except, really, the only person she wanted to talk to had just rolled out of her life. Probably for good.

  She would not cry. She would not cry. At least not until Haley took her nap.

  Still, she had to take a deep breath before she picked up the phone. She tucked it between her shoulder and ear so she could use her hands to keep Haley from grabbing her earrings. "Hello?"

  "Hey there, Mary Lou."

  God damn it. It was Insurance Bob. His timing stank, as usual. He was the last person she wanted to talk to right now.

  "So am I going to be able to talk you into dinner tonight?" he asked. His voice got softer, sweeter. "I'd really love to see you, honey. I can't stop thinking about you."

  Dinner with Insurance Bob. Well, why the hell not? Mrs. U. was always willing to watch Haley in the evenings. Sam wouldn't be back until late again and even if he did get home before her, he wouldn't give a flying fuck. And as for Ihbraham...

  Shoot, she might as well be with someone who liked her enough to actually do something about it. "Tell me where and when and I'll meet you over there," she told Bob.

  "Oh, baby," he said. "You just made my year."

  * * *

  Commander Paoletti had looked hard at Muldoon when he'd first made his request to stand on the dais with the President and other VIPs during the SEAL demo.

  Two Seahawks, each carrying a squad of men, were going to kick off the presentation. Those men, dressed in BDUs and combat vests, carrying a full arsenal of weapons, were going to fast-rope down to the parade ground. In a matter of seconds, they would rig an ancient antiaircraft launcher with enough explosives to create a controlled blast that would "put it out of commission."

  They would then be pulled back off the parade grounds via helo and SPIE rigging.

  It would all take place inside of a few short minutes. And that was just to get the show—which included plenty of colored smoke and other whiz-bang insertion and extraction techniques—started.

  They did a dry run of the President's arrival, with the teams of Secret Service men and additional security under the command of Admiral Tucker all swarming the area. Also milling around were the members of the President's staff who would be on hand. Commander Paoletti came and stood next to Muldoon and shook his head at the chaos.

  Joan had just walked about a dozen yards away to get: a little privacy for a call coming in on her cell, and the CO looked at her pointedly and then looked back at Muldoon.

  "You know, when you first asked to be kept out of the helos for this thing, I thought your knee was bothering you again," Paoletti said quietly. "I thought you were trying to avoid the fast-roping."

  Sliding forty feet down a rope from a helo and going immediately into a dead run had been tough on Muldoon's knees before he'd been injured.

  "No, sir," Muldoon said. "I'm fine. I still have twinges, and I'm still using the brace, but I'm fully up to speed. I wouldn't lie to you about that."

  "I didn't think you were lying, Lieutenant," the CO said easily. "I thought you just conveniently forgot to tell me."

  "No, sir," Muldoon said again.

  "Yeah, I realize that now," he said, glancing at Joan again. "I'm curious though. Most guys would've leapt at the chance to play hero. Show off a little."

  "I'm not going to impress anyone by jumping out of helicopters," Muldoon told the commander. "I'm not exactly sure how I am going to impress ..." Jeez, who was he kidding here? Just use her name. "... Joan, but believe me, sir, I'm working on it."

  He had decided to approach his entire relationship with Joan as if it were a mission with a "Do not fail" order. His plan so far was to spend the next few days as close to her as possible.

  But no sex. That gigolo crack still stung. He had to make it clear to her that, in his eyes at least, their relationship was about way more than sex.

  He'd realized last night, after he'd begged her to take him back to her room, that sex would only serve to make things even more complicated.

  He'd realized a lot of things last night.

  It had occurred to him then that as much as he wanted to spend all of the next three weeks in bed with Joan, that wasn't going to get him what he really wanted.

  And what he really wanted was a long-distance relationship. If that really was the only way they could make a relationship with two high-octane careers work, then dammit, he wanted to try. He wanted a chance at having something real with this incredible woman.

  "If that's the case, if you're really determined, Muldoon, then she doesn't stand a chance," Paoletti said. "I'll definitely be dancing at your wedding, kid."

  Wedding?

  "Uh," Muldoon said. "Well..."

  Jeez, the CO actually thought that he and Joan... ?

  "Thanks," Muldoon said. "Sir. I'll be, um, sure to invite you."

  To his wedding. To Joan. God, what a thought. What an incredible thought.

  Muldoon and Joan—married. He started to laugh. Married. But, hey, why not? He was crazy out of his mind about her. The thought of never seeing her again scared him to death. For days now, he'd been alternating between deep depression and giddy euphoria.


  He loved her.

  Hopelessly. Endlessly. Totally.

  He wanted to wake up every morning knowing that she was in his life.

  The CO—as usual—was as right about this as he was about most things. Muldoon simply hadn't been thinking on a grand enough scale.

  He could imagine their wedding—a simple ceremony where they'd put rings on each other's fingers and seal the promises they made with a kiss. God, he wanted that so badly he had to remind himself to keep breathing.

  He'd never pursued a woman before, not like this. He'd never had to. He'd never wanted to. But like the CO had said, if he was determined...

  What would she say if he asked her to marry him?

  There are too many obstacles.

  Yeah? As Sam Starrett would say, so the fuck what? What obstacle ever stopped a fuckin' SEAL?

  What Muldoon had to do was find out exactly what her perceived obstacles were and. ..

  He had to talk to her. He had to get inside her head. Find out what she was thinking. Let her know what he was thinking, too. God, he had to let her know what he was feeling.

  Okay, that one wasn't going to be either easy or fun, but neither was BUD/S training, and he'd made it through that. You do what you have to do to get the job done. And if that's what it would take...

  He had to make Joan see that it was worth it, that what they shared was well worth the hard work that came with a long-distance love affair. The sparks that they made together, and the sheer comfort of the fit that he felt when they were together—and he knew she felt it, too—was worth keeping. Forever.

  He was not—was not—just going to let this one go. He wasn't just going to let her slip away from him. Not this time. Not Joan.

  And he had to make her realize that he was worth keeping, too.

  Paoletti glanced at Joan again. "You know, she made quite an impression on Kelly. Funny and really smart, Kel said. Really sharp, really together."

  "Yeah," Muldoon said. "She's fabulous, sir."

  "What is it about smart women?" Paoletti asked. "Don't try to answer that, Lieutenant. It was a rhetorical question. Although maybe someone as intelligent as you could actually figure it out. If you come up with anything, let me know, okay?"

  Muldoon laughed. "Aye, aye, sir."

  It was good to see the commander looking a little more relaxed. Or was he?

  As Paoletti watched the Secret Service and other security personnel at work, his eyes narrowed slightly and his mouth got tight.

  Muldoon had the feeling that the CO wished nothing more than for this honor to be over with.

  "Joan seems to be under the impression that all threats have been diminished," Muldoon said. "The information she's received implies that when the FBI took out that terrorist cell yesterday, they completely eliminated any potential danger to the President. I tried to tell her that wasn't necessarily the case."

  Paoletti shook his head and laughed his disgust. "Apparently there's only one al-Qaeda cell operating in this part of California, right? Yeah." He laughed again. "I've made my opinion as clear again today as I did yesterday and the day before, but no one wants to hear it—especially not since the current threat has been downgraded. And God knows it's time to start campaigning." He rolled his eyes. "I thank God I don't have to be reelected as Team Sixteen's CO every few years."

  Muldoon did, too. Passionately, in fact. Tom Paoletti was a major part of the reason Sixteen was the best team in the Navy. "Twenty-four hours, and it'll all be over, sir."

  "Twenty-one hours and twenty-eight minutes, Lieutenant. I'm practically counting seconds here." Paoletti sighed, his easygoing smile fading. "I've actually got a love-hate thing happening with this assignment, if you know what I mean."

  "I do, sir." Muldoon watched Joan as whoever was on the other end of her cell phone made her laugh. "The team hasn't had many assignments as easy as this one in a long time. Everyone's benefiting from having extra time to spend with their families." He thought about Sam. "Well, almost everyone."

  "I'm glad to be home with Kelly every night," the CO admitted. "Very glad. But I think we're asking for trouble if we all assume there's no chance of any danger while we're here on base."

  "I agree completely, sir. If I were a player on Osama's team ..." Muldoon trailed off. This was probably not what the CO wanted to hear right now.

  But Paoletti was looking at him with that thought-penetrating gaze. "Go on, Lieutenant. This should be interesting."

  "Okay. I'd look to hit the United States in a place like this. A naval base or military compound. Maybe a federal government building. Someplace believed to be invincible. Do you remember your World War Two history, sir? How after Pearl Harbor we made a point to bomb Tokyo? It was just short of a suicide mission. Jimmy Doolittle and his Raiders took off in bombers from aircraft carriers—it was the first time in history that was done successfully. The pilots had to ditch over enemy territory because there wasn't enough fuel to get back to the ships. It was a logistical nightmare. But we did it. And we succeeded. Why? Because the Japanese government told the world that their island was untouchable. Invincible. Attack-proof. Safe. We intentionally went in there and rubbed their faces in the fact that they were dead wrong. They were not safe, and we demoralized the hell out of them.

  "If I were a terrorist, that's what I'd try to do to the U.S."

  "They're not going to demoralize us," Paoletti countered. "No matter what they do."

  "No, it wouldn't work," Muldoon agreed. "It would be 9/11 all over again. But I think they don't get that. They don't understand the way we think. Same way we don't understand them."

  "And with that, you have neatly summed up the reason why guys like you and me won't be out of a job for a good long time."

  "And why it pays to be ready for anything," Muldoon said.

  "That's my plan." The commander smiled. "I've been making so much noise about potential danger I've been a little afraid I'm going to be asked to go in for another series of psych evils. But when that demo starts, I'll be fully in command, and I'll be damned if any bad shit is going to go down on my watch. We'll both have radio headsets tomorrow— along with the rest of the team. While you're on that dais, Muldoon, I want your eyes open at all times. No staring at Joan's ass, do you hear me?"

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  "Not that you would—you're too polite. We'll be running through our part of the show again this afternoon," Commander Paoletti continued, "and we'll actually use real smoke bombs. I want the Secret Service to see what the colored smoke is going to look like. Hopefully, they'll request we don't use any smoke at all after they see how completely it's going to obscure the spectator stands. But that run-through's not scheduled until 1400. After lunch. Admiral Tucker set up some kind of fancy buffet for the President's staff. Any brilliant ideas as to how I can get out of that?"

  Lunch ... Muldoon looked over at Joan, who was still talking on her phone. Earlier, he'd asked her to have lunch with him, and although she hadn't given him a definite answer, he suspected he was going to get a no.

  Which was a major problem if his goal was to talk to her. Although maybe what he should do was call her. She sure spent a lot of time talking on her phone.

  "You never managed to have lunch with Joan," Muldoon told his CO now. "And you did promise her that you would."

  "God bless you, I certainly did. Jenkins!" the commander shouted.

  "Yes, sir?" Jenk appeared out of nowhere. He was dressed in cammy gear, with black and green greasepaint streaking his boyish face.

  "Send my regrets to Admiral Tucker. I won't be able to join his party for lunch."

  "I'll tell him you're real broken up about it, sir."

  "And after you do that, call Joan DaCosta on her cell phone and ask if she'd like to join me for lunch at 1200 hours at that Greek place—what's it called?"

  "You mean the Falafel Shack?"

  "No, Jenk. The one that has chairs that aren't attached to the plastic tables, and plates that aren't paper. W
hat is it, Alexi's?"

  "Actually, Joan would probably prefer the Shack," Muldoon said.

  The CO's face lit up. "Really?"

  "Yes, sir. And they do have real tables and chairs. Outside. There's a nice little garden. If you call ahead, Nick will actually reserve a table for you. He pretty much gets his kid to sit there and color until you show up."

  "Call Nick at the Shack and tell him to break out the Crayolas a few minutes before noon," Paoletti told Jenk.

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  "Don't forget to talk to Tucker's office first," Paoletti reminded him.

  "You got it, boss." Jenkins vanished.

  "That's a trick you might want to remember when you're CO of a team and want to avoid lunch with the base commander," Paoletti told Muldoon. "Send your regrets first. That way if your escape plan falls through, well, gee, you've already cancelled, right?"

  "I'll keep it in mind, sir."

  "You will be able to join us for lunch, won't you, Lieutenant?"

  Alleluia. "Permission to kiss you, Commander?"

  Commander Paoletti laughed as he headed toward some kind of problem the senior chief appeared to be having with three of the Secret Service agents. "Not a chance, Muldoon.

  You're smart enough, but other than that, you're not my type. You're much too polite."

  "What are you doing out here?" Charlie asked.

  Vince glanced up at her from his seat on the patio. "Sitting."

  "I can see that."

  "Do you remember when we moved to San Diego we thought it would be so great because we'd be able to spend all that time on the beach?" Vince asked her. "When was the last time we went to the beach? I mean with any regularity?"

  "I don't know."

  "It was at least thirty years ago." He shook his head. "You loved the beach. Maybe we should have bought that place right on the water. Remember that place?"

  She sat down next to him. "Only very vaguely. It was damp and the playroom had all that awful dark paneling."

  "It didn't have a playroom. You're mixing it up with that house we looked at that had the swimming pool."

  Charlie gave him a look. "How can you possibly remember that?"