Risking It All

by Christi Barth

  Nobody laughed.

  Okay. Griff could admit the turbulence had even his stomach looking for an exit sign. He wiped his palms on his flight suit. Conditions sucked, no two ways about it. But it wasn’t in their job descriptions to be comfortable on missions. And it was in Griff’s to make sure they were all comfortable with the decision to continue. Especially if they’d be walking the tightrope between saving lives and disobeying a not-quite-order. Something he’d take all the blame for if anyone noticed. Hopefully, making the rescue would blot out the how of the whole operation.

  “Look, we’re a team. I won’t keep going without your okay.”

  Only the hiss of static came through the speaker in his helmet. Griffin meant every word. He was the ranking officer on this mission. But aside from the obvious CG command structure, he liked his team to feel like equals, and more importantly, to trust one another. Right now he needed them to trust him. Trust that he wouldn’t put them at risk. Wait. Rewind. That he wouldn’t put them at undue risk. Because keeping them safe was every bit as important to him as rescuing those three on the foundering boat.

  Griff upped the ante. Motivating his search and rescue team was no different than motivating his old soccer team. He knew what worked. “Do you want to be pussies, or do you want to go save some people?”

  “You know damn well there’s only one way to answer that question. Semper Paratus.” Howell bellowed the Coast Guard motto—Always Ready—at the top of his lungs. A little belatedly, Schafer echoed him. With plenty of gusto, though. The kid would do all right.

  Griff angled them into a faster dive through the driving rain and black clouds. “Good. This can’t be too dangerous. Over in England, they let the heir to the throne do it.”

  “If he crashes a chopper, he can buy a new one with the change he scrounges from the sofa cushions,” said Howell. “But since you haven’t picked up a bar tab in, well, ever, you probably can’t afford to replace a ten-million-dollar piece of equipment.”

  “Be nice, or I’ll leave you out here to swim home.” Howell was their rescue swimmer. The number of miles the guy could swim in open ocean was nothing short of amazing. Still, it was an empty threat, given the amount of not just water but land between them and their base outside of D.C. One he’d made dozens of times. Tossing around bullshit relaxed the crew. And it was about to get all kinds of tense up in here.

  Finding the stranded boat in the gray, churning waves was only the first step, not to mention the least dangerous. Griff would have to fight the weather and the waves to stay so low he practically kissed the water as Howell deployed to the boat. Secure rigging, haul them up one by one, undoubtedly fighting the wind every damn step of the way. Then hope once they reeled in the survivors that nobody was seriously injured. Griff loved every hair-raising moment. He glanced back over his shoulder, making sure nobody had puked yet.

  Just like he always did before things got serious, Griff gave two loud whoops and yelled, “Ready to save some lives?”

  “Semper Paratus!”

  —

  “Let me bake you boys some cookies when we get back home,” offered…Mindy? Wendy? Griff hadn’t quite caught the grateful granny’s name. He’d been a little too busy performing the minor miracle of not running them into the broken spears left from the sailboat’s mast, which almost slammed into the chopper with each surge of the water. But he could spit out the spiel to deal with her offer on autopilot.

  “Ma’am, your tax dollars pay our salary. That’s all the thanks we need.” That and landing soon, before their fuel gauge sank any lower. They’d finally flown out of the storm. The air was pitch black, but smooth. Griff was juiced on the buzz of a successful rescue. His crew had the same tightly happy tone as they dealt with the other two survivors in the back.

  “My tax dollars are also supposed to pay to keep the potholes filled in, and I don’t see that happening,” she snapped tartly with a head snap that tossed her sodden white hair. “So I think you deserve something for going the extra mile and saving our lives.”

  No shock or shaking for this old bird. Griff got a kick out of her resiliency, especially in contrast to her daughter’s teeth-chattering silence. “When you put it that way, we’d be fools to refuse. Especially if you’re willing to make sure there are some peanut butter ones in the mix.”

  “Young man, this was supposed to be my grandson’s first full weekend sail. Three generations together, sailing the seas. Instead, it was almost his last weekend on this planet. I don’t think we would’ve lasted the night. So I’ll make you peanut butter cookies, peanut butter blond brownies, and a chocolate peanut butter pie.”

  “Sounds great, ma’am. But only if you stay strapped into that jump seat the rest of the way home.” The feisty granny, a twenty-year veteran of the friendly skies, had insisted on coming up front to thank the pilot. Although the oldest of the trio, Mindy/Wendy seemed the most resilient, despite the rapidly darkening black eye that was her most visible injury. She’d been peppering them with questions for almost twenty minutes. But she kept getting out of the seat to crouch between them.

  Griff swung his head to the right to grin at Schafer. Yeah, the kid was still green around the gills, but he’d held it together. Also put to rest Griff’s question about the compulsive swallowing. It’d disappeared completely, according to Howell, when he’d been busy reassuring the soaked and shivering thirteen-year-old victim.

  Howell kept up a running commentary through the comm for Griff of what was going on in the cargo as he triaged the victims. Griff had to swallow his laughter when he heard the dazed and probably concussed mom call Schafer “Officer Rescue Guy” and pat him solemnly on top of his flight helmet. And now, strapped back in beside Griff, the newbie couldn’t stop grinning.

  “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

  “Saving people? Hell yeah.” He quickly tacked on a quieter, “Sir.”

  “It’s okay to celebrate. This was a good day.” Griff shot him a sideways smile. “Or a crappy day with a good ending. Either way, we didn’t just punch a clock today. We made a difference. How many people can say that about their jobs?”

  “My dad’s a train steward. D.C. to Miami route. It pays the bills, and I guess he likes his job fine after all this time. Always comes off a shift with a smile on his face and a funny story about not having enough pillows to go around.” Schafer’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “I’d never say this to his face, but what we did today feels more important than serving coffee and announcing station stops. It feels amazing. I think I will celebrate tonight, sir.”

  Griff sure planned to do just that. It was Friday. At least, it’d be Friday by the time they landed, off-loaded their passengers, and he filed his report. He wouldn’t bother sleeping in his crappy base quarters. Instead, he’d head into D.C. to spend the weekend with the guys. His blood brothers, the Americani Calcio Sopravvissuti, or the ACSs, as the media branded them after the accident all those years ago.

  Whenever possible, they liked to help Griff celebrate each of his rescues. Knox would invariably ask how hot and/or naked the women were whom he’d rescued. Josh would revise his bet on how soon Griffin would earn his captaincy. And Riley would insist the credit truly belonged to him, since he’d been the one to force out Griff’s heroic nature that fateful day in the Alps. There’d be a toast to each survivor. Steaks and Scotch. Afterward, with a couple of phone calls or hitting the right clubs, they’d add some pretty girls to the party.

  As Griffin deftly kissed the chopper’s wheels to the tarmac he ignored the throbbing at the base of his skull. Yeah, a tension headache had set in pretty much from the moment he lost visibility in the fog. Small price to pay, though, for such a good outcome. The only thing that could burst his bubble now was if nobody had left a fresh pot of coffee in the officers’ lounge.

  He toggled off all the avionics with one hand while removing his helmet with the other. Now that they were safely down, Griff could feel exhaustion sinking its claws in and slow
ing him down. Maybe he’d take a nap before heading back into town.

  His door wrenched open from the outside. Commander Lewis, a tall, fierce man who ran the tightest of ships, glowered at him. Weird. Didn’t he know this one went in the win column?

  To prod the point home, Griff said, “We got ’em, Commander.” He scrubbed his fingers through his short, blond hair. Felt the wide smile of victory stretch across his face.

  “What did I tell you about staying out past curfew, Montgomery?”

  That’s the term the commander used when Griff pushed the envelope. He’d never directly disobeyed an order. But if something wasn’t a direct order, and going against it involved risk and saving lives, chances were good Griff would ignore it. Like tonight, when he’d decided his bird’s-eye assessment of the weather to be more on target than the tracking devices back at HQ. Darkness, storms—those weren’t reasons to give up a mission. Those were usually the things that sent them off on a mission.

  “I knew we could save these people, sir. Knew they wouldn’t last until morning, either.”

  “Here’s something else you should’ve known. You’re grounded.”

  No. Hell no. Griff unstrapped from his seat and hit the tarmac, his boots splashing in a long puddle. “Respectfully, sir, you can’t mean that.”

  “Am I known for my sense of humor, Lieutenant?”

  Not by a long shot. A fourth-generation officer, the commander lived and breathed the Coast Guard. Strict. Fair. Obsessed more than a little with rules and regs. Hard-core Washington Capitals fan. But rarely known to smile, let alone crack a joke.

  “Sir, you can’t ground me.”

  The older man slapped the three, wide yellow bars on his uniform. “These say I can. They also say I can roast your ass for insubordination.”

  “You have no grounds to clip my wings.”

  A harsh, humorless laugh spilled from Commander Lewis’s lips. “I could have done it six months ago. You’ve given me reason over and over again. Today’s just the final straw. Do you know what happened out there?”

  Genuinely confused, Griff shook his head. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “I don’t call my SAR crew starring in a YouTube video anything close to ordinary. Did you know that boy you rescued taped the whole thing?”

  All Griff could do was suck in a long breath.

  “That kid used his phone to record every minute. Including you petitioning his grandmother for peanut butter cookies. He uploaded it, sent out the link on every social media platform that exists, and in the time it took you to return to base, it already has more than a thousand hits.”

  “Can’t we force him to take it down for national security reasons? If he’s got shots of the inside of the chopper, we can kill it.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Local and national news are already circling, eager to talk to the hero pilot and the family he saved.”

  It was annoying. Embarrassing. But Griff still didn’t see why the commander had his tighty-whities in a twist. “Sounds like a positive PR story.”

  “It could be. If we’re careful. Or it could be a shit storm, if any civilian who was out there in the sky or on the water today decides to weigh in. Conditions out there were too dangerous. Period. It doesn’t take a meteorologist to see that. Watching that boy’s video tells the tale. You barely got them in the chopper.”

  “I have an exemplary record of successful rescues.”

  “On paper, yes.”

  Griff tucked his helmet under his arm. “I think the grateful people whose lives I’ve saved would back me up.”

  “You’re one of the best we’ve got. I don’t dispute that. But you’re reckless. Yes, all pilots are hotshots, to some extent. Not as crazy as those Navy Top Guns, of course, but you still think you’re untouchable. That trouble won’t stick to you.”

  Damn it, was that what he thought? Was that what this was about? As somberly as possible, Griff said, “I don’t believe that, sir. Not for a second.”

  “Then why do you consistently push the envelope? Dance around regs like they exist only to annoy you, instead of keep you safe?”

  Griff didn’t know if it’d come off as cocky or noble. But all he could do was answer with the solemn truth in his gut that drove him every day. “When I’m out there, it is to save lives. Not to get a kitten out of a tree. Not to give directions to someone who is lost. Search and rescue is about life and death. If I don’t find them, and fast, people will die. I am the only thing standing between them and a horrible fate. I push the envelope because I’m all they’ve got. I’m their only chance.”

  Commander Lewis gave him a long, hard stare. Said nothing. Clasped his hands behind his back and walked all the way down to the next helicopter, then back. Gave Griff the fish eye one more time. Then he strode quickly to the building, pausing as he opened the door to yell over his shoulder, “You’re still grounded.”

  Chapter 2

  Chloe Widmore waved at the knitting group seated next to her in the coffeehouse. They came every Monday morning, a chatty group of seniors, always with a smile for Chloe. Sometimes a little too chatty. After all, she didn’t come to Busboys and Poets every day for a caffeine buzz. She came to work.

  Methodically, she began her start-of-the-day routine. Sure, the soaring, two-level industrial space smelled like cocoa-mocha goodness and buzzed with laughter like a good party. But to her it was a workplace every bit as much as the closet-like offices a few miles down the road in the Capitol, White House, and Old Executive Office Building. Just…without the Secret Service snipers on the rooftop.

  So while Chloe’s laptop booted, she set out her backup Netbook, iPad, legal pad, box of assorted stationery, as well as two pencils; pens in purple, pink, blue, and green; and an old-fashioned fountain pen. These were only her mobile essentials. She carefully culled them every morning, depending on that day’s to-do list, from a much more comprehensive and colorful stash in her home office. It took up the entire four-top table. But the staff didn’t mind how much space she used. She tipped well and always ordered breakfast and lunch. Who was she kidding? An afternoon cookie got ordered more often than not, too.

  A wave of applause began by the front door and traveled the length of the building to her. Applause? People actually standing up to clap at nine a.m.? Chloe liked distractions sprinkled throughout the day. Just not before she’d ordered her first cinnamon latte.

  No matter how she craned her neck, she couldn’t tell what had sparked all the hoopla. There’d been nothing online about a movie filming in the area. And D.C. residents were far too blasé about even the biggest politicians to put their hands together for someone with a flag pin on their lapel. This didn’t make sense. The big table next to her probably had a great view. “Rosalia, what’s going on up there?”

  The older woman patted her stiff, white curls as if prepping to get her flirt on. Kind of a scary thought. Even scarier when Rosalia pinched her cheeks sharply as she replied, “It’s that pilot.”

  Two major airports for D.C., and another just twenty-five miles up the road in Baltimore, meant that pilots were as ubiquitous as lobbyists and spies. “Nobody would bother to clap like that for a pilot.”

  “It’s the one who was on the news.” Rosalia thumped a hand onto her mountainous bosom. “He risked his life and his crew to heroically battle a storm and rescue a family.”

  Potentially interesting. She’d have to Google the full story later, though, since Rosalia was prone to exaggeration. The woman once paid for a table’s drinks—total strangers—because she overheard the mom mention that her son had caught his first lightning bug. Rosalia called it a milestone.

  But what really poked at the grammar nerd part of Chloe’s brain? Rosalia’s use of language. “ ‘He heroically battled a storm’?” She used her fingers to make air quotes. Because yes, the idea was that ridiculous. “Technically, you can’t battle a storm. It’s not like he pulled out an assault rifle and ordered the clouds to quit it or he’d shoot.�
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  Good thing Chloe hadn’t ordered her latte yet. The glare Rosalie sent her way would’ve frozen it into a mochalicious popsicle. “Girls, stand up,” the leader of the knitters ordered. “This young man saved one of us.”

  “A knitter? A cat lover?” Chloe guessed with a grin. Crap. She realized about two seconds too late, thanks to the multiple white-topped heads that snapped toward her with the precision of the Rockettes kick line, that she’d guessed out loud. Geez, she should go grab a coffee to kick-start her brain before she offended her seatmates any more.

  “A grandmother,” hissed the short woman closest to her. “That pilot saved a child, a mother, and a grandmother. Without a moment’s thought to his own safety.”

  Poor word choice, yet again. There was no way she could know whether or not the pilot thought about his safety while he was—apparently—bitch slapping the storm into submission. Still, she’d try to sneak a peek when she got in line for coffee. Because who could resist a hero?

  Chloe rummaged in her hot-pink-and-brown dotted messenger bag for her wallet. Unfortunately, the first thing her fingers hit was a stiff, thick envelope. The reunion invitation she’d been ignoring. Just like she did every year. Because who in their right mind wanted to celebrate being shot and ten years of subsequent therapy?

  “Hello.”

  The smooth, baritone voice jerked her head up. Across the table stood a handsome blond man. A ruggedly handsome blond man with about two days of sexy scruff darkening his jaw. The blue shade of his eyes matched the topaz on Chloe’s right hand. His black leather jacket hung open, framing a navy tee stretched tight across a set of pecs that made her blink twice. Because below the amazing pecs the shirt tucked into jeans that bulged directly at the level of her eyes. Not that Chloe was looking. Well, not that she’d keep looking.

  “Hi.” Wow. See, if über-hot guy had waited until after she’d fueled up, he would’ve gotten a flirty, clever reply. Instead of the barely-better-than-a-grunt monosyllable she’d lunged at him.