Identity_Unknown

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Ever since a year and a half ago, when the captain had nearly been killed by terrorists on what should have been a routine training mission, Veronica looked even more fragile than she had before when the squad went out on an op. She’d never found it easy to deal with the fact that her husband regularly left—sometimes without any warning—on highly dangerous missions. And now, after seeing Joe in a hospital bed, fighting for his life, it was even more difficult for her.

  “Everyone’s fine,” Lucky said quietly, taking her hand. “Really.” Hotshot Cowboy Jones had jammed his ankle coming in too hard from a HALO jump, but aside from that, they’d all made it back to California in one piece.

  Veronica smiled, but it was a little too bright and a touch too brittle. “Well,” she said. “Joe’s expecting you. He’s down on the beach.”

  “Thanks.” Lucky squeezed her hand before he released it.

  “Should I set extra plates for dinner?” Veronica asked evenly.

  Lucky exchanged a look with Bobby. The captain had called them to this meeting on their pagers, sending them an urgent code. Whatever was up was important. Despite the fact that they’d only been home a day and a half, chances were they’d be going wheels-up again within the next few hours. And knowing the way Joe Catalanotto liked to lead from the front, it was more than likely he’d be shipping out with them. It seemed, however, that he hadn’t mentioned anything about that to his wife.

  “I don’t think so, Ronnie,” Bobby told her gently.

  “Probably not this time. It really smells great, though. Those cooking lessons are paying off, huh?”

  “I was working all day,” she told him ruefully. “Joe made the stew.”

  Damn. The captain’s wife may have been beautiful, smart and sexy as hell, but the woman was a menace in the kitchen.

  “Are you sure you can’t stay?” she added. “There’s plenty and it’s quite good. There’s no way Joe and Frankie and I can possibly eat all of it.”

  “Something’s come up. I think the captain’s planning to take us kids out on another field trip,” Wes told her before either Bobby or Lucky could muzzle him. Mr. Insensitive and Completely Oblivious. “So, yeah, we’re sure we can’t stay.”

  “Well,” Veronica said tightly. “Off for another month, are you? Thanks for letting me know, although that’s something that would’ve been nice to hear from Joe.”

  Double damn. Lucky cringed. “Ron, honest, I don’t know what’s up. If he didn’t mention anything to you, well, maybe we’re not going anywhere.”

  Veronica visibly composed herself. And sighed as she looked up into their somewhat panicked faces. “Don’t look at me like that,” she chided them. “I’m stronger than you think. I knew what I was getting before I married him. I don’t have to like it when Joe leaves—isn’t that what you SEALs always say? I don’t have to like it, I just have to do it. Just take care of him for me, all right?”

  She was pretending to hang tough, but her lower lip trembled an infinitesimal amount, giving her away. “Go,” she said. “He’s waiting. And you can tell him he doesn’t have to worry about breaking the terrible news to me anymore.”

  Lucky followed Bobby and Wes out the kitchen door but hesitated on the deck, looking in through the window to watch her set only two places at the kitchen table—for herself and Frankie, her toddler son—still trying not to cry.

  Lucky knew by the time Joe came back to the house, she’d be perfectly composed and probably even smiling.

  Veronica’s acceptance of Joe’s career was a rare thing. SEALs had a divorce rate that was off the scale, in part because many of their wives simply couldn’t take the strain of being left behind again and again and again, waiting and worrying.

  “I’m never getting married,” Lucky murmured to Wes as they went down the steps that led to the beach.

  “You and me, Luck,” Wes agreed. “Unless Ronnie decides to leave the captain. Or am I already too late? Have you already started marking your territory in a big circle around her? No offense, Lieutenant, sir, but that kiss was just a little too friendly.”

  Lucky was stung. “I was just saying hello. I’d never—”

  “You’d never what, O’Donlon?” All six feet and four dangerous inches of Joe Cat materialized from the mist that was blowing in off the Pacific. One second they were alone and the next he was breathing down their necks. How the hell could a man built like a professional football player do that?

  “I’d never hit on your wife,” Lucky told his captain bluntly. There was no point in trying to hide the truth from Joe Cat. Somehow he’d find out—if he didn’t already know. That’s why he was the captain. “I’d never, ever, ever hit on Ronnie.” Lucky shot Wes a disbelieving look. “I can’t believe you think I’d do something that low, Skelly. My feelings are seriously hurt—”

  “What’s happening, Captain?” Bobby interrupted.

  Joe Cat motioned towards the ocean. “We need to walk,” he told them. “We really should be talking in a secured room, but getting one would raise too many eyebrows, and that’s the last thing I want to do.”

  Whatever this was, it was bigger than Lucky had imagined. He stopped giving Wes dirty looks and focused on what the captain was saying.

  But Joe was silent until they were next to the breaking surf. The beach was deserted and misty, the setting sun hidden behind clouds.

  “I’ve been doing some work for Admiral Robinson,” Joe Cat finally told them, his voice low. “Acting as a liaison for one of his longhairs who’s out on a black op for the admiral’s Gray Group.”

  Longhair was the name given to any SEAL who might need to blend in with a dangerous and motley crowd of terrorists and mercenaries at any given moment. He had to go on top-secret, extremely covert “black” operations, where a man with a military haircut would stick out like a sore thumb. And once that man stuck out, he would be one very dead sore thumb.

  So these covert op SEALs got tattoos. They pierced their ears. They didn’t shave for weeks on end. They dressed in what would have been known as “grunge” in the early nineties. And they grew their hair very, very long.

  Of course, when it came to longhairs, the captain should talk. He wore his own hair in a thick, dark braid down his back. When he shook his hair out, he looked like a pirate or maybe a really wild rock star—and absolutely nothing like a highly decorated, extremely well-respected captain in Uncle Sam’s Navy.

  “The admiral’s off doing diplo-duty in a place where it’s impossible to get a secured telephone line,” Joe Cat told them curtly. “I can’t even report to him that as of twenty-four hours ago, his SEAL missed his weekly check-in. And frankly, I’m concerned. Apparently this guy’s better than a clock when it comes to check-ins. So I’ve got to go out to New Mexico to try and track him down, and I need a team to watch my six.”

  New Mexico? What the…?

  The captain looked at Bob, then Wes, then Lucky. “I’m looking for volunteers here. This will be a black op as well—completely off the record, no paperwork, no acknowledgement of the situation by any of the top brass. If you choose to come along, you’ll be paid, but not in the usual way. In fact, you’ll have to take leave so your whereabouts can’t be traced.”

  It sounded like some serious fun. “Count me in, Skipper,” Lucky said, and Bobby and Wes were only nanoseconds behind him.

  Their captain nodded. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

  “Who’s the little lost SEAL we’re tracking down?” Wes asked. “Anyone we know?”

  “Yeah,” Joe said. “You worked with him six months ago. Lt. Mitchell Shaw.”

  “Oh, man,” Bobby said in his basso profundo, voicing exactly what Lucky was thinking. “He’s gonna be hard to find if he doesn’t want to be found, Cat. He’s a chameleon—good with disguises. The admiral once told me that he nearly pulled the hair off a little old lady, thinking she was Mitch under cover.”

  “What’s a Gray Group operative doing in New Mexico?” Lucky asked.

  �
�This is top-secret information I’m about to give you,” Joe told them seriously. “It goes no further than the four of us, understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Joe sighed, turning to squint out at the ocean for a moment. “Remember that break-in at Arches?”

  Last year, the security at Arches Military Testing Lab in Colorado had been breached and six canisters of Triple X had been stolen. Lucky, Bobby, Wes and Mitch Shaw had all been part of the team that located and destroyed the deadly nerve gas. Yeah, they remembered that break-in all too clearly.

  “The Trip X nerve agent wasn’t the only thing taken,” Joe Cat continued grimly.

  Wes ran his hand down his face. “I don’t think I want to hear this.”

  “Plutonium,” Joe said. “Enough was taken to make a small nuclear weapon.”

  A small nuke. Great.

  “Shaw was working to track it down,” Joe Cat continued. “He was following a lead both he and Admiral Robinson thought was probably empty. That’s why he was out there alone. The bulk of the Gray Group’s manpower is working from the other end—finding the potential buyer seemed easier than finding the plutonium in the haystack. But now that Shaw’s gone missing, I’m not sure what’s going on.”

  “New Mexico’s a big state,” Bobby commented.

  He was right. And if Mitch was working a black op, he wouldn’t have broadcast his whereabouts to anyone. “How the hell are we gonna find him?”

  “Shaw was carrying ten counterfeit hundred-dollar bills,” Joe answered Lucky. “Admiral Robinson implemented a technique used by the spooks at the Agency—apparently his wife’s a former agent. See, how it works is if some bad voodoo goes down and the agent—or SEAL in this case—is eliminated by the opposition, that funny money tends to go into circulation. It makes sense, right? An agent is hit and his or her body disappears. But if you’re the guy who did the hit, you check pockets for weapons or cash. No point in sinking that in the quarry with your victim’s earthly remains, right? So the money changes hands, so to speak. In the past, this method has occasionally been effective enough to track all the way to the killers. Once they start spending the money—as soon as it’s ID’d as fake—it’s like a big red flag gets dropped.”

  “Are you saying you think Lieutenant Shaw is dead, sir?” Wes swore sharply. “I liked the guy.”

  “I don’t know what’s up with Shaw,” Joe told them.

  “But one—and only one—of his counterfeit hundred-dollar bills showed up in Wyatt City, New Mexico. In the donation box of the First Church Homeless Shelter, of all places.”

  “When do we leave?” Bobby asked.

  “We’ve got a flight out to Las Cruces in three hours,” Joe said. He smiled crookedly. “I, um, need a little time. I haven’t exactly told Ronnie yet that I’m leaving.”

  “Well, sir, we, uh…” Wes braced himself. “I kind of took care of that for you, Cat.”

  Joe closed his eyes and swore.

  “I’m really sorry, Captain,” Wes said.

  “Skipper, you know…Me and Ren and Stimpy here can handle this. You don’t have to come along—it’d be overkill anyway,” Lucky earnestly told the captain. “We’ve worked with Mitch, we know what he looks like—at least when he’s not in disguise. And like you said, the rest of the Gray Group’s covering the other end. Give yourself—and Veronica—a break.” He paused. “And give me a chance to practice those leadership skills they worked so hard to teach me at the academy, sir. Let me take care of this.”

  Joe looked up at the hillside above the beach, at the warm lights of his home cutting through the thickening fog.

  He made up his mind. “Go,” he said. “The paperwork giving you leave is already at the base. But I want sit-reps over a secured line every twelve hours.”

  “Thanks, Captain.” Lucky held out his hand.

  Joe clasped it and shook. “Find him. Fast.”

  “Are you Casey?”

  Casey. Casey Parker. If that was his name, why couldn’t he remember it? “Yeah, that’s me.”

  A ten-year-old kid had come into the barn. He stood in front of Mish now, his eyes magnified by a crooked pair of wire-framed glasses. “I’m supposed to tell you to saddle up a pair of horses for me and Ashley. Ashley’s my sister. She’s a pain in the butt.”

  Saddle up some horses…

  “What’s your name?” he asked the boy.

  “My real name’s Reagan. Reagan Thomas Alden. But people call me Chip.”

  Mish turned back to the stall he was shoveling out. “Rumor has it, Chip, guests under age eighteen aren’t allowed to ride out on their own.”

  “Yes, but…I’m not signed up for a ride until after four o’clock. What am I supposed to do until then?”

  “Read a book?” Mish suggested, getting back into the easy rhythm of his work.

  “Hey!” Chip brightened. “You could ride out with me and Ash. There’s this place, about a half a mile east of here where there’s these big, creepy-looking rocks, kind of like some giant’s fingers sticking out of the ground. I could show ’em to you.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Come on, Casey. You’re not doing anything important right now.”

  Mish kept right on shoveling. “The way I figure it, I’ve got one of the most important jobs here—making sure the horses you ride have a clean place to sleep at night.”

  “Yes, but…wouldn’t you rather be riding?”

  Mish answered honestly. “No.” The truth was, he could remember nothing about horses. If he’d at one time known how to ride, that knowledge had slipped away with his memories of his name and his past. But somehow he doubted that. Somehow, he got the sense that horseback riding was a subject he’d never bothered to learn much about.

  It was troublesome. If he was Casey Parker, then he’d lied to get this job. And if he wasn’t Casey Parker, then who in heaven’s name was he?

  Casey Parker or not, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t going to like finding out who he really was.

  The handgun in his boot. The wad of money. The bullet wound. It all added up to the same grim conclusion: he was not on the side of the angels.

  If his dream had held just one ounce of truth, he was a killer. He was someone who shot and killed other people for a living. And, if that was the case, he didn’t want to remember who he was.

  He—and the world—would be better off if he simply stayed here for the rest of his days, shoveling manure and—

  Mish lifted his head, listening intently to a low rumble. Was it thunder? Or an approaching truck?

  “That sounds like Travis Brown,” Chip told him. “Doing what Becca calls his first-rate imitation of a damn fool.”

  It was the sound of pounding hoofbeats—faint, but growing louder until it became a clatter of noise directly outside of the barn. It was accompanied by a high-pitched whinny of fear and pain from the horse. That sound was echoed almost identically—except this second scream came from a human throat. Mish dropped his shovel.

  “That’s Ashley!” Chip bolted for the door, but Mish swung himself over the wall of the stall and beat him there.

  A riderless horse stood on its hind legs, pawing the air as a man dressed in fringed leggings and a leather vest lay sprawled behind him. A young girl crouched in the dust in front of the enraged horse, covering her head with her arms.

  Mish didn’t stop. He started toward the girl at a sprint.

  He could see Rebecca Keyes running just as quickly toward them from the direction of the ranch office. Her hat fell into the dust, and she reached the horse’s bridle just as Mish grabbed the girl and pulled her out of harm’s way.

  The horse’s slashing hooves came within inches of Rebecca’s face, but she didn’t flinch.

  Mish shoved the girl into Chip’s arms and stood ready to come to Becca’s aid. But she simply and slowly backed away, letting the animal have some space.

  The horse’s sides were torn, as if slashed with too-sharp spurs. His mou
th was frothing and flecked with blood. His dark body was slick with sweat and trembling.

  The man who’d been thrown scrambled out of range of the beast’s powerful back hooves. “Did you see that?” he said as he pulled himself to his feet. “That damned horse nearly killed me!”

  “Quiet!” Becca didn’t even look in the man’s direction. All of her attention was focused on the horse. Although she didn’t speak loudly, there was stern authority in her voice.

  The rider wisely shut up.

  As Mish watched, the horse returned to all fours. He twitched nervously, though, sidling and still trembling. Becca moved closer again, crooning softly to the frightened animal, her hands and body language nonthreatening.

  She could have been a lion tamer. Mish felt his own tension start to drain from his shoulders and neck just from the sound of her soothing, hypnotic voice. As she gazed at the horse steadily, Mish could see none of the anger that he knew she must be feeling toward the abusive rider.

  He knew that her eyes were an unremarkable shade of brown, but as she looked at the horse, they reflected a serenity that was almost angelic. And for a moment, as he gazed at her, Mish couldn’t breathe.

  Rebecca Keyes wasn’t what most folks would consider to be beautiful. Oh, her face was pretty enough—cute, actually. It was maybe a touch too round, though, making her look younger than she really was. Or maybe she was just plain young, he didn’t know for sure. Her nose was small and couldn’t be described as anything other than childlike. It was dotted with freckles that added to that effect. Her mouth was generously wide, her lips gracefully shaped. The only makeup she wore was a light coat of gloss on those lips—and Mish suspected she wore it as protection from the harsh sun rather than for cosmetic effect.

  But as she reached for that shuddering horse, soothing, peaceful comfort seemed to radiate from her every movement, her every word, her every glance, and Mish could not breathe.

  He wanted her to turn to him, to look at him that way, to lay her gentle hands on him, to bring to him the peace he so desperately needed.