by Amy Gamet
“Do you have any?”
“Nope.”
Wife? Girlfriend?
She bit her lip on the inappropriate question.
You’re just as bad as Brady.
That was it, wasn’t it? She’d been alone for so long her body was reacting to the pheromones in the air. It was basic biology. Human beings’ bodies were always looking to reproduce, no matter the circumstance. Probably even more so in the face of danger.
Satisfied with that explanation, her thoughts went back to Noah’s sister. “How close in age were you and Lizzie?”
“I was ten when she was born.”
“That’s quite an age difference.”
“That’s a built-in babysitter.” He laughed. “I didn’t mind, though. I liked playing with her. My mom married Lizzie’s dad when I was eight. It was just the two of us before that.”
“What did she do?”
“She’s a therapist. Alive and well and living in Florida with my stepdad. Lizzie’s condo actually belongs to them.”
His voice was full of love for his family, giving Hannah a glimpse at the side of him beyond what she’d seen so far, and letting her picture what it must be like without Lizzie in their lives.
A lot like my life has been without Joe.
“Do you really think she was killed?”
He was quiet for a moment, so that she didn’t know if he was going to answer. “I know I want to believe it. It even seems more likely to me. When I first heard she’d killed herself, all I could think was she’s always so happy. Then I heard it was a self-inflicted gunshot wound and that didn’t seem possible.”
Maybe he was chasing a fantasy.
She didn’t say it, but she suspected she didn’t need to.
“You’re safe with me, Hannah. I’m not going to let anything happen to you or your son.”
All the men in the world, and she’d either hitched her wagon to a cop-killing monster or a military warrior, without a way to know for sure which one he really was.
“I think I have to trust you. I don’t have much of a choice.”
8
Cowboy was juggling so much shit he thought he must look like a clown in a cow pasture. First Jax decided to leave HERO Force completely, then Noah went off the goddamn deep end and walked off a mission.
He rubbed his new beard, the prickly scruff still feeling strange on his face. He was an understanding guy and he understood Noah had just lost his sister, but Ryker could go fuck himself if he thought he could put personal shit—any personal shit—before an active duty mission.
Noah, Stefan, Cowboy, and Booger were five thousand feet in the air over Mexico City when Noah decided to pick a fight, the chopper about to land on the property of a drug lord who had stolen his two American children from their custody-holding mother, a US Marine. Tensions were running high since Booger had lobbied hard against Noah for an on-foot interception without an active sniper for cover. Booger didn’t want the kids to get hurt. Noah didn’t want any of the SEALs to die.
“It’s fucking bullshit,” Noah had said to Cowboy through their headset, knowing full well the others could hear him. “If that shit-for-brains doesn’t think I can tell the difference between a tango and a child, he has no place on this bird or down there on the ground with us.”
“We’ve been over this, Ryker,” said Cowboy, who’d already been through this once and had no great desire to go through it again. “You’ll cover us from a distance after the initial breach is made.”
“The initial breach is what’s going to get somebody killed.”
“I don’t see it that way,” said Cowboy.
“You did before this idiot suggested otherwise,” said Noah, gesturing to Booger.
Booger crossed his arms and shook his head, otherwise ignoring their conversation.
“He has some good points,” said Cowboy, counting on his fingers. “A sniper at the get-go puts the whole house on high alert.”
“Oh, because you don’t think gun-toting soldiers in fatigues showing up at the door does the same thing?”
Cowboy held out another finger. “And we don’t have eyes into the house to see who’s answering the door.”
“I am capable of visual discrimination. There’s the fucking problem. You’re acting like I can’t be trusted.” He jerked his head back. “That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t fucking trust me.”
Cowboy didn’t look him in the eye, and even as he did it, he knew it was as sure as a giant spray-painted no on a billboard sign. But there was truth to what Noah was saying. If this was the military, he’d pull another sniper from the bench and sit Noah down on it. The man was a live wire since his sister died, and hell no, Cowboy didn’t trust him when two little kids’ lives were on the line.
It was that bad.
Hell, he almost decided not to take Noah on the mission at all and go without a sniper, but no sniper at all put the men at too great a risk. When Booger suggested an alternative plan that didn’t put so many of their eggs in Noah’s basket, it seemed like a dream come true.
“Why am I even here?” asked Noah.
Cowboy met his friend’s stare. In the time the other man had been with HERO Force, they truly had become that. When Cowboy first learned Noah was a prepper, he’d thought the guy must be off his rocker. Who spent that kind of time and resources to prepare for an event that would probably never come?
So Noah had invited him out to his house in the woods outside of Atlanta. He called it a bunker, and it didn’t take Cowboy long to figure out why. What looked like a two-thousand-square-foot ranch was really a steel and cement reinforced structure with a basement twice the size of the house. “I figured as long as I was building it, I may as well build it right,” Noah had said.
There were storerooms full of food with what Noah claimed was a shelf-life of between five and twenty years, but he took care to rotate the stock. Another room housed his weapon collection with enough ammo to shoot his way through all of Armageddon.
“It’s good you didn’t put this shit on your resume,” said Cowboy.
“Why’s that?”
“Because then I would have known you’re batshit crazy.”
“You ever think about how fragile our supply chain is?”
“Not really.”
“A few days’ goods. That’s all that’s kept in our stores today. Everything is on demand. No waste. Food arrives on the shelves when it’s needed and not a moment before. That’s why a snowstorm can empty a city of groceries in a matter of hours. There isn’t any more in the back beyond a small supply for the next day. What you see is what you get.”
Cowboy shrugged. “But they have warehouses full of that shit.”
“Not anymore. They used to, sure. But now most of it comes in on trucks and is shipped directly to the stores. Warehousing adds to the cost of the products. It’s no longer necessary to keep our shelves full.” Noah raised one eyebrow. “Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Anything disrupted that supply chain. A power outage that affected a large area for an extended period of time.”
“Doesn’t happen.”
“It would if we had an EMP. An electromagnetic pulse would damage all the electronics. It could be naturally occurring from a solar storm on the sun, or it could be deliberately used. Imagine it. Your cell phone wouldn’t work. The power in your house wouldn’t work. Every appliance broken. Every electronic device down and unable to be repaired. Computers run that supply chain, and the computers wouldn’t be working.”
Noah walked around the room, touching giant bottles of water one by one as he went. “Then there’s bioterrorism. Or natural medical emergencies, like an evolving bird flu or Ebola. History tells us they could strike at any time and knock out society as we know it. Disorder would ensue. Chaos, if you will. The political system relies on a healthy society to keep it functioning. Law enforcement. All of it.”
Cowboy narrowed his eyes. “Is this why you became a sniper
?”
“It’s why I like guns. We need to be able to protect ourselves in any situation. Even the unexpected.” He shrugged. “A lot of preppers also prepare to defend themselves against civilians who weren’t prepared, those who want their supplies of food, water, weaponry. I prefer to accommodate as many people as possible. So when the shit hits the fan, grab Charlotte and come here. You’ll always be welcome.”
Trevor walked into Cowboy’s office, disturbing his reverie. “I’ve got a problem.”
“Shoot.”
He ran his hands through his hair. He looked like shit, which gave Cowboy more pause than anything. Hawk was a pretty boy who always seemed to look good.
“Olivia’s got a stalker.”
Cowboy leaned forward, tenting his hands on his desk. Olivia and Hawk had been together over a year now, the former SEAL and the movie star an unlikely couple. “In Paris?”
Hawk nodded. “She doesn’t want to leave because the movie has another month and a half of filming, which I get, but this guy is starting to freak her—and me—the fuck out. And the security hired by the studio is completely useless. They were watching her while she got a threatening note in her goddamn dressing room and even inside her chauffeured car.”
“You want to go to her.”
“Yes. But I’m supposed to be here helping you train the new recruits.”
“I don’t give a shit about them. I give a shit about you.” He pointed to the door with his chin. “Go ahead. You have my blessing.” Hawk thanked him and left.
Cowboy’s cell phone rang. It was Charlotte.
“What’s up, hot stuff?” he asked.
“Turn on channel nine.”
He grabbed the clicker. Noah’s face filled the screen. “…with a storm surge like this one’s packing.”
The camera moved to a young boy beside him. “What about you, little guy? Is your daddy taking good care of you?” The kid smiled and looked up at Noah adoringly. “Yeah.”
“Holy shit,” said Cowboy.
“You missed his wife,” said Charlotte.
“Noah has a wife?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Who the hell was she?”
“No idea. Some pretty lady. Her hair was wet, but I think it’s blonde.”
Cowboy had never seen Noah with a woman, much less a wife and kid. “What the fuck is going on?”
“Better question. Why are they standing on the frontline of a hurricane on Hilton Head Island?”
“That’s where his sister lived.” He could see it, Noah going there after he walked off the job. It was the only place the other man wanted to be.
“Maybe she’s just a friend,” said Charlotte.
“I don’t think I ever claimed a friend was my wife, especially on national TV.” The camera followed Noah, the woman, and the kid to a little orange car, Noah climbing into the driver’s seat. “The plate number.”
“C85 HV9,” said Charlotte.
Cowboy wrote it down. “Hilton Head’s in South Carolina. Let me see what I can find out about Noah’s new mystery wife. I’ll call you back.” He hung up, immediately dialing Logan. “Wheel yourself in here. I need you to run a plate for me.”
9
The microscope.
In their rush to get to safety, Hannah had nearly left it in the car. Given that the vehicle might float away, she needed to bring it inside with them.
It felt like she was carrying the ghost of her husband, an image of Marley’s chains popping into her mind unbidden. The expensive lenses symbolized her doubt, her unwillingness to accept Joe’s death all these months later, and it weighed her down, heavy in her arms.
The winds were so strong she and Noah had to lock elbows to get from her car into the shelter of Lizzie’s condo, Brady wrapped tightly against Noah’s chest. Without Noah she knew she’d never be able to walk in this at all, his mass and strength anchoring them to the ground and pulling her forward.
Debris was flying through the air—a stop sign, a bent gutter—so that Hannah finally realized how dangerous the situation really was. She prayed Brady wouldn’t be injured as they fought against the wind, barely inching toward the condo doors.
It was Noah who was pulling her, Noah who was taking care of them both. The man had been shot today—for goodness sake—but still he was the strong one leading her tiny family. What would have happened if she was weathering this storm without him?
She shuddered at the thought.
Something blunt and heavy knocked her in the head. She cried out.
“Are you okay?” asked Noah.
The pain was sharp and throbbing. “Yes. Just keep walking.”
They reached the front doors, Noah opening one and ushering her inside. Brady looked like a koala bear on his chest, holding on for dear life. He lifted his head, his eyes going wide when he saw his mother. “You’re bleeding.”
She touched her injury, finding it gooey with more blood than she would have thought possible. “I’m okay.”
“I’ll stitch it up for you when we get upstairs,” said Noah, putting the boy down. “This way.”
Hannah followed him to the stairwell, Brady’s hand now fisted tightly in her own. Her little boy was dragging, every step taking a Herculean effort from him. It was just past midnight.
She remembered how tired she’d been when she left the hospital, and that was easily four hours ago, maybe more. She was running on fumes and adrenaline. Any moment now she would crash.
Noah had to be exhausted, too. The spot of blood on the back of his thigh showed his wound didn’t care for the amount of physical activity he was doing, and she was grateful the finish line was in sight for them all.
“I’m tired, Mommy.”
“I know, pumpkin.”
Brady clutched her leg while they waited for Noah to find the key. She hoped there would be comfortable sleeping arrangements, but honestly at this point she could sleep standing up with her eyes open.
Hell, maybe she already was.
He pushed open the door to a familiar scene. The windows had broken, tiny cubes of tempered glass covering the floor, curtains blowing violently in the hurricane winds. She squeezed her eyes shut, reminding herself she was lucky to be someplace safe. She shot a sideways glance at Noah. His muscles were bulging from use, sweat light on his brow.
“The worst of the storm is approaching,” he said. “We have to hurry. I’ll put up the plywood. You sweep and vacuum up the glass.”
“I can’t believe you still have power,” she said.
He smiled, the transformation of his face from frighteningly powerful to sublimely handsome. “Now you jinxed us.”
“Right, because if the power goes out in hundred-and-sixty-mile-an-hour winds, it’s just because I said that.” She turned away from him, more than a little unnerved by her reaction to this man, and settled Brady at the table.
“You’re right about the power. I’d vacuum first, if I were you. Then we need to take a look at your cut,” he said.
“It’s fine.”
“You can’t even see it.” He crossed to her. He was standing in her personal space now, and she bent her head so he could take a look. The angle left her staring at his wet shirt sticking to his muscled chest and abdomen, and she imagined touching him there with eager hands, the heat of his skin seeping into her palms.
Oh my God, I need to go to sleep.
“It doesn’t look too deep,” he said. “But some stitches would help it stay closed. It can wait, though. I think we should batten down the hatches first, before Oscar walks right in here and sits down, asking for a drink.”
“Agreed.” She found a vacuum, broom, and dustpan in a closet, glass crunching under her shoes with every step. The task of cleaning up so much spread over such a large area seemed overwhelming in her current state, so she simply went from one task to the next, Brady’s favorite Disney movie in her mind as she went.
Just keep swimming.
At one point she looked o
ver and found Brady with his cheek resting on the table, asleep despite Noah hammering up the plywood. She was more than a little jealous.
“You okay?” Noah asked.
“Just tired. I’m sure you are, too. How’s your leg?”
“It’s all right. Just a little achy.”
“I’ll take a look at it when we’re through.”
“And I’ll get your room set up next.”
“I want to sleep with Brady.”
“Sure thing.”
She’d gotten in the habit of sleeping in her son’s bed after Joe died, and never stopped. There were days where cuddling against his warm little body was the only good thing in her entire world, and while she knew she should stop, she also knew she wasn’t going to any time soon.
Noah finished the plywood and moved on to what she hoped was one of at least two bedrooms. She stood in the center of the condo and crossed her arms over her weary chest. When she stood still, she could feel the building moving from side to side—a sickening sensation she tried to put out of her mind. Something heavy flew into the plywood with a crack, making her jump.
“You okay?” he called.
“I think you got that plywood up just in time.”
The room went dark, the electric hum of appliances and lights suddenly stopping. The hurricane’s winds seemed louder now, swirling around her in every direction, and the hair on her arms stood on end. Footsteps sounded behind her, muffled by the carpet. “I need to find my go bag,” he said.
“I think it was by the door.” She turned to help him find it. The darkness was complete and she held out her hands in front of her as she walked—straight into Noah. His hands went to her arms. “Sorry,” she said, jerking away and changing direction as if she’d been burned. “Over here somewhere.”
The sound of a zipper opening several feet away stopped her. “Got it,” he said.
“Why do you call it a go bag?”
“Because it’s ready to go at a moment’s notice, with everything I need.” As if to illustrate his point, a small cracking noise preceded the illumination of a blue six-inch stick. “Ta-da.”
