Enigma

by Dee Davis

  He wore only his jeans, and his chest, too, was bathed in sweat. An intricate pattern of scar tissue laced across his left shoulder, stretching down his abdomen and across his bicep to his elbow.

  Shrapnel.

  She recognized the irregular patterns and burn marks. Someone had tried to blow Payton away. Literally.

  There were other scars, too. Some of them the thin lines of a knife wound, others the puckered remnant of a bullet hole. The man had fought hard, and with the exception of his nightmares, seemed to have won the day.

  Payton moaned again, this time calling out, the words too garbled to understand.

  Her heart twisted as she stood helplessly watching him fight his demons, uncertain whether she should try to wake him, or leave him to his terror. He wasn’t the type of man who would appreciate sharing his pain.

  But she couldn’t just leave him. Surely, it was worth risking his wrath to free him from whatever the hell was holding him captive?

  She reached for his shoulder, thinking only to shake him awake, but some second sense must have told him she was there, because his hand closed hard around her wrist, his fingers threatening to cut off circulation.

  She tried to move back, but his grip tightened as he jerked her forward, his eyes flickering open, the pain reflected there so strong and so deep that she could feel it clawing at her.

  Their gazes locked and held, and for a minute, Sam forgot to breathe.

  Then his eyes narrowed, and he was fully awake, the nightmare banished back to the hell it had come from. He pulled away, releasing her wrist, swinging around to a sitting position. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” Payton repeated. There was no accusation in his tone. In fact there was nothing at all. It was almost as if the nightmare had sucked away his emotions, leaving him void of anything but banality. And yet, that was wrong, too. His vitality hadn’t lessened at all. If anything, his intensity was greater, his stillness almost a living, breathing thing.

  “You were dreaming.” She stepped back, determined to break the spell, purposefully matching her tone to his.

  He waited, his breathing even now, his face impassive.

  “I heard a noise, and in light of what happened earlier, I thought I ought to check it out.” She sounded defensive, which pissed her off. “It sounded like you were in trouble.”

  “Only in my mind.” He shrugged, his gaze settling again on hers. “But thank you.”

  The quiet words should have soothed her, but somehow they only made her feel more edgy, as if in saying them, he’d established a bond between them. A shared secret.

  She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts, to get them back to some semblance of normalcy. There was no bond between them, nothing more going on than a man having a nightmare. Period.

  She’d obviously let the tensions of the day overshadow common sense.

  Payton’s lips curled up in the semblance of a smile, and Sam found herself wondering if the gesture was ever truly genuine. “Sometimes it gets a bit rough. I probably should have warned you.”

  Considering the fact that they’d barely met, it seemed a long shot to think that they’d have discussed something so personal, but then again they were practically sharing a room.

  She swallowed, trying to order her thoughts, instead blurting out the first thing to come to mind. “Was your nightmare about that?” She waved a hand at the scars on his chest, then immediately wished the question back.

  Payton leaned back against the sofa, the hard planes of his chest still glistening with sweat. “Indirectly.” His tone brooked no discussion.

  And quite frankly, Sam wasn’t sure she wanted any. Still, it was the middle of the night, and they were both awake, and she was curious. “So how’d you get them—the scars?”

  He glanced down at his chest, his face tightening ever so slightly, almost as if he’d forgotten for a moment that they were there. “Explosion.”

  She leaned back against the table, crossing her arms. “I’d already figured out that much. You get caught in a firefight?”

  “Something like that.” He hesitated, and for a moment she thought he was going to close down this line of conversation as well, but then he continued, his face still devoid of emotion. “It was a raid. Delta Force. We were trying to retrieve a package and were ambushed.”

  “I’m assuming the package was human?”

  Payton nodded. “A friend of Cullen’s. Guy got caught on the wrong side of the Iraqi border.”

  She frowned at the scars. “But those are old wounds.”

  “The fight with Iraq has been going on for a hell of a long time. This was during the first war. Our mission was to find the man and get him out. Should have been routine, but…” He trailed off, a flicker of anger flashing in his eyes.

  “Something went wrong,” she said, not certain why she was urging him onward, except that she was captivated by the moment and the man.

  “Yeah. Someone told the renegades we were coming. So they were ready for us. I took a grenade in the shoulder.”

  It had clearly been more than a grenade, but she wasn’t about to push the fact.

  “Lucky it didn’t blow off my arm, I guess. Gabe and another guy, a British liaison, got me out of there. But we were the only ones who made it.” There was stark reality in his words. The pain of the loss carefully banked inside him.

  She knew that feeling. Had felt it herself every time she lost the battle with a bomb. Particularly in places like Oklahoma City where the loss of life had been so catastrophic. “The others died.” The words came out on a whisper, as if saying them out loud would be irreverent.

  Again he nodded. “All of them.” A shadow passed across his face, and Sam frowned, there was more to the story. Something beyond Payton’s injuries and lost comrades. But whatever it was, he wasn’t going to share it. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to ask.

  “How awful.” The words were inadequate, but she said them anyway, hoping he’d understand that she meant it. That in some remote way, she understood.

  “It was a long time ago.” He leaned forward, the motion enhancing the harsh lines of his shoulders and chest. Despite the turn of the conversation, he’d made no attempt to cover the scars. It was obvious that whatever it was that haunted the man, he was content in his own skin.

  Sam felt her breathing constrict again, but this time for purely physical reasons.

  Payton’s upper lip quirked upward again, and she ducked her head, embarrassed, then lifted her chin, meeting his gaze full-on. “But you still dream about it.” The statement brought them full circle, and though she hated to see him tense, she was relieved to have detoured around whatever the hell had just passed between them.

  “I do. But not that often anymore.” He absently rubbed the scar along his cheek, the motion telling.

  She still had the feeling there was more to it than he was telling her, but again resisted the urge to ask. “I couldn’t sleep at all. Dreams or otherwise.”

  It was his turn to frown. “Worried about the bomb at the Prager or the one in your room?”

  “Both, I guess.” She shrugged. “But the one in my room would probably edge out the other one, odds-wise.”

  “You said this wasn’t the first time a whacko has targeted you.” He was studying her now, as if her face might yield answers her words wouldn’t.

  “Right. But this one feels different somehow.” She started to tell him about the jack-in-the-box her father had given her, but held off, not really certain why.

  “Something to do with the jack-in-the-box?” he asked, his panther gaze finding hers.

  She sighed, not certain she could ever accustom herself to his quiet insight. It was as if he could read her like a book. “Yeah. I had one like it when I was a kid.”

  “I had one, too.” His words would have been condescending from anyone else, but with Payton, it was just an observation. Information added to the fra
y.

  “I know. A lot of kids did.” She frowned, trying to order her thoughts. “It’s just that the one I had was special to me. A gift from my father. And it seemed a bit coincidental that a bomber would use a jack-in-the-box.”

  “So maybe it’s someone you know? Someone who knew about your attachment to the toy?”

  “Maybe. I actually had it in my office when I was first starting out. For courage.” She reached for the medal around her neck, her fingers closing on the cool metal.

  His eyes followed her fingers. “Like the master blaster insignia?”

  She tightened her hold on the crab-shaped pendant. “It’s not mine.”

  “I figured as much. If you’d gone through the program I’d have known about it.”

  Her eyebrows shot up in surprise.

  “Cullen was pretty thorough in his briefing.”

  “I see.” She wasn’t certain exactly what to say. First Madison and now Payton. The idea of Cullen pulling together a dossier on her was unsettling at best, but when she thought about all of them reading it, the idea was downright unnerving. She hated being at a disadvantage more than almost anything in the world.

  “Nothing you wouldn’t want anyone to know.” Payton’s tone was reassuring. As if he understood her qualms. “Just the basics. But it didn’t include military ordnance training, so I figured the crab had to be someone else’s.”

  “My father’s.” She released the medal, letting it fall back into the hollow of her throat. “I wear it as a reminder of how risky it can be out there. Helps to keep me centered.”

  “I’m sure your father is proud.”

  “He would be.” She shrugged again, trying to keep her emotions at bay. “But he’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry.” His green eyes glittered in the half-light, his gaze locking on hers.

  From most people the statement would have been a platitude, something said automatically as part of polite conversation, but with Payton it felt real. As if he truly cared.

  Maybe it was because he was a man of few words, or maybe the night had her under its spell, but she believed him. He wouldn’t say something he didn’t mean. And the thought was oddly comforting.

  “Thank you.” The words came out on a whisper. “It’s been a long time, but I still miss him.”

  There was a flicker of understanding. And empathy that could only come from someone who truly understood, but almost before she could identify the emotion, it was gone. “Is your mother living?”

  Sam swallowed back something that felt oddly like disappointment. “Yes. In Albuquerque. They moved there when my dad retired. She still lives in the same house. Rents out rooms occasionally when she feels like company. Her current boarder is a girl named Ruth.”

  “Sounds like she’s managed to move on.”

  “She goes through the motions, but my father is a hard man to forget.”

  “Are you and your mother close?”

  Sam frowned, unsure how to answer the question. She and her mother loved each other. But her father had been the glue that held them together, and when he died, it was as if being together was simply too painful. So gradually they’d drifted apart, each seeking relief in their own way.

  Her mother had never remarried. Never even been on a date. But she’d made a new life for herself. One that probably would have included her daughter more, if Sam had been so inclined.

  “As close as most mothers and daughters, I guess. We talk on the phone a lot. And I try to get to New Mexico for holidays. What about you? Are your mom and dad around?”

  Payton shook his head. “Mom died when I was eleven, and Dad never really was any good with kids. He stayed around until we were old enough to watch out for ourselves, then hit the road—permanently.”

  “We?” she asked, not certain if he would answer. Like most quiet men, he seemed to be intensely private, doling out information only on an as-needed basis.

  “My brother, Kevin. He was three years younger than me.” Payton blew out a breath, his eyes turning hard. “He’s dead.”

  “In the raid.” She didn’t know how she knew, maybe it was the sudden tightening of his muscles, or the deep creases that appeared in his face, any number of things really, but whatever it was that gave him away, she was certain. Kevin had been killed in Iraq—on Payton’s watch—and he blamed himself.

  “Yes.” The word was like a shot, reverberating around the room, the tension following it almost palpable.

  There was really nothing more to say. So Sam held her tongue, wishing she had the right words, but knowing there probably weren’t any.

  Payton stood up, the subject clearly forbidden, and Sam started to rise as well, feeling as if she ought to go, and yet not really wanting to do so. She was surprised actually that he’d shared as much as he had. Maybe it was the moonlight. But it was clear to her that the moment of connection had passed.

  She took a step toward the door, only to be stopped by the sound of his voice. “Don’t go.”

  She turned, knowing her surprise was evident.

  “I won’t be able to sleep.”

  As explanations went it was simple enough. He wanted company. But there was something else there, an acceptance that pleased her more than it should.

  Despite her better instincts, she nodded, waiting. The ball was definitely in his court.

  “So what made you get into this kind of work?” he asked, walking over to the refrigerator and pulling out two beers. After popping the tops, he offered her one, and then sat back down on the sofa.

  They were back to small talk. The sort of banal conversation two people have when they first meet. Which should have been appropriate. Except that it was the middle of the night, and she was wearing a T-shirt and shorts, and he was almost…well, not fully dressed.

  Feigning indifference, she took the beer, pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. Sitting here with him seemed almost natural. As if they’d done it all before. A flight of fancy if ever there was one, but she couldn’t shake the feeling. “I learned a lot from my dad. I guess to some extent it was inevitable.”

  “But you didn’t start with bombs, right?”

  Again with the damn dossier. “No. I started with crime scene investigation. But I kept pulling bombings and the rest, as they say, is history.”

  “The youngest EEO in ATF history is nothing to sneeze at.”

  “I didn’t say it was.” She smiled, taking a swig of the beer, watching him over the lip of the bottle. “I just said it was a natural progression.”

  “Touché.” His smile still wasn’t full-mast, but it was more than just a shadow. “Did you ever consider going to the ordnance school at Eglin? Really following in your father’s footsteps?”

  “Nope.” She shook her head to emphasize the point. “I knew when I was a kid that military life wouldn’t work for me.”

  “A free spirit?”

  “Definitely not.” She laughed at the thought. “I’m pretty anal when it comes right down to it. A plus in my kind of work. But I don’t take orders all that well. Especially when I don’t agree with them.”

  “There are places in the military where that can be a good thing.” He was talking about Delta Force. About himself, actually. And Sam was hit by a feeling of kinship. As if they shared something in common simply because they were both loners.

  “I probably wouldn’t have lasted long enough to wind up there. Anyway, it’s a moot point. I like where I am, and I certainly don’t regret the route I took to get there. How about you?” she asked, figuring fair was fair. “You left the army after your recovery. Ever have any regrets?”

  Again the shadow, and Sam wished she’d chosen her words more carefully.

  “About leaving Delta Force? No.” He paused to take a pull from the bottle, the muscles in his throat moving with the action. “After what happened there was no way I could have gone back. Hell, they wouldn’t have wanted me even if I had.”

  “So you went to work for the CIA?”


  “Off and on. My work is sometimes of a more freelance nature.”

  “A mercenary?” The question came out on a rush of breath, her surprise evident in her tone.

  His smile was cynical this time, as if he’d been asked the question one too many times. “I suppose you could call it that. Bottom line is that I take care of things that no one else wants to.”

  She nodded. “And you’re good at it.” It was a statement, not a question. She could tell from looking at him that he was the kind of man who always gave a hundred and ten percent.

  He shrugged. “I’m competent. More importantly, I don’t give a damn. And that gives me an edge over pretty much everyone else in the game. There’s nothing anyone can hold over my head. I lost all that a long time ago.”

  She would have believed him if she hadn’t seen the wistful expression in his eyes. It might have been fleeting, but it had been there. He might pretend to be dead inside, but truth was, he wasn’t anything close. Payton Reynolds was a man who felt deeply, despite his protestations to the contrary.

  “Makes for a lonesome existence, I’d expect.” She wasn’t entirely sure why she said it out loud.

  “No more so than a woman who lives her life defusing bombs.”

  It was his turn to score a point, and she smiled. Maybe it wouldn’t last, but just for the moment she was enjoying the connection between them. The feeling that there was someone out there who might actually understand.

  “So how did Cullen rope you in? Because of Iraq?”

  “No.” His answer was terse, the lines around his mouth tightening again. “I don’t owe Cullen a goddamned thing. Originally I came because of Gabe.”

  His loyalty would be absolute. Sam envied his friends the devotion.

  “But Last Chance has worked on more than one operation.” She waited, curious to see what it was that kept bringing him back.

  “I suppose there’s the element of challenge. And there’s the fact that Cullen makes it damn hard to say no. But in reality I kind of like the teamwork. Madison and Harrison are top-notch, as is Gabe. And considering I spend the bulk of my time in places where no one is supposed to even know I exist, I guess it’s nice to have a place to belong.”