by Nancy Gideon
She rolled the self-defense manual in her grip and, without another word, started for the barracks. As she passed the South American woman at the bridge, Tessa never acknowledged her with so much as a glance.
A long, hot shower helped unknot Tessa's muscles but did little for the tension twisting through her. With a towel turbaned around her damp hair, she reclined on her bunk against a brace of pillows borrowed from the empty rooms and flipped open the manual that she noted was written by a former SEAL. Poet laureates didn't teach unarmed combat.
While Tinker leaned into her hip to fastidiously wash his hind leg, Tessa began to study with the concentration she'd applied to her bar exam. Taking notes in a spiral pad, she jotted down the essentials of stance, footwork, making a proper fist and basic hand techniques for pummeling your assailant. Tinker paused to glare at her as she practiced the rudiments of the jab-punch, hook-and-elbow strike. She smiled faintly. Okay, a little like her Tae-Bo classes. She could do this. She continued through the detailed mechanics of knee strikes and round kicks, picturing Jackie Chan then, annoyingly, Jack Chaney, illustrating the moves in her mind's eye. Thinking of Chaney inspired her to restless movement.
With the book open on her bedspread, Tessa ran through the drills, combining punches and kicks with swift, potentially lethal intent. She pictured Jack's carved-in-stone features as he told her not to intrude in his personal life. Pow. Right jab. As if she'd find anything fascinating there.
He could keep his oh-so-important secrets. Chaney's life, no matter how intriguing, was not the reason she was here—here in the bunkhouse as a student, not in the main house as a guest, where the mysterious woman and child who may or may not belong to him lived.
A sudden surge of melancholy stole her aggressive thunder. He didn't have to be so mean about it.
Closing the book, she flopped down on the bed and gathered a briefly resistant Tinker up in her arms. As she stroked his scarred head, he magnanimously issued his rumbling purr of approval.
Even in the daytime it was quiet. She was a city girl, born and bred, used to the city's vibrant, jarring cadences. It was the music that scored her daily activities. She'd always been in a hurry, darting from the office to the court to dinner meetings and social galas. Working, always working, even in her pajamas late at night, curled on the couch in front of "David Letterman," a volume of appellate law on her lap, absently shooing Tinker out of her bowl of Frosted Cheerios.
Her planner was always full, her voice message light blinking and her bathroom mirror covered with multicolored sticky notes reminding her of errands to be prioritized. And what fueled most of her hours, nearly 24/7, was her father. Arranging his schedule, proofing his speeches, writing his motions, picking up his dry cleaning, always busy behind the scenes so he would look together and unharried. What was she going to do without him in her life to provide that driving force?
Even now she couldn't believe she would never hear his voice over the intercom asking if she knew where to find the Pellingham brief. Her days, her nights, her focus all funneled into Robert D'Angelo and his charismatic climb from prosecutor to D.A. and on into a political arena. Phones ringing, cabs honking, file cabinet doors rattling open, the constant gurgle of coffee being brewed. Those were the sounds that had filled her life with meaning.
Here, in this isolated silence, her thoughts echoed. And the last thing she wanted was time to think, time to second-guess, time to doubt. Was she doing the right thing? Would her father approve of the steps she was taking? If he was innocent, he would.
If?
She hadn't meant if. The Freudian slip horrified her.
She was the only one who knew for certain that her father wasn't guilty. Even if she hadn't heard another man's voice—The Voice—in the inner office just before the fateful shot, she'd have been sure. How could her father turn against all the things that mattered to them, all the things that pulled them together, as close as father and daughter could be when striving for the same cause?
But that wasn't quite true, was it?
They'd never been close as father and daughter. She'd put her own ambitions aside, pushed her way into his world, tried to find a place for herself in his busy professional life since he'd never had time for her in his personal one.
Why hadn't she been able to earn his love the way she'd claimed his respect?
Closing her eyes against the fresh pain stemming back through her childhood, Tessa braced her forearm across her brow as if to hold the hurt away. And with eyes closed, cocooned in silence, her weary body surrendered while her tormented mind continued to spin.
You won't like what you find. Stop now…
She surged into an upright position, the cry of panic and pleading still on her lips. Hands caught her wrists as her arms flailed, gently restraining her. Fingers cupped the back of her head, pulling it in against the warm, sheltered lee of a broad shoulder. Once released, her arms whipped around the solid support of the last man she'd expected to find upon waking in her bed.
"Daddy?"
But the voice that soothed away all the agony and terror of her dreams belonged to Jack Chaney.
"It's all right. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you."
Too late.
He wore a black T-shirt, heated by the filtered sun and by the skin beneath it. He smelled of the woods, fresh laundry soap and some deeply masculine aftershave. For a time she was oddly content to ride the comforting rise and fall of his breaths. He held her carefully, as if he feared she might break, or as if he was afraid too tight an embrace would serve to frighten her more. And for the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt protected and safe.
Her father had never come into her room to chase away the fragments of childish nightmares. Her mother had.
And now here was a man she wouldn't have thought had any soft edges, soothing her hair and quieting her hitching sobs.
Her hands opened, spreading wide and not coming close to encompassing the breadth of his shoulders. Soft edges? Hardly. He might well have been hewn of warm granite under the snug pull of cotton. Her thumbs shifted, tracing the swell of muscle and in one breath, her sob dissolved into something suspiciously like a sigh.
Fearing he'd heard it, Tessa started looking for a graceful way to escape his arms. How could she let him see her so achingly vulnerable and still demand his respect? She rubbed her face against his chest to erase the tears before struggling to lean away. His arms gave gradually, almost with reluctance. She couldn't quite meet his gaze, afraid of what she'd see there.
"I'm sorry. Just a nightmare."
"I heard you cry out. I came down when you didn't show up for your lesson." His words petered out until an awkward silence pushed between them more forcefully than physical distance. She snagged a quick breath as he rubbed away the last damp trail of evidence from her cheek with the slow drag of his thumb. Calloused yet unbearably tender. She sat back so fast the top of her head came up under his jaw, snapping his teeth together like a trap. She did glance up then, fatalistically drawn to see the quizzical knitting of his dark brows. He seemed bemused. Somehow, that was all too intimate.
"You shouldn't be here. What if your wife—"
She hauled in the blurted statement when his expression froze over.
"I don't have a wife," he said at last, enunciating with surgical precision. "I don't belong to any woman or any career. I am my own man, Ms. D'Angelo, and I like it that way."
The strange choking sensation building up from her chest to wad in her throat made her next words rumble.
"That's the way I like it, too, Mr. Chaney. You've made it perfectly clear that the only thing on your agenda is not to get involved, with my mission or my motives. And I will not allow any intrusions into my search for justice, especially from a man who knows nothing about honor."
For a moment he said nothing, then, oddly, he smiled. "Well, since it seems you're so eager to get started with full contact, let's get to it."
* * *
« ^ »
For a moment she saw stars.
"Don't drop your hand."
Tessa sent out a punch and within a heartbeat her jaw numbed from the shock of another impact.
"What did I just tell you?"
"Don't drop your hand," she muttered through her mouth guard.
"Relax."
She stepped back and rolled her shoulders to ease the tension in them.
"Make a fist. Thumbs to your temples. Move them out about six inches from your body and at nose level. Elbows and fists at a forty-five degree. Good. Now keep that guard up. Your opponent is not going to stand there and let you hit them. They will hit you back. Concentrate. What are you thinking?"
She was thinking that he wasn't married.
She probably deserved every jab he shot through her weak defense because of the odd elation that scrambled her timing and most likely her brain.
Why should she care if Jack Chaney was single?
Maybe she'd taken one too many punches.
Looking at him in the fading daylight, dark, tough, aggressive in his baggy gray sweatsuit, all she could think of was the tenderness in his touch. I won't let anyone hurt you. She believed him and for the first time in over a month, the crushing panic was gone from inside her chest. I won't let anyone hurt you. Funny how such a simple claim from a near stranger could release her fears.
But Jack wasn't going to be there to protect her once she left his forest retreat, so she'd better listen and learn how to do it for herself.
"Never assume every opponent is going to respond the same way to a kick or a punch. Some you can drop, some will just shake it off and keep coming. Winning involves timing, speed, coordination and technique but none of those mean anything if you don't keep fighting. When it's time to fight, go at it one hundred and ten percent. You do whatever is necessary until your opponent is neutralized. Once you commit to fighting back, use surprise. React quickly when your opponent doesn't expect it and do it with force. No hesitation. Be prepared to hit and keep on hitting until your opponent is no longer a threat. Then break off. That's the difference between reasonable and excessive force. Be alert, decisive and aggressive. SEALs call that the warrior mind-set. Be aware of your surroundings. Be ready to act when you need to and be ready to commit that hundred and ten percent."
She'd started to nod when she saw the blur of his right hook coming. And surprisingly, instinctively, her hand was there to deflect it. In the same motion, her right jabbed out to connect solidly with his chin. It wasn't a hard pop or a damaging one. It didn't stagger him or even cause him to flinch. But she'd made contact. Quickly, decisively and with aggression.
Jack grinned. "That's what I'm talking about. Ready to mix it up some more?"
"Bring it on, Chaney."
* * *
As they sat at the war room table eating a delicious meal laid out by the silent and nearly invisible Constanza, Jack continued to instruct and Tessa listened. Still flushed with the accomplishment of landing her first blow, she allowed herself the illusion of being one of his capable trainees preparing to do battle. In a way, she was. The men who'd framed and murdered her father were still out there and they'd made it clear they weren't going to accept her interference quietly.
"There are four levels of readiness," Jack was saying as he forked rice and beans into a warm tortilla. "Most people wander around in the white level, totally oblivious to what's going on around them. It's in this unaware comfort zone that people are the most vulnerable and when they'll most likely be attacked."
Tessa could see herself entering her apartment, as white as the rice on the table, seeing warning signs all around her yet clueless as to the danger. She'd been vulnerable, a victim.
"Every average citizen needs to increase their awareness to the yellow level. This isn't a state of paranoia. It's a state of preparedness. Awareness is a tremendously powerful tool that uses all your senses. You take the time to notice your surroundings so you can foresee potential problems. Watch people for verbal cues and body language. Learn the names of the security people who work in your building and make sure they know you. Know where the alarm buttons are, where the exits are, just like on an airplane. When you're going someplace new, plan your transportation routes in advance. Walk closer to the street than to alleys and doorways. Ask yourself, if you were an attacker, where would you hide? Carry your body confidently. Walk or stand erect in a way that conveys assertiveness. When you pass someone, look them in the eye. Let them know you see them but maintain your personal space of at least two arm lengths. That's your safety zone."
It made sense. Tessa nodded. She'd been a victim. She'd walked right into a situation, blindly, trustingly. She understood the analogy. When you're on an airplane that's going down, it's too late to look in the seat back flyer to locate exits and safety equipment. She rolled another tortilla and munched thoughtfully, passing a piece of the delicately spiced chicken down to Tinker.
"Once you're in the yellow zone, proceeding with caution, and you know something isn't right, that something bad might happen, you slip into the orange level of readiness. At this point, you know some action is necessary on your part. You either have to get away from the situation or be prepared to confront it. Moving quickly and decisively from yellow to orange is vital to your personal safety and self-defense. You have to be prepared to weigh your options and make your move. Be ready to jump into red if necessary. That's where you hit first, where you do whatever you need to do, and do it immediately, for your safety or the protection of your loved ones."
She felt a twinge of remorse. Too late. She'd been too slow to action, to even suspect. She could hear the muted voices in her father's office, behind his closed door, but she still hadn't reacted with more than puzzlement. Then the shot. She'd been paralyzed for how long, for how many vital seconds, while the perpetrator escaped?
Jack was studying her, his features impassive. Did he see her guilt, her grief? He could have said something to lessen her sense of blame but he didn't. There was no way to do that now. She'd buried her father. But she wasn't about to let her mother bury her. Instead of telling her to forgive herself, Jack explained away her culpability with a simple statement.
"We live in a passive society. We depend on other people to protect us. We see ourselves as having no control over our surroundings. We're victims before the fact, accidents waiting to happen. But it doesn't have to happen if you're ready for it. Be prepared to fight. Be prepared to get in that first punch. Once you let your opponent take control, you're in trouble. If you let them take you away from the initial point of attack, statistics show you only have a three percent chance of survival. Don't give them that control. Be ready. Don't hesitate. Be proud and indignant. They can't do this to you. The strong and aggressive survive, Tessa. I didn't make up those rules but you'd better learn to follow them."
And she would.
Peripherally, she realized he'd called her by her first name. She wondered if he'd meant to or if he was unaware of it. Going from Ms. D'Angelo to Tessa put them on a new level of intimacy, and because of it, she found herself saying, "He hurt me, Jack. He surprised me and hurt me in my own home. I never saw it coming and I couldn't get away. He wanted to scare me and he did. He terrorized me for I don't know how long. I'd come around and think he was gone and then I'd hear him and see those creased trousers. And he'd hit me…"
She felt it all over again, the terror, the pain, the awful feeling of having no control. Coldness shuddered out from her belly, radiating outward to chill her heart, to freeze her blood, to immobilize her muscles.
And then Jack's big, warm hand settled firmly over hers. His expression was intense, his features inscrutable. He didn't try to tell her it would be all right. He didn't try to tell her to let it go. He made her face it, head-on, right back into the hell of that night.
"What was he doing there, Tessa? What did he want?"
She blinked up at him through the glaze o
f her tears, trying to focus on what he was asking. "What was he doing?"
"The police report said it was a robbery. Was anything missing?"
"No." Her tone steadied. "It wasn't a robbery."
"Then what was he doing there? Why did he stay after you walked in on him? Tessa, did he do anything else to you?" Though his tone didn't actually change, it was suddenly infused with a harsh grittiness. The voice of a truly dangerous man.
"He was in my room." She could hear the sounds from the bedroom, the sounds of drawers being opened and shut. The shuffle of papers, the sounds of her belongings being tossed carelessly to the floor. "He was looking for something."
"What? What did he think you had?"
The fear fell away before a new cool logic. "Evidence. Evidence against him or his boss. Whatever my father was planning to use to indict them."
"Did your father usually send files home with you?"
"I took things home with me all the time. My work day didn't end at five."
"What cases were you working on? What was big enough for them to resort to murder?"
"We were in the middle of a lot of cases but just one big, ugly confrontation. Councilman Rachel Martinez. She and my father were planning to run for the same congressional seat. Only, when we started digging into her background, unpleasant things started popping up. Things my father believed linked her to drug trafficking and an overseas pipeline."
"The same things your father was accused of." He said it flatly, noncommittally.
"Fancy that."
"Mmm."
"I think Martinez had him killed."
"You can think what you like but proving it is another thing. What did your father have on her?"
Tessa rubbed her brow in frustration. "I don't know. That's the problem. Usually we worked on everything together, a team effort. But he wouldn't confide in me on this one. He was putting together a solid case, was all he'd say."
"Whatever he had, they didn't find it when they killed him or maybe you chased them off before they had the chance. If they had found it, they wouldn't have come after you. The police never found any link between drugs and Martinez."
