Into the Night

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. No point making her go postal.”

  Muldoon laughed. Yeah, he knew Joanie pretty well. “Is there anything I can get for you today, sir? Do you have everything you need?”

  Vince glanced over to where Charlie was talking to Joanie and several other ladies who were part of the White House staff. She had color in her cheeks—no doubt about it, she was enjoying this very much.

  “I’m perfect,” he said, giving the boy a smile. “Thanks.”

  Husaam Abdul-Fataah walked into the Navy base without being searched.

  Sure, he walked through a metal detector, and he’d had to take off his shoes and get them checked, but other than that, he was just waved on through.

  Despite claims that this country avoided racial profiling, there were far more places he could go with his fair skin and light-colored eyes and hair than could most people who had such an obviously Muslim name.

  Of course, Husaam Abdul-Fataah was the name he took seven years ago, after his first meeting with al-Qaeda leaders, when it became obvious that embracing the Muslim faith would be a smart business move. He’d converted, enthusiastically. He’d worship zucchini squash if it would help him bring home the kind of money he was earning these days.

  And as for his new name, it roughly translated into “sword and servant of the opener of the gates of sustenance.”

  And those gates were open, indeed. He was steadily and quite gainfully employed. And the work was laughably easy. It was amusing indeed that, after years of working as a hired gun, a shooter with an ability rivaled by few, his biggest “skill” now was his ability to blend in in America. His greatest asset was the genes he’d inherited from Glen and Irene Canton of Lenexa, Kansas.

  As Husaam watched, an obviously Arabic-looking man was pulled from the line and swept with the metal detector wand, even though he hadn’t set off the walk-through alarm. The man was patient and serene despite the obvious indignity of being singled out.

  And look at that. It was Ihbraham Rahman. Wasn’t that provident? Maybe there was something to this blessings from Allah thing after all.

  Husaam hadn’t been intending to stay here on the base for long. Once the bullets started flying, it was going to get very dangerous in this vicinity. In fact, he was expecting a call on his cell phone warning him when the President’s motorcade crossed the causeway.

  But Ihbraham’s presence was too neat a gift from God to pass up. And Husaam knew where the martyrs were intending to stand. He could position himself well out of range of their weapons.

  Husaam hung back and waited. And as Ihbraham finally was allowed into the area, he followed him.

  Sam Starrett watched the crowd filtering in through the gates from his bird’s-eye perspective in Seahawk One.

  As the helicopter made another pass overhead, he could see the metal detectors and the security personnel hard at work, bomb-sniffing dogs nearby. Everyone’s shoes had to come off and get sent through the X-ray machines. Bags and packages weren’t allowed inside, but ladies’ purses were. It was ridiculous—like women couldn’t be as murderous as the next guy?

  Obviously the policymakers didn’t know the same women who Sam knew.

  Mary Lou had gotten up and out early this morning, taking Haley with her, before he even woke up. And for the first time since they were married, she’d left the dishes in the sink.

  Which, in Mary Lou’s head, was probably a most heinous act of domestic terrorism—probably retaliation for him asking if she was getting it on with Donny the Nutjob.

  She was a strange woman. Last night, when she’d told him to fuck himself, he’d gotten a glimpse of the girl he’d lusted after at the Ladybug Lounge all those months ago. It almost made him want her again.

  Almost.

  But he was smarter now—and determined to think things through before he took action. In other words, he was going to keep his pants zipped.

  Yeah, that was one mistake he wasn’t going to repeat. Sex for the sake of sex. It wasn’t going to happen, not ever again.

  He looked down at the metal detectors now, and watched as the guards ran a whole line of folded-up baby strollers through the X-ray machine.

  Jesus, they were actually allowing baby strollers in. That was one big fucking mistake.

  If he were a terrorist, he’d carry all his explosives in a baby stroller, right under junior’s diaper-padded little butt.

  Wheel his way to his destination with the greatest of ease, pick up junior, set the timer, and walk away.

  And then, after the blast, he’d run away crying, “Someone help me get my darling baby to safety!”

  But hey, that was just him.

  Suicide bombers didn’t bother with timers, either, so maybe the baby stroller thing wasn’t a real threat.

  “Starrett, Nilsson, do you read?”

  “Got you loud and clear, Commander,” Sam answered Paoletti, speaking into his lip mike.

  “Ditto that, sir,” Nils reported in from Seahawk Two. “What can we do to make your day a little easier?”

  Commander Paoletti was freaking out about this op.

  Okay, that was an overstatement, considering that Paoletti’s version of freaking out meant that he ground his teeth slightly harder than usual.

  All joking aside, the man was about as grim as Sam had ever seen him. It was almost as bad as that time they were pulling an ambassador’s wife out of a country in which a coup had taken place. The new government had decided at the last minute that they really didn’t want any of them to leave after all and started shooting. Their helo suffered a direct hit—a lucky shot. Those losers couldn’t have done that kind of damage in a million years if they’d actually tried. The team managed to make a controlled crash landing, but the Seahawk—it was a lot like this one, as a matter of fact—blew sky-high shortly after, and the force of the explosion had thrown Paoletti right on his head.

  Kind of the way Sam’s older sister Lainey used to throw his GI Joe dolls across the driveway during the great Barbie Wars of third and fourth grade.

  Tom Paoletti had regained consciousness almost right away. But while the team was hustling to make it out of the country on foot, he recognized that the tunnel vision he was experiencing was a sign of a serious head injury. He knew it was just a matter of time before he went into a coma and became a very heavy addition to their already too heavy load.

  He got pretty fucking grim that day.

  A lot like he was today.

  What disaster did he think was going to happen?

  Something bad. Sam hoped to God he was wrong.

  “Keep your eyes open while you’re up there,” Paoletti told them. “I want Jefferson, Jenkins, MacInnough, and Zanella in place. Starrett and Nilsson—you made the arrangements we discussed yesterday?”

  “Yes, sir.” He and Nils answered almost in unison.

  They didn’t use live ammunition during a demonstration like this one. But since Paoletti was afraid that there might be trouble, he’d ordered Sam and Nils to double check that there were magazines with real bullets on board both these helos. And sniper rifles, ready to be pulled out of the rack and tossed to Duke Jefferson and the other top-notch sharpshooters that Paoletti had ordered to be given special seating at the doors of the two Seahawks.

  “I want eyes open at all times,” the CO stressed again. “And no idle chatter on the radio. We still have about twenty minutes before the president arrives, and ten minutes after that before you do your fast-roping tricks. But as of right now, as far as we’re concerned, this op has already started. The clock is running. I want all eyes on the crowd. Let’s do what we do best.”

  Sam looked around the helo at his team of men. Jenk, WildCard, Cosmo, Gilligan, Duke, and Lopez.

  If any of them thought the commander was worrying just a little too much, they didn’t show it by so much as a blink. Truth was, they probably respected Paoletti’s gut feelings and hunches as much as Sam did. They all returned his gaze steadily, giving him
a short nod and a solid thumbs-up.

  They were all good to go.

  “Joan!”

  Joan turned to see Kelly Ashton, Commander Paoletti’s fiancée, waving to her from the crowd that was milling directly in front of the dais.

  There was standing room only down there, although many people preferred it to the bleachers, since it was a chance to be up close and personal when the President gave his speech.

  The crowd wasn’t too thick yet, and Joan went down the front stairs and over to Kelly.

  Anything to keep her from standing on the dais with Muldoon watching her.

  Whenever she met his eyes, he smiled.

  And she flashed hot and cold and hot again.

  He loved her. He wanted to…She couldn’t even think the M-word.

  Except she was thinking about nothing but the M-word.

  She glanced up at the dais where Mike was talking to Tom Paoletti, both of them looking incredible in their dress uniforms, weighed down by a ton of medals.

  They’d be getting another one, a unit citation, from the President today.

  “How are you? It’s nice to see you again,” Kelly greeted her. She was with an elderly man. “This is Tom’s uncle, Joe Paoletti—he just got in from Boston. He actually caught an earlier flight, which is why we’re here. We wouldn’t have made it otherwise. Joe, this is Joan DaCosta. She works in the West Wing of the White House—isn’t that cool?”

  “Very. Pleased to meet you, Joan.” Joe Paoletti shook her hand and smiled—the family resemblance was pretty amazing, despite the fact that Joe was in his eighties and somehow managed to have more hair than Tom.

  “Joe!” Meg Nilsson came over and gave the old man a hug. She had a big-eyed baby with dark curly hair in a pack on her back. “How are you? How long will you be in town?”

  Kelly pulled Joan aside. “I heard your brother was in the hospital. Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah, it was something he ate—some kind of food poisoning. We don’t really know exactly what it was. He’s not quite all there mentally.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” With her freckles and her blond hair up in a ponytail, dressed down the way she was in shorts and a T-shirt and a baseball cap, Dr. Kelly Ashton looked about twenty-four years old today.

  “May I ask you a personal question?” Joan said.

  Kelly nodded. “Sure.”

  “Rumor has it—”

  Kelly rolled her eyes. “Oh, jeez.”

  “Wait, hear me out,” Joan said. “The urban legend I’ve heard says that when you and Tom first got together a few years ago, you moved to San Diego all the way from New England.”

  “Okay,” Kelly said. “That much is true.”

  “But you’re a doctor,” Joan said. “Didn’t you have a practice there?”

  “In Boston,” she said. “Yes, I did.”

  “And you just…walked away from it, from your whole life and career?”

  “I’m still practicing medicine,” Kelly said. “Doctors never lack patients. Trust me on that one.”

  “Did you and Tom even talk for one minute about him moving to Boston?”

  “No,” Kelly said. “That was never a serious option.”

  “That doesn’t seem very fair.”

  Kelly smiled. “It’s fair.”

  Joan laughed in disbelief. “How can you say that?”

  “Because it is fair. Look, Tom is the most incredible man in the world. He does things that only a few people on this planet are capable of doing—and he does them for our country. He could make astronomical amounts of money in the private sector, but he chooses to serve. I figure I can do my share, too, by taking on the role of Navy spouse—although, okay, I haven’t managed to marry him yet but I’m working on that. Marriage license or not, when you’re the wife of a Navy SEAL, Joan, you do things like move when he gets reassigned. God, I’d fly halfway around the world for a chance to see him for fifteen minutes.”

  Whoa. “You really love him, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Joan sighed. “What if you loved him that much, but you had a career that you absolutely couldn’t—didn’t want to—give up. What if you were doing research at Harvard and you were only years away from, I don’t know, say…curing childhood cancer?”

  Kelly didn’t laugh at her, even though it was clear she was trying not to smile. “Or what if you worked in the White House and really loved your job there?” she countered.

  Joan rolled her eyes. “I’m that transparent, huh?”

  “Mike Muldoon is the sweetest guy I’ve ever met on any of the teams.”

  Shit. “Obviously our attempts to be discreet have failed miserably. Does everyone know?”

  “No. Tom told me about having lunch with you and Mike, and I put two and two together. Don’t worry—I haven’t told anyone else. Not even Meg. You didn’t get a chance to meet Savannah, did you? Kenny’s wife?”

  “Kenny?”

  “WildCard Karmody,” Kelly explained. “No, I guess you didn’t—she was out of town that evening you came over. Long story short, she and Ken have been married for close to six months now, and she still lives in New York—which doesn’t mean she doesn’t love him, because I know she does. She just has other things happening in her life, things that she couldn’t just drop the way I could. They’re making it work. It’s not easy, but they meet in Dallas or Chicago as often as they can. It is possible.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  They both turned to see Tom Paoletti standing behind them. He was looking at Kelly, and he didn’t look happy.

  Muldoon made sure his lip microphone was off before he dialed Joan’s cell phone number.

  As he watched, she excused herself from the CO and Kelly Ashton, and dug her cell out of her pocket, flipping it open.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey,” he said. “It’s the rescue squad. Need a good excuse not to be in the middle of a domestic squabble?”

  “It’s not exactly a squabble,” she said. “He’s just really worried about this event, and he’s trying to get her to go home without flat-out ordering her to leave. Did you know Meg Nilsson’s here, too?”

  “Oh, crap.” They’d made a point of suggesting—strongly—that wives and families stay home from this event. Paoletti went as far as setting up an alternate demo date for wives and families. “Is she alone?”

  “No, she’s got her baby with her.” Joan paused. “Cute kid.”

  “I like kids,” Muldoon said. “On the off chance that you were wondering…”

  She laughed. “Mike.”

  “I love you,” he said. “In case you were having trouble remembering that. Sleep deprivation can screw up your memory, you know, so I should also probably remind you that you promised to meet me in your hotel room right after this is over.”

  “No, I did not.”

  “See? Maybe I should be more explicit, so as to jog your brain cells,” he said. “I was planning to come over, and we were going to order room service, and we were going to get very, very naked and take turns licking…Uh…”

  Lt. Jazz Jacquette was standing right beside him, listening to every word he was saying, one eyebrow heading toward the sky.

  “Gotta go,” Muldoon said to Joan. He closed his cell phone with a snap.

  “Were you actually making a booty call, Lieutenant?” Jacquette asked in his basso profundo.

  “I know, sir,” Muldoon said. “Wrong time and place. It won’t happen again.”

  Jacquette looked at him. “Damn,” he said. “I just lost my bet. I had twenty dollars riding on the fact that you were not entirely human. Stay focused, Lieutenant,” he added as he walked away. “Who would’ve ever thought I’d have to say that to you?”

  The President was coming.

  The call had just come in on Husaam’s cell phone, letting him know that Bryant’s entourage was almost here.

  Ihbraham was standing pretty close to the stage. If Husaam had really been
a religious man, he might’ve turned around and left—leaving Ihbraham’s fate in God’s hands.

  But he hadn’t made it this far in his career by letting someone else—even God—orchestrate the fate of a man who had to die.

  He approached a group of bikers—three men dressed in leather jackets that declared them to be members of Hell’s Angels. Good. They wouldn’t be afraid to get into a fight.

  “There’s a man over there,” he said to them in a low voice, pointing to Ihbraham. “An Arab man. He’s acting really strange. I’m going to go find one of the Secret Service guys—I know they’re around here somewhere. But will you keep an eye on him? You know, get close to him, make sure he doesn’t go anywhere. And if he does anything, just, you know, beat the shit out of him.”

  “That guy in the blue T-shirt?” one of them asked.

  “Yeah,” Husaam said. “With the sandals. Don’t let him out of your sight. I’ll be as fast as I can, but I may have to go all the way back to the gate.”

  “You got it, chief.”

  They moved closer to Ihbraham, as Husaam, true to at least part of his word, moved back toward the gates, well out of range of all the weapons he’d helped smuggle onto the base.

  “When the President climbs up the stairs,” the woman named Myra—Joan’s boss—told Charlie and Vince for the umpteenth time, “he’s going to stop and greet you and your husband. You’ll already be on your feet—everyone will stand when his car pulls up. But if you need to sit down, don’t be ashamed or afraid to do it. It’s quite warm out today. No heroics, do you understand?”

  “Absolutely,” Charlie told her. “I’m not a hero—I’m only the wife of heroes. Did you know that my husband, Chief Vincent DaCosta, was a frogman during the Second World War?”

  One of the officers with the fancy uniform—Admiral Crowley—turned to face them. “You were a frogman, sir? With the UDT—the Underwater Demolition Teams?” he asked Vince. He had a craggy face filled with character and lines, but for the briefest of instances, he looked like a wide-eyed little boy.

  “I was,” Vince replied.

  “Where did you serve, Chief?”