Breaking Through (Book 2 of the SEAL TEAM Heartbreakers)

by Reasor, Teresa

  A surge of adrenaline kicked Brett’s heart into overdrive. “Then what the hell is it?”

  “Your speech pathologist, Miss Myers, thinks the blank spots in your memory are stress-induced rather than physical.” Captain Stewart rose to his feet, moved around the desk to lean against its edge, and crossed his ankles. “When you were in elementary school or middle school, did you ever pull a blank during a test?”

  “Sure. Everybody’s done that at one time or another. But the information eventually came back to me.”

  “But with aphasia, it wouldn’t, Ensign Weaver. You’d learn coping mechanisms to help you come up with a substitute, for the word you couldn’t remember, but you wouldn’t ever recover that word in that instance. You might substitute another one totally unrelated to what you were trying to say. To make explaining simple—if you were trying to think of the word dog you might call it … ice cream, though you knew up here,” he tapped his temple, “exactly what a dog was. The correct word just wouldn’t route itself to your speech center.”

  The tight feeling banding Brett’s chest began to ease. “I don’t do that. I can’t think of the word at all and have to concentrate on it, circle it, until the original, or a substitute that makes sense, occurs to me.”

  “And we all do that. You just happen to do it more frequently than the rest of us. Because of all the behaviors you exhibit inconsistent with aphasia, your wide-ranged articulation in particular, we’ve changed our diagnosis. We believe you’re suffering from PTSD.”

  Bullshit! Brett shook his head. “I’m not stressed now. I’m home, I’m with my family.” I’m awake for the first time in a month. “And I’m still doing this shit.” He heard the anger and frustration in his own voice and drew another breath. “Sorry, sir.”

  Doctor Stewart’s long face became serious. “How angry are you about being denied the opportunity to train and deploy with your team, Ensign?”

  Brett eyed the doctor. Was this a test? A trick? If he admitted to his anger, would it affect his final prognosis? Could they kick him off the team for this shit?

  Stewart shook his head and took the seat next to him, putting them on a more even keel. “You can’t ignore the physical and mental trauma you endured in Iraq. It isn’t going to go away.”

  Everyone always pussyfooted around what Derrick had done. Having one of your best friends try to kill you—twice—was a little more than just a trauma. It moved way beyond trauma right into … Shit! Maybe if he thought of a word that would encompass the experience, he’d be cured.

  Brett turned in his seat to face him. “Look, I’m not trying to ignore what happened. I’m dealing with it. And not being able to train, to do what I’m meant to do, is just going to make this thing I have worse. I need something physical to set my sights on. A goal I can work toward, not some ‘maybe.’ I need to get back to my team.”

  “That’s exactly what we want to happen, Ensign. But it’s going to take a lot of work, and a little cooperation on your part.”

  Any time these fuckers started mentioning cooperation, they wanted either a quart of blood, or to inflict pain, or both.

  Brett studied the doctor through narrowed eyes. He scrubbed a hand over his close-cropped hair.

  Okay, think. Stewart wouldn’t be saying this if he didn’t have a shot at returning to his unit. From the look of things, if he didn’t cooperate, he had zero chances. Fuck.

  “Put me back on light duty at least. I’m going crazy sitting around.”

  Stewart’s eyes glinted. “It’s only been twelve weeks since your surgery, Ensign Weaver.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Stewart rose to his feet and moved to sit behind his desk. “No calisthenics and no strenuous exercise.”

  Brett suppressed the grin that threatened to break through. “Agreed.”

  Stewart continued to eye him, a hint of suspicion in his gaze.

  “I’ll have a letter for you by the end of office hours today.”

  “Thank you, sir. Now, what do I need to do?”

  ***

  Zoe Weaver stared at the plastic stick from the home pregnancy test. Her shoulders were so knotted with tension the muscles ached.

  They weren’t ready for this.

  After a rocky patch, she and Hawk had just gotten things ironed out enough to enjoy each other. She couldn’t be pregnant.

  Her brother Brett had just come out of his coma. Her sister Sharon was recovering from an emergency C-section and hysterectomy. Derrick Armstrong’s trial was coming up in a month or two, but she could handle that. But this—She swallowed against her rising panic.

  She loved Hawk. No doubts—no holding back—she was committed.

  He said he loved her. Showed her on a daily basis. But she refused to pressure him into marriage with a pregnancy. The words had to come without that hanging over his head. They had to come from his heart. When he was ready.

  A plus sign appeared in the window on the stick. Her breath caught and her hand crept upward to cover her mouth. Was it a shout of joy she was suppressing, or a groan of despair? Trapped between the two, she couldn’t decide.

  A quick tap on the door startled her.

  “Zoe, you all right in there?” Hawk’s voice laced with concern brought tears to her eyes. She brushed them away.

  “I’ll be right out.” She stuffed the plastic stick back in the box and crumpled the instructions into a tight ball. She had to think about what she was going to do. She couldn’t just spring it on him.

  He was so observant. He’d know something was wrong if she didn’t pull herself together. Taking several deep breaths, she reached for calm. She tossed the crumpled paper into the trash and covered it with a piece of tissue. She shoved the home pregnancy test to the back of the bathroom cabinet behind rolls of toilet paper and bottles of antiseptic.

  She washed her hands, dried them, and, drawing one last calming breath, opened the door.

  Hawk looked up from the end of the bed. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I just lost track of time. I didn’t mean to hog the bathroom.”

  “We have two.” He shrugged then continued to tie his shoes. “I’ve been called in to base to take an instructor’s place at the pool. His kid is having emergency surgery. They think it’s appendicitis.”

  “Okay.” The calf muscle of her damaged left leg tightened as she limped forward and sat next to him on the bed. She brushed back the black hair at his temple with her fingertips. Would the baby have Hawk’s wonderful high cheekbones and dark hair? Would it have his Native American heritage stamped as strongly on its features? Her voice sounded husky when she said, “I hope he’ll be okay.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine.” He looped his arm around her and drew her in against his side. His gray eyes looked intent as they studied her face. “What time’s your interview?”

  Lord, after the shock of the pregnancy test, she’d completely forgotten about her hospital interview. Her gaze darted toward the clock. “Not for a couple of hours yet.”

  “It’s a relief your application for your license went through so quickly. Right?”

  “It had to be some kind of record. I didn’t think any kind of bureaucracy worked that fast. You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Maybe they just realized California needs a really great physical therapist. And I think Dr. Connelly might have called and spoken to someone.”

  Zoe’s brows rose. “How do you know that?”

  “Because I asked him to.” He brushed a stray curl back from her cheek. “I wanted you here with me. And now that Brett is back on his feet, I knew you wouldn’t be happy unless you were doing what you’re supposed to do.”

  The words ‘I wanted you here with me’ captured her attention. The rest just seemed to blend into the background. She turned his face toward her and kissed him.

  Hawk took advantage and eased her down onto the bed. His hand worked beneath her t-shirt to cup her breast. And whe
n his fingers toyed with her nipple, a titillating heat arrowed down her torso.

  “You’re not pissed because I interfered?” he asked as his lips left hers to nibble her earlobe.

  She shivered. “No, of course not. I want to be here with you, too.” Her hand slid over the front of his desert camouflage uniform pants and found evidence of what he wanted. She’d never get enough of this, or of him.

  But how was she going to tell him about the baby? He’d just decided he could handle a commitment to her, though he could be deployed any moment. If he went wheels up, how would he feel leaving her behind—pregnant?

  It would drive him crazy. He’d worry about her. He’d be distracted, and he might not be as careful as he needed to be. No way was she telling him. Not yet.

  “If you have time,” she whispered in his ear. “I could use a little added incentive to do well on my interview.”

  Hawk laughed. He raised his head to look down at her. “I might need a little encouragement to do well at the pool, too. I wouldn’t want sexual frustration to distract me.”

  “We wouldn’t want that,” she agreed and lifted her head to kiss his throat.

  He rushed to untie his boots and they hit the floor with a thump.

  Another laugh bubbled up from inside her. “I think that may be the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard, Lieutenant Yazzie.”

  Hawk’s smile promised more. “I think we can do better.” He pushed her t-shirt up and lowered his mouth to her breast.

  Two Weeks Later

  CHAPTER 2

  Yasin al-Yussuf narrowed his eyes against the painful glare of the late afternoon sun. A wave of anxiety cramped his stomach. Sweat ran down the middle of his back, dampening his cotton shirt, already wilted from the heat. As he passed an old man squatting in the dirt outside the low-level apartment complex, he averted his face. It would not do for anyone to recognize him here.

  The building, three stories high, had circular pits of recent small arms fire scarring the west corner. Small patches of grass clung to the narrow strip of sandy soil between the structure and the cracked sidewalk.

  So this is what he had come to. This is what the Americans had forced him to become. The very thing he had fought against for so long.

  He turned the corner. A slow-moving car swung onto the street. He bent his head and focused on the sidewalk, then threw up a hand to conceal the side of his face as it passed.

  A large chunk of concrete, blown from the top edge of the building, propped open the front door. He ducked inside and paused to allow his eyes to adjust.

  A narrow flight of stairs disappeared upward, while a lower level hallway shot back into a dimly lit passageway. The smell of cooking fish had nausea gripping his stomach and twisting it.

  He could leave this place. He had not gone beyond the point of no return. No one knew he was here.

  But what of his son? Where was Sanjay? The two American men who had driven him home had to have played a part in his disappearance. They had surely killed him and buried his body somewhere in the desert. But why? He was only a child.

  While the American military continued to drag their feet and offer him platitudes and empty sympathy, he and his wife had clung to their hope and to each other.

  Four long months had passed since he had seen his son. Four months filled with an unrelenting fear and grief that he could no longer bear.

  He had watched Levla change from a vibrant, joyful woman to a shadow. She disappeared into her grief more and more each day. Though she never spoke the words, he knew she blamed him for trusting strangers to deliver their only child home. He blamed himself. He had allowed his work to devour his life, and now his son was gone.

  Anger and grief twisted together, clawing at his insides, burrowing into his brain. The men who were supposed to keep him safe and see him home safely had to pay. They must have killed him. He gripped the railing, and with steps heavy with determination, he trudged up the stairs.

  At the top, he turned left down a hallway lit by ineffective intermittent lights and a dingy window at the end. Halfway down the passage he paused before a door with the numbers he sought.

  Once again nausea struck him, and he drew deep breaths until the feeling passed. He had waited long enough. The Americans didn’t care about one lone Iraqi child. And his own people had been unable to find anyone who had seen his son since the moment the two Navy SEALs had taken him. They were responsible. And they had to die.

  He knocked on the door.

  After too short a time, the hollow panel swung inward, and a man stared out at him, his dark eyes flat and hard, his skin dusky from the sun.

  Suddenly desert dry, Yasin’s tongue lay useless in his mouth.

  “What do you want?” the man demanded.

  Yasin swallowed. “I wish to speak to you.”

  “About?”

  “The two Americans who killed my son.”

  The man studied him, his features sharpening with recognition.

  A shudder shook Yasin. He knew him. He had come too far. There was no going back. “They were two Navy SEALs. The same ones who killed your brother in the explosion.”

  The man’s eyes widened, then shifted and became predatory. He swung the door wide. “Come in.”

  ***

  Captain Russell Connelly paused just outside the luggage claim area and scanned the crowd. People stood queued up around the conveyor snagging their suitcases. The crowd parted to spit out two lucky men with their bags, then folded back in on itself. Neither man was Evan.

  He checked his watch. Thirteen hundred hours. He had to report to the hospital at sixteen hundred for a meeting with the surgical staff, and he hoped to get Evan settled and share a meal with him before the meeting.

  The dull florescent light caught the copper highlights in the auburn hair of the woman tugging a huge suitcase behind her. Something about the way she walked seemed familiar. As she moved closer, a smile of recognition curved her lips.

  “Captain Connelly, how are you?”

  “I’m good, Mrs. Weaver.”

  She smiled again. “Clara. Surely you can call me Clara now.”

  Why hadn’t he noticed this beautiful, vibrant woman two months ago?

  Because she’d been the mother of his patient, and he’d been keeping his professional distance.

  But also because she’d been under tremendous stress.

  Her son had lain in a coma. Her older daughter had had an emergency C-section, a baby girl, if he remembered correctly. And the same team member rumored to have injured Brett and caused his coma had nearly killed her youngest daughter.

  Jesus.

  “How are your children doing?” he asked, then mentally slapped his forehead. He braced himself for the inevitable outpouring.

  “Brett is doing well, thanks to you.”

  Heat crept up the back of his neck at the look of gratitude she shot him. He shook his head. “He’s doing well because he’s a resilient young man. The medication I gave him may, or may not, have had a bearing on his regaining consciousness.

  “You never gave up on him. You kept trying, and that’s what counts.”

  “Your daughter Zoe would have kicked my butt all over the hospital if I’d ever hinted at quitting.”

  Clara laughed. “She’s a force to be reckoned with. She’s a real steel magnolia—soft, southern and feminine, but with a core of steel.”

  “Like her mother.”

  Soft color touched her cheeks and she shifted the strap of her purse over her shoulder. Her blouse parted, showing the lacy camisole-style t-shirt hugging her breasts and offered him a glimpse of cleavage. “Thanks for the compliment, but I think all my children got more of that from their father.”

  “And you’re here just for a visit?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet. After everything that happened in June, I decided to take early retirement and explore my options.”

  How old was she? She looked too young to retire.

  And why wa
s he speculating about her age?

  Because for the first time in a very long while he was noticing a woman. Really noticing her.

  “Dad.”

  Evan’s voice just behind him caught his attention. He tore his gaze away from Clara Weaver to face his son.

  Time stopped. His heart plunged. My God. What the hell happened? He barely bit back the exclamation. What’s wrong?

  Evan looked pale, and his face was thin. Dark shadows formed crescents beneath his eyes and accentuated the sharp thrust of his cheekbones. His clothes hung on him as though the cloth found it painful to touch his bony frame.

  Six months. It had only been six months since they’d seen each other. How had this happened?

  A soft hand gripped his, and he glanced down at Clara Weaver.

  Her shoulder brushed his as she leaned forward and offered her other hand to Evan, filling the awkward silence, giving him time to recover.

  “Hello, I’m Clara Weaver. My son was one of your father’s patients a couple of months ago.”

  “Evan. I’m Evan.” His smile appeared strained as he accepted her hand. His brown eyes looked overlarge in a face that seemed to have shrunk.

  “I’m glad to meet you, Evan.” Clara’s gaze swung upward to Russell’s face, searching, concerned. “It was good seeing you, Dr. Connelly.”

  His mind, sluggish with shock, began to function again. “Russell,” his voice sounded rusty. “Please call me Russell.”

  “Russell, then. I’ll be staying at Brett’s apartment. Perhaps you and your son can come to dinner one night.” Releasing his hand, she rifled through her purse, then withdrew a pencil and a scrap of paper. She jotted something down and pressed it into his hand.

  A knot the size of softball lodged in his throat. “Thanks, Clara.”

  “I hope to see you both soon. Evan.” She nodded to them and, gripping her suitcase handle, sauntered out of the baggage claim area and down the terminal.

  Russell opened the paper to read the cell phone number and the note, If you need anything at all. He tucked it into his pocket. “Let me take your bag, Evan.”