He focused on the redhead’s heart-shaped face. Her eyes were dark, instead of the green he was expecting.
“Have you been cleared for active duty yet?” she asked.
Surprised and a little wary of the interest in his personal life, Brett hesitated before answering. “For partial duty. I’m doing some training with another unit, preparing for when I’m cleared to return to my own.”
He pointed to a heavyset woman dressed in a brightly flowered sundress.
“How are you feeling after your injury?” she asked.
“I’m fine. I returned to training about a month after my discharge from the hospital.” Against doctor’s orders. “I’m back to full strength now. Thanks for asking.”
“How many languages do you speak?” asked a pretty blond at the third table to the left. She flashed him a saucy smile.
“I’m learning some Farsi right now. Kurdish, Spanish, French, Arabic, and some Gaelic.”
“Gaelic! Why Gaelic?” she asked.
“Well … .” He dragged out the syllable a smile tugging at his lips. “I was on leave in Ireland, and I met this girl … ”
Laughter broke out and some of the his tension eased. It was going okay. He hadn’t forgotten a single word or needed to pause to get one to come.
A dozen questions later, the redhead raised her hand again.
“How do you deal with the danger of what you do?”
He caught a glimpse of the recorder she held. Press. Was she press or just a groupie? Wariness brought an instant tension to his back and shoulders. For a moment, his mind went blank. Focus! Focus, circle the word. Ter- ter- Tr- Tray “Training.” He took a breath. “And more training, and more training. The more you repeat a skill, the more confidence you build, the more able you are to deal with things when they don’t go according to plan.” God, he could be a poster boy for the National PTSD Association with that one.
“I’ve earned my wings, so I can pilot a plane if I need to. I’ve been trained in hand-to-hand combat, underwater demolition, and high-altitude parachuting. I can pilot any kind of watercraft and fix an engine with duct tape, bailing wire, and Band-Aids. You don’t only have to be physically fit, you have to keep yourself mentally sharp, and you have to be able to think on your feet and be flexible in intense situations.”
“And you really want to go back to that?” An older woman at the front table asked.
“Yeah.” Brett remained silent a moment. “This is going to sound corny as hell, but … This is my country. I want to keep it safe. I’ll do whatever I have to do to secure it. If that means standing between the citizens of the U.S. and whatever threat is out there—" He shrugged. “That’s what I’ll do, and I’ll continue to do it until I can’t any more.”
Silence followed and embarrassed heat hit his face. “Thanks for having me, ladies.”
Amid eager applause, Brett settled back at the table and felt a hand touch his sleeve. He turned his attention to the woman beside him. In her late twenties, her skin was smooth, her lips lush, and her pale blue eyes more than a little avid as they settled on his face. But the ring on her finger screamed married, even if her attitude didn’t. And he definitely wasn’t interested in getting mixed up with a married woman.
“Thank you so much, Ensign Weaver,” said Barbara Hanover, the President of the San Diego Women’s Political League. The smile she offered him held a hint of flirtation and her voice sounded just breathy enough to suggest more. “You were everything the ladies expected a SEAL to be, and more.”
A wry smile twisted Brett’s lips. “I’m glad I haven’t disappointed any of them.”
“I know this isn’t your normal job. Captain Jackson said Master Chief O’Connor has been hospitalized and you stepped in at the last minute.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“God, please don’t call me that. It makes me sound so old. I can’t be more than three or four years older than you.”
“It has nothing to do with age, ma’am. My mother believes in old school manners, and she’d skin me for addressing you, or any other married female, with less than complete respect.”
“How quaint,” Barbara’s tone remained sweet, but held a brittle undercurrent. “Please excuse me, I have to go and make my concluding remarks.” She ran a smoothing hand over her perfectly coifed honey-colored hair.
He rose in a polite gesture, and rested a hand on the top of her chair when she shoved it back.
She shot him a wry smile over her shoulder and paused to lay a hand on his arm as she brushed by him. “What would you be calling me if I weren’t married, Ensign?”
He studied her expression, trying to judge her mood. When her gaze remained fixed on his, he grinned. “Honey, babe, darlin’, or any combination thereof. Ma’am.”
Though regret flickered across her features, she laughed. She took her place behind the podium and flashed him another smile.
He nearly sighed aloud with relief as he regained his seat. This public information gig was like a thirty-yard run through mortar fire. God, he felt as though he’d just run the O course. The next time he saw Master Chief O’Hara, he was going to slap his back and offer to buy him a beer. He caught Jackson’s attention resting on him and frowned.
The Captain leaned across the space between them to speak for his ears only. “You’ve done such a fine job today, Weaver, I may file orders for you to take O’Connor’s place until he can return to duty.”
Fuck! Brett barely bit back the exclamation. “I think that would be a waste of training time, sir.”
One dark brow rose. Jackson eyed him with a flat assessing look. “You just told these ladies there’s more to being a SEAL than war games. Just think of it as a different type of training.”
Brett drew a deep breath. Had he just been ambushed? “Public relations isn’t my thing, sir.”
Jackson nodded toward the podium. “Could have fooled me.”
Brett clenched his teeth against the urge to argue. For a moment he thought his head might explode from the rush of angry heat.
Were they trying to give him shit details to get him to resign? Was something else going on? Something he wasn’t aware of.
He probed Jackson’s expression through narrowed eyes, but the man had already returned his attention to Barbara Hanover’s closing remarks.
This wasn’t the place or time to ask, but goddamn it, he was going to as soon as they returned to base.
CHAPTER 4
Twenty minutes after Captain Jackson’s escape, Brett broke free of the women surrounding him and strode down the hall to the nearest exit. Stepping out into the afternoon sun, he drew a deep breath of the salt-tinged air and narrowed his eyes against the glare. Sun worshippers, slick with oil, reclined on striped lounges arranged in synchronized order around the pool. High-pitched squeals came from the shallow end where four children played with a beach ball.
The damn place was like a maze. He shoved his sunglasses on and descended the closest concrete steps leading down to the beach. The white sail of a small watercraft stood out against the deep blue of the open ocean glittering to the north. He watched the small scrap of white as it worked its way closer. Tension drained from his shoulders.
“Ensign Weaver.”
Damn. He’d almost escaped. He turned to face the woman. Sunlight emphasized the copper highlights in her chestnut hair. The sun-blushed tint of her cheeks and nose gave her pale, smooth skin a touch of color. As she sauntered toward him, the slender length of her legs snagged his attention again. A vision of those long legs wrapped around his waist while he thrust into her flashed through his mind. His body responded with instant eagerness.
“My name is Tess Kelly, Ensign Weaver. I’m a reporter from the San Diego Tribune.”
Shit. So he’d been right. Brett remained silent as she stopped before him.
“I’d like to interview you for the paper.”
Brett scanned the area around him. Did she have a photographer stashed somewhere? That’s al
l he’d need, his picture plastered across a newspaper. He’d lose his anonymity and be useless to the team. “Sorry, we don’t do interviews.”
Her brown eyes narrowed and her lips tightened. He read determination instead of anger in her expression.
“You just did an interview in there for the ladies,” she said.
Brett shrugged. “Then you should have everything you need.”
“People are very curious about what happened a few months ago. They’ll want to know how you’re doing. How your sister is doing.”
He raised a brow. He could take care of himself, but Zoe was still … emotional. Something was going on with her. “I already answered that question in there.” He nodded his head toward the hotel. He then changed his stance, aligning his six-foot frame so he invaded her personal space. He caught a whiff of her floral perfume, the heat intensifying the scent. Her apple shampoo blended with that and some other fragrance, maybe a lotion she used on her skin. Her smooth, creamy skin. Awareness zipped through his system. The back of his neck grew hot and his heartbeat fired into overdrive. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. Jesus.
Despite the high-alert status of his cock, he dragged his attention back to the current problem and gave her his best hard-edged stare. “As for my sister, she values her privacy as much as I do. And she doesn’t need any shit from you. So don’t even think about harassing her.”
Tess held her ground, but beads of perspiration moistened her hairline, and her gaze shifted away.
“Is this how all you guys control the women in your life, threats and fists?”
Brett suppressed the urge to flinch. Derrick’s actions had given the whole team a black eye. It had brought spousal abuse in the Navy into the public forum and set off a firestorm of questions and suppositions. Hell, by now it had probably sparked a study or two.
He drew a deep breath and kept his voice even. “I have three women in my life. My mother and my sisters. I’ve never raised my hand to any of them. And I’d make anyone who did w—” Think!—What’s the word? Will- wit- wis-h
Her reddish-brown eyes, the color of milk chocolate, homed in on his face, a speculative gleam in their depths.
Every muscle in his body tightened. “—wish they hadn’t.” He finished the sentence and heard the panic in his own voice.
God, he’d never run away from anything in his life, but he had to fight not to run now. He stepped away from her, and swiveling on his foot, walked away.
“Why did Derek Armstrong attack you?” she asked.
Though she was speaking about the more public spousal abuse case between Derrick and his girlfriend Marjorie, Brett’s thoughts went to Iraq. Why—why—why? He’d asked that same question a hundred times since discovering Derrick had been the one who tried to bash his skull in.
He left me to die. After everything we’d been through.
What had he done to set Derrick off?
He paused on the steps to the pool and looked over his shoulder at her. “I’m not at liberty to talk about the case, ma’am. The Navy is conducting an investigation.”
“Which will keep everything hush-hush, of course.” Her tone held a note of accusation.
“I don’t know what they’ll do.” I just want to get back to my team.
Making it to the top of the steps, he paused to glance back, and his gaze swept her legs one more time. Damn shame she was a journalist.
Movement to his right snapped his attention in that direction. “Ensign Weaver, sir?” Two young Warrant Officers came to attention and saluted.
Returning the gesture, Brett gave a nod. “What can I do for you?”
“Captain Jackson needs you back at the base now, sir.”
Had something happened to Hawk? His gut clenched. What was going on?
Aware of Tess climbing the stairs behind them, Brett nodded. “I’ll come right now.” He dug his car keys from his pocket.
“I’ll need you to ride with me, sir.”
Brett paused to study the young sailor’s face. He tossed the keys to his partner. “It’s a cherry red mustang parked in front of the motel.” He narrowed his eyes. “Take good care of it.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Is there a problem, gentlemen?” Tess asked as she reached them.
“No problem,” Brett answered. “I have to report to base ASAP. Let’s go, Warrant Officer.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Miss Kelly,” Brett nodded toward her.
“Ensign Weaver.” She slid a business card into his pocket. “Just in case you change your mind.”
***
The air inside the pool facility hung sticky and moist. Dressed in black swim trunks and a t-shirt, Hawk followed along the edge of the water, keeping pace with the eight men swimming below him. Though the duty was dull and repetitive, in this second phase training it was necessary for the men to grow as comfortable in the water as they were on land. The only way for them to do that was to spend hours swimming, scuba diving, and practicing water skills and tactics.
As the swimmers reached the side of the pool, each surfaced and went into a head back position to clear their airways and rest.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Lucas?” he asked one of the men who seemed winded.
“I’m fine, sir.”
Hawk nodded.
Ensign Zac O’Connor, known as “Doc,” sauntered up to stand at his elbow, a video camera pointed at the men in the pool.
“What’s up, Doc?” Hawk asked.
Doc shot him a look over the extended viewer of the video camera. “HQ wanted some footage of the men training for a video. So they sent me out. How’s Zoe?”
“Good. She’s going for her interview at the hospital today.”
“Sounds good. It’d be a great fit. Hope she lands the job.”
“Thanks.”
Doc pushed the off button on the video camera and lowered it. His expression changed from its usual easygoing half-smile to serious. “Have you heard any news about the investigation into Flash’s disappearance?”
Hawk’s facial muscles tensed. “No. I’ve had more communication with a sponge on the ocean floor than with Naval Criminal Investigative Service,” he said, with sarcastic emphasis on the word investigative. “And I’ve called NCIS several times in the past few weeks.” Frustration ratcheted his heartbeat up a notch. “The official word is they can’t talk about an open and ongoing investigation.”
Doc swore beneath his breath. “Flash had his problems with the gambling, but Jesus!” Doc rubbed a palm over his short auburn hair, then dropped his arm. “He should be here waiting for orders to go wheels up just like the rest of us, not—” Doc made a cutting gesture. “You think he’s dead?”
Hawk remained silent a moment. He’d gone over and over the last days he’d hung out with Flash. He’d been secretive, agitated. They had no definitive proof identifying him as the man who had smuggled the ancient Iraqi seals into the country in Brett’s gear. Even if Flash had been responsible for the smuggling, the artifacts wouldn’t have brought enough on the black market to bankroll him for the rest of his life. If he was alive, he’d have to surface sooner or later.
He looked up to find Doc still waiting for his answer. “Against all odds, Brett came out of a coma. I’m not ready to write Flash off just yet either. Even if he was in over his head with gambling debts, and he took this route to cover them, there’s no real proof he did it. I can’t see him ditching the only family he has, his team. Not unless he had no control over what went down.”
“So you think maybe someone kidnapped him, or he’s on the run from someone?”
“He has skills. We disappear into a jungle for days at a time. We can survive in the desert with one canteen of water, a compass, and a KA-BAR. Why wouldn’t he be able to survive under the radar?”
The other instructor, Petty Officer Second Class Frank ordered, “Prepare for subsurface.”
The men straightened from their laid back positions in the pool.
“Go subsurface.” Frank’s voice bounced off the walls in an echo.
The men took a deep breath, pushed off the pool wall, and swam underwater the length of the pool. Doc and Hawk fell in alongside the swimmers until they surfaced and went heads back to rest again.
“But what about the blood in the car?” Doc asked.
“Not enough for him to be dead. Wounded yes, but not deceased. I saw that myself.”
“So, you think he’s alive?”
“Until someone shows me his dead body, that’s what I’ll believe. He’s a SEAL.”
The tension in Doc’s face relaxed. “You’re right. If they didn’t find a body, he’s in the wind.” He grimaced. “He had to be the one who smuggled the artifacts in, though. Right?”
“My gut says he did it,” Hawk said, though he flinched at the admission.
The feelings that acknowledgement provoked lay between them for several long moments. The whole team was still reeling from Flash’s disappearance and Derrick’s arrest. Every time he thought about the domino sequence of events that had led up to both, a painful ache settled in the pit of his stomach. These were guys he’d trusted with his life. How could they have both betrayed their team, and themselves?
“The only proof we had was that he helped pack Cutter’s gear, and that’s circumstantial,” Hawk said. “Anyone could have slipped the stones into Cutter’s bag between the time it was packed and the time we caught the transport home. But his disappearance points a finger. And the signs of a struggle inside his car point to more.”
Doc nodded and looked away. “You know that saying about how we never leave a fallen man behind? It feels as though we have. We should have pursued the investigation ourselves.”
Breaking Through (Book 2 of the SEAL TEAM Heartbreakers) Page 4
