Breaking Through (Book 2 of the SEAL TEAM Heartbreakers)

by Reasor, Teresa

  “It wasn’t about you, Clara. It was about us. Our relationship hasn’t been what it should be since his mother and I divorced many years ago. My numerous deployments didn’t help.”

  “I know how hard it is to explain to a child why his father isn’t there. If a spouse is resentful—it doesn’t make things any easier. There were plenty of times I was mad as hell at Joe for leaving us.”

  “But you never spread that to your children.” She wouldn’t do that.

  “I was a military wife a long time. Some women aren’t cut out for it.”

  “Gloria never was. Evan was seven when we divorced.”

  “And Carl is her husband and a lawyer.”

  “Yes.”

  “And she pushed Carl to replace you.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve said twenty words to the man since they married. But she pushed Evan to accept him as his father.”

  “Obviously it didn’t take completely.”

  He raised his brows.

  “When he needed someone, he turned to you.”

  But why? Why now? Sure, he was ill, but there was something else going on. And why wasn’t Gloria calling to check on him? And why wasn’t Carl? There was more going on than Evan was sharing.

  His gaze fastened on Clara’s features and read concern in her expression. “I shouldn’t have dumped this on you.”

  “How many families and patients have you comforted over the years?”

  “I don’t know.” Thousands.

  She tilted her head and the candlelight picked out the copper highlights in her hair. “Why not accept that you deserve to be comforted and supported, too?” She touched his forearm.

  For the first time since his fiancée Valerie’s death, he was tempted to reach for what she offered. He needed—everything. Evan’s illness was acting as a catalyst, pointing out all the time he had wasted, all the relationships he’d missed out on. With Clara looking at him with such understanding, it would be so easy to just go for it—go for her. But he couldn’t use Evan’s illness to–to put the move on her. God, they didn’t even call it that any more. They called it hooking up. He didn’t need to hook up. He needed more. He wanted all the things he’d hoped to have time for. Passion, love, a real relationship.

  He forced himself to his feet at the same time Clara rose.

  “I’ll get the coffee,” she offered.

  He followed her. And before she could reach for the coffee pot, he caught her wrist and turned her to face him. “It’s been a long time since—” He started over. “It’s hard to think of anything but survival and the job when you’re in a war zone. Just keeping everyone alive so they can go home consumes you.” He had been caring for other sons while his was growing ill. He hadn’t dealt with the guilt that knowledge triggered yet. “I’d been a little numb since getting back, but that day we ran into each other at the airport—” Jesus he couldn’t talk either. His face felt hot. Why the hell was he so tongue-tied with her? “This isn’t the greatest time for me to even—” He pressed on. “I wanted to ask you out for coffee or dinner that day.”

  Her frown cleared and changed to a smile. “And I wanted you to ask me out for coffee or dinner.”

  So he hadn’t imagined that spark of interest, or the sense of awareness that seemed to bounce back and forth between them. The knot in his stomach untwisted. He smiled. “Would you still want to go out?”

  “Certainly. But we don’t have to go out to get to know each other. I know that Evan is a priority right now.”

  The tightness that banded his shoulders relaxed.

  Clara placed a hand against his chest. “Take a breath, Russell.”

  He did, and at the same time slipped an arm around her to draw her close. Her arms went around his waist, her hands sliding up his back. Her breasts pressed into his rib cage and her head rested against his shoulder. She smelled like cinnamon. The heavy heat of arousal rushed to his groin. It had been a long time since he’d felt that. The trauma of war had leached it from him.

  When Clara tilted her head back to look up at him, he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her.

  ***

  Hawk narrowed his eyes against the glare of the morning sunlight on the hard-packed sand, reached for his sunglasses, and shoved them on his face. He looked toward the east. Desert terrain dotted with scrub stretched toward the distant Chocolate Mountains. The land looked so much like parts of Iraq and Afghanistan he sometimes felt he was back there.

  With every evolution he felt closer and closer to a deployment and farther and farther away from Zoe. With the distance came an almost physical ache. He’d never experienced that before. It was more than just missing the sex, though that was part of it. He missed her physical presence, missed sharing his space with her, and his thoughts.

  The exercises they were conducting, night and day surveillance and reconnaissance, reinforced the impression he got that they were revisiting their last mission in Iraq. Were they gearing up for something? Or was someone fucking with them? Or it could be a coincidence? Or not.

  The barracks door closed behind him and Bowie sauntered up. “You okay, L.T.?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jesus, it’s only eight in the morning and I’m already sweating,” Bowie groused, “Why can’t we find a cooler climate to wage war in?”

  “Do you remember that mission when we lost the IBS and we had to tread water until the boomer showed to pick us up?”

  “Yeah. You’d think a goddamn nuclear sub could have gotten a little more steam up. My balls drew up so high I thought they’d gone into permanent hibernation and taken my dick with them. I swear they were lodged above my bellybutton for about a week.”

  “Do you really ever want to be that cold again?”

  Bowie’s features blanked, then he threw his arms out in an exaggerated stretch. ‘Sure feels good out here, doesn’t it?”

  Hawk laughed. “Whenever the heat gets to me, I just remember that mission.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. What’s up for today?”

  “We’ll be in a briefing most of the day. This evening we’ll be doing a night maneuver. Some of the SQT troops training here will be stalking us across the desert.”

  Bowie’s expression grew serious. “That sounds way too familiar.”

  For a minute they remained silent. Hawk knew he was thinking about that desperate cat-and-mouse pursuit through the streets of the Iraqi village after the building had gone up. They’d fallen back and hidden in one of the abandoned structures for a time. But Cutter’s condition had grown worse by the minute, and the al-Qaeda forces had gotten closer and closer to their location, forcing them out into the desert. Waiting for the Chinook to pick them up had been one of the most dangerous times he’d had as a SEAL. The assholes had heard the helo coming and had swarmed their location. Pinned down, they’d returned fire. He’d ordered Flash to call in an air strike to get them off their backs so the helo could pick them up. That strike had damn near been on top of them.

  His men had saved Cutter’s life and his. With his knee puffed up the size of a basketball, he’d been unable to walk. But by God he’d held his own in the firefight.

  “I have some things to do before the briefing,” Hawk said. “You know the drill. After chow, see that the rifles are fitted for Simunitions and ready to go. I’ll be briefing you guys on the scenario as soon as I’ve got it.”

  “Will do.”

  Hawk entered the dormitory and wandered down the hall to his room. Petty Officer Langley Marks the man who had taken over as Hawk’s XO after Flash’s disappearance, and his roommate, came out of the room just as he reached it.

  “I thought you were going to the mess hall,” Lang said as they met in the passageway.

  “I have to email someone.”

  Langley grinned, emphasizing the lantern-shaped jaw that gave his lower face a disproportionately heavy look. “You have it bad, man. You just talked to her last night—for thirty minutes. You never talk that l
ong.”

  “Zoe thinks her mom is going through some kind of … ” he gestured vaguely, “thing because of her retirement and— She was just talking to me about that.”

  “Uh-huh. And you didn’t have to reassure her you were eating like a king, sleeping like a log, and not doing anything more dangerous than shooting at targets.”

  “Well—”

  “I know, man. I have to do that with Trish, too. I don’t think she believes me anymore.”

  “I don’t believe you either, Lang.”

  Langley laughed. “I’m losing my edge.”

  “That situation you and I discussed a couple of days ago. I thought I’d shoot off an email to Captain Morrow and see if he could shed any light on it”

  Lang’s smile dimmed, and he nodded. “Good idea. I’d give him a thorough briefing.”

  “Our being here, the timing of it, seems a bit fortuitous. Or it could be just paranoia kicking in.”

  “If it is, mine is doing a shimmy and a shake, too. It has been ever since NCIS showed up on base. Someone may be playing a little mind game.”

  “Jackson’s become a real bastard. He’s leaving Cutter flapping in the breeze, and he’ll do the same with us. They may have waved a promotion under his nose. ”

  “I hear that.”

  “We need to toe the line here, Lang. The men need to be at their best. Whoever is fucking with Cutter has an eye on us, too. This current round of exercises we’re participating in is like a revisit of the mission. Someone is yanking our chain.”

  “I hear you. I’ll go check on the men. See you in a few.”

  Hawk entered the room and went directly to his laptop. He shot Zoe a brief email to reassure her and tell her he loved her. In his email to Morrow, he went into a succinct briefing of the situation with Cutter and Derrick. An uneasy itch hit him between the shoulder blades as he moved the cursor to the send tab. Navy network, Navy computer, Navy brass. But Morrow was a good guy. He’d bet his trident on it. And he had to trust someone in order to get info. And if anyone was monitoring his email, they’d see a CO concerned about his men and interested in getting to the bottom of things.

  He sent the email and closed the computer. And if they read anything more into the message? Fuck them.

  ***

  Tess printed out the article and added it to the growing stack of research she was compiling. After having done two interviews with women, she was scheduled to sit across from a man at lunch to do the third interview about his discharge from the Navy for a “personality disorder.” She was finding a growing trend that concerned her.

  Those moments of anxiety Brett had gone through when they were at her apartment had played through her mind again and again. What if the Navy tried to pull a discharge on him because of his brain injury or his PTSD? There had to be a way for him to protect himself.

  Thus far, with every one of the people she’d talked to, their discharges had gone through despite their attempts to fight it. And now all of them were appealing that decision, but the process moved as slowly as a sloth’s digestive system. It took months for any progress.

  Her hand strayed to her cell phone for the fifth time that morning. What could it hurt for her to call him and give him a word of warning? She picked up the phone, thumbed down through her address book, and hit the number.

  “Hello, Tess. I was just thinking of you.”

  How could he have that cocky assurance in his voice and be suffering from PTSD? For a second she allowed herself to dwell on what it had felt like to hold him and offer him comfort. She had to clear her throat, and she blinked her eyes to hold the tears at bay. “I thought I’d give you a heads up about something I’ve been researching. I’m doing an article on how the military is using personality disorder diagnoses so they can avoid giving personnel their retirement benefits. They’re forcing discharges on them, either because they’ve gone to their commanders with other problems, or because they have had injuries or conditions that require long-term care.”

  Brett remained silent for a beat then two. “I’m working with a psychiatrist now who is paid by the military, but isn’t enlisted. Sort of a civilian consultant. I don’t think my CO would be able to pressure him into misdiagnosing me. Also, SEALs go through psyche evals several times a year. Mine have always been clean.”

  But that was before his head injury.

  “Some of the doctors involved have received heavy-handed suggestions through certain commanding officers to push things through. The military seem eager to shed the weight of any soldier they view as a problem. I know you work hard to be top in your field, but because of the other situation, I was concerned. Should they try and use a diagnosis of PTSD to force you out, and things escalate, your legal fees wouldn’t be covered by the military.”

  “I’m innocent. And there isn’t really anything I can do but ride it out.”

  How was he bearing that kind of pressure?

  With more grace than I would.

  “I appreciate your concern.” His voice deepened. “You know what that means don’t you?”

  “No, what?”

  “I’m growing on you.”

  He was more than that. He’d gotten under her skin the first time he’d looked at her with those baby blues while he massaged her legs as though he didn’t realize what he was doing.

  Sure, he hadn’t.

  “You’re a source, Brett. I can’t—”

  “One day I’m not going to be a source anymore, and you’re going to have to decide.”

  “Decide what?”

  “Whether to stand on the sidelines and watch life go by, or be a par—” he paused while he searched for the word. “Participant.”

  Was that really how he saw her?

  “I’m working to break through my speech issues. I’d love to be there when you break through yours, when you finally reach for what you want without holding back.”

  “And you think I’ll reach for you?” she asked, trying to scoff, but not quite pulling it off.

  “You did once. I’m hoping you’ll do it again.”

  She felt heat rise from her throat to her cheeks. She couldn’t say it was a mistake because it was what she had wanted. Dear God, how she’d wanted him. But this desire to protect him was something she’d never experienced before. “I have to go. I’ll call you with firm plans to meet with Ian when he arrives.”

  “What are you afraid of, Tess?” he asked before she hung up.

  She hit the button without answering. But she couldn’t avoid the answer in her own mind. She was afraid of being a disappointment to him. Of not being enough.

  CHAPTER 18

  Yasin listened to the soft sound of his wife’s breathing. Levla had cried out in her sleep during the night and had only quieted after he’d drawn her close. He studied the smooth skin of her cheeks and the graceful curve of her brows. At their wedding, she had been the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. After eighteen years together, he still could think of no other woman who compared to her.

  The first time they’d lain together, he’d been surprised and pleased by her responsiveness. But neither of them had been interested in lying with one another since Sanjay’s disappearance.

  He ran the backs of his fingers against her cheek. If he woke her now, could they lose themselves in each other for a time?

  When his cell phone rang, Levla moved in her sleep to cover her ear with the pillow. Yasin swung his legs over the side of the bed and answered. His gaze traveled across to the hall to his daughter’s room. She, too, burrowed further beneath the covers.

  “I have a number for you,” a strange voice said in Arabic.

  “One moment.” Yasin rushed from the room and down the hall to his office. He scrambled to find a pen and paper. “Yes.”

  The man recited an American exchange. “Use the phone that was delivered to you. Should anything happen, destroy it.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “He will be awaiting your call.”


  Before Yasin could respond, the line went dead. He lowered himself into his chair. He studied the number for long moments. If he did not call Tabarek, would he go on with what he planned to do? Tabarek’s hatred for the Americans was strong enough for them both. Yes, he would move forward with his plans for them. But what would Tabarek tell the men who worked for him here? Would they come here searching for him? Would they hurt his family?

  Yasin bent, opened the bottom desk drawer, and retrieved the cell phone that had arrived two days ago. He keyed in the numbers, and a familiar raspy voice answered. “I am in San Diego. I have found one of the men responsible for your son’s death and my brother’s.”

  “You worked very quickly.”

  “There are others here who are in agreement with my cause.”

  Sweet Allah. He had not expected that. “That is fortunate.”

  “The other SEAL is in jail.”

  “For?”

  “American women are whores. They lay with so many men, they cannot even identify the fathers of their children. They must go on television to discover it. The SEAL attempted to kill his mistress because he believed her unfaithful.”

  He could understand the man’s desire to kill his woman for being unfaithful. But if the man were guilty of attempted murder, did that not make it almost certain he had killed Sanjay? He’d believed his hope had died, but the thought cut him like a knife.

  “He is surrounded by bars that are both a prison and a protection. I have not yet found a way to get to him.”

  Why did he feel relieved? He wanted him dead, didn’t he? “He is already being punished.”

  “Not enough.”

  “And the other man?”

  “He is often on the military base. But I will be seeing him soon.”

  “And then it will be over,” Yasin said.

  “No, my friend. Then I will find the others as well. I will call when it is done. I will need more money to leave the country.”

  He had no more money. He had given him all he had to fly to America. How could he get more?

  “I will try,” Yasin said into the silence.