Breaking Through (Book 2 of the SEAL TEAM Heartbreakers)

by Reasor, Teresa

  Kevin Hale had no loyalties. He’d screw his own mother to get a story, or anything else he wanted. Tess fought against the wave of pain that assaulted her. “I’m surprised to hear you talk like that about him. You were quick enough to write him the letter of recommendation for the Post job.”

  “I wrote him the letter to get him the fuck away from you. He’s a self-centered prick, and I wanted him away from my daughter.”

  Stunned, it took her a beat, then two, to shut her open mouth and gather her thoughts. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “At the time, you wouldn’t have listened to anything I said, and I figured you already hated me, so I didn’t have anything to lose.”

  “I’ve never hated you, Ian. And I never held you responsible for anything associated with Kevin Hale. In fact, had you told me later why you wrote the letter, I’d have thanked you.”

  “Had I known I’d finally done something right with you, I would have. It’s a bitch that I had to go nearly eight thousand miles away to finally find you.”

  Tears blurred her vision and her throat tightened. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

  After a moment’s pause Ian said, “You saw my article from the AP, didn’t you? It was picked up by all the majors.”

  ‘Yes, I read it. It was excellent work and there’s already television coverage here mentioning it. You’ll be inundated by people wanting to interview you.”

  “Good thing I’m hiding out and they don’t know where to find me.”

  Tess’s heart skipped a beat. “Are you safe?”

  “Yeah, I’m good. As soon as this is over, I’m coming back to California to take the LA job. I understand why you don’t want to come work for me.”

  “I never said that.”

  “You didn’t have to, Tess. I know how I’ve pushed and prodded you, trying to force you down my path instead of accepting that I needed to let you choose your own. This isn’t what I’d want for you. I’ve finally realized that.”

  Dear God! He was in danger. Real danger. “Can you reach out to the military for cover, Ian?” Her heart hammered against her chest and her limbs grew weak. She swallowed against the dryness of her mouth. She glanced at the bathroom door. Could Brett do anything to help him?

  “Not yet. I don’t need it yet.”

  “Are you sure? No story is worth risking your life.”

  “Nothing’s ever certain, Tess. But I think I’m good. I have to go.”

  “Please call the base. Tell them where you are. Please.”

  “The folks I’m meeting in a few hours won’t show if they even get a whiff that the military are involved. This is it. The big break in the story. I’m going to find out where the boys are. I want it. You want it. And your boyfriend needs it.”

  “There’s enough reasonable doubt about what happened to the boy to clear Brett of any wrongdoing, Ian. That coupled with his military record, he’ll be okay.”

  “But what about the kids? What about their families? They deserve to have their children back, don’t they?”

  Tears started rolling down her face. “Yes, of course. But I don’t want anything to happen to you.” Not now that we’re finally able to talk, and share things like a real father and daughter. “I need you to come home in one piece, Ian. It was my idea for you to do this. If something happens to you—”

  “Hush, Tess. I went into this with my eyes wide open. It was my decision to follow the story. That’s what I’ve always done. And I needed it. It’s made me realize that I have to move on to other things. I can guide the next generation into covering stories like this. It will be just as challenging.”

  He didn’t sound quite convinced. But the fact that he was even thinking about quitting his globetrotting was a miracle.

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll be coming home soon.”

  “Please call the base, Ian,” Tess said.

  “I’ll think about it. I’ll call this same time tomorrow.”

  Why wouldn’t he listen? Because he had story fever and was following a lead. And it was her fault. “Please be careful.”

  “Will do. Bye, Tess.”

  The connection broke. The bathroom door opened. Tess focused on Brett as he came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his lean hips and a plastic bag taped over the gauze pad covering his stitches.

  “Ian’s in trouble. What can you do?”

  ***

  Brett shut off his phone and reached for a pair of khaki shorts from his suitcase. “He’s on it. Captain Morrow will have the info in just a few minutes and he’ll call Ian. But he can’t force him to accept protection, Tess.”

  “I know.”

  She was trembling visibly, so Brett thrust his legs into the shorts, dragged them up, and zipped them. Sitting down next to her, he drew her close. “It’s going to be okay.”

  She pressed against his bare side and clung to him. “He’s finally talking about giving up his nomadic ways and settling somewhere close by, possibly LA. How many times have you heard of people having just a week to go—?”

  Too many times.

  “God, forget I said that.”

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to pussyfoot around me about anything, honey. I know you’re afraid for your Dad. But he’s been around the block a few times, and he’s street smart. Otherwise he wouldn’t have lasted at his game as long as he has.”

  “Yes, you’re right.”

  “You’re just as tenacious as your Dad, you just have a different style. But I’m glad you don’t have any interest in covering international news. The idea of you being in places like Kabul or Kunar province damn near stops my heart.”

  “But you’ve been in those places?”

  “Yeah, but I had my team with me, and we were covering each other’s backs. It’s a different world there, Tess.” He had to say something to get her mind off of Ian. “It’s a world of extremes. In some places the earth’s packed hard as concrete, in others it’s sandy and dry, yet they keep trying to cultivate crops. The poverty in some areas is numbing, but they have a pride in family and culture that we could learn from. You’ll see these dry dusty fields with just a few scattered sheep trying to find enough food to stay alive, and in their midst will be beautiful, dark-eyed children watching over them or just playing.” He drew a deep breath. “The summers are so hot you think you’ve been dropped into hell and the winters are brutal. But they keep on surviving.”

  “You sound as though you found something to admire, despite the violence there.”

  “Yeah. I did.” He smiled. “But there aren’t compromises, Tess. The way they’ve lived for thousands of years, the violence they’ve lived with, has hardened them. When every moment is a struggle to survive, you learn to stand your ground and hold it. Until that’s understood, and respected … ” He shook his head. He wasn’t going there.

  “Maybe you understand it because you’ve had to stand your ground and face violence, too.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I need to go on line and book our flight,” she said.

  “We’ll go by the airport and book it with cash. No credit cards. And we’ll book it for today. We need to change hotels, and we might as well be in Washington as here.”

  He’d already called to check on his mom and Zoe. Everything was quiet on those fronts. He’d call them later and tell them where he was, after the fact. Otherwise he’d have to listen to them worry over him traveling injured.

  Tess gripped his hand. “I’ve noticed something since the shooting.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your speech. Instead of getting worse, you’ve not had any incidents of stuttering. At least not while you’ve been with me.”

  Brett thought about it. “When I’m taking action, training, or doing things for my job, I don’t have any problem. My training takes over and I’m good to go. Maybe feeling as though we’re under siege has jump-started that mindset.” He hesitated. “Or there could be another possibility.”

  “What’s that?”
she asked.

  “It’s because of you.” He was hanging out on a limb again instead of waiting for her. When would he learn? But he wanted her to acknowledge how she felt in some way.

  “Me?’ Her perfectly shaped brows rose. “What do I have to do with it?”

  “You’re protective of me, I’m protective of you. That only happens with couples who truly care about each other. Just having that kind of takes off some of the pressure.”

  She slipped an arm around his waist careful of his bandage and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I’ve heard that relationships that begin under duress rarely last.”

  Shit. No help there. “I guess we need to stick it out until the situation isn’t so intense, just to test the theory.”

  She edged back to look up at him. “You left out something?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Jealousy.”

  “What about it?”

  “How jealous are you going to be when I call my ex?” she asked.

  Brett’s brows rose and his jaw tightened. “Why would you call your ex?”

  “He’s a reporter for the Washington Post. He can give me some insight into Senator Welch before I do the interview.”

  “As long as I’m in the room during said interview, I’ll be fine.” No he wouldn’t. He’d be thinking of the guy putting his hands on Tess, doing other things, and would want to rip him to pieces.

  “You don’t look fine.”

  “I can handle myself.”

  “He’s an asshole. I was well rid of him.”

  “He’s the asshole, isn’t he?” Blood rushed to his face and rage stormed through his system. He felt like his head might explode.

  “Relax, Brett. He’s not important anymore.” She turned his face toward her to meet his gaze. “He’s no more important to me than the young girl who gave you her panties was to you. Even less.”

  That wouldn’t keep him from wanting to rip the guy’s head off. He drew a deep breath to try and calm himself. “So, you were really jealous about the panties, huh?”

  Tess slipped out of his arms, stood up, and reaching beneath the sundress she wore, wiggled free of the scrap of lace he’d watched her put on this morning with such deliberation he’d nearly chewed a hole in his pillow. A white lace thong dangled from her finger right in front of him. “You said you were waiting for a pair of mine. These are yours.” She narrowed her eyes. “They’d better be the only pair you own from now on.”

  ***

  Clara shut the bedroom door softly, leaving Russell asleep, and moved down the hallway. She eased the door open and stood just inside the room. Morning light shone through the fine curtains, following the contours of Evan’s thin shape beneath the comforter. She’d gotten up in the night and checked on him several times, just as she used to do when her own children were young.

  Seeing his eyes open, she approached the bed.

  He cleared his throat and his hand rolled off the side of the bed to hang limp, his shoulder at an awkward angle. Her breath caught and she crossed the space to switch on the nightstand light. Her heart leapt into her throat as she bent to grasp his hand and place it back on the bed. His skin felt cold and his fingers curled but didn’t move.

  “Dad.” That one word came out with an effort, slightly slurred.

  No, not yet. The words were a scream inside her head. “I’ll get him.”

  She broke into a run and tripped halfway down the hall, falling against the wall and burning her arm. Her fingers were clumsy and the knob didn’t want to turn. “Russell.” His name came out a sob as she flung the door open.

  He turned in the bed, his gray hair askew from sleep, but his eyes were instantly alert.

  “It’s Evan. He needs you.”

  He jerked the comforter aside and leapt from the bed. Clara grabbed her purse hanging from the closet door and jammed her hand into it in search of her cell phone. Her hands shook as she dialed 911.

  The call made, she crept back down the hall to look in. “The ambulance is coming.” She clung to the wad of Kleenex she’d found in her purse and wiped at the tears determined to stream down her cheeks. She forced herself to step back into the room and face what was happening to Evan. He was facing it, and so could she. Drawing a deep breath, she sidled around the bed and sat down.

  “His right side is paralyzed. It’s affecting his speech,” Russell said, his voice hoarse. His features looked wooden with control.

  Another wail of pain built inside her. She smothered it and reached for Evan’s left hand. She held it tight in her own. “You’ll need to get dressed. You’ll want to ride with him in the ambulance. I’ll follow you in the car.”

  He nodded and rose. He set Evan’s hand along his side and when he bent to brush a kiss against his son’s forehead, Clara had to look away for fear of losing her composure. “I’ll be right back,” he murmured.

  Evan turned his head and focused on her. “Afraid.”

  “I’m right here, Evan. I love you.”

  “For him.”

  Dear God. “I won’t leave him. He’ll be okay.”

  Evan fingers squeezed her hand, and then relaxed, and his eyes closed.

  CHAPTER 33

  “They have run away, Yasin. The SEAL I shot has gone into hiding. The Captain has disappeared into the desert at one of their training camps. We are watching his whore wife and son. He will return and we will be ready.”

  “Who is we, Tabarek?” Yasin bent forward in his chair and rested his forehead atop his desk. He had not slept in many hours. He paced the house, the yard, the street, eaten alive by guilt and worry. “You do not need to know, Yasin. You need to send the money.”

  He had no more money. They had drained him. Nausea cramped his stomach and he dragged a trashcan close. “The SEALs did not kill my son, Tabarek. Someone took him.”

  “How do you know this?” Tabarek’s tone grew sharp, intense.

  “An American newspaper reporter has been investigating missing boys. There are at least thirty who are missing, possibly more. They have been taken off the street. The military believes they have been taken to a training camp by al-Qaeda.”

  “If this is true, your son is to be revered, Yasin. He has become a warrior against the Americans.”

  Sanjay would be considered a terrorist by the Americans and his own people. Would his captors convince him to become a martyr to their cause? Would he be forced to give his life as a suicide bomber? Tears ran down his cheeks.

  “The Americans did not kill your son. But they killed my brother, my cousins. They must pay for that. We are watching Brett Weaver’s sister. Since her lover has gone, there have been many men at the house, driving her to the hospital where she works. I am sure her SEAL lover knows nothing about how she consorts with these men. She is a whore like all American women.”

  Stop! Yasin smothered the urge to scream into the phone. He rubbed at the ache above his eyes. Since Levla’s confession, they had not been able to touch each other without crying. Losing their son had irrevocably changed their relationship.

  “Have you discovered the names of the other men who killed my brother?”

  He would no longer help this man. The lie came easy. “I have tried, Tabarek. But the base commander guards his men’s names well. Weaver and Armstrong are the only two the American investigators mentioned.”

  “Who were these men? Will the Americans be able to identify you as the source?”

  What if they could? By giving Tabarek the men’s names, he had become as much a terrorist as Tabarek. Allah would punish him for this. He was already being punished with this never-ending ache inside his chest. “I do not know. But I was not the only one they spoke to.”

  “You must keep trying to discover the names. We will kill as many as we can. Our lives will not be lost in vain.”

  Yasin flinched. A man who had made a conscious decision to give up his life was more dangerous than a rabid animal. “And what if this jihad is not Allah’s will, Tabarek?�
��

  “It is. Do not doubt it.” He paused. “Send the money, or we will come for your daughter.”

  Always the same threat. He lived in fear every moment he was away from the house. How could he free himself of this?

  He could go to the base commander and tell him everything. But they would arrest him, leaving Levla and Amira unprotected. They were all he had left. He would not allow them to be hurt. But he had no more money.

  He reached inside the bottom drawer of his desk and withdrew the gun he had purchased on the street. It was an American pistol. One like the military used, probably stolen from a dead soldier’s body. He had not asked when he had paid for it. He loaded the weapon and placed it carefully in the top drawer. He stared at the cell phone that lay in the center of his desk and scooping it up, rose to his feet. “No more.” He left his office and went downstairs into the kitchen.

  Amira, his daughter looked up from the table where she read. “Are you well, Baba?”

  “I am well, daughter.” He moved to a large cabinet in the corner and withdrew a hammer from one of the drawers. He sensed her movement behind him, but moved on through the back door to the concrete patio behind the house. He knelt on the ground, and placed the phone on the edge of the concrete slab. He swung the hammer with all the pain and anguish he held inside him. With every swing the hard knot eased a little more, and was replaced with resolve. He pounded every component of the phone into tiny pieces, then scooped them up in his hands. Leaving the hammer, he moved outside the courtyard wall through an iron gate and flung the pieces onto the hard-packed earth.

  Amira stood waiting just inside the kitchen door. “Why did you do that, Baba? Will you not now need a new phone?”