Friendly Fire (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 3)

by Marliss Melton

  He winced, dropping his hands. "Man, you're brutal."

  "Sorry. Did I strike a nerve?"

  "Possibly. But if you can dish it out, you can take it, right?" He gestured at her. "For the record, I think you're the one who's got issues."

  His opinion startled a laugh out of her. "Me?"

  "Yeah, you're afraid of getting close to people."

  She opened her mouth to deny his accusation, realized he'd hit the nail squarely on the head, and promptly shut her mouth again.

  "That's why you're so prickly," he expounded. "It's to keep people at a distance. Only I can see that you're really a softy." He sent her a slow smile that turned her as soft on the inside as he'd just accused her of being.

  "This isn't the time or the place to try to seduce me," she retorted.

  "Who said anything about seduction? I was picturing more of a mutual coming together." He looked around. "We have the place to ourselves."

  Attuned to his meaning, her heart pumped faster. She cast her gaze around the empty room, thinking for a second that the desk with three legs had possibilities. Then she remembered exactly why they were there, with her sister and niece likely trapped in the building across the street. Her ardor cooled as fast as a sizzling steak doused with ice water.

  "I'll pass," she said. "We're supposed to be doing surveillance, remember?" She turned to look outside again.

  "Suit yourself," he said with sanguine acceptance that she was beginning to find annoying.

  Moving up next to her, he leaned his hands on the windowsill and studied the creepy factory down the street. Her gaze fell helplessly to his large hands with their long, dexterous fingers. Was it too late to change her mind?

  "Check it out," he said, dragging her gaze back up.

  A group of rumpled men straggled out of the gate that the youths had just entered.

  "What's going on?" she asked.

  "Looks like a duty rotation. The night watch gets to go home." He glanced at his watch. "Twelve noon. They must stay up late."

  "When do you think they come back—at midnight?"

  "I guess we'll find out."

  She whirled to face him. "What do you mean we'll find out? You said the SAR team would be here in an hour."

  He straightened and sent her a wary, but pitying look. "A successful hostage rescue depends on us knowing both the lay of the land and who the players are. Twenty-four hour surveillance is standard operating procedure. We can't just jump into a situation blind and be certain of our success."

  His reasons made sense. Her head knew that but her heart did not. The thought of them still standing here twelve hours from now, watching the building with her sister and niece trapped and miserable inside, overwhelmed her without warning. Rolling away from the window, she slid down the wall until her butt hit the floor and her forehead landed on her knees in a posture of defeat.

  "I'll take first watch," Tristan said in a gentle voice.

  She'd performed dozens of stakeouts on her own in the past. One time, she'd waited eight days to catch a glimpse of her suspect. But this case was different. Her family needed help and they needed it now. Waiting and planning to ensure a successful outcome was going to kill her. And she couldn't do it without Tristan's help.

  "Thank you," she whispered and closed her eyes.

  * * *

  Following the night's violence, none of the captives showed signs of stirring come morning. The lights blinked on, and noises floated through the floor from down below. But only Jeremiah rolled out of his hammock to check on Joe.

  "How's he doing?" Emma asked when he returned to their corner of the room.

  "He's suffering," he answered shortly. Closing his eyes, he betrayed the height of his stress by rubbing his eyelids. "I wish I could get him some pain medication."

  "Maybe you could ask César for some," she suggested. "After all, you saved his brother's life."

  "I'm going to try," he promised, opening bloodshot eyes to look at her, "next time someone opens that door."

  But the door remained closed. Ann, who took Joe's place rationing the food, distributed their breakfast of corn tortillas, bananas, and water. With the hours stretching endlessly, Jeremiah crossed to the far side of the room and meditated. After half an hour, he stood up and began moving in a series of jabs and kicks that gave an outlet to his frustrations, while keeping Emma and Sammy entertained as they watched him work out from the vantage of their hammock.

  "He's like a dancer," Sammy mused on a note of awe.

  "It does look like a type of dancing," Emma agreed. For her daughter, who'd taken ballet since she was four, his movements resembled a dance in their grace and athleticism. She didn't need to know that they were, in fact, lethal gestures he might need to implement in order to keep them alive.

  "Is Joe going to die?" Sammy whispered, bringing up what had happened without warning.

  Emma gazed across the room where Joe lay in his hammock, suffering in silence. Cheryl had slept on the floor to keep from bumping him unnecessarily.

  "No, honey, of course not. He's just hurting, that's all."

  The sound of the steel door being unbolted drew every captive's attention to the door. On the far side of the room, Jeremiah snapped out of a defensive posture and dropped his arms to his sides.

  "Jerónimo," called the young man leaning into the room. He swept his gaze around the large space until he spotted Jeremiah, who started in his direction.

  "Sí?"

  "El jefe te necesita."

  The boss needs you, Emma translated. Her heart immediately began to thud. She sat up from her prostrate position.

  Jeremiah glanced her way, then started toward the door without breaking eye contact. At the last second, he lifted a hand in farewell, and disappeared.

  Emma failed to stifle the whimper of fear that escaped her.

  Sammy hugged her from behind. "He'll be back," she said with childlike faith.

  "Sure," she said.

  But what if he wouldn't? What if he went down those stairs and never returned? Catching herself in the middle of that negative thought, she immediately chased it off. Think positive! she ordered herself. In her mind, she started counting.

  The seconds dragged into minutes. Through the slab floor, she discerned the distinct timbre of the head guerilla's voice, but Jeremiah spoke too quietly to be overheard.

  Dread had turned into a rock in the pit of her stomach and she'd counted to three hundred and twenty-six by the time the steel door swung open. When Jeremiah ducked through it, Emma launched herself off the hammock and sprinted into his arms. With the others looking on, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly.

  "You're back," she whispered, revealing the extent of her relief.

  His eyes danced as he examined her flushed face. "Would you do that every time I come home?"

  Her heart skittered at the oblique reference to a future they could share together. Could she handle being the wife of a Navy SEAL? "If you promise to come home every time," she qualified.

  He sent her a slow smile. "Kiss me like that and I'll always come home."

  The contentment that blanketed her then should not have been felt under their current circumstances, but when Sammy approached and hugged them both, her happiness merely doubled.

  "What did they want from you?" she asked Jeremiah.

  "I need to tell everyone," he told her. "Hey, guys," he called, waving the other hostages closer to Joe's hammock. "Gather around. We need to talk."

  A needle of concern pricked Emma's contentment. Talk about what? Whatever he was about to say sounded like a potential game changer.

  The group gathered in a semi-circle, wearing hopeful looks on their haggard faces.

  "Listen up. Our captor is worried about his brother, whose foot is badly infected. He could die if he doesn't get antibiotics. But he's allergic to penicillin, and César doesn't trust his men to grab the right antibiotic when they hold up a pharmacy. He wants me to go with them."r />
  Emma's blood ran cold. "No." She grabbed his arm and squeezed it tightly.

  "It's okay." He pulled a pill bottle out of his pocket. "In exchange for my agreeing, I got some codeine for Joe." He handed the bottle to Cheryl. "Give him two tablets now and two more in eight hours."

  As he looked back at Emma, his calm, confident gaze thawed the chill encasing her heart. "I'll be fine, Emma. This is a good thing, believe me. I'm going to break away and go for help."

  "But you could get hurt," she protested, envisioning the scenario he'd so blithely described.

  "They'll kill your wife and kid if you don't come back," Joe grated with his eyes closed. "Give me those pills," he added, holding out a hand to Cheryl.

  The starkly violent statement rendered everyone mute.

  "Oh, I'm coming back," Jeremiah promised, easing a portentous pressure that squeezed Emma's ribcage. "And the others won't be rushing back to report me, either."

  "You're going to kill them?" young Noah asked.

  "Noah!" his mother scolded.

  Jeremiah sent him a steady look. "I hope not, Noah. Every life has value. Even our captors have a potential for good. But my job is to protect the rest of you, and I'll do whatever it takes to get us all safely out of here."

  "How?" Mike asked. "Where are you going to find help around here?"

  "My Task Unit can't be far from here. Not only are they waiting to hear from me, but they'll respond quickly to my SOS. I'll be back for all of you, and I won't be alone."

  Emma's heart went into free fall. Anything could happen to him between that moment and when he tried to get back to her with his unit. Anything.

  "Listen carefully now," he continued, interrupting her destructive thoughts. "Tonight, I want you to sleep with one eye open. If any of you see purple smoke or hear gunfire, I need all of you to put your backs against the wall and make yourself as small as possible. If someone approaches you, tell them immediately you're American. This could all be over soon, maybe tonight."

  Several others spoke up, articulating questions that Jeremiah answered with patience. Emma heard nothing but calm resolve on his part. He was bound and determined to make the most of the opportunity that had come up. How could that be? Didn't he realize what he was asking of her by leaving her and Sammy here alone, without him?

  Dismay ripped away the contentment she'd wallowed in only minutes earlier.

  I can't do this without him. I'm not strong enough.

  Then again, what choice did she have? She had fallen in love with an extraordinary man. He didn't sit by like most men and let evil encroach upon the innocent. He was a game-changer, a knight errant who took up arms in defense of the weak and the innocent.

  I love him so much.

  The realization spread through her like tea seeping through hot water, changing its chemical composition. Limerence had nothing to do with the way she felt. This feeling wasn't a fleeting illusion, a temporary madness, as she'd insisted to him. She had loved Jeremiah for years—perhaps from the very moment he'd stepped into her office with questions about Wordsworth. And, in all that time, she'd seen him exactly for who he was—not some idealized version. Nor had her feelings for him weakened over time. If anything, they had become so starkly real, so strong, that they put her former arguments to shame.

  What surprised her most was her willingness to support him, even as far out of her comfort zone as that was. If she lost him again, she would lose the man who'd brought her back to life. His death would devastate her. But he and Tennyson were right. It was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Without this fullness in her heart, what would her life really amount to?

  Nothing.

  "Hey, you okay?"

  Rousing from her thoughts, she realized that the others had broken off into their various support groups. Emma looked for Sammy and found her talking to Noah.

  "They'll be all right for a minute," Jeremiah said, following her gaze. "Can I talk to you in private?"

  "Sure."

  Leading her to the other side of the room, he surprised her by sweeping her into the men's restroom and shutting the door.

  "Are you okay?" he asked her.

  She couldn't hide her trembling from him, given how close they stood. "I don't know. I think so."

  He caught her face in his hands, cradling it gently. "Do you understand why I have to do this?" he asked in a gruff voice.

  The lump in her throat prevented her from answering. She gave a nod instead.

  He gathered her to him, then, holding her as if she were his most cherished possession. Tears burned the backs of her eyes as she held them in check, trying to be strong for his sake.

  "I love you, Jeremiah," she heard herself whisper.

  Surprise registered on his face as he pulled back to look at her. It morphed rapidly into relief and triumph, turning his eyes more gold than green.

  "You have no idea how long I've waited to hear those words," he admitted, his own voice catching slightly.

  "I think I do."

  His eyebrows pulled together. "How do you know what you're feeling isn't limerence?"

  She sighed and hung her head. "I've been an idiot," she admitted.

  "No." He stroked the line of her jaw. "You've been protecting your heart. But there's no need to protect it from me. I've loved you from the day I stepped into your classroom and saw you consulting your notes. You looked a little nervous."

  She laughed at the recollection. "It was only my second year of teaching." She drew in a ragged breath. "What if you don't make it back, Jeremiah?" she blurted, returning them abruptly to the present.

  "I will," he promised her, with so much certainty that a portion of her fears eased.

  Ducking his head, he brushed her lips with light, tender kisses that deepened as desire warmed them. Flames immediately flickered, fanned by desperation. Within seconds, their mouths were fused, tongues tangling in a common quest for fulfillment.

  "This isn't how I wanted to make love to you," he said, tearing his mouth from hers to nibble a path down her neck and across one collarbone.

  "My fault," she admitted, remembering the romantic ambience he'd tried to set on the balcony at the back of the ship. Here, there were four stark walls and a bare light bulb—not to mention a commode and sink. But the atmosphere didn't matter so much as the pulsing, pulling need that demanded satisfaction.

  "No," he corrected. "It wasn't right then." He paused, capturing her hungry gaze with his own. "Now?"

  She nodded. "I want you," she whispered, even as he backed her against the door.

  Burying one hand in her hair, he kissed her again while capturing her right breast and thumbing her nipple into stiffness. With every pass of his padded thumb, her blood flowed faster, her temperature rose. A humming sound filled her ears as desire drowned out the world, leaving just the two of them—free to experience the luxury of finally touching one another.

  Tunneling her hands beneath his T-shirt, she caressed his taut, silken skin, exulting in his maleness, wondering again at the scars that creased his flesh here and there. Her hand, trembling slightly, strayed lower to caress the ridge that strained the zipper of his board shorts.

  He gathered the material of her yellow dress, lifting the hem to fill his palms with her curves. With a whimper of desire, she pressed herself against his fingers as he slid them between her legs. Against the fabric of her panties, he stroked her.

  Dear Lord. She was ready to explode.

  Emma's legs trembled with the force of her wanting. Her skin felt feverish, her breath came fast and shallow.

  "Please," she begged, unwilling to wait another second when they had waited all these years.

  He lifted her abruptly, and she wrapped her legs around his hips, locking him against her. Backing her to the door again, he tugged on his zipper and freed himself. Pulling aside the gusset of her panties, he sought her warm opening. Their eyes met.

  "I don't have a condom," he apologized.
/>   "I'd love to have your baby," she whispered.

  He groaned and laughed at the same time. "Why's that such a turn-on?"

  "Now, please," she cried, unable to gasp enough oxygen to appease her starving lungs.

  He surged into her with gratifying gusto. She had to bite her lip to contain her exultation as pleasure radiated to every extremity. He withdrew and surged again, flinging her to new heights of ecstasy.

  Knowing that it was Jeremiah—the man she'd wanted for so long—filling her, bathing her in sensations so pure and wild—inspired an immediate orgasm. From its inception to its firework finale, her climax took her by storm, surpassing anything she'd ever experienced before.

  And this was how good it was when they came together in a dirty bathroom in a hostage situation. She nearly laughed as she floated in a post-orgasmic haze.

  Jeremiah groaned as he spent himself deep inside her, burying his face in her hair. She felt his wonderful, beloved heart pounding hard and fast in his chest, and relished the knowledge that she had touched him just as profoundly. Then his grip slowly eased. Still breathing quickly, he lifted his head to send her a dazed look.

  "Sorry that happened so fast," he said, sounding out of breath.

  "I'm not," she assured him. Yet now that it was over—and the uncertain future loomed so threateningly—she did wish that it had lasted longer.

  "Next time," he assured her.

  "There will be a next time," she asserted, as her eyes filled with frightened tears.

  "I promise," he swore in a voice gruff with emotion. And then he kissed her, but not before she glimpsed a shadow of doubt float across the surface of his eyes.

  Chapter 17

  The abandoned office building swarmed with seven additional SEALs. Juliet could name most of them as every man stood out as distinctly as Tristan did—all of them as close to demi-gods as mortals could get.

  They answered to two men—Lieutenant Sam Sasseville, who could have passed for some Cuban heartthrob she'd seen on TV, and Master Chief Kuzinsky. The latter was the only SEAL who didn't fit the stereotype. Red-haired and freckled, he stood only as high as her eyebrows, but what he lacked in stature, he made up for in presence, carrying an aura of quiet command about him. And when his dark brown—nearly black—eyes focused on her it was difficult not to squirm.