2
Please, God, don’t let her die.
Ford leaned over the little girl—what was her name?—her pink-gray body shuddering with each forced breath. “C’mon, honey, breathe for me.”
Please. Please!
He breathed again, then began compressions.
He didn’t know how long she’d been under, really, because he didn’t know how long he’d been out after his stupid, impulsive dive through the window. He just knew that he’d hit the surf so hard it jarred her free of his grip.
He wasn’t sure he’d actually blacked out—if he had, he might have found himself at the bottom, his gear pulling him down like lead weights. But the entire sequence from the moment he launched them through the window, including the propulsion of the grenade to the slam against the water, seemed gray and mottled in his memory.
The waves had grabbed him, smashing him into the jagged cliffside, against boulders with knife-sharp edges, and he’d banged his head, cut himself. He knew that much because the world still slurried around him and blood ran down his face. His chest burned with every ragged breath, the bruises from the bullets that had hit his armor aching to the bone.
But nothing hurt as much as the little girl’s still form as he pumped her chest.
Ten—eleven—twelve—thirteen.
Breathe. Breathe.
“C’mon!” Anastasia. That was it.
Anytime, God, you could show up.
He’d gotten his vest off, somehow. Realized Anastasia wasn’t in his arms.
Dove, and found her just feet away, submerged in the waves.
Grabbed her and dragged her to shore, a spit of gravel amidst the tumble of ancient, sheared-off boulders.
“Please, please, breathe—” He continued to press her chest, trying to tamp down the rise of panic. Three—four—five—
Overhead, black smoke tufted the sky, his grenade probably acting as an incendiary to the already engulfing blaze.
Please, let his team have gotten out. He vaguely remembered yelling Grenade! as he ran for the window.
He hoped.
Eleven—twelve—
Anastasia coughed, her body writhing, and he immediately turned her so that the sea could run from her mouth. She brought her legs up, fetal position, and began to shake, crying.
He felt like crying too. “You’re okay.” His voice broke as he leaned over her just to confirm she was indeed breathing, his hand shaking. “You’re going to be okay.”
He turned away from her, not wanting her to see him fall apart. Thank you, God.
His earpiece and comms had died with his dunking, so he had to hope that his team might come looking for him. He surveyed the cliff he’d gone over. They were in an alcove of sorts, the cliffs forming a horseshoe around the beach he’d found. A sheer fifty-foot drop rose behind him. He might have a chance of spidering his way over the boulders that fell into the sea and even navigating the nooks and jugs all the way to the top, but no way could he carry someone, even someone as small as Anastasia.
More, given the current and the waves, he’d have to be in better shape to buddy tow her to some other landing. He probably hadn’t broken any ribs, but every inhale washed agony to his core.
He put his hand to his head, right above his ear, and it came away bloody.
Frankly, Ford just wanted to join Anastasia in the fetal position.
He knew he shouldn’t, but just for a second he closed his eyes, the pain flooding over him, tugging at him.
Ford, don’t leave me! Pitch darkness, the clammy breath of wettened stone and trapped air. Fingers, molded into his, hands trembling.
I’m here, RJ. I won’t leave you, I promise.
The memory forced his eyes open, and he wasn’t sure how he’d ended up on his back, staring at the sky, but now the girl bent over him, her eyes wide as she shook him. “Wake up, Mister. Wake up.”
He stared at her, aware that the sun had climbed higher, almost to its apex.
Sitting up only caused the world to sway, and he rolled over to his knees to let his stomach pitch out its contents onto the shore.
“You okay?” she asked as his body finished its violence.
He wiped his arm across his mouth. Nodded.
“You’re still bleeding.”
He touched his head, wincing, and his hand came away sticky. “It’s starting to clot.” He turned around, assessing her.
She appeared wan, but intact, her blue uniform drying, her dark hair in tangles.
“How old are you?”
“Ten.”
He remembered ten. Brave, willful, but still a child inside. He’d been so impatient to catch up with his brothers—Reuben had been seventeen, driving, dating, playing football. Knox was riding bulls, Tate taking off for hours on his dirt bike. Wyatt, at twelve, already playing hockey for a traveling team, with thoughts of going pro.
Ford had wanted to prove to them he could be every inch a Marshall.
“Did they hurt you?” he asked, praying against the answer.
“No.”
Relief poured out in a gust. “I’ll get you home as soon as I can.”
“My papa will find us.” She nodded, so much faith in her words that he could be staring at Ruby Jane, so many years ago.
I knew you’d find us, Daddy.
“I hope so, honey.” Ford lay back.
“I don’t think you should go to sleep. I was scared that you wouldn’t wake up.”
Anastasia had a point. He knew about concussions, and with the world still spinning, he should probably sit up. If only fire didn’t engulf his entire body when he did.
Still, he forced himself up, gritting his teeth. A groan emerged.
“My papa says that when we’re afraid, we need to find things to be grateful for.”
“Really? Okay. ” He stared out into the horizon, the pitch of the sea, a deep blue against the mottled sky. “What are you grateful for?”
“Ice cream.”
Huh. “Me too.”
“And that I didn’t die.”
Yeah. Okay. “Ditto.”
“That you came for me, Mister.”
“It’s Ford. Petty Officer First Class Marshall.”
“Marshall Ford?”
“No, just Ford.”
“Why did you blow us up?”
Oh. “I didn’t want them to capture us.” There was more than that, like being made an example on the internet, for one. But he didn’t want to tell her that.
“They were bad men,” she said quietly.
“Yes, they were.”
“Are you sorry for killing them?”
He swallowed, blew out a breath. “I’m glad I got you out.”
She smiled at him, and it seemed the pain in his chest loosened a little.
“What are you grateful for?” she asked.
He was watching a white speck in the distance as it moved across the horizon.
“My team.”
“Your fútbol team?”
He laughed, then pressed his hand to his chest. Yeah, that hurt. “No, my SEAL team. My chief, Nez, and then there’s Sonny and Kenny C and Trini and Levi and Cruz and Scarlett—”
Oh. No. Not Scarlett. Not anymore.
“You have a girl on your team?”
“She doesn’t deploy with us, but she’s there—was there—helping us.”
In fact, she probably would have seen the first—and second shooter—and warned him.
Now his chest ached for an entirely different reason. “They’ll be here, I’m sure. Anytime.”
“I hope so.” She drew up her legs into her sodden dress. “I wanna go home.”
“Me too, kid. Me too.”
The white speck was getting bigger, taking form. He shouldn’t have ditched his vest, wishing for his binoculars. Instead, he cupped his hand over his eyes.
A boat skimming through the waves.
He needed a weapon.
“Get behind these rocks.” He forced himself to his fe
et, stumbling over to a boulder the size of a Volkswagen. When he crouched down, he pulled Anastasia in front of him, his body pocketing her.
“Stay down and don’t move, don’t talk. No matter what happens, you stay down, okay? I promise, my guys will find you.”
She had her hands over her ears, but she nodded.
The boat came closer and he spotted uniforms on the bow. It seemed like a yacht, not a naval vessel, but who knew what army commandeered what vessels out here.
They definitely held weapons, the sun glinting off long, unsheathed barrels.
Could be the Azerbaijanis, could be the Russians. And, they were just a stone’s throw from Iran.
Ford pulled his Windsor from his leg sheath. Glanced down at Anastasia. Her eyes were big, glancing at the knife.
He put a finger to his lips.
She closed her eyes.
The boat stopped offshore, the captain clearly hesitant to enter the pull of the current into the splash of the rocks.
A Zodiac spilled out from the end of the boat, heading over the water, two men hunkered down in the body, another at the motor.
Please, God, he just wanted to make it home.
No, amend that. He wanted Anastasia to make it home. And he wanted RJ to make it home.
And if possible, he’d like to see Scarlett again.
But God had already answered enough prayers, so maybe Ford had to handle this on his own.
The Zodiac slipped over the surf, rode a wave in, and slid onto the pebbled shore.
While one man slipped over the side and held the boat, the other two disembarked, scrambled onto shore and took positions behind cover.
One was big, dark skinned, and had the look of a Titan.
The other was dark haired, Italian breeding. “Marsh, are you here?”
Ford wanted to weep with relief. “Sonny.” He rose, and in a second Trini and Sonny scooted across the beach to him.
The world swayed, but Ford managed to stay on his feet. “It’s okay, Anastasia. It’s my team.”
“Knife down, Squid,” Sonny said, and Ford glanced at his weapon. He sheathed it. Took a step.
Stumbled and went down hard.
“Sonny, we need a medivac here—” Trini said, kneeling beside him. Trini’s big hands were probing his head injury.
“I’m fine. Just woozy.”
“You got a deep laceration here and no doubt a concussion.” Trini was removing his backpack, pulling out his med kit.
“Get Anastasia to the boat,” Ford said. “Before they figure out where we are.”
“They’re dead,” Sonny said.
Ford glanced at Anastasia.
“Sorry. I mean, no longer a problem.” Sonny stepped away, radioing in to the boat.
Trini applied a dressing on his head wound. “We weren’t sure you survived, but Berkowitz kept saying he saw a heat signature down here…”
Oh. Maybe he’d been too hard on the guy.
“He said you were shot too.” Trini rolled him over to his back.
“My vest caught them.”
“Them.” Trini let out a word and reached for his shirt. “Let me see.”
Ford glanced at Sonny, then Anastasia, who was standing back, her hand over her mouth, watching. “Get her out of here.”
Sonny nodded and led her to the shoreline, turning her away.
Trini hiked up Ford’s shirt. Made a face. “Pretty significant bruising.” He felt around the bruises while Ford failed to hold in a groan.
“I don’t think you broke any ribs, although you might have cracked one or two. Probably need X-rays. And maybe one for your head because who throws a live grenade in the same room he’s trapped in—”
“I went out the window.”
“Off a cliff.”
Point for Trini.
“My gun misfired, twice. And I lost the magazine. I had nothin’ else.”
“You left him in pieces.”
Ford left off a reply, something like Good, but Anastasia’s question was still floating around his head. Are you sorry for killing them?
Fact was, no.
Ford knew going in that was the job.
He was more worried about the ones that got away.
Another Zodiac came to shore, and Trini helped him up just as Anastasia shrieked and ran to one of the men disembarking.
“Her father, Tyrone Stavros,” Trini said. “While we were fighting with HQ about water transport, he showed up with his yacht and offered it to Nez.”
Stavros was a bear of a man, with wide shoulders, his dark hair pulled back into a man bun, and a thick thatch of hair on his chin. He scooped up his daughter and dissolved on the beach, weeping.
Okay, big and bighearted, perhaps.
Stavros looked up as Ford started for the other Zodiac. The man kissed the top of his daughter’s head, then walked over to Ford.
Didn’t stop to ask before he embraced him.
Oh. Ford just stood there, unable to move—really, unable because the man was pressing the air from his lungs.
“He’s got some pretty bruised ribs there, pal,” Trini said, rescuing him.
Stavros grabbed Ford’s shoulders, openly crying. “Thank you. Thank you. If you ever need anything—anything at all, I will do it. Just call me. I will do it for you.”
Ford nodded. “I think she needs some ice cream.”
Stavros frowned, then glanced at his daughter. Smiled. “Yes. Yes she does.”
Nez waited near the other Zodiac. He raised an eyebrow at Ford’s condition. “Really pressing hard for that personal leave, huh?”
Ford stared at him.
“Wow, he was hit hard.” Nez shook his head but cut his voice low. “Listen. You get checked out, and I’ll place a call and get you on emergency medical leave. I don’t want you back until you’re put back together, okay? As in, all put back together.”
Ford’s mouth opened, but Nez pressed a finger to his lips and turned away.
“Thanks, Chief.”
I’m here, RJ. I won’t leave you, I promise.
Maybe God was answering prayers today.
She wasn’t going to see him.
Didn’t expect to see him.
But, oh for Pete’s sake, Scarlett had put on makeup. Mostly because the last time she did, Ford had told her she looked beautiful.
Scarlett sat in her car, sitting outside the SEAL shed at the Coronado base, pretty sure this was a bad idea. Even a desperate one, with shades of her mother embedded in her pitiful actions.
She just needed a friend. Someone to talk through her life-changing decision, and frankly, Ford had been that. At least before a week ago when her life imploded. And before she’d been replaced by some lower-level seaman named Berkowitz who came home bragging about how he’d saved the life of one of the SEALs.
Right. As if.
Scarlett glanced at the folder on the passenger bucket seat. Her separation paperwork. Unsigned, unfilled out. Just waiting for her to pull the trigger and walk away from a career she’d spent her life creating.
But walking toward Gunnar. Family. A home.
It was the right decision. She didn’t need to talk to Ford. So what he’d stepped up to drive her to her mother’s place a month ago. Or that he’d stuck around and attended one of Gunnar’s games. Or even that he’d put himself between her and Axel, and when she got thrown out of her mother’s house, he’d brought her to his own family’s gathering for a wedding in Montana. Made her long for a family like his.
Okay, and kissed her. Really kissed her, igniting inside her long-simmering feelings.
Honestly, how could she not have feelings for a guy like Ford? Dark hair, pale green eyes, a sort of get-’er-done cowboy aura about him that only sparked the competitor inside her. He pushed her to be her best, but, yeah, You look beautiful, Red.
She couldn’t escape the memory of his low-toned tenor, the hint of appreciation in his voice when he’d seen her in a dress.
Sheesh, she’d practi
cally melted into a puddle at his sweet words, spoken to her as he escorted her to a fund-raising gala for vice presidential candidate Reba Jackson. Of course, they’d really been on site to stop a bombing—and hoo-yah, mostly succeeded—but still, his compliment fell through her to her bones and settled there.
He cleaned up pretty well himself in a gray suit, gray tie, spiffy and smart.
My, my.
So, yeah, she might have dragged out her memories of watching her mother put on makeup and dabbed on some mascara, a little lipstick, and for Pete’s sake, she was pitiful.
She was not her mother. She did not need a man to make her complete or fulfilled or happy.
Scarlett reached into her backpack, pulled out a tissue, and wiped her lips.
Better. Normal.
Just friends.
Beside her, a motorcycle pulled up, parking in the stall next to hers. She recognized the Native American master chief even before he pulled off his helmet. Tall, handsome Chester Nez bore the regal appearance of his Navajo ancestry. He was named after his grandfather, a windtalker with the Army back in the Second World War, but the man was easily forming his own legendary status inside the SEAL community.
He stowed his helmet in the seat of his bike, and it brought to mind riding behind Ford on his Kawasaki Ninja. Just a short hop to a barbecue that Cruz had been hosting, but she’d never forget wrapping her arms around Ford’s lean, strong torso.
Just friends. Mmmhmm.
Nez noticed her, leaned down, and tapped on her passenger side window.
She smiled at him and rolled the window down. “Hey.”
“Hey. You okay?” He wore a gray T-shirt and his B-NWU pants. It only accentuated all the hard planes of an active-duty SEAL. “I just heard you got personal leave.”
“Had a family thing. Still working it out…” She sighed, glanced toward the shed. Back to Nez. “You were out of country?”
His lips made a tight line of non-commitment.
“Berkowitz has been talking.”
“Oh.” He frowned. “He shouldn’t be doing that.”
“He just said that there was an incident. Everything okay?”
“Just the usual. But, yes. Mission successful, and we all came back in one piece.”
Ford Page 3
