Harpers frown intensified. All of this dating and sex talk was stupid. All it did was stir up thoughts of Brandon, bad memories and hurt feelings. And like anything to do with Brandon Ramsey, the second one thought occurred, a million followed. He was the poster boy for taking a mile when an inch was all shed offered.
No more, she ordered herself. He wasnt a part of her now, and her past was over.
Registered letter for one Mr. Nathan Ramsey, care of Harper Maclean, Andi said, coming back waving a large envelope. Whod get his name wrong?
The bowl of cleaned berries suddenly shaking in her hands, Harper set it on the bar with care and stared. Her chest hurt. She couldnt think for the buzzing in her ears.
Ramsey.
Harpers heart raced so fast, it tripped over itself. How was that possible? Why whould Brandon contact Nathan? As far as he knew, shed followed his instructions to end the pregnancy. How did he know shed had the baby? How did he know Nathans name? Had he always known?
The air locked in Harpers chest, vicious and tight, cutting off her breath, sending shards of pain knifing through her.
Why was he contacting her? Contacting Nathan? Was he going to try to get custody?
Or had his parents gotten wind of unaccounted Ramsey DNA and tracked down their heir apparent?
Harper looked toward the stairs with a desperate gaze. She should get Nathan. They should go. Now.
As soon as she thought that, Harper squared her shoulders.
To hell with that. Nathan was her son. This was her home. Shed be damned if Brandon or his rich parents were going to screw with either.
Still, her hand trembled so much as she took the letter that she dropped it onto the marble countertop as if it were on fire.
Arent you going to open it? Andi poked at the letter with one perfectly manicured nail. Its from a Dane Adams, US Navy, registered mail. Its gotta be important.
Dane Adams? The Navy?
Relief poured through her so fast, so strong, that her legs almost gave out. Irritation followed fast, because it was still all about Brandon. So Harper eyed the envelope with intense distaste.
Harper, Andi moaned. Youre killing me. Open. Open. Open.
Knowing Andi would keep it up until she did, she huffed out a hot breath. Sliding her thumbnail under the flap, Harper reluctantly tugged the paper out.
She noted the official-looking insignia and the fancy lettering denoting it to be from Admiral H. M. Cree, Special Ops commander.
Her brow creased as she read.
The room narrowed, and all the air disappeared. The words spun into a swirling blur of black on white. She needed to sit down. But she managed only a single step before her legs gave out and she sank to the floor, the letter clutched in her hands.
What is it? Instead of pulling her back up, Andi dropped down next to her, gathering Harper into her arms. She tried to read the paper, but Harper couldnt let it go. Sweetie, what does it say?
Hes dead, Harper murmured, her voice sounding as if it were coming from the other end of a long tunnel. Brandon is dead.
CHAPTER THREE
MOURNING THE LOSS of a brother was never easy.
SEALs, support personnel and civilians gathered in the backroom at Olive Oyls bar to toast the memory of a warrior and to share their grief. Lieutenant Brandon Ramsey was memorialized with words like honor and skill and dedication. Captain Jarrett had choked giving his toast, and a visibly grieving Petty Officer Dane Adams had to be led out after delivering a eulogy so heartfelt that it was hard to hear over the audiences sobs.
But when it came time for the men whod served on that ill-fated mission, the core team, to say goodbye to their brother, they kept it private and took it off the beaten path. Savino chose a bar in Lemon Grove, far enough from base for them to mourn freely. The place was just a few steps up from a dive, and seedy enough that nobody would feel constrained by good behavior.
Kinda crap that they wont offer a military funeral for the guy. Decorated SEAL and all that, hed have liked the fancy send-off.
Bet hed like being alive even more.
Shame that none of his family showed. Not even his kid.
Sometimes civilians cant handle it.
Dude isnt officially declared deadchances are theyre holding on to hope.
No point. Even if they didnt find enough of him to declare him dead, hes gone. Still, the Navyll tie it up in red tape, drag it out as long as they can to avoid paying survivor benefits.
I hear he had an in to DEVGRU. Guy went down before he got a chance to snag an elite spot.
Poseidon is the real elite.
He didnt get a shot at that, either.
Yeah. Totally crap if you ask me.
All excellent points. Conversation floated around him as Diego kicked back in the corner. Boots propped on the table and his chair tilted back, he considered his next shot of whiskey.
Youd think Id be drunk by now, he said, the words slurring in his ears.
Dude, you are shit-faced, Lansky corrected, his bloodshot eyes as round as dinner plates.
Yeah? Not sure why he didnt trust Lanskys wordafter all the guy spent half his time drinkingDiego looked toward Savino. You think Im drunk?
I think Lansky might be a few ahead of you, but youre well on your way.
Id better catch up, then.
Yo, Torres. Theres a pool table back here. I figure you being three sheets to the wind is the best chance Ive got to beat you.
Diego pulled his eyes off his glass to look at Aaron Ward. He tried to return the guys smile, but found he could only shake his head.
You go ahead. Itll take another fifth before Im drunk enough for you to beat me.
Amid laughter and a few crude suggestions, everyone headed for the poolroom except Diego and Lansky. His cell phone chiming, Savino stepped away, too. Diego felt like a jerk, but a part of him was glad to see them go.
The last guy to ask me to play pool was Ramsey, Diego realized, feeling like shit all over again. This sucks.
Images of the mission played through his head like a movie reel. Theyd fast roped from the helo, landing just over the hill from the enemy base. Powers, Lansky and Ward had headed into the compound to rescue the hostage while Ramsey, Prescott and Lee secured the control center to begin downloading secret files. Everyone had been in place; everything had run exactly as planned.
Until it hadnt.
The explosion had come just as Lee had signaled the all clear. Lee and Prescott both moved with their usual stealth as they exited the building, Diego provided cover. Then it had all blown to hell. The explosion had taken out half the building, the fire burning too hot for any survivors.
Diego had been faced with the choice of going into the flames in search of Ramseys remains or getting an injured Prescott, the rest of the team and the extracted hostage the hell out of there.
Hed chosen the unthinkable.
Hed left a man behind.
Eyes hot, he poured more whiskey, knocking it back before pouring again.
You didnt fuck it up, Lansky said quietly.
Listen to MacGyver, Savino ordered as he rejoined them from wherever hed gone to take his call. The guy spent more time on the phone than a teenage girl. Diego figured hed mention that when he was a little more numb.
Listen to MacGyver, Savino ordered as he rejoined them from wherever hed gone to take his call. The guy spent more time on the phone than a teenage girl. Diego figured hed mention that when he was a little more numb.
Why should I listen to him? he muttered.
Because you didnt fuck it up. There was no way to retrieve Ramsey. The fire was too intense. When support hit the site the next day, there wasnt even enough of him to ID. Your orders were explicit. Your first duty was to the hostage. You got him out of there and Prescott to medical care so he didnt die. Thats enough.
It wasnt, though.
Itd never be enough.
He was a damned good SEAL, Diego said quietly.
He was a strong officer, Savino murmured, his eyes scanning the room.
He was an asshole.
What? Lanskys eyes widened when Diego glared at him. Im supposed to lie? Like getting himself blown to hell suddenly makes the guy less of an asshole?
You never liked him.
And he never liked you. The guy wanted to take you down in a bad way. Hed have done anything to screw you over.
Would he? Savino asked. His voice didnt change. Nor did his expression. So Diego couldnt tell why Savinos tone pierced through the alcohol hazing his brain.
What are you thinking? he asked his commander, studying Savinos face. He had to blink a few times to bring it into focus.
That things arent always what they seem.
Even well on his way to drunk, Diego could see the dots Savino was laying out. But they didnt connect.
Ramsey is dead. We saw him go up in flames when that command center blew.
His throat dry as the images pounded through his brain again, Diego grabbed his glass.
Savino laid a hand on his arm before he could drink.
What? His gut clenched when he looked at the other mans face. Serious as a heart attack didnt come close.
Sober up was all Savino said before glancing at Lansky. Make your excuses. Then the two of you take a room nearby. Dont return to base until you hear from me.
What
Sober up, Savino said again as he got to his feet. Diego was drunk, but not so drunk he didnt see the flash of concern on his commanders face as he glanced toward the other room, where their team played a loud game of pool. Diegos buzz starting to fade, he lowered his feet to the floor, unconsciously coming to attention.
Let me know where you land. Just me. He waited until Diego and Lansky nodded. Ill be in touch tomorrow.
He left, calling a friendly goodbye to the rest of the team as he went. Then Lansky looked at Diego. Diego frowned back.
What the hell? Lansky muttered.
I dont know, but I guess were calling it a night.
His head swimming in whiskey and confusion, Diego could pinpoint only two things.
One, they had their orders.
And two, Savino was worried. So whatever those orders led to, it was going to get ugly.
* * *
TWENTY HOURS LATER, Nic Savino strode through the night-drenched parking lot like a man on a mission.
Which, of course, he was.
The run-down motel was lit by one stingy streetlight; the others looked like theyd been shot out. Trash heaped against the cyclone fence as if it were trying to climb free, and the air smelled of the ocean on a bender, week-old fish, rotten eggs and rust. A bored-looking hooker leaned against the graffitied wall three buildings down, and the sound of an argument heading toward violent rang out over the desperate plea of a car alarm.
He noticed it all.
He gave none of it his attention.
His entire focus was on reeling in the fury pounding through his head before he reached room 207. He was a man known for his control, and he was going to need every shred of it to deal with this situation.
Situation, he thought bitterly. Thats what the admiral was calling it. Savinos SEAL team was under investigation. Or as the directive from Naval Intelligence had put it, a duly authorized official had been assigned to look into Operation Hammerhead, which had resulted in the death of one team member, the hospitalization of another and the dissemination of classified information to the enemy, possibly for profit.
It hadnt taken much to read between the lines.
They were looking at his team for treason.
His men.
Him.
Savino climbed the cement stairs to the second floor, stepping around the bum sleeping under a pile of rags in the corner of the landing, breathing through his teeth to avoid the stench.
Three doors down the concrete walkway, he knocked once, then walked in.
Lansky, you have crap taste in motels, he said by way of a greeting. The room was wood veneer and orange polyester coated with a thin layer of grilled onions.
You told me to find a place close to the bar. This is close. Lansky shrugged from his spot on the floor. His back against the flowered bedspread, he had a notebook on one side of him, a bag of chips on the other and a computer in his lap.
Howd you get a laptop?
Guy on the corner was selling them. Lansky flashed a boyish grin. You didnt think I was just going to sit here watching Kitty Cat work off his drunk, did you?
In other words, Lansky was trying to figure out what was going on. Good. Savino considered the shiny new MacBook Air. He knew it was hot. But it shouldnt be traceable.
His gaze shifted to Torres.
Hed installed a rod in the bathroom doorway about three-quarters of the way up from the floor. Shirtless and with one hand tucked behind his back, he used the other to pull himself up, lowered and did it again. And again. His unshaven face was set, blank. Sweat poured and his breath huffed, telling Savino hed been at it for a while.
Savino took in the mans mood with a single glance. An IED was less dangerous than Torres right now.
You get the pull-up bar from the same guy?
Found it by the Dumpster, Lansky said, frowning as he peered at the laptop. Mood this ones in, hed have ripped a pipe from the wall if I hadnt come up with something.
Torress only response was a grunt as he switched arms.
He been at it long?
That got Lanskys attention. His frown didnt fade, but he did look from Torres to Savino before shrugging.
We been here, what? Almost a day, give or take? Hes clocked about two weeks PT in that time, and about two hours sleep.
The team generally spent between ten and twenty hours a week on physical training, depending on their status. Torres had put that in already? It didnt bode well.
Savino raked his hand through his hair. Giving in to the stress pounding in his head, he gripped the back of his neck as if he could squeeze the pain away.
Torres was a SEAL. Hed step up and do the duty when Savino assigned it. But the weight of it would be a lot easier to dump on the guy if he wasnt in a pisser of a mood.
It was rare that Savino worried about that sort of thing. But this was a rare situation. And the duty would be more in the lines of a favor.
You want a beer? Lansky offered.
Thought you were sobering up.
Ive only had three. That is sober. He tilted his head toward Torres, whod flipped himself around so his knees were anchored over the bar and his head toward the floor, doing sit-ups. Hes the one who was drunk anyway.