Hot Pursuit (7 page)

And he knew that it was time to surrender—or not.

Not
tolled the certainty within him, and he knew just as absolutely
what he needed to do. He let himself stare even longer. And then he pulled his gaze away and turned and stared, too, at the bland, boring, vanilla girl taking orders behind the counter. He made himself shuffle toward the clerk, his movement labored and jerky, and he placed his order in a voice that suggested his mental challenges were many—because no one faulted a retard who stared.

And sure enough,
she
looked away, no longer suspicious.

His reward was her name
—Alyssa
—called by the barista who then handed over her coffee.

Her dead lover was
Jules
, which was a stupid name for a man, but after he took his coffee, Alyssa spoke, her voice musical and rich. “Tell Robin to break a leg tonight,” she said. And Jules nodded and said as much into his cell phone, ending the call with “See you tonight. I love you, too.”

His relief that they were only friends, not lovers, made him magnanimous. He would not kill this man now, not here, not yet.

As he shambled to the place where he was to wait for his coffee,
she
slipped past him, and he smelled her.

And it was then that he knew.

The last of his despair evaporated. It vanished, replaced by that certainty which now filled him so completely that he thought for a moment that his very skin might rupture and split. But as odd and uncomfortable as that was, he no longer felt sick or tired.

He was stronger than them, he was smarter than they were, and he knew what he wanted.

Alyssa.

The world gave him a gift as, just before she went out the door, her cell phone rang, and she reached for it. He caught a glimpse of a sidearm in a holster beneath her jacket, and it made him as hard as he would’ve been had she flashed him her breasts, which was odd, because the killing had never been about sex for him. It was about death and fear and power and control.

But it was what it was, and he knew not to question the will of
his certainty, especially when she opened her phone, and put it to her ear, and told him her full name: “Alyssa Locke.”

Alyssa Locke.

Alyssa.

Locke.

He knew in a blaze of absolute conviction that he should not give Betsy MacGregor back, as he’d always done with his victims before. But not this time. Not now.

Not until he had Alyssa Locke within his grasp, begging for him to kill her quick.

L
opez kept trying to get him to talk.

“How’re you doing?” he asked Dan Gillman, for what felt like the seven thousandth time in the week since the SEALs had returned from the treacherous mountains between A-stan and P-stan.

Danny nodded and even smiled as he said what he always said, “I’m good. I’m okay.” But Lopez didn’t look convinced, so he added, “I’m looking forward to this. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in New York.”

“Start spreading the news”
Izzy Zanella sang the opening to what was essentially New York City’s theme song, because he was an asshole and he didn’t know how to keep his goddamned mouth shut.

“Well, I
was
looking forward to this,” Dan amended as he followed Zanella, Tony, and Lopez down the escalator to the airport’s baggage-claim carousels. They’d traveled light, with carry-on bags only—except for Zanella the douche, who’d insisted on bringing his guitar.

Which was twice as stupid, because Dan didn’t even know Zanella played the guitar until he showed up with it at LAX.

Their teammate, Mark Jenkins, was supposed to come with them, along with his wife Lindsey, who worked as an operative for
Troubleshooters Incorporated, the personal security organization they were currently representing here on the frozen island of Manhattan.

The four SEALs weren’t exactly moonlighting for the firm because they weren’t getting paid—just fed and housed. The “work” they had to do in exchange for that wasn’t very strenuous. They were the figurative “big stick,” in a “walk softly and carry a …” presentation that Alyssa Locke, the Troubleshooters XO, would be delivering over the next few days as she helped a newly elected liberal crybaby government official get used to the idea that some people were going to send her mean e-mails.

It was supposed to be an easy job, with a city full of upscale restaurants and bars awaiting them—restaurants and bars filled in turn with beautiful, supermodel-worthy women, many of whom would be eager to show that they fully supported the troops by taking a Navy SEAL home and getting naked with him.

After the hell of the past few months, this was going to be exactly what he needed, to start feeling like himself again.

It was going to be Danny and Jenk and Lopez, the three caballeros, together again. And yes, Jenk was married now, so the dynamic was slightly different. But Lindsey was cool. And yes, Tony Vlachic was coming with them, too, which was a little weird because he was younger than they were, he was relatively new to Team Sixteen, and he was … different, but it was all okay because—thank you, Jesus—he wasn’t Izzy fucking Zanella.

But then Lindsey had come down with the flu, so Zanella was filling in for Jenk, last minute.

Of course.

Lopez had been apologetic on the ride to LAX, when he’d told Dan about the change in personnel. He knew—in great detail because Dan had vented to him many times—how much Dan hated his soon-to-be ex-brother-in-law.

At the top of Zanella’s list of unforgivable transgressions was the
fact that he’d knocked up and married Eden, Dan’s younger sister. And yes, okay, there was definitely still some question as to whether Zanella was or was not the actual biological father of Eden’s baby—not that it really mattered anymore, since she’d miscarried six months in.

Bottom line, Eden always
had
played fast and loose. So maybe Zanella’s marrying her had been marginally gallant since the paternity was in question. But Dan suspected he’d done it, in part, to piss Dan off.

Because Zanella knew that Dan had
always
found him to be obnoxious. He was loud, he was capable of being unbelievably stupid, and he drove Danny crazy with his constant idiotic comments—not to mention his relentless singing.

Fucking Zanella had a fucking song for every occasion. And absolutely no filter through which to judge the fact that perhaps
some
occasions would be best kept song-free.

The tall, gangly SEAL had always been something of a loner. Rumor had it his BUD/S training swim-buddy rang out to get the hell away from him. But then, a few years ago, he’d gone and saved Mark Jenkins’s life.

Jenk had started inviting Zanella to poker games and parties, and before Dan knew it, Jay Lopez, his tightest friend in SEAL Team Sixteen, was also inviting Zanella everywhere. And suddenly, wherever Dan went, Zanella was there, too.

He acted like he was Dan’s friend, but face it, a friend didn’t have sex with a friend’s sister.

“When do you get the results of the latest CAT scan?” Lopez asked Dan now.

“I don’t know,” Dan said brusquely. “They said they’d call me. I’m fucking trying not to think about it.”

“Sorry, man.”

Dan sighed. “No, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just…” He shook his head. “I’m really tired.”

These days he was always tired, so he put his bag on the floor and sat down next to it. Lopez hovered for a moment, like the weirdest mother hen on the face of the planet.

“I’ll watch your bag,” Dan told his friend, “while you go babysit Zanella.”

Lopez smiled at that. “I’m pretty sure he’s okay.”

Strains of another song drifted over from where the asshole was putting on a one-man show for the other passengers on their flight. No, make that a two-man show. Someone—Jesus, it was Tony—was beatboxing an accompaniment. Christ.

“Yeah, well, there he goes,” Dan said. “And I don’t trust him not to do something like get himself—or all of us—arrested. Please, I just want to get to the hotel. I’m lagged as fuck.”

It was kind of crazy. They’d traveled west to east which, absolutely, according to the old saying, resulted in a coast-to-coast traveler becoming a “party beast.” It was, after all, only 1930 California time.

It was extra crazy because with all of Dan’s anticipation of visiting New York, he didn’t want to get to the hotel so that he could shower, change, get out there, and get his ass laid.

No, what he wanted right now, more than sex even, was to sleep.

For, like, a week.

Jesus, maybe he was coming down with Lindsey’s flu.

Lopez was looking at him again as if he were worried, and Dan didn’t want him asking any more questions about the CAT scan or the supposed head injury that had made him lose a small but significant part of his life, so he leaned back against their two bags and closed his eyes.

He heard Lopez finally move away, heard Izzy’s singing stop, thank God. But then Lopez came back. Or maybe it was Tony—the step was much lighter. Almost nonexistent, in fact.

Whoever it was, they were hovering again, and he’d had enough.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just leave me the f—”

He’d opened his eyes just before he dropped the F-bomb, and good thing, because it wasn’t Lopez or Tony or even Izzy staring down at him.

It was a very little girl in a pink dress, complete with a bow in her barely there, baby-fine hair. She couldn’t have been more than two, maybe three at the most. She wore shiny black shoes and white tights that were doing a kind of an MC Hammer thing with the crotch down around her knees, but she didn’t seem to care. She was holding what looked like a blue stuffed bunny, clutching it to her chest.

Her eyes were blue and wide and she stared with unabashed curiosity. “Are you a soldja?”

He was dressed in civvies—well, mostly anyway. His pants were BDUs, but nothing that a civilian couldn’t pick up at an Army/Navy store. His bag was military, though, with his name lettered on it—and yeah, that was what she was looking at.

“I’m in the Navy,” he told her, even though she probably didn’t know what that meant.

But she did. “Momma’s a Ahmy soldja,” she informed him solemnly. “In Wack. Her foot got bwohed up. They gon’ make her a new one an’ we gon’ pway tag again an’ wun an’—”

“Mindy!” A boy, maybe twelve or thirteen—about Dan’s brother Ben’s age—and clearly related to Mindy, had overheard what she’d said, which Dan had finally translated into their mother was getting a prosthetic foot, which would allow her to play tag again and run. But the boy was horrified, his thin face pale. “He doesn’t want to hear about that!”

“It’s okay,” Danny sat up. “I’ve, um, been over there. It’s … rough. Where’s your mom now?”

“Landstuhl Hospital,” he said. “In Germany. She was supposed to come home last month, but…” He shook his head, his mouth tight.

“I’m sorry,” Dan murmured.

“Gwamma tooked us to Jahminny,” Mindy announced, “and I kisseded Momma an’ she cwied, cuz she wuvs me and Daddy stayed cuz she gotta hohd his hand and we don’t gots to send her teeny shampoos no more an’ hand wahmahs an’ books to wead cuz the nurses wash her hair and her woom has a TV but she don’t turn it on cuz she’s sweepin’ and I wan’ say
wake up, Momma!
But gwamma won’ wet me.”

“Mindy, come on,” the boy said. “Gram’s going to be worried.”

“Your mom’s lucky,” Dan told the little girl, “to have you and your brother and your dad taking care of her. I bet she liked those packages you sent her when she was in … Wack.” It was a good name for it.

“Do you got packages?” she asked him.

“Yeah,” he lied. “I get lots of packages when I’m over there. I’ve mostly been in Afghanistan, but… It’s great to get packages wherever you go, so … I know your mom loved yours. Hand warmers—at this time of year, and books …”

“Mindy,” the boy said again, but she didn’t move.

She just stood there, looking at Dan, and as small as she was, she must’ve had a heavy-duty bullshit meter, because she held out her bunny, pushing it into his hands. “Now you gots a package too,” she announced. “A bunny name Fwed, to wuv you.” She patted the bunny’s head. “Bye, Fwed. Give the Naby soldja wotsa kisses in Anastan.”

And with that, she was gone.

“Mindy!” Her brother turned to follow her.

“Kid,” Dan called, and then turned back after making sure his little sister found their grandmother. Dan tossed him the rabbit. “Tell your sister thank you, but I’m pretty sure Fred will be happier staying with her.”

“The real Fred’s at home,” the kid said. “Dad says she’s the Johnny Appleseed of stuffed bunnies. He buys ’em in bulk because
she leaves ’em everywhere.” The boy threw it back at him. “She wants you to have it, so …” He shrugged. “If you don’t want it, just toss it. She won’t know.”

He turned away, but Dan called after him. “Kid. I hope your mom comes home soon.”

The boy turned back again to look at Dan, and his fatigue, his fear, and his despair were etched on his young face. “And then what? She used to run marathons. I don’t think she wants to come home. I don’t think she wants to
live.”

Ah, Jesus.

“I run marathons,” Dan told the boy. “I would want to live, and I don’t have you or Mindy or someone like your dad to hold my hand—someone more like Angelina Jolie, please. I mean, I’m sure your dad is nice …” That got him a wan smile from the kid, so he held up the bunny and looked at it. “All I’ve got is Fred, giving me wotsa kisses.”

That got him a wobbly laugh, and something that looked like the spark of hope in the boy’s eyes.

“Your mother definitely wants to live—and she’ll be home soon,” Dan reassured him. “And my bet? If she’s anything at all like you and your sister, she’ll be running marathons again. I bet you’ll be running with her, and Mindy’ll be showering you with stuffed bunnies at the finish line. Hold
that
future in your head, kid, aiight?”

The boy nodded, turned to go, but then turned back. “Someone really should be sending you packages, sir.”