SEAL's Promise - Bad Boys of SEAL Team 3, Book 01 (18 page)

“Just wanted you to know Frankie’s baby was born today.”

Careful hesitation preceded Kyle’s comment. “You mean
your
baby.”

“That’s right, LT.”

“What’s wrong? Everything go okay?”

“Not really. She was born with some problems, and we almost lost her.”

“Why the hell did you go through all this on your own, man?”

“Hey Kyle, cut me some slack. I’ll bet you weren’t thinking much when Brandon was born.”

“That’s a fact. So, how’s everyone doing?”

“Baby is improving. She was born C-section, and she aspirated the—”

“Spare the deets, T.J. But everyone’s doing good?”

“I think so. Shannon’s a trooper. The baby is going to have to stay in the hospital, but the doc thinks she’ll be okay, and then we’ll do the tests, you know.”

“I do.”

“But that’s only partly why I’m calling. I’m giving Shannon a chance to catch up. Then she can have more company.”

“I’ll make sure Christy tells everyone. She’s gonna want to tell the whole team, you know.”

“Fine by me. Especially those that knew Frankie, they would want to know.”

“You tell Tyler?”

“Yeah, just called him. We’re meeting up for a couple of brews.”

“Good. So quit pussy-footing. What’s up?”

“I just got a strange call from Collins. Apparently my dad is trying to reach me.”

“Your dad? Didn’t know he was in the picture.”

“He isn’t. And he won’t be.”

“Okay, you wanna explain that to me?” Kyle was working to hide concern, but T.J. felt it anyhow.

“I guess he’s an inmate at Riverbend prison in Nashville.”

“Wow.”

“That’s a maximum security prison, Kyle. I haven’t spoken to him, but there’s an inmate services guy I’ve left a message for. He tried to call me during the recital.”

“Gotcha. Timing sucks.”

“Doesn’t it, though?”

“And you’ve told Shannon?”

“Of course. Kyle, this was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do, tell her this.” T.J. reeled himself in, but just barely. He wanted to protect Shannon and the baby from the reality that was his past. How he wished it was a different story that was unfolding, rather than one with dark unknowns he wasn’t sure he wanted to reveal.

“Not like you knew anything about this beforehand. This is just the hand you’ve been dealt, T.J. It isn’t who you are. But I’m reading between the lines—”

A loud scream came from the background on Kyle’s phone. It sounded like Brandon.

“Sorry, gotta go. Brandon’s just pulled a table over on himself. He’s into everything now. Just wait, T.J. You can’t leave them alone for a
second
.”

“Roger that, LT. Catch you later.”

T
HE
S
CUPPER WAS
cool and dark, which matched his mood and suited his needs. Tyler was dressed in cargo pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt with the SOC logos—skulls, tridents, and Latin phrases—covering up his tats. They’d been in the Scupper so many times with the Team, it wasn’t as if any of the regulars wouldn’t know who they were. Tyler could have worn a dress, and he wouldn’t have fooled anyone.

He stood up and they embraced, his friend smacking him loudly on the back.

“You look like shit,” Tyler said as he ordered his beer and searched the room. It was a habit they all had. Wasn’t so much looking for people they knew as people they
didn’t
know. That was the real problem. His scanning over with, Tyler glanced up. “Any more news?”

“Not a thing.”

“Kyle coming?”

“You were right.”

“Payback, I’d say.”

“Double. Of course in my case, I doubt Courtney could ever do what I put my foster folks through. Like Rory, I burned down a woodshed.”

“I know, because you could, right?” Tyler chuckled.

Images of being beaten bare-bottomed with a strap in that woodshed came flooding past, tugging on his gut and throwing his insides across the bar. He was so small then, and the evil foster dad he had at the time was huge with hands the size of basketballs. The guy could grip his upper arm with just one hand and swing that strap with the other so hard he had welts for a week afterward, and it hurt to go to the bathroom or even fart. He vowed he’d never be that small or helpless again.

“Something like that,” he answered, and took a big sip of beer. He tried to remember when it was he received his first compliment or the assurance that he could trust someone, or that his little body wasn’t going to be abused in some way.

All he could remember were the first days getting yelled at by his BUD/S instructors, by his Basic instructors at Great Lakes, and the odd feeling that he was home. He was
used
to it. He could
do
this. It was something he was made for. And that feeling grew every day he served, every day he packed and re-packed his parachute, every day he cleaned his equipment and stowed it away like fine pieces of china and crystal. This was, after all, his
real
legacy. Everything else was pure fantasy.

“So here we are. Wanna talk about it?”

“Nope. Wanna forget about it.”

“So what are your plans?”

T.J. shrugged. He hadn’t thought about what his plans were, since it was a moot point anyhow. No way would he leave Shannon and the baby alone, not with nuts running around the country spouting their mouths off about getting revenge against innocent military men and women’s families. He wasn’t going to allow anyone else but himself to protect them.

But even if he could, he wasn’t so sure he’d want to talk to his dear old dad, if it even was his dad.

His phone rang.

“T.J. Talbot?” said the burly voice he recognized as Travis Banks from Nashville.

“That’s me.”

“I’m—”

“I know who you are, so let’s just cut the bullshit, and you tell me why you’re calling me.”

Banks let the line go silent a little longer than necessary. T.J. felt a reproach was coming.

“You’re father is dying, son. He wants to see you before he passes on.”

T.J. looked at Tyler, who was chewing on his lower lip and not making eye contact. He wasn’t going to tell the man about Shannon and the baby, because he didn’t think his father deserved to hear it. “I’m afraid that will take some time to arrange. See, I’m in the military.”

“We know that, son, but your father has maybe a week tops on this planet. He’s tried to escape twice from our hospital ward bare-assed in his gown, everyone chasing after him. He’s hell-bent on seeing you. Our hospital is in the Riverbend Maximum Security Prison here in Nashville, so his attempts were pure folly, as are the years those attempts added to his sentence. He’ll die here, son, and probably this week.”

“Understood. I’d say he’s your problem, not mine. Sonofabitch didn’t even think to try to contact me until he was getting ready to check out. What do you think that makes him?”

“Like you said, Mr. Talbot, a sonofabitch. But he’s your father.”

“Sperm donor.”

“I stand corrected.” Banks sighed into the phone. T.J. heard a wooden chair squeak and could just picture the place. It probably would be a tiny office with old government-issue desks and gray file cabinets with inventory stickers on them, a window that didn’t open, with bars on it. The employees of a prison were behind bars as much as the inmates were. Probably would smell like all the Juvenile Halls he’d been in from Texas to California.

Banks tried another olive branch. “Look Talbot, there’s no good reason to say good-bye to the man who gave you life, except just to do it. Just because he wasn’t there for you isn’t a good enough reason to not be a decent human being.”

“You’re wrong, Banks. I owe him nothing. And I am an honorable human being. Of that I’m certain.”

“So I hear. Thank you for serving your country.”

T.J.’s internal alarm went off, hoping that his dad didn’t know, or this man didn’t know he was in the Special Forces. Now of all times, this sort of thing should be kept quiet.

“I’ve got some personal things going on at home now, and it will take time to get approved for leave. Not sure I can do this so last minute. So don’t get your hopes up.” He wasn’t inclined to lift one single finger to request any time off, but it sounded better to say it.

“Well, I’ll let him know we talked. You do the best you can, son. I’m sure that will be good enough.” Banks hung up.

It would have settled things much easier for T.J. if the guy had yelled at him, shamed him in some way. That kind of direct challenge was something he could handle, and he’d win at that game. But when Banks used the phrase, “Do the best you can do,” it irked him worse than if he’d sat on a rusty nail. Not a mortal wound, but it would fester, hurt like hell and eventually need to be addressed. It wouldn’t heal on its own.

He set his phone down and then finished off his beer. “My dad’s dying. Got maybe a week to live.”

Tyler knew better than to say anything. They searched the bar, looked up at who came out of the men’s room, where their hands were, and if they carried a backpack. Looked for someone lingering in the doorway to the outside and listened to all the traffic noise. The news program on one of several big screen TVs was turned up, and it had stopped the ball game.

“
…we’re just getting word now that at least two family members of a retired Marine have been injured: his wife and one of the couple’s four children. Mrs. Cole was able to shoot the attackers with a loaded gun from the couple’s kitchen, but was injured in the altercation. One child was spending the night over at a friend’s. Mrs. Cole and her child were taken to Scripps Mercy Hospital in San Diego. It’s believed the attacker had been looking for Cole, who was not home at the time.”

The banner on the screen said Homegrown American Terrorist in bright red letters. It continued to scroll across the picture of the Emergency Room of the hospital.

Shannon’s hospital.

Chapter Twenty-Three

‡

“S
ONOFABITCH.”
T
.
J
. SAID
as he and Tyler stood at the same time. He didn’t even ask if Tyler wanted to go. In a minute they were both in T.J.’s four-door pickup, headed down the freeway, stuck in traffic.

Tyler spoke with Kate briefly on the phone, and then hung up. “She’s going over to Christy’s to help out. Kyle’s been called in.”

“No shit. That was Magnus Cole’s wife on the screen. You know, he’s the guy who has been organizing all those Warrior Runs? We’ve sponsored them at Gunny’s.”

Magnus had been another foster care product, although he had fared better. T.J. had spent time with him. Magnus was working with a lot of at-risk youths in his retirement and was quite high profile and in the media all the time.

“Yes. I’ve seen him. I knew you were friends. Sorry, man.”

“He’s gonna go off like a powder keg,” T.J. said, and spit out the window.

They rode the rest of the way in silence. T.J. kept the radio off so he could think. They got to the hospital just as several large TV motorhomes blocked the entrance to the Emergency Room.

“Christ, wonder how anyone who really needed help could get in there. Where the hell are the cops? There are people all over this place, like ants. No way this is secure.”

“I’m packing, just so you know,” Tyler whispered.

“Always.”

They parked in the reserved doctors’ lot and were slipping in a side entrance, when someone exited wearing bloody scrubs. They expected to be stopped and questioned, but the orderly ignored them. T.J. opted to bypass the elevator and take the stairs. At the door to the second floor, a bloody handprint was framed ominously on the ivory painted metal door. The door handle was also covered in blood. Tyler and T.J. instinctively drew their weapons.

“Maternity and nursery are on floor four,” T.J. barked.

Tyler grabbed his arm, holding him back. “You know what you’re doing here, T.J.? Remember, we’re in the U.S. of A. And we got permits, but if there’s been violence the cops aren’t going to know if we are good guys or bad guys, and they’ll shoot us down like dogs if we’re not careful.”

“Yeah, well can you inform those assholes that it’s illegal to kill innocent women and children? Do you suppose that would help, Tyler?”

“Fuck sake, T.J. I’m not worried about anything but you. You don’t need trouble. Protection, yes. But trouble? We gotta stay calm.”

“Roger that. No worries. We trained for this, remember?” T.J. yanked his arm out of Tyler’s grip and dashed up the last flight of stairs to the white door marked
Floor 4.

Stepping out into the hallway, it surprised them there was no chaos. No screaming. No unattended posts. They walked along the hall to one side, keeping their side arms down and behind them. Tyler frequently checked for anyone coming up from the rear. T.J. felt the familiar touch from Tyler’s hand on his shoulder, like they’d been trained. “So far, so good. I got no one,” Tyler whispered.

The vinyl flooring rippled unevenly under the light of the overhead fluorescents. A stacked meal tray cart was conveniently parked between two rooms on the left. T.J. held onto it while they both took cover behind.

“She’s down four rooms, on the left.”

The nurse’s station was packed with hospital staff and what appeared to be a doctor. The heavyset charge nurse rounded the corner holding a clipboard, and stopped in her tracks when she saw T.J. peering around the cart.

“Mr. Talbot, what in the hell are you doing?” Her voice carried such that everyone within twenty feet looked first at her, and then over to the two SEALs. A quick assessment told T.J. that nothing out of the ordinary was happening, so he stuffed his SigSauer under his shirt and secured it with the Velcro strap he’d fashioned at the rear of his belt. Tyler stowed his in the lower pocket of his cargo pants.

He stood up and stepped away from the cart. “You do know there’s a whole lot of commotion downstairs, don’t you?”

“We haven’t been notified. It would come over the speakers. No one’s called. What kind of commotion?”

“There are victims in an attack. I think they’ve brought them in downstairs. This was an attack on a military family.”