Hot Target (45 page)

Words failed him so he kissed her again.

Forty minutes. For. Tee. Minutes. Before he could suggest, oh, say, a preview of that underwear, Jane spoke.

“This’ll be a really good house for kids, don’t you think?” she asked.

Kids? Shit. Cosmo didn’t answer that one for a long time.

They were driving to Las Vegas—with his mother, no less—to get married, because his leave was almost up, and Jane didn’t want to wait.

He was surely going OUTCONUS with SEAL Team Sixteen. Probably to Afghanistan. Maybe Iraq. For God knew how long.

He suspected they were one of a very small number of people who brought along the mother of the groom when they eloped. But Jane had insisted on that, too.

Demanding woman. Now she wanted kids, too.

“Are you ever going to speak again?” Jane asked him. “Or have I just silenced you for good?”

“Yes,” Cosmo managed to tell her. “A very good house for kids.”

“That’s what I thought, too. I mean, you know, in a few years, after we get it fixed up.” She was silent for, oh, maybe a tenth of a second before she asked, “What’s the second hardest part? Of being a SEAL? Not counting BUD/S training.”

Over the past few weeks they’d talked, pretty much endlessly, about all the types of training he’d gone through, that he continued to go through, as part of the U.S. Navy’s Special Operations. He knew Jane needed to hear as much about it as he could tell her. Knowing he had the ability to take care of himself while he was off on a dangerous mission would help her sleep at night.

So he’d damn near talked himself hoarse. He’d loved jump school. He’d loved the diving and underwater demolition, too, and he’d told her all about it. He loved the nonstop learning about what the Teams referred to as their toys—the high-tech equipment that they used while out in the “real world.” Survival training was always interesting to say the least, and PT was PT. Some of the guys suffered through; others merely endured it. Cosmo’s relationship with the endless physical training was slightly more friendly. He appreciated it. It kept him in top shape.

He’d talked at length about that, too.

Now he didn’t hesitate. “Report writing.”

Jane laughed, which was his intention. There were sides to his job that he disliked far more than writing a report, but today was a special day, and he wanted to keep things light.

“That’s right,” she said. “You mentioned something about that. You know, other people—normal people—are afraid of heights or close spaces or snakes. . . .”

“It’s not a fear,” he said. “It’s more of a dread. It’s just . . . not something I particularly enjoy doing.”

She got serious. “Aren’t you going to have to do a lot of it if you go to work for Tom Paoletti?”

“When,” he reminded her. He wasn’t ready to leave SEAL Team Sixteen, not for a few years at least. But when he did retire—and being a SEAL was a very young man’s game, so that wasn’t too far in the future, old man that he was at thirty-two—he had an open invitation to join Tommy’s Troubleshooters. Just a few days ago, they’d talked a bit about Cosmo opening a Los Angeles office. “It’s no different from what I have to do as a chief in the Navy.”

“I can help you, you know,” Jane told him.

“No,” Cosmo said. “Thank you. Very much. I know what I’m supposed to do. List the facts, give my version of what happened. I just . . . I don’t know, always have trouble getting started.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of helping by providing incentive to finish quickly, so you can come home to me.” She kissed him again.

Yeah, he could definitely see that there would be some serious motivation to get his reports handed in quickly in his future.

They’d decided to keep his apartment in San Diego, and Jane, whose schedule was more flexible, would bounce between there and Hollywood. And, she had pointed out, during those months when she was making a movie, they could always meet halfway, at Cosmo’s mother’s place in Laguna Beach.

That was not his ideal location for a romantic rendezvous, but he loved the fact that his fiancée honestly liked his mother.

Fiancée for only a few more hours. By this time tomorrow, she was going to be his wife.

She smiled up at him. “So. Forty minutes—well, thirty-something now. We could either look for imaginary bullets, or . . . I don’t suppose you want to see my new underwear?”

Jane laughed as Cosmo threw her over his shoulder and carried her inside.

PARTNERS—AND LOVERS—SAM STARRETT AND ALYSSA LOCKE ARE BACK IN ACTION IN AN EXCLUSIVE SHORT STORY!

Sam Starrett’s daughter had finally surrendered and fallen asleep when the telephone rang.

He closed her bedroom door as silently as possible and raced down the hall toward the living room, where he’d last seen the cordless phone.

Yesterday, three-and-a-half-year-old Haley had missed her nap and their dinner had been loud and far more tearful than dinosaur-shaped mac and cheese warranted. Apparently, without an afternoon rest, having to choose between green beans or peas as a side dish was a tragic dilemma of astronomical proportions.

Sam, always good at creative solutions, thought he’d solved the problem by heating up both vegetables.

At which point Haley wept inconsolably because the spoon she wanted to use was in the dishwasher.

It was then that Sam understood. As a former Navy SEAL and one of the top counterterrorism experts currently working in the private sector, he recognized that he was caught in a dread no-win scenario. He realized that even if he hand-washed the spoon, there would be something wrong with the fork, or the color of the napkin, or maybe even the brand of parmesan cheese he and his wife, Alyssa, kept in their fridge.

It was obvious that the real problem wasn’t with the peas or the spoon or the cheese. Haley missed her mother—Sam’s ex-wife, Mary Lou—and that, plus lack of a nap, had locked them into orbit around the Planet of Inconsolable Unhappiness.

Sam could totally relate. He, himself, was struggling hard to keep from joining his daughter there because Mary Lou wasn’t the only one out of town. Just over a week ago, Alyssa had gone OUTCONUS.

A diplomat on a peace-keeping mission to Kazbekistan—a third-world terrorist hotbed nicknamed “the Pit”—had contacted Troubleshooters Incorporated, the private security company where Sam and Alyssa both worked. Former Senator Eugene Ryan was adamant about not showing up in the battle-weary country surrounded by heavily armed, dangerous-looking “bruisers” as guards. At the same time, he wisely didn’t want to go in without adequate protection.

And so he’d requested Alyssa join his security team.

In a country that wasn’t exactly known for its equal rights, no one would expect a woman to be an expert sharpshooter and total kick-ass bodyguard despite her lack of height and bulk.

Sam had desperately wanted to go along—but his goal was not to keep Ryan safe. No, he wanted to watch his wife’s six. But he was the exact physical type that the former senator didn’t want along for the ride. Not to mention the fact that he’d promised his ex-wife that he’d watch Haley this week. . . .

And so he’d driven Lys to the airport and kissed her good-bye, working overtime to keep her from noticing his tightly gritted teeth.

It had to happen sooner or later, but as he’d watched her walk into the terminal, he had to admit that he’d been hoping for much, much later. But here it was. For the first time since they were married, Alyssa was off on a dangerous assignment without him. And it would be another week, at least, before she came safely home.

So last night, as the green beans and peas were both heating in the microwave, Sam had sat down with Haley on the floor of the kitchen and told her it was obvious there was nothing to do but go on and have a good ol’ cry.

“Why are you crying?” she’d asked.

“Wah,” he’d said. “The Dallas Cowboys lost the football game last week.”

His pretend sobs had made her giggle, at least for a little while.

Still, the entire rest of the evening had been filled with the potential for an all-out meltdown.

The first few days had been fun. An entire week at Daddy’s was a novelty for Haley, who’d never spent more than a weekend away from her mother. Sam knew it had been exciting for her, too, to look at the pictures from the brochure and imagine Momma and her new husband having a romantic vacation aboard a cruise ship.

As for Sam, he’d appreciated the distraction—what was Alyssa doing right now? Was she in danger? Was he going to have to wait another five days before she had a chance to call him again?—as he took his tiny blond daughter to the zoo and over to Old Town San Diego.

But today, over their Cap’n Crunch and orange juice, Sam and Haley had started counting the days on the calendar—four—until Mary Lou came back home.

Four days was definitely doable, provided they didn’t miss any more of those very important naps.

If he could convince her to fall asleep. He’d just sat with her for over an hour, holding her hand.

The phone shrilled again as Sam searched for it among the pile of toy cars and dolls on the living-room rug. He loved his little daughter dearly, but please, sweet Jesus, don’t let her wake up yet.

He managed to find and grab the cordless phone before it completed that second ring. “Sam Starrett.” Shoot, he must be tired. This was his home phone, and here the correct greeting was “Hello.”

The woman on the other end didn’t seem to mind. “Please hold for Mr. Cassidy,” she said.

Well, la di dah. Lookie who got himself a secretary.

Sam had left a message for Jules Cassidy just yesterday, asking for an update in the FBI’s search for a serial killer known as “the Dentist.” He and Lys had handled a missing person case last year which hadn’t ended happily. They’d found the young woman they were searching for—or rather, they’d found what was left of her after the Dentist worked her over.

They’d also discovered that the Dentist had been posing as a ski instructor in New Hampshire, using the alias “Steve Hathaway.”

Alyssa—normally tough as nails—had been unusually upset when they’d found the body, even though the murder had occurred six months earlier. She’d taken it personally—so Sam had started getting regular updates on the case from Jules, her friend and former partner from her FBI days.

It was obvious to Sam that, after seeing that dead girl, Lys wanted to kick the Dentist’s ass straight to hell where he belonged. She was afraid—and rightly so—that it was just a matter of time before the killer targeted his next victim.

After months of no progress, a man had recently surfaced in a resort town in Colorado who fit Hathaway’s description. Sam was hoping the FBI agents working the case would locate the Dentist’s grisly souvenirs from his victims and have enough evidence to take him into custody before Alyssa returned.

Giving her that news would be a wonderful welcome-home present—a thought that made him smile. Forget about flowers and chocolate. His wife wanted a psycho-killer behind bars.

She was different from most other women, no doubt about that. Which was not to say she didn’t love chocolate . . .

Ah yes, Sam missed her very much.

There was a click, and Jules finally came on the line. “Sam.”

“Hey,” Sam greeted him, genuinely glad to hear Jules’ voice. Five years ago, if someone had told him that he’d be happily married to his old nemesis Alyssa Locke, and best friends with
her
best friend—an openly gay man—Sam would’ve laughed his ass off. But obviously a lot could happen in five years. “Thanks for calling me back,
Mister
Cassidy.”

There was the briefest pause, then Jules said, “I guess you’re not watching TV.”

“What? No. I’ve got Haley for the week and anything besides
Sesame Street
is too intense for her,” Sam said, as he now began searching for the remote control beneath the Spider-Man and Powerpuff Girls coloring books that covered his coffee table. Haley got nightmares. It was Big Bird or a Disney DVD or the TV stayed off. Although it was possible that too much Big Bird was now giving Sam nightmares.

When he actually slept, that is.

“Sam, hang on a sec.” Jules put his hand over the receiver as he spoke to someone else on his end. Usually irreverent and upbeat, he sounded serious. Hell, he was calling Sam
Sam
instead of SpongeBob or Pollyanna or one of those other humiliating nicknames that he usually used.

“What happened?” Sam asked as Jules came back on the phone. He answered his own question. “Another dead woman without teeth in Colorado.”

“This isn’t about the Dentist,” Jules told him, as Sam found the remote and aimed it at the TV. “Listen, do yourself a favor and don’t turn on the news.”

Too late. Sam had already flipped to CNN where . . .

“Oh, shit,” he breathed, sitting down heavily on the sofa.

Peacekeeper Attacked
was the headline that hung over the anchor’s right shoulder, along with a picture of Eugene Ryan. “. . . in northern Kazbekistan, where the former senator’s helicopter was believed to have been shot down.”

Oh, God, no . . .

“We just received confirmation,” Jules told him, “that one of Eugene Ryan’s helicopters was hit by a shoulder-fired missile, just north of Ikrimah, which is a city in the northern province of—”

“I know where Ikrimah is,” Sam interrupted him. “
One
of . . . ?” How many helos were transporting Ryan’s delegation? Jesus, he couldn’t breathe.

On the TV, the news anchor was now delivering a fluff piece on a pie-eating contest, a big smile on his face.

“One of two,” Jules delivered the grim news as Sam hit the mute. Which meant there was a fifty-fifty chance Lys was on the helicopter that went down.

In flames.

“Before we lost radio contact,” Jules continued, “the second chopper reported that there were definitely casualties, but we don’t know how many and we don’t know who.”

“Before,” Sam repeated. “You lost . . .
radio contact
?”

“I am
so
sorry,” Jules started, but Sam cut him off.

“Fuck sorry!” Sam winced, looking toward the room where Haley was sleeping. He lowered his voice, but it came out no less intense. “I don’t want sorry. I want the information that you’ve—”

“We don’t
have
any information.” Jules raised his voice to talk over him. “All we have is speculation. Rumors. You know as well as I do what good that—”

“What are the rumors?” Sam asked.

“Sam,” Jules said. “You
know
rumors are just—”

“Did the second helo go down, too?” Sam had to know.

“No,” Jules said, but then added, “Not exactly. What we think happened, and, sweetie, breathe. This is mostly guesswork. Even though we have a few people who claim to be eyewitnesses, we have only their word that they were actually there. So yeah, they reported that after the first chopper crashed, the second swung back around to assist the survivors. According to these unreliable sources, it apparently landed, going out of view, behind several buildings. Then, allegedly, there was a second big explosion.”

“And?” Sam asked tightly.

“And nothing,” Jules said. “It’s all speculation. You know as well as I do that this could be nothing more than one of the local warlords planting disinformation—”

“There was an
and
in your voice,” Sam insisted. “God damn it, Jules, tell me all of it.”

Jules exhaled hard. “The attack happened shortly before sunset. There’ve been unconfirmed reports of a fierce firefight in that area pretty much all night.”

Sam was going to be sick. “So, best-case scenario is that my wife is on the ground in a hostile part of Kaz-fucking-bekistan, engaged in a gun battle with people who don’t just want to kill her for being American, but who want to kill her slowly, on camera, broadcast over the Internet.”

Worst case was that Alyssa was already dead—that she had been dead for hours.

“Who’s going in after them?” Sam demanded.

“I don’t know,” Jules said. “Look, I’m going to make some phone calls, see what I can find out, okay? It may take me a while.”

“Jules,” Sam started, but he didn’t have to say it. Jules said it for him.

“I’ll call you back as soon as I hear anything. Good news
or
bad.”

“Thanks.” As Sam hung up the phone, the news anchor made a joke about a pop star who was getting married. It was absolutely surreal.

How could anyone laugh when Alyssa might be dead?

He turned off the TV, but then turned it back on, flipping to the other news stations and then back, hoping for something, anything that would let him see just what Alyssa was up against.

If there were any way to survive this, Lys would find it. Of that Sam had absolutely no doubt. She was strong, she was skilled, and she had the heart of a warrior.

But if her team was badly outnumbered by their attackers, if it was a handful against several hundred, they would soon be overpowered. And all of the skill, strength, and heart in the world wouldn’t keep her alive.

Sam splashed water on his face, then dried it with his towel. It was one of the blue ones that he and Alyssa had picked out when they’d moved into this little house together, a few weeks before their wedding.

“Blue is all about serenity and tranquillity,” she’d told him as they stood in the department store, when he’d suggested they get brown because it would hide the dirt and stains.

But she was serious, which had surprised him. For someone so down-to-earth and practical, as they’d decorated their house she’d paid a lot of attention to the mood created by color, as well as something called Feng Shui. Which was all about furniture placement and good vibes and all kinds of touchy-feely New Age voodoo.

Of course, maybe there was something to that Feng Shui crap, because Sam had never been happier and more at peace in his entire life than he had this past year, living here.

Then again, he’d be beyond ecstatic living in a cardboard box, as long as Alyssa was with him.

Please, God, keep her safe.

Sam took a deep breath, then opened the bathroom door.

The phone rang again, and Joan DaCosta, the wife of SEAL Team Sixteen’s Lieutenant Mike Muldoon, picked it up out in the living room.

As the news of the downed choppers spread, friends and relatives were calling him to find out details and offer their support. But it had quickly gotten overwhelming. “I’m sure Alyssa’s all right. I’m sure she’s fine . . . ,” they reassured him. But they wanted him to say it back to them, too.

And the truth was, as optimistic as he usually was, in this case, he wasn’t sure about anything. And no one
really
wanted to hear how he was scared shitless, and that this sitting still and waiting for news was driving him freaking nuts.