Into the Storm (12 page)

“You’re welcome, but I didn’t do anything,” he told her.

Her eyes were brimming with wonder and gratitude—and disbelief. “This is another one of your weird jokes, right?”

“No. I didn’t touch the engine.” Izzy shrugged, and backed away from that open car door and that moonlit view of Tracy’s world-class legs. “It sounds like everything’s fine now.”

The wonder turned to worry. “But if it is the alternator…I once had a car where the alternator died. I was on the Saw Mill Parkway, at night. The lights—even the hazards—didn’t work. It was really scary.”

She was looking for him to comment, and “Okay, Buh-bye!” probably wasn’t going to fly. “It must’ve been,” he said.

“Could you…Would you…Would it be very much of an imposition—God, I know it is—if I asked you to…” Her voice was down to a whisper. “Follow me home?”

Waka-chicka, waka-chicka.
They were suddenly back in porno-flick dialogue land.

“I’m picking up a weird vibe here,” Izzy told her. “Is sending out a weird vibe really your intention, because—”

“Never mind.” She slammed the car door, locking in those legs. “Forget it. I just thought…” She shook her head and used both hands to push her hair off her face. “I must be some kind of complete and utter moron.”

She put her car into gear and, tires squealing, pulled away.

“What just happened here?” Izzy asked the moon.

It didn’t answer, but it may have smiled.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

E
AST OF
S
AN
D
IEGO
, C
ALIFORNIA
T
HURSDAY
, D
ECEMBER
8, 2005

L
t. Commander Lewis Koehl, CO of SEAL Team Sixteen, was a good-looking man. Dark, wavy hair, a square jaw, and quite the ability to fill out a military uniform worked well in combination.

And then there were his eyes. A matinee idol shade of dark brown, he was using them to check Lindsey out.

In fact, every time she looked up, Lew Koehl was watching her.

And, yes, he was also frowning, so he probably wasn’t checking her out in any kind of exciting, romantic-dinner-in-her-future way. He was probably wondering whose teenage daughter had been allowed out here, onto the potentially dangerous site of the SEAL Team Sixteen/Troubleshooters Incorporated training exercise.

Tom Paoletti had told Lindsey to dress like a pop-star wannabe for today’s op, so she’d complied. Her jeans were low on her hips, leaving way too many exposed inches of bare skin—skin that was getting decidedly chilly. How did girls today manage to hang out at the subzero, over-air-conditioned malls without freezing to death?

Her top was more accessory than actual shirt, and she longed for a sweater. But that would ruin a look that was straight out of the lingerie department, enhanced by a padded push-up bra that created the illusion of cleavage.

At least her feet were warm in her clunky boots. For footwear when undercover, Lindsey would always choose the Sheryl Crow crunchy granola look over the four-inch
there better be a valet because I’m not walking in these things all the way from the parking lot
stilettos of Christina Aguilera.

She’d clipped her short hair over in the front, in a style she’d seen on the high school girl who worked behind the counter at the video store. It was definitely young-ifying, and she’d chosen pinker shades of makeup to enhance the effect.

Although she obviously didn’t look
too
young, because Mark Jenkins had nearly dropped the box of equipment he was helping to carry in when he’d first spotted her.

He seemed to have wrenched his injured shoulder as he’d overcompensated, because after he put the box down he stood there rubbing it. He continued to watch her as she listened to Tom tell her—hopefully for the final time—just how important it was that she keep herself as safe as humanly possible during the course of this exercise.

Talking about personal safety was something that the CO of TS Inc did in advance of every mission, training or other, to every member of the company. It wasn’t that they didn’t all know that there were risks in their business. She, for one, was well aware that people died while on the job.

Even in training ops.

But probably not in this one.

Still, Tom had to give what amounted to his “be careful” reminder. To let it slide, undone, was tantamount to laughing in the face of fate. It was the equivalent of giving a double-devil-dog dare to bad luck.

And Lindsey had been in the law enforcement business long enough to recognize that luck played a definite role in deciding who lived and who died.

So even though she herself didn’t have any rituals or superstitions, she was not about to get in the way of anyone else’s. And Tom was not the only one. Dave Malkoff always carried a small polished chunk of beach glass that no doubt meant something special to him. Tess Bailey and Jimmy Nash had some kind of eye contact thing that they always did anytime anyone made a toast. Alyssa Locke had what Lindsey had come to recognize as her pre-kicking-ass CD. If strains of Aretha Franklin could be heard coming from her office, everyone but her husband, Sam Starrett, had learned to run.

And Sam himself had some doozies in the superstitions department. They’d all learned the hard way never to sit in his special chair when he was stressed. And God forbid anyone mess up his desk. Although Lindsey suspected that Sam’s insistence that he needed to spend at least six solid hours in isolation with his wife following an overseas assignment, or he’d have bad luck the next op, was at least partially contrived.

Still, the deal was this: If all the rituals had been executed, and all the superstitions followed to the letter, and bad luck still managed to rear its ugly head, then at least, in the aftermath of tragedy, there would be that much less what-if-ing.

Lindsey couldn’t imagine how truly dreadful it must be for a leader—or even a CO up the chain of command—to lose a member of his or her team.

It hadn’t been that long since Tom and Decker had lost Vinh Murphy—or technically, Murphy’s wife. Her shooting death had been beyond terrible, a tragedy happening during an assignment that, like this one, was supposed to be easy. And they
had
lost Murph. He was just as irrevocably gone as if he’d been buried alongside his Angelina. Lindsey’s heart still ached for him. God, she missed them both so much.

So it really wasn’t any wonder that Tom was still spooked and that Decker was still walking around with a permanent case of grim.

It was possible, from the way Deck clenched his jaw these days, that he’d soon have to go on a soft food diet. His teeth were probably on the verge of being ground down to his gums. And then, of course, there was his thing with Sophia—whatever that was about. It was more than a romance gone bad. Lindsey knew that much. Not that anyone would talk about it.

Which was fine with Lindsey. She had her own list of topics she would not discuss. Her mother’s death. Her father’s remoteness and withdrawal from life that started when he discovered the identity of his biological father. Her seven years of ugliness and suffering witnessed as a matter of course while on the job, culminating in the ultimate destruction and despair. Yeah, her partner Dale and the shooting. Bring
that
up and watch her run.

But they all had their luggage, their hot buttons, their pain. Letting Tom talk about safety was not a hardship, and it obviously helped him, so…

He finally finished his speech, leaving Lindsey free to wander over in Jenk’s direction.

She skipped the niceties of a greeting. “You suck,” she told him point-blank. But she could tell from his eyes that this was something he already knew.

“I’m sorry. It’s been a crazy week.” Jenk was still working on his shoulder. It must’ve really been hurting him—not that he’d ever complain. He looked exhausted, and she felt herself melting. Forgiving him.

“Lindsey, holy sha-moly.” Izzy was already wearing full camouflage, and with the brown and green streaks on his face, he looked fierce and primitive. But then he smiled, which made him look even odder. A happy, friendly monster. “What happened to you?”

“If you think this is bad, you should see my pross clothes from when I worked Vice,” Lindsey told them. “I have to lock my closet when my father comes to visit. God forbid he wander in there and think I actually wear red spandex.”

“Hold on just a minute there,” Izzy said. “No one thinks there’s anything even remotely bad about this amazing, new improved Lindsey. You are smokin’, baby.” He nudged Jenk. “Isn’t she smokin’? Who knew she was packing this kind of heat?”

Jenkins sighed. “Zanella.” He grimaced as he met Lindsey’s eyes. “Sorry.”

“What? Like Lindsey doesn’t know she’s a walking hard—”

“Please don’t say—”

“…attack.
Heart
attack.” Izzy grinned at Lindsey. It was clear that it wasn’t what he’d intended to say.

“I’m a grown-up,” Lindsey reminded Jenk. “I worked for years with a predominantly male police force. Believe me, I’ve heard every stupid comment and lame joke possible. It comes with the territory. Why do you think I’m so good at johnson jokes?”

“Whoa,” Izzy said. “Wait. You two’ve been telling dick jokes without me?”

“We prefer to call them johnson jokes,” Jenk said, with a completely straight face. “It’s classier.”

It wasn’t until she laughed that he cracked a smile, and then they stood there, just grinning at each other as Izzy echoed, “Classier?”

“Much,” Jenk said, holding Lindsey’s gaze.

It was a crying shame that Tracy existed.

She forced away her foolish smile. “As far as your apology goes, Jenkins, I’m going to need some serious groveling to make up for your amazing quadruple Houdini.
My
week was pretty crazy, too. Considering I was doing both my job and Tracy’s.”

“I really am sorry about that,” he said as if he actually meant it. “I would have helped you if I could.”

“So what happened?” she asked.

“It’s not so much what happened as what didn’t happen,” Izzy interjected.

“It started early Saturday morning,” Jenk said. “We got a call saying we’re going wheels up, destination unknown, except we all know it’s Afghanistan, and everyone’s pissed because we’re going to have to miss Mallory Paoletti’s wedding and—you know, I thought you’d be there.”

“At the wedding?” Lindsey asked, surprised. Had he actually looked for her? “No. I mean, sure, Tom invited me, but I’d only met Mallory once, and I knew she wanted a small wedding, so…I figured sending my regrets would be the best gift.”

“You should have come,” Jenk said. “It was a good party. Great band.”

“There was a serious shortage of women,” Izzy added. “Particularly gorgeous ones whose waists I can probably span with…” He moved as if to demonstrate, and Lindsey took a step back.

“You are
so
not touching me with those hands,” she informed him.

He looked down and actually seemed surprised that his fingers bore the green and brown residue of his cammie paint.

“So, you, uh, didn’t bring a date?” Lindsey asked Jenk. She was pretty sure he hadn’t taken Tracy. If he had, she would have heard about it, endlessly, over the past four days. Or maybe not. Maybe the only person Tracy talked about endlessly was Lyle.

“Nah. I RSVP’ed months ago, telling them I was coming solo.” Jenk perched on the edge of a stack of boxes. He was trying to look casual, but she could tell he was still trying to stretch out his shoulder.

She wanted to offer to rub it, but she knew he’d think she was hitting on him.

The bitch of it was, he’d be right.

Damnit. Lindsey hadn’t seen the man for close to a week. She’d spent large amounts of time with Tracy, the woman of his dreams. Which should have been a total turnoff, since Tracy was an idiot.

Okay, that was mean. Tracy wasn’t an idiot. She just had the habit of making some truly idiotic life choices. She really was quite funny, and she did have a good heart, and she wanted so desperately to succeed—it was hard not to like her at least a little. But the woman could not do two things at the same time—to the point that Lindsey was starting to wonder if she wasn’t maybe learning disabled.

Still, it was so beyond obvious that Tracy hadn’t truly left Lyle. Sure, she’d moved out of his apartment and across the country, but the man was under her skin.

If Mark Jenkins couldn’t see that, then he was a major idiot, too.

Lindsey had gone a long way toward convincing herself of that. Until he’d walked in, nearly dropped his box, and smiled at her.

“You know,” Izzy said, still holding out his green-and-brown-streaked hands. “This reminds me of a really good johnson joke. Actually, it’s more of a johnson story. Right, Marky-Mark?”

Jenk suddenly looked as if he’d been struck by lightning. Surprised and stunned and totally horrified.

“No,” he said. “Nuh-uh. Don’t even
think
about—”

“Oh, come on,” Izzy said. “You were young. Just a tadpole. It
is
a great story.”

“No, it is not. Zanella, I swear to God, if you start this story circulating again…” Jenk said, but he probably knew there was no stopping Izzy. He turned to Lindsey. “It’s not even true. This story. It’s, like, like…an urban legend that someone just went and put my name into.” He turned back to Izzy. “Find me one person who was there. Just one. You can’t, can you?”

“Yeah, that’s because you’ve transferred them all to the East Coast.”

“
I’ve
transferred them,” Jenk repeated. He looked at Lindsey again. “I’m not an officer. Am I an officer?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “No. I’m not even close. So how exactly did I
transfer
an entire platoon of SEALs?”

Izzy shrugged. “I don’t know. The same way you do everything. The same way you set up this little training op.”

“I didn’t…” Jenk made an exasperated noise. “I
may
have planted the seeds for the idea…”

“Now he’s just being modest,” Izzy told Lindsey. “You need something done—a war started, significant troop movements, lunch at the White House…Just ask Jenk. He’ll get it done.”

“How about a dinner date with Lew Koehl?” Lindsey asked. Oh, God, had she really just said that? What was she, crazy? This was total middle school tactics. Pretending she liked Lewis so Mark would be jealous.

Both Jenk and Izzy were staring at her.

“Are you insane?” Izzy asked. “Because the CO is…” He glanced at Jenk. “Damn. What’s the word I’m looking for?”

“Straightlaced?” Jenk supplied.

“That’s the polite one. Stuffy applies. I’d also say stiff, but since we were just referencing johnson jokes that might be misinterpreted as a plus,” Izzy said. “Bottom line, the man is seriously comedically challenged.”

“Yeah, you don’t know that,” Jenk said. “I think somewhere back there he’s got a sense of humor. He’s got to have one. Look what he deals with on a daily basis. He’s just a very formal person. Very old-fashioned. Conservative. To be honest, I don’t think he’s Lindsey’s type.”

“He’s definitely never laughed at a johnson joke in his life,” Izzy agreed.

“Old-fashioned actually might be kind of nice,” Lindsey said, because obviously she had the mental age of a twelve-year-old. “And, you know, I don’t
have
to tell jokes about any part of the human anatomy.”

“Oh, I do,” Izzy said, and Jenk sighed loudly in exasperation. “Just relax, all right?” Iz addressed his friend. “It’s not like I’m telling Tracy. You won’t tell Tracy, will you, Linds?”