Читать книгу SEAL Under Siege - Liz Johnson - Страница 12

THREE

Staci jerked against the shoulder strap of her seat belt, which stole her breath but kept her head from cracking against the steering wheel. The car was too old to have air bags. There was nothing but the seat belt to protect her.

With one eye pinched closed and the other only open partway, she surveyed the white van with tinted windows as it sped away after running her into the light pole. As she clawed at the seat-belt buckle and fought for air, she sank against the steering wheel, every ounce of strength dripping from the bottom of her feet through the floorboard.

Maybe if she held her head between her hands, the world would stop spinning.

And maybe if the world would stop spinning, she could pull her thoughts together.

She pressed her palms harder into her forehead, but the earth still seemed to be whirling out of control. As she fell toward her car door, it suddenly disappeared, replaced by a pair of hands that cradled her against a broad chest.

“Whoa there.”

The voice was deep and strong like the hands, but she couldn’t manage to open her eyes far enough to look into his face.

“Did you hit your head?”

She rubbed it absently, unable to pinpoint if the pain came from the spinning inside or a throbbing outside. “I don’t think so.” The last word came out on a wheeze, and she pushed against the cotton covering his shoulder—his unmovable shoulder—for any ounce of space.

“Careful.” He loosened his grip, but not enough.

She managed a shallow breath. “I’m okay.”

“I’m not so sure about that. Just stay with me for a second.”

Something about his words pricked at her memory. They were familiar like a sweet dream.

“Stay with you.” She swallowed and gasped for air and with it the strength to open her eyes.

The arch of his nose and curve of his mouth were just as surprising—and welcome—as the first time she’d seen them.

“Lieutenant Sawyer?”

He shrugged the shoulder where her hand still rested. “Hello.” His eyes twinkled, and something akin to humor crossed his face. “We’ve got to stop meeting this way.”

“Why are you here?” But it didn’t really matter.

“Well...” His lips puckered to the side, a row of fine lines wrinkling his forehead as he stewed on her question. “Just in the right place at the right time.”

“Guess this means it’s all real, isn’t it?”

For a moment he looked as if he were going to play dumb, pretend he didn’t understand what she meant, but as she blinked up at his face, he nodded. “I guess so. But I wouldn’t worry about it. We’ll find him.”

Any other day, any other situation, she’d have argued with him. He was trying to pacify her, but she didn’t need it. At the moment, though, she just needed to lean into him and let him make sure she got home in one piece.

So she did.

* * *

“Thank you for your help. I don’t know how I’d have gotten home without you.”

Tristan stood two inches inside the front door of Staci’s town house on the hardwood of the entryway, staring into a sea of white. Her carpet, furniture and curtains. All of it gleamed.

Hadn’t she ever had a dog? Or a kid brother? Or a visitor?

Sterile as a hospital room.

“Sure thing. No problem.”

She looked toward the back of the house, crossing her arms over her chest and grabbing her opposite shoulders. “Can I get you a glass of water or a soda?”

“No, thanks. I should get going.” He motioned to the door. “The paramedic said you should try to get some rest. You’ll probably be pretty sore tomorrow.”

Just as his hand connected with the doorknob, she grabbed his other arm—then dropped it as if he burned her fingers. “What do I do if he comes after me again?”

He let go of the door and reached to give her elbow a reassuring squeeze before letting his hand fall to his side. She sure hadn’t appreciated his touch that afternoon. “I doubt he knows where you live. Is your name on this property?”

“No. My parents bought it as an investment property a couple years before I left for Lybania. A friend of mine stayed here while I was gone.”

That was good. Anyone could look up property owners in the county recorder’s office, but Hayes was a common name. “You’ll be safe. And your car will be in the shop for at least a week, so he won’t be able to use it to ID where you live. Do you have someone who can run errands for you, if you need?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re all set.”

“But what if...”

Her tone gouged at his stomach, and he couldn’t walk away. She wasn’t playing the part of a lost little girl nor tempting him with her feminine charm. Fear shook her voice, and those three little words carried a heavy weight of meaning.

She knew the truth as clearly as he did.

Someone was after her. And until he was caught, she wouldn’t be safe.

He closed his eyes, fighting the urge to do what he’d done in Lybania. But he couldn’t just pick her up and carry her to safety. He wasn’t supposed to have any contact with her. And explaining to his CO that he’d watched her get run off the road wasn’t going to change the rule.

She would be safe enough in her home for now. And he could turn this whole thing over to his buddy in the FBI.

But he couldn’t walk away from the tremor in her voice.

“If something happens, call me.” He moved his hand as though he was wielding a pen. “Do you have something to write on?”

She shuffled papers in a mail organizer, finally pulling out a white envelope with a clear, plastic window, shoving the paper and a pencil into his hands. He scribbled his number down and handed it back to her.

She smiled, the light never quite reaching her eyes. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He turned to go but stopped with the door only partially open. “Try to get some rest this weekend.”

She followed him to the cement slab that could hardly be called a porch, despite its overhang. “All right.”

He made it to the last of three steps before her voice stopped him again.

“Wait.”

He glanced over his shoulder, squinting into her soft features, her pink lips glistening in the evening sun.

“If I have to phone, what do I call you?” She held the envelope in front of her.

“L.T. is fine.”

“How can I trust you if I don’t even know your first name?”

His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. The last time a woman had tried so hard to get his first name, the first use she’d made of it had been to ask him out on the date that started a one-year-long relationship. She’d said his name so sweetly before she’d kissed him, slow and thorough.

That last time.

Before he’d boarded a transport and left her all by herself.

But Staci wasn’t Robin. And she certainly wouldn’t be kissing him. If there wasn’t a first, then there couldn’t be a last kiss.

“Tristan. But hardly anyone calls me that.”

“Why not?”

He put his hands on his hips, still squinting up at her from the bottom of the steps. “They just don’t. Everyone on the team has a nickname, and we use them.”

“All right.” She took a breath then quickly added, “L.T.,” as if it were an afterthought. And for a split second he wished she’d called him by his real name. “Thank you.”

She waved the envelope again, and he jogged toward his truck, suddenly eager to be away from the woman who made him think about memories that were best forgotten.

* * *

Staci left her cereal bowl on the kitchen counter at the sound of the doorbell, pulling the belt of her robe tighter around her waist as she shuffled toward the front door. Peering through the windows on both sides of the entry, she confirmed that her tiny porch was empty before unlocking the deadbolt and opening the door just enough to look into the morning sun.

The delivery man must have run back to his truck, leaving only a package by the front mat. As she bent to pick it up, every muscle in her body screamed. She groaned against the pain in her ribs and chest as her muscles flexed and tightened.

Wasn’t she supposed to be feeling better? Three days was plenty of time to recover from a car accident that didn’t even break her skin. Right?

She hefted the box, nearly dropping the unexpected weight and falling right alongside it.

Maybe three days wasn’t quite long enough.

Another try boasted better results, and she held the package against her stomach to ease the pressure on her strained back as she pushed the door closed behind her. Setting the brown paper-wrapped package on her counter, she spied the return label.

From Rebecca Meyers.

Why was her sister, Becca, sending her a package when they’d seen each other a week ago? And why had she spelled out her whole name? They’d been calling each other by their first initials since she was ten. Even now, B’s kids called her Auntie S. And even if she were going to use her name instead of her initial, Becca had never actually gone by Rebecca.

Her stomach lurched and she pressed a hand to it, suddenly uninterested in the cereal still floating in its milk.

Staci pushed the package toward the far end of the counter, staring hard at the brown paper bag used to wrap the box. Hadn’t B given up paper and plastic in favor of more environmentally friendly reusable bags?

So many things about this weren’t right.

She grabbed her phone and punched in her sister’s phone number. After four rings, B’s melodic voice singsonged, “This is Becca Meyers. Sorry I missed you. You know what to do, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“Hey, B. It’s just me. Just...um...” No cause to scare her sister. Nope. She could handle this. “Just wanted to tell you that I love you. Talk to you later.”

As she pressed the end button on her phone, her gaze flicked toward the white envelope stuck to the refrigerator, and her heart skipped a beat at the very thought of calling Tristan—L.T.

What if the box on her counter was nothing? Then she’d look stupid for taking up his time with something ridiculous. But then, what if it was something dangerous?

She backed up until she bumped into the kitchen island and then swung around that. Putting the waist-high counter between her and the package wasn’t enough, so she kept going, hoping she might suddenly get X-ray vision if she tried hard enough.

No such luck.

After a five-minute showdown with the box, she doubled her fists beneath her chin, took a deep breath and stepped back toward the counter. She’d never know what was inside if she didn’t open it.

The paper was thick and coarse as she picked it back up. And set it right back down, her heart thumping and ears ringing.

“You’re being silly.” She meant to encourage herself, but it backfired.

She’d been held hostage, had overheard a plot to blow up something and been run off the road. If being silly meant being cautious about the chance of danger, then this was the time for silliness.

Snatching the envelope from the fridge, she punched the numbers into her phone. On the second ring: “L.T.”

“This is Staci.” She quickly added, “Hayes. Staci Hayes.”

She could almost hear the sigh in his voice and see the sag in his shoulders. “What can I do for you?”

“Someone dropped a box off on my front porch this morning, and it has my sister’s return address. But I don’t think she sent it.”

“Why not?”

“She used her whole name.”

“Her whole name?” His tone clearly asked “Are you serious?” even if his words didn’t.

Of course she was serious. “We’ve always gone by nicknames, but the return address has her whole name on it. And it’s wrapped in a brown paper bag, which she’d never use.”

“How big is the box?” His voice picked up like she had his attention.

She held her hand along the side of the box. “About eight inches by eight inches.”

He must have pressed his hand over his phone, but she could still hear his words as he leaned away from it. “Willie G., get Zig and River and the bomb kit. Meet me at my truck in two minutes.”

Her stomach dropped and she scrambled back, tripping over her own feet to get out of the kitchen and away from the unknown threat. Her phone fell from limp fingers and bounced on the hardwood floor.

It squawked at her as her gaze shifted back and forth between the brown box and her black phone. She didn’t have to pick it up. She could just run. Get out of the house and call the police.

Or she could stick around and figure out who was behind her car accident and the most recent unwelcome gift.

Scooping up her phone was as painful as picking up the bomb had been. Whether from the bruise across her sternum or the rush of blood to her head, every one of her muscles throbbed.

“Staci? Are you still there?” L.T. sounded impatient.

“I dropped my phone.”

“Listen.” His tone turned softer than she’d ever heard it, yet he was still completely in control. “I need you to stay calm. Put as much distance as possible between you and that box. But do not go outside.”

She glanced down at her ratty robe. “Why?”

“Do you remember when I got you out of Lybania, and I told you to do everything I said without question?”

She nodded, her gaze still locked on the special delivery.

“Stay with me. You’ve got to do the same thing now. Trust me. We’ll be there in twenty minutes. Just go into your bathroom, close the door and get into the bathtub.”

“All right.” Her throat refused to swallow, dry and tight. “Twenty minutes?”

“Nineteen.” Something—probably his truck—roared to life. “Do you want me to stay on the phone with you?”

“I’m okay. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

He hung up without pomp, but her feet refused to move.

What if the box exploded while she stood there, tearing her home and body to shreds?

The police would find her shrouded in bits of ratty bath robe.

That was enough to get her moving, running to her room and slipping into workout pants and a long-sleeved shirt. And then into the tub.

The porcelain was hard against her back as she pulled her knees up to her chin and waited for her world to explode. She’d never get to be the aunt she wanted to be to her nieces. She’d never even have a chance to get married. She’d never know if there was a man willing to marry her despite what she couldn’t give him.

All because of that man. That man who was planning to bomb her in San Diego was also stealing her future.

She smacked her mouth against the bitterness rising in her heart and squeezed her hands into fists.

The sea-foam-green wall above the sink did nothing to calm her boiling ire, so she pinched her eyes closed and pressed her fists over her ears.

“God, don’t let me be this angry so close to meeting You.”

The words hurt her throat, but she whispered them again and again, praying for a release from the fear intent on inciting her deepest-seated resentment.

“Staci, it’s L.T.” Though his voice came from the direction of the front door, it carried to every corner of her house.

“I’m in here. In the bathroom. Like you said.”

A herd of bison ran through the foyer toward the kitchen, but she didn’t hear anyone approach her haven until the doorknob turned and popped open. Like he had the first time she saw him, Tristan filled the doorway. But this time, he leaned against the jamb and crossed his arms, his blue eyes narrow.

As he stood there, not saying a word, she shifted over and over again, the weight of his gaze making the bathtub even more uncomfortable.

She grasped for something to say. Anything.

But words failed in the face of the man who looked completely at ease while she huddled as far away from the package as she could.

Finally he broke the silence, his voice as casual as if they were making small talk in a church foyer. “What time did it arrive?”

“Um...” There was too much going on. How could she be responsible for remembering the details, too? She pinched her eyes closed and tried to remember. “Maybe ten minutes before I called you.”

“All right.”

After the short exchange, the silence physically hurt, pressing on her shoulders as she waited. Even if she had no idea what she was waiting for. “Before, on the phone, you told me not to go outside. Why?”

He glanced behind him before responding. “Any assassin worth his salt would wait around to make sure his delivery did its job. You’d have been a sitting target outside.”

“Oh.” The word had no volume, just wide eyes and an open mouth. “Did you see him when you got here?”

L.T. shook his head. “We did a quick sweep, but didn’t see anything unusual.” He shrugged a shoulder, his brown T-shirt stretching tight around the muscles in his arms. “Who knows? Maybe it’s nothing.”

Maybe he was right. Maybe she was overreacting.

Except he’d rushed over with a team of SEALs.

He didn’t really think it was nothing.

“L.T.,” one of the men called from the kitchen.

L.T. turned his back to her, but didn’t move toward the kitchen. “What is it?”

“A pipe.”

The taut muscles of his back flexed, but his voice didn’t change pitch. “Take care of it.”

“Will do.”

When he turned back toward her, L.T. still wore a Sunday-morning-church expression, calm and easygoing. “Do you want to scoot over?”

Her heart hammered, shaking every part of her. “Why? What’s a pipe?”

“Just move over.” He waved her to the side.

She slid toward the drain and faucet and he stepped into the tub, sinking down and somehow folding his long legs into the cramped space. His face twisted when he was finally in place, his shoulder just three inches from hers.

“Are you scared?” She wrapped her arms around her stomach.

“No.” So nonchalant. So confident. “But I figured you might be getting lonely in here. And if that thing explodes, I want to be right by your side.”