Читать книгу Born A Hero - Paula Detmer Riggs - Страница 11

“Get your butt in here, Dalton, and stop glaring at me.”

A captain in the U.S. Navy when he’d resigned his commission after the Vietnam War, Richard Sutter held the highest rank of the five Noble Men. In an organization as closely knit as this one, rank was a meaningless technicality, but Sutter took gleeful delight in needling his colleagues just for the fun of it. In retaliation, Jonathan and the rest of the guys ruthlessly ragged Sutter about his expanding gut.

A few inches shorter than Jonathan’s six-foot-one, with stubble-short salt-and-pepper hair, shrewd blue eyes and an imperious way of biting off his words, Richard had been instrumental in amassing the diverse flotilla of vessels available to their operatives all over the world at virtually a moment’s notice.

“Hell of a lousy way to welcome a man who saved your butt more than once, Sutter,” Jonathan growled as Richard tucked his pistol into the hollow of his spine before stepping back to allow him to enter.

In his early sixties now, the ex-captain showed few physical signs of the torturous ordeal he’d suffered after being captured during one of the missions undertaken by the group. Jonathan suspected the wounds to Richard’s psyche still troubled him on occasion, but then, all of them had scars that didn’t show.

“Just following standard operating procedure, Major,” Sutter replied with one of his rare-as-hen’s-teeth grins as they exchanged a fond handshake. “Want a beer, old man?”

Jonathan shot him a sardonic look. “Does a hound dog hunt?”

“Roger that,” Sutter snapped as he headed for the wet bar built into one corner of the suite’s living room.

At the same time, Jonathan swept his surroundings with trained eyes, memorizing exits, windows and then finally the layout of the room. More important than the spiffy furnishings, however, was the total privacy the suite offered, as well as the secure communications system.

“Fetch me another brewski while you’re at it, Cap’n,” Edward Ramsey called as he rose from one of the silver-and-blue sofas flanking a large chrome-and-glass coffee table. A solid brick of a man of medium height—and an air force major before he’d left the service—Eddie had been a top gun before that particular term had become public property. In his early sixties now, he reminded Jonathan of a feisty bulldog who still had more fight in him that most men had in their prime.

“Good to see you, Johnny,” Eddie said as they shook hands.

Jonathan grunted. “Heard your son’s making a name for himself in the skies over the Mediterranean. Flying the F-18 now, isn’t he?”

“He’s getting the job done, yeah.” Despite the unassuming words, pride glinted in Ramsey’s gray eyes, the same pride Jonathan suspected showed in his own whenever someone mentioned his own son, Jack. Not that Jack would believe that, however.

“Ah, c’mon, Eddie, we’re all friends here,” Dr. Gordon Hunter exclaimed as he, too, got to his feet in order to greet the most recent arrival. “If you can’t brag about your kids here, where else can you?” Though Gordo’s pride in his own son, Elliot, had always been obvious to all, Jonathan knew that Doc had lost a lot of sleep lately, worrying about his firstborn.

“How’s it going, Gordo?” Jonathan asked as they shook hands.

An inch or so under six feet, with intelligent gray-green eyes behind studious-looking glasses, Doc Hunter had served his country as a field surgeon in Vietnam. Leaner than most, Doc had a wiry strength that had surprised more than one opponent during past operations.

“I tell you, J.D., if I was any better, I’d be perfect,” he said with that slow mischievous grin that both charmed and disarmed—the same grin Jonathan remembered seeing on Elliot in the days before the boy’s life had been blown apart.

“Modest as always, I see, Doc,” Richard interjected as Eddie handed him a long-necked bottle of the murky Ecuadorian beer he’d discovered during a mission to that country in the late eighties.

“What’d you do, J.D., ride one of your precious cutting horses up here from Texas?” The question came from behind, triggering an instant jolt of adrenaline. In the field, Jonathan would have already dropped and rolled, his weapon drawn and ready. Fortunately, he recognized the deep voice with its distinctive Southwestern twang and allowed himself a grin.

“Nope, took that little bitty Gulfstream I picked up a few months back for weekend trips.”

“Damn, and here I was thinkin’ you’d slowed down some.”

At fifty-four, Caleb Stone was the baby of the group. An even six feet tall and incredibly fit, Cal had the kind of brooding dark looks and remarkable leaf-green eyes that women found irresistible. At least, that’s what Gordo’s wife, Helena, had told Jonathan once during one of their rare social get-togethers.

Never married, Cal had been drafted right out of high school in the Four Corners area of Arizona. Before leaving for Vietnam, he had sired a son with a young Navajo woman who’d died while he was trying to get his bearings after rotating home. He and his boy had a rocky relationship that Cal regretted deeply, though, like the rest of them, he rarely spoke of his feelings.

“So what’s going down in Montebello this time, Johnny?” Cal asked as he ambled toward the group with a loose-jointed athletic stride Jonathan envied.

“King Marcus is worried the feud with Tamir is heating up again. He wants to talk strategy before he takes action.”

It was a damned Romeo and Juliet mess, this thing between the royal families of Montebello and Tamir. For over one hundred twenty years the rulers of these two small, but prosperous, island kingdoms located within spitting distance of one another in the eastern part of the Mediterranean Sea had been at sword’s point, wrangling over a chunk of land on the western end of Montebello.

It seemed anachronistic now, raging a blood feud over what had originally been set aside as dowry for a princess. An extremely valuable dowry, Jonathan had to admit, given the considerable oil reserves and mineral deposits that currently existed on the land. Marcus had told him the story years ago when the then crown prince had asked their fledgling organization for help to stop rebel factions on the Arabian peninsula from taking over Montebello.

In the way of aristocratic families in the nineteenth century, King Augustus Sebastiani of Montebello and Sheik Mukhtar Kamal had arranged a marriage between Delia Sebastiani and Sheik Omar in order to form a political and economic alliance between traditionally warring neighbors. However, the land promised as dowry remained in Sebastiani hands when Sheik Omar had been mysteriously killed before the wedding could take place. Mired in grief, Delia had taken her own life.

More than a century later, the tragic drama continued. Just last fall the king had announced his intention to give the disputed land to his son, Crown Prince Lucas, in the hope that it would spur the bachelor prince to think more seriously about marrying and producing an heir. Then late in January, during a blinding snowstorm, Lucas had gone down in a private plane over the Colorado Rockies. Though the wreckage had been found a month later, the prince’s body was missing despite an all-out search.

Cal’s mouth thinned. “Is Sheik Ahmed Kamal rattling his scimitar again?”

Jonathan nodded. “Seems he’s revising that old claim that Montebello rightfully belongs to Tamir.”

Richard snorted. “Hell, those families have been wrangling over that blasted dowry land for more than a century. Kamal’s side has come up short every time. What makes him think he has a better chance than his ancestors to make it stick?”

“Seems in spite of all the security types guarding both families, the sheik’s firstborn son, Rashid, managed to get real cozy with Princess Julia. In fact, he apparently got her pregnant with Kamal’s first grandbaby.”

Eddie whistled through his teeth as he handed Jonathan a bottle of dark lager, his favorite. As unofficial mess steward, Ramsey prided himself on laying in a goodly supply of everyone’s favorite eats and drinks. “What’s Rashid have to say about this?”

“According to Marc, Sheik Rashid suddenly dropped out of sight right after the two of them had, uh, done the deed. That was six weeks ago, give or take a few days.” Jonathan settled into one of the overstuffed chairs and leaned back before allowing himself a long, soothing swallow of lager. “Kamal’s making the case that with Prince Lucas missing and presumed dead, this child, if it’s a boy, will be heir to the throne. And since he claims Rashid is the baby’s father, by both Montebellan and Tamirian law what belongs to the baby belongs to him.”

“To that bastard Kamal, you mean.” Richard’s voice was ripe with disgust. “What time did the king’s aide say to expect his call?”

“Any moment now.”

As if on cue, the phone rang.

“Ah, my dear friends, it is good to hear your voices again.”

King Marcus Sebastiani had a melodious baritone and a Cambridge accent acquired during his school years at that prestigious university. His words were as clear as a bell coming through the speaker phone on the coffee table.

In contrast, Jonathan’s Texas twang had been ruined long ago by the harsh Turkish cigarettes he’d chain-smoked for forty years. “Good to hear yours, too, Your Majesty. Any further news on Prince Lucas?”

“Unfortunately, no, but we will never give up hope. In the meantime, I must attend to my duty to my people, which is why I have asked for this consultation.” His heavy sigh whispered through the speaker. “My advisors and myself believe that maggot-brained back end of a donkey is even now planning action against us.”

“Sutter here, Your Majesty. Any idea what kind of action?”

“Marc, please, gentlemen. Or have you forgotten how we dodged bullets and crawled together through the mud?”

Gordo Hunter chuckled before adding, “Ate a good coupla pounds of that same mud, as I recall.”

“Indeed.” The men in the room exchanged grins before narrowing their focus when the king spoke again. “My chief of security has received what we believe are extremely reliable reports from several key agents, suggesting that Kamal intends to have Julia kidnapped and kept in seclusion until she delivers the child. We have taken steps to protect her, of course, but we cannot protect all our citizens in the same way.”

“Ed Ramsey here, Marc. Have your agents heard tell of any terrorist groups showing up in Tamir anytime during the last few weeks?”

“No, but one of our best operatives, who has become, shall we say, intimate with one of Kamal’s top generals, just sent word that the man is even now planning a massive amphibious-landing training exercise to be held within the next few days. He—” The king was interrupted by what sounded to trained ears like a muffled explosion.

“Marc? Your Majesty, are you all right?” Dalton asked urgently.

When the king came on the line again, his voice was filled with both rage and urgency. “Gentlemen, I have just been informed that a bomb has gone off in the civilian square just two blocks from the palace. It destroyed a building, trapping people inside. There will surely be casualties.” His voice shook slightly as he added, “Gordo, I fear we will need your skills yet again.”

While the others formulated a plan of action to get the appropriate personnel into place quickly, Gordon consulted by phone with the chief of staff of King Augustus Hospital, where even now the injured were being brought by ambulance and private vehicle.

A graduate of Yale Medical School, Dr. Guiseppe Andretti was considered Montebello’s premier cardiologist. Gordon had spent time with him on several occasions while on business and pleasure trips to Montebello over the years. A rotund, jocular sort, Gus, as he had been called since his days in the States, was a first-rate administrator, as well as an excellent surgeon.

From what Gordon had learned so far, the scene at the bombing site was chaotic, with frantic relatives pouring into the area and rescue workers bumping into each other in an attempt to dig victims from the rubble. Andretti had called in all available staff. Unfortunately, a particularly virulent strain of influenza was currently making its way through the capital city, afflicting a good third of hospital personnel.

“So we’re agreed, the first priority is additional surgeons, especially head and bone docs,” Gordon summed up after consulting his notes.

“Agreed.” Although Dr. Andretti spoke calmly, even crisply, Gordon heard a note of underlying urgency in his voice. “Trauma experience would be especially helpful in all areas, of course. Most of the staff here has very little experience with the kinds of massive injuries we’ve seen in several of the twelve victims in house so far.”

“Duly noted, Doctor,” Gordon said, his mind already clicking through the list of field surgeons and specialists available to the Noble Men. It was, he realized grimly, a very short list. “I’ll get right on it.”

“One more thing, Doctor,” Andretti said as Gordon was about to disconnect, “according to one of the paramedics at the scene, a woman who had left the restaurant only minutes before the blast reported that she’d been seated next to a young couple with an infant. A little girl, I believe, around seven or eight months old.”

“Damn,” Gordon said softly. “I don’t suppose this child has been rescued?”

“Not yet. Unfortunately, we’re thin on experienced pediatric surgeons at the moment as well.”

“I’m sure you understand we seldom have a call for this kind of medic,” Gordon replied tersely, “but I know someone back home in California who would be outstanding. Her name is Dr. Katherine Remson. I’ll give her a call and see if she’s available.”

“Tell her we’ll pay anything she asks, only for God’s sake, get her here as soon as you can. God willing, if that baby is pulled out alive, we don’t want to lose her simply because we don’t have the proper personnel.” Andretti’s voice sharpened. “No matter what happens politically, we must keep these people alive.”

A haze of smoke and weariness permeated the hotel suite’s center room as five somber-faced men sprawled on chairs and couches. Clothes were rumpled, eyes stung, stubborn jaws sported a day’s growth of bristly whiskers, and throats were raw from too much smoke and talk. No one had even considered sleep. Gallons of coffee had been brewed and drunk while they worked out a strategy in this chess game between sworn enemies. Living on adrenaline and caffeine was second nature now, though it had been months since they’d been tested.

“Damn, these all-nighters used to be more fun,” Eddie Ramsey grumbled.

“Everything used to be more fun,” Richard said. “Let’s face it, guys, we’re getting old.”

“Speak for yourself,” Caleb declared as he poured himself a cup of fresh coffee from the carafe Jonathan had just set in the middle of the table. “Me, I’m in my prime.”

“In your dreams, Stone,” Gordo retorted.

After pacing the room, Jonathan lowered himself awkwardly into a chair. His hip was giving him fits, but he’d been reluctant to take the medication that dulled his mind along with the pain. “You guys can blow smoke all you want,” he said as he unfolded his napkin, “but me, I’m ready to admit I’ve had it with field work.”

“Amen, brother,” Richard muttered.

“Okay, hotshots. If we give up the field, who’s going to take our places?” Cal challenged.

“Funny you should ask,” Gordon told him with a grin. “I’m seriously considering asking Elliot to handle the medical end in Montebello.” He paused. “According to the Medics Without Limits scheduling clerk I rousted out of bed a couple of minutes ago, he’s taking R and R in Spain as we speak. Depending on transport, he could be on scene in a matter of hours.”

Jonathan regarded him with thoughtful eyes. “You think he can handle this kind of assignment?”

“I know he’s rock steady in the OR, which is what’s desperately needed in Montebello at the moment. How he would react under more extreme mission conditions is another question. Maybe the best thing is to take it one step at a time, see how he handles this, before talking to him about joining us.”

The room fell silent as the others considered. Coffee cups clinked against saucers for a good five minutes before Jonathan broke the silence. Although the Noble Men had no official leadership hierarchy, as the man who’d gathered them together into a cohesive force, he was considered the group’s de facto commander.

“Sounds reasonable to me,” he stated, his drawl more prevalent than usual, a sign of weariness they all recognized. “In fact, I’ve been toying with the idea of bringing Jack into the mix now and then. Provided he’d be interested.”

“Hell, we’ve all been thinking about bringing our boys into the fold,” Eddie declared, glancing around the table with eyes habitually attuned to the smallest flicker of emotion in friend and foe alike. “Me, I don’t mind admitting it’s something in the nature of a dream for me, the thought of working closely with my boy.”

“Maybe it is time we gave this some serious thought,” Richard mused aloud. “This thing in Montebello could be a good testing ground, at least for Gordo’s boy and maybe some of the others.”

“Then we’re agreed—Elliot gets a call?” Gordon asked, his emotions tangling despite the calm deliberately layered into his voice.

“Agreed,” Jonathan said immediately.

“Works for me,” Cal said as he refilled his cup. The others chimed in with various comments, all of which were affirmative.

Gordon excused himself to make the call. He only hoped to hell he wasn’t asking more of his son than Elliot could bear.

Elliot wasn’t dead. He knew that because some sadistic SOB was presently pounding a dull railroad spike into the cavity behind his eyeballs.

He opened his eyes slowly, then winced at the sudden glare of daylight filtering through ancient venetian blinds. The .44 was on the pillow next to him. Still fully loaded.

Nothing had changed. He still wanted to die. So why hadn’t he pulled the trigger? His dad’s voice, that’s why, shouting in his head. Remember this if you never remember anything else, son—as long as he has breath in his body and blood in his veins, a real man never surrenders.

A real man? Hell, Elliot had ended up crying himself to sleep like a two-year-old terrified of monsters in the night. The inside of his eyelids felt raw, and he was pretty sure he must have swallowed sandpaper while he slept. One arm was numb, and his gut was full of greasy eels.

Slowly he rolled to his back, then waited out a sudden rush of nausea. He figured he could make it down the hall to the can before his stomach revolted—as long as no one was foolish enough to get in his way.

It took some doing, but he managed to sit up and get his feet on the floor without upchucking. He’d just braced one hand on the night table and was working up his courage to push himself to his feet when the cell phone next to his hand suddenly rang.

Something resembling cymbals crashed in his head, and he let out a pitiful groan. Damn thing, why hadn’t he tossed it after buying the bottle? What does a dead man need with a cell phone, anyway?

He was giving serious thought to smashing the miserable thing before the conscience he’d never quite wrestled into silence kicked him into answering.

The smell of chlorine and sex swirled around their heated bodies. His mouth was hot on hers as tension built to a feverish pitch inside her. Her soft, eager moans mingled with the soft humming of the filter behind the pool house wall. Strong, skillful hands lightly stroked the sensitive curve of her inner thighs, sending warm ribbons of mindless pleasure swirling through her naked body.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, his voice thick and urgent.

“Yes, oh yes, Elliot. Please love me, please. I want you….”

His broad chest radiated heat as he pressed her deeply into the thick cushion of the pool house lounge. The hair covering his pectoral muscles rubbed against her small breasts. Awash in pleasure, she writhed, desperate to find relief from the sweet pressure in all the private places inside.

“Spread your legs for me, Katydid. Let me inside you.” His voice was harsh, his breathing labored. His dear face was taut with strain, his eyes dark with an almost savage need.

“I love you,” she cried as he plunged into her, rending intimate flesh and ending her innocence.

The phone by the bed was ringing. Kate jerked awake to discover her fingers clutching the pillow, her breath coming in harsh gasps. A quick glance at the clock had her letting out a heartfelt groan. Not quite 6:00 a.m., it was far too early to be waking on the last day of her vacation.

She was definitely not on call, so it couldn’t be the clinic. Heaven help the person on the other end if this was a telemarketing call. Accustomed to phones ringing at all hours, she took a moment to clear her throat and focus her mind before sitting up to reach for the receiver.

“Dr. Remson,” she said crisply.

“Katherine, this is Gordon Hunter. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Shock rendered her speechless for a full second before she found her voice. “Uh, no, not at all, Dr. Hunter. Is…is something wrong?”

“Yes, I’m afraid it is.” Before she could give voice to the questions already jamming her head, he went on. “Are you near a TV set?”

“Yes, why?” She glanced at the small set on her dresser.

“Turn on CNN and then we’ll talk.”

“Just a sec.” She fumbled for the remote control device on the Mission oak table by her bed, then switched on the set and surfed quickly to the right channel. An instant later stark images of a scene reminiscent of the Oklahoma City bombing filled the screen. Her breath caught as the camera panned to a shot of a tiny pink sneaker half buried under a mound of debris.

As she stared at the shifting images, a hole opened in her stomach, and her heart picked up speed. “Oh my God, Doctor, what happened?”

“A bomb went off in a popular restaurant in the center of Montebello’s capital city of San Sebastian della Rosa. It appears a number of people having breakfast were buried. No one knows for sure how many.”

Kate watched in horror as rescue workers in hard hats and surgical masks dug frantically through what appeared to be a mountain of rubble.

“Montebello? Isn’t that one of those islands in the Mediterranean near Saudi Arabia?”

“Yes, it’s next to Tamir, where the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries met a few years back.”

“Wasn’t Montebello pro-West during Desert Storm?”

“Indeed. As a matter of fact, I have some investments there, and King Marcus Sebastiani is an acquaintance of mine. He called to ask my help in locating surgeons to help treat the victims the rescue workers think will be pouring in soon—including several children, I’m told. I was hoping you’d be available to help.”

Children? She thought of that tiny sneaker and her heart sank at the damage falling debris could do to delicate bones. Oh God. Of course she wanted to help, provided she could juggle her responsibilities as the children’s clinic chief of staff.

Quickly she ran through a mental checklist of the surgeries she had scheduled for the next two weeks. None were critical, nor were they so complicated she would hesitate to turn them over to her associates. Of lesser importance were a staff meeting next week and a routine appointment with the clinic’s accountant. Both were easily postponed.

“I’m available,” she declared finally. “I’ll have to make arrangements with my associates to cover for me for the next two weeks, but the clinic staff is terrific at improvising.” She took a fast breath. “Sarah and I just got back around midnight last night from a week in Baja, and I haven’t unpacked more than my toothbrush. Provided I can get reservations, I can leave sometime today.”

“Don’t worry about reservations. I took a chance you’d agree and made your travel arrangements for you. A car will pick you up at nine-thirty, and one of the king’s planes is already on its way to San Francisco Airport. It will be landing at SFO at ten-thirty, and after a quick refueling, will return to San Sebastian immediately. Weather permitting, you’ll be in Montebello before the sun sets.”

“You must have been fairly sure I’d say yes,” she muttered, more than a little awestruck.

Relief was audible in his voice. “Let’s say I was hopeful. You’ll be met and briefed when you land.” There was a momentary pause before he added softly, “Bless you, Katie Remson. I know a lot of desperate people in Montebello will be very happy to find out you’re on your way.”

As Gordon hung up, his conscience reared its ugly head. A man who believed in fair play would have told her that Elliot was even now in another of the king’s personal planes.

Believing in his children’s right to privacy, Gordon had never let on to either Kate or Elliot that ten years ago he’d seen her leaving the pool house at dawn, her face streaked with tears. The same pool house from which Elliot had emerged a few minutes later, his face white and his expression grim. For days afterward, Elliot had lashed out at everyone like a badly wounded animal. Helena was sure he’d somehow hurt Katie very badly.

Gordon had a gut feeling Helena was bang on this time. Until the morning in question, Kate had routinely joined them for family celebrations. Indeed, both he and Helena loved the girl like a second daughter. After that morning, however, on those rare occasions when Elliott came home for a visit, Kate invariably had “other plans.”

Sorry, Katie, he told her silently as he gave a thumbs-up to the weary men watching him with bloodshot eyes. Personal feelings don’t mean squat when children’s lives are at stake. Still, Gordon couldn’t help saying a quick prayer that neither of these decent, caring people would end up getting hurt again….