SEAL Under Siege

TWO

Two weeks later

Staci ran her hand over the side of her face in a vain attempt to cover the still-red scar in front of her ear—left by a particularly unpleasant guard the day before her rescue. Forcing her hands back to her lap, she smoothed out the wrinkled lines of her skirt, tugging on the hem. After two years of following Lybanian laws and covering every inch of her body except her face, the skirt that hit below her knees felt too short.

She pulled the sleeves of her cardigan sweater down to her wrists in turn. Anything to keep her mind off the man she was waiting to see.

But he didn’t know she was coming for a visit.

And she didn’t even know his name.

The walls of the brightly lit office were devoid of windows, like the cell she’d endured for weeks. But this wasn’t Lybania. It wasn’t a cell.

She was free to leave.

Except she had to see him. The man who had rescued her. The only one who might agree to help her. She’d tried to talk to the public affairs officer assigned to the mission, a local policeman and even her congressman.

No one would take her seriously.

The public affairs officers hadn’t even listened to her—too busy briefing her about the next interview.

The desk officer at her local precinct had agreed to take her statement but then had stared at her evidence with clear disinterest. To be sure, the foreign words on it probably looked like nothing more than scribbles to him, but she had hoped the map itself would make him take her seriously. It hadn’t. The drawing had been too vague, too imprecise. Too easy to write off. He’d made a dismissive offer to pass the scrap of paper to a detective for review, but she wasn’t about to leave the only evidence of the upcoming danger with a man who seemed more concerned with jaywalkers than terrorists.

As for her congressman... Well, his secretary had expressed appropriate concern for Staci’s recent ordeal, but had made it clear that the congressman’s calendar was full. The unspoken message was that the congressman had no time to deal with delusional constituents.

“It’s normal for rescued hostages to deal with post-traumatic stress disorder,” the PAO had said. “I can recommend a few very good counselors to help you deal with the stress of your ordeal and the ensuing media firestorm.”

It wasn’t stress. She wasn’t hallucinating.

Her last chance was the lieutenant who had carried her to safety. Maybe he’d believe her. Maybe he could help her.

A woman at the commissary on base had told her that some of the SEALs of Team FIFTEEN had offices in this building.

She’d wait until she saw someone familiar. Or until someone realized she’d skipped out on the interview training she was supposed to be attending with the PAO and kick her out.

At the far end of a long hallway lined with offices, a metal door clanged open, rattling the walls of the trailer. A swarm of men entered, laughing and pounding each other on the back, each in matching tan T-shirts and brown camouflage pants.

How could she possibly recognize her rescuer if they all looked alike?

What if he wasn’t as handsome as she remembered? What if his eyes weren’t as blue or his hair as boyishly tousled? Or his smile as kind and his features as perfectly put together as they had seemed to be under that black paint? After all, he’d ridden in like a knight on a white horse at a time when she was almost too afraid to think. He couldn’t possibly be as attractive as her hazy memories of that night recalled.

The group of men drew near, clearly not aware of her presence, so she stood and grabbed on to the bottom of her sweater for support. Suddenly the short man at the front of the group stopped, holding up his hand to signal that all of the dozen or so should do the same. And they did, as if they’d practiced this single move every day for a year. Conversation ceased, and she quivered under the weight of so many eyes.

“How’d you get in here?”

She pointed over her shoulder, half turning toward the trailer’s front door before thinking better of spilling the whole story. It was best to just ask for what she wanted to know. “I’m trying to find a lieutenant.”

The man at the front squinted at her, his scowl growing. “We have a couple of those, but none you’d like very well. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I’m looking for a specific one. But...well...” She stared at her clasped hands just long enough to build up the courage to look back into the wall of men. “I’m afraid I don’t know his name. I’m Staci, Staci Hayes. And there was a SEAL, a lieutenant, I believe, who rescued me in Lybania.”

“L.T., do you want to take this one?”

Like the Red Sea parting when Moses lifted his staff, the men moved against the walls until a familiar figure walked down the aisle. His gait easy and confident, he squinted at her until he’d reached the front of the pack, his hands resting loosely on his hips.

“Ms. Hayes, what can I do for you?”

She held out her hand, hoping he’d take it, hoping she looked less foolish than she felt.

He glanced down at her hand, and when his eyes rose, they stole her breath. There was no mistaking this was the man who had rescued her. His eyes weren’t friendly, but they hadn’t been two weeks ago, either. Then and now, they were focused and direct—taking in the situation at hand. At least she had his attention.

“I’m Staci.” She pushed her hand farther forward, ignoring the lump in her throat as her fingers passed the halfway point between them.

He nodded to the group still congregated behind him. “They call me L.T.” His eyes searched her face, finally lighting on her right side, on the scar that the doctor had said would probably always be visible.

She pulled back the hand that he obviously wasn’t going to shake, and used it to cover the scar, staring at the floor in front of his feet. Apparently he wasn’t going to give her his name, no matter how hard he stared at her. All right. She didn’t need his name. Just his help.

“May we speak?” She glanced around his muscled shoulder—the same one she’d been slung over—into the faces of his men. “In private.”

His face pinched for a moment, all the air in the trailer suddenly vanishing. Still he stared at her, his eyes roaming from her hair to her feet and back. It wasn’t an obnoxious assessment, or even inappropriate. Clearly he was a man used to knowing what was coming, and her surprise visit didn’t suit him.

The silence dragged on for what felt like hours, but all of the men remained motionless. She didn’t even catch one blinking. Perfectly silent. Perfectly still.

By comparison, she felt like a camel in a crystal store, every straightening of her sweater or twitch of her neck amplified, every shuffle of her foot echoing to the farthest corner of the hall. But she couldn’t seem to stop moving.

A strange habit she’d picked up during her time in captivity. Movement meant she was still alive. It gave her something to focus on in that pit, something to touch when she’d almost forgotten the feel of her own skin.

Now she was a hummingbird among ravens. Why couldn’t she stop drawing attention to herself?

Wrapping her arms around her stomach, she held her breath and pinched her eyes closed until the man responded.

“All right.” Her eyes flew open, and he nodded toward the nearest office with a wide window looking into the hallway.

He held out his hand, and she scurried in the direction he indicated. As she passed him, he cupped a hand under her elbow, and she flinched. Once he’d closed the door behind them, he spun on her, his eyes flashing with an intensity sharper than a sword. “Are you still injured?”

Her hand got to her shoulder before she realized she was going for her scar again. “No. Why do you ask?”

“Out there in the hallway, you flinched when I touched you. Did that hurt? Did the bullet do serious damage?”

“Oh.” She bit her bottom lip. How was she supposed to explain that she still wasn’t used to human touch? After three weeks of only painful interactions, even her mother’s hug felt unnatural. “Um...no. It didn’t hurt. The doctor on the aircraft carrier said it was a clean exit. I’m fine.”

He ran his hand over his face, the sinewy muscles of his forearm bunching and pulling taut as he stared at the ceiling and blew out a slow breath. “Ms. Hayes, what are you doing here? This—” He flicked his finger back and forth between them. “This isn’t allowed. You’re not supposed to be here. We aren’t supposed to communicate once the mission is over. Didn’t the PAO tell you that?”

“I know.”

“Where are you supposed to be right now?” His brows furrowed, compassion transforming his features.

She looked away from the Pacific blue of his eyes, her words caught in her throat.

“How’d you get on the base?”

She wheezed around the lump sitting on top of her airway, hugging her sweater in place. “I was supposed to have an interview prep course with the lieutenant commander in the public affairs office.”

He marched to the far side of the desk, the only significant piece of furniture in the room, glanced at her over his shoulder and began pacing, hands grasped behind his back. “I understand that you’ve been through a serious ordeal, and I’m sorry that you had to go through that. But I’m not allowed any private contact with you.” He scrubbed his face again with an open palm, still not looking in her direction.

It was easier to think and speak when he wasn’t staring her down, so she rushed to tell him everything. “Do you remember the last thing I said to you that night?”

He stopped but kept his head straight forward. “I do.” With the shake of his head, he ran his fingers through his pale brown hair. “You were under a lot of stress, and you’d been imprisoned for weeks. It isn’t unusual to hallucinate under those kinds of conditions.”

“I wasn’t hallucinating.”

He turned back toward her, but she couldn’t meet his gaze. It was too disarming. So she looked around the room, searching for something—anything—to help steer this conversation where it needed to go.

Hugging her arms around her stomach, she took a deep breath. If she didn’t lay it all on the line now, there might not be a later.

“You said I was safe. You said you’d protect me.”

“I did. You made it safely home, didn’t you?” His words were short but not unkind.

“I made it home, anyway.”

Those blue eyes sliced into hers.

“What does that mean?” His lips barely moved.

“Someone has been following me, and I think it’s the same man from Lybania.”

“The one who will know that you know?” His arms crossed over his broad chest, the sleeves of his T-shirt pulling snug around his biceps. He looked so intimidating. If he hadn’t leaned toward her, head cocked in concern, she’d have turned and run.

She nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“Did you call the police? Tell them you’re being stalked, and they can look into it for you. They can handle things like that.”

“I did call the police. They wouldn’t help me. I promise you’re the last person I want to bother with this, but I don’t have anywhere else to turn.”

He sighed, dropping his hands to his side. “So, who is this guy?”

“Um...” She bit her lip and looked down at her sandals. “I don’t know.”

His eyebrows shot up his forehead, which wrinkled in even ripples. She could read the doubt on his face. He probably thought she saw a Middle Eastern man behind her in line for coffee, and that fear made her jump to the conclusion that he was following her. His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “I think you need to talk to someone about this. The PAO could probably recommend a counselor.”

Her blood boiled at his condescension, and her apprehension evaporated. Taking a deep breath in through her nose, she pushed it out through tight lips.

If she had any idea how to face down the man following her on her own, she would. But since she didn’t, she had to convince the lieutenant to help.

Taking a firm step toward him, she pointed her finger toward his chest, but stopped about two feet short of touching him. She wasn’t that brave. “Listen to me. I’m in trouble, but it’s not just me. I don’t know the name of the man who’s after me, but I know that I heard him plotting to blow up something here in San Diego.”

“Do you speak Arabic?”

“Just enough to get by for two years in Lybania.”

He squinted at her, leaning toward her still-outstretched finger. “Then how do you know you didn’t misunderstand what he said?”

“He was speaking English.”

* * *

Tristan snapped his full focus on Staci at her words. “Was he American?”

“Yes.” She didn’t hesitate.

Could she be telling the truth? “How do you know?”

“How would you know an American? He spoke like an American, used words like an American.”

“Did he have an accent?”

She looked toward the ceiling, worrying her lip between her teeth before answering. “Not that I noticed. He wasn’t from the South or Boston or New Jersey. He sounded like a national newscaster, polished and smooth.”

Rats. This girl honestly thought she’d overheard something. Whether she was really being stalked or not, there was no denying she thought she was in trouble.

But he wasn’t the right one to help her. Getting involved in something like this could only spell trouble—mostly with his commanding officer, who had already warned him once about being too friendly with rescued hostages.

He scrubbed his fingers along his scalp, a vain attempt to relieve some of the pressure building there. She wasn’t supposed to be there. He was breaking all the rules already by speaking one-on-one with a rescued hostage. If his CO found out, he’d be knee-deep in a serious mess, and no matter how pretty she was, she wasn’t worth risking being grounded for the next mission or worse.

He didn’t like telling a scared woman that he couldn’t help her, but what other choice did he have? It was highly likely that the danger was all in her mind, even though she’d convinced herself that it was real. It would be wrong to give up the chance to go on missions that made a real difference just to help her fight imaginary enemies.

She flicked a strand of dark hair over her shoulder, blinking huge green eyes up at him. Her full, pink lips pressed together, wrinkling her nose slightly. It took everything inside him not to smile at her, to put her at ease and give her the assurance she craved.

But that wouldn’t do either of them any good.

“Look, Ms. Hayes, I am sorry that you went through that experience. I’m sorry about what happened to you in Lybania, but I already did as much as I can for you. Now you have to keep living your life. Do you have a pastor or priest you could talk with? Maybe he could help you work through this.”

Her shoulders fell, the last remnant of hope in her features vanishing. “All right. Thank you for your time.”

She turned, shuffling toward the office door, and a band around his heart squeezed. He’d done the right thing sending her away. So why did it feel so wrong?

Just as she reached the door, she tucked a hand into the pocket of her colorful skirt. As she spun on the spot, she held out something that she’d pulled from within. “I almost forgot. One of the guards dropped this in my cell after talking to the American man.”

He reached for the scrap of paper and unfolded it to reveal a crude sketch.

“Doesn’t it look kind of like—”

“—the harbor,” he finished for her. There could be no doubt about the docks and shoreline. He’d run along the beaches in the sketch for nearly ten years. He knew every ship and slip.

And apparently someone else did, too.

“But I don’t know what that says.” She pointed toward a line of scrawled symbols.

He squinted at the text. “It’s not Arabic, but it’s not far off, either.” He pointed to the third and fourth word on the page. “This looks like one and two, but it’s not. It’s different.”

“You read Arabic?”

He glanced up from the words written on the map. “Enough.” That was a bit of an understatement. He was actually almost fluent in it and could read nearly anything. But she didn’t need to know that. A few secrets always came in handy.

“I think it’s a dialect from the hill country. I only picked up a few words of the different dialects while I was there, but it would seem to fit.”

He nodded. “Might be right.” So why was someone writing in Lybanese on a map of his harbor? His gut clenched as he realized her story might be true after all. But why would they be after Staci? Who would think her a real threat?

“What did you overhear exactly?”

Her eyes shone for just a moment before she blinked her hope back under control. “One of the guards said something about the pieces needed to build the bomb. He said they had almost everything they needed, and when it went off, everyone would know they wouldn’t be intimidated by America’s military. And then the American said he’d place it, and it would be just like fireworks.”

That wasn’t much to go on. “What else?”

She chewed her lip again, running a finger over the side of her face for the tenth time. “I guess they were talking about this map. I think the American was pointing out landmarks and such.”

“Then what happened?”

“They were still talking when someone else came into my cell.”

His stomach jolted, his hands forming fists completely on their own. He didn’t want to know, but he had to ask. “What did he do?”

“He tried to get me to confess to breaking the law by giving away bibles. When I wouldn’t confess, he left and the other guy, the one who had been talking to the American, came in to take his turn. He was angry I wouldn’t give in, and I don’t think he noticed when he dropped the map. I scooped it up when he had his back turned. After that, everything is kind of fuzzy until you showed up.”

“You mean, this all happened the day of your rescue?”

She nodded.

“Did the Timmonses hear the American, too?”

“No.” She locked her hands in front of her, her skirt swishing like a bell as she swayed. “They had separated us after our second week.”

“Why?”

She looked away, and he felt the gut punch as sure as if one of the other guys on his team had thrown it. That was a stupid question. Pretty girls in Lybania being held by ruthless terrorists...

He’d seen enough of that country to know, and he could only pray that she’d been spared the worst, that her physical scars were deeper than her emotional and spiritual ones.

His pulse pounded in his ears, suddenly ready for a fight. But he’d already taken on the guys responsible for the pink spreading over her cheeks and the bright red scar in front of her ear that she kept trying to cover.

“It wasn’t anything like what...” Her voice trailed off, and she cleared her throat. “That is, they were waiting for someone. For their leader, I think.” The pink in her cheeks turned into flames.

Thank God his team had rescued her when it had.

But even if she’d avoided the physical attack, knowing what was coming had to have left a few emotional scars. It was brave of her to have taken the map in the first place. At a time when she’d been at such high risk herself, she’d thought of others, and had tried to gather evidence she’d hoped to use to keep people safe. That said a lot about her. And it made him even more reluctant to turn her away.

Maybe he could look into this in his free time. He didn’t have any training missions on the schedule for the next few weeks. Could it hurt to at least keep his eyes and ears open for an American placing a bomb somewhere in San Diego that would send a message to America’s military? It was a huge city and highly unlikely he’d see anything, but at least he could put her mind at ease.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“You will?” Her voice skyrocketed, and she plastered a smile into place.

“Yes.” He looked at the door then back at her. “Leave me your phone number, and I’ll call you if I find out anything.”

“And how should I contact you?”

“Through your PAO. She’ll pass any messages to me.”

“And who should I ask her to pass them to?”

She hadn’t missed a beat and was intent on getting his name. “Lieutenant Sawyer.”

“All right.” She scribbled her phone number on a sticky note and handed it to him before opening the office door. “Thank you, Lieutenant Sawyer. For two weeks ago and for today.”

“You’re welcome, Ms. Hayes.”

“Please call me Staci.”

“All right.”

As she flounced out the door, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. Her dark curls bounced with every step, her shoulders in perfect posture. She may have sustained a flesh wound to the arm and a cut on her face, but her three weeks as a hostage hadn’t damaged her backbone.

When the outside door of the trailer clanged shut, he walked back to his office, ignoring the stares of Willie G. and Zach—Zig—McCloud.

Zig whistled low and long, elbowing his teammate in the ribs. “I guess it pays to have rank. I’d go to the academy, too, if I had pretty girls like that coming to thank me.”

“What’d she give you?”

Tristan clutched the scrap of paper in his hand, forcing down the knot in his stomach. It shouldn’t matter that they were teasing him. He’d sure teased them over the past couple years.

But Staci Hayes wasn’t a SEAL groupie. She didn’t hang around the pool hall waiting for a SEAL to show up. She hadn’t gone looking for a warrior.

He’d gone looking for her.

And she deserved better than the speculation of two of his men. “Willie G. and Zig, go clean up the training boats.”

Zig opened his mouth, about ready to argue, then realized that it wasn’t a request but an order.

“Yes, sir.”

They stalked off, leaving him some time alone with the crude map and a head full of questions. As he sank into his desk chair and leaned back until it popped, he replayed Staci’s words over and over. Had there really been an American man consorting with Lybanian terrorists? If so, where on this map were they planning to place the bomb they’d mentioned? And what did the message on the map really mean? Thousands of hours practicing languages were useless if he couldn’t read the one in front of him.

The map didn’t contain a convenient X to mark the spot or even a circle to pinpoint which part of the coast might see the explosion. But it did contain the coastline of Coronado Island. From the airport to the naval stations, Harbor Drive, and even the golf course.