Headed for Trouble

WHEN ALYSSA AND SAM MET THE DENTIST


Autumn 2003

This story takes place after Gone Too Far and before Flashpoint.

Sam was hovering.

He’d already made up a multitude of excuses to come into the bathroom while Alyssa was in the shower, and now, while she brushed her teeth, he lurked just outside the door.

She’d scared him tonight.

They took turns when out on assignment. Tonight, Sam had been on lookout, hiding on the hillside, watching for headlights that would announce an approaching car, as Alyssa jimmied the cheap lock on the door to Steve Hathaway’s ramshackle cabin.

The place had been deserted. In fact, this entire part of the county was deserted—they were at least forty miles west of the booming metropolis of New Hope, in northern New Hampshire, population 473 at the height of ski season.

Getting inside that cabin undetected had been laughably easy.

Alyssa now dried her face on the plush resort towel as Sam checked up on her for the twenty-seventh time since they’d returned to their suite here in the ski lodge.

“I’m really okay,” she told him.

“I know,” he said.

Sam bent over backward to make sure he never said anything that might make her think he doubted her ability to take care of herself.

Earlier tonight, when she’d pushed open that cabin door, switched on her penlight and gone inside, Sam had spoken into his radio from his perch on the hill.

“Lys, I can’t see you.” He’d worked hard to keep his voice sounding calm, relaxed. Filled with Texas. Because he knew that she knew he dropped his honeyed drawl when he was stressed. “Talk to me.”

She’d flashed her little light across the walls and floors, giving him a running commentary. “I’m in a room with a bed, no other furniture. Just piles of trash—classic love shack. It smells like old socks and mildew, with a dash of overflowing septic tank.”

“Yum.”

“Yeah.” She’d sifted through one of the garbage piles with her foot. It was mostly paper—newspapers, empty food boxes, stacks of junk mail. “Honestly, Sam, I can’t imagine Amanda Timberman being caught dead here. Even for some of Stevie Hathaway’s golden-tan pretty-boy ski-hero booty.”

“What’s in the other room?” Sam had asked.

“Looks like a combination living area and kitchen,” she’d reported, opening up the kitchen cabinets, looking for … what? She wasn’t even sure. “Sink, stove, refrigerator …”

Alyssa pulled herself out of the memory and back to the pristine warmth of the lodge bathroom. “I wish they made some kind of nostril brush—you know, like a toothbrush only smaller,” she told Sam now. “I can’t get that awful smell out of my nose.”

He leapt into action. “Whiskey’ll take care of that.”

She followed him into the other room. She didn’t particularly want a drink, but he seemed so glad to have found a way to help, she didn’t want to stop him.

As Sam opened the minibar, she wandered toward the balcony window, where the pink of dawn was lighting the sky to the east. Glasses clinked, ice tinkled.

“Here.” He handed her a glass. “It’ll make you stop smelling it.” He corrected himself. “Her.” He tried again. “Death.”

Just a few hours ago, during dinner, this had felt more like a vacation than a paid job. It was, at the very least, a silver bullet assignment. She and Sam had been forced to stay in this four-star ski lodge with room service, balcony views of gorgeous autumn sunsets, and chocolates on the pillows.

They’d been assigned to find twenty-five-year-old Amanda Timberman, who’d vacationed at the New Hope Ski Lodge a few short weeks before her disappearance.

Lucas Timberman, the young woman’s father, was a total pit bull when it came to place the blame on Randy Shahar—Amanda’s ex-fiancé. He claimed Shahar, born in Saudi Arabia, had killed his daughter after she’d discovered he was part of an al-Qaeda terrorist cell.

Shahar—who had moved to the U.S. when he was four months old—had come to Troubleshooters Incorporated, hoping they could locate Amanda. A former chief in the U.S. Navy Special Boat Squadrons, he now ran a fleet of whale-watching vessels out of Province-town, Massachusetts.

Timberman’s accusations were bad for business.

As if it weren’t hard enough to be an Arab American business owner after 9/11.

Finding a missing person wasn’t the sort of job that Troubleshooters Inc. usually took on. The company specialized in security—personal and corporate—with a leaning toward counterterrorism. But Tom Paoletti, the former commanding officer of SEAL Team Sixteen who owned and ran TS Inc., was friends with Shahar. Tom had not only taken the assignment, but he’d given it to Alyssa Locke, his second-in-command.

Formerly an FBI agent, and before that an officer in the Navy herself, when Alyssa had taken this job with Tom Paoletti, she’d permanently partnered up with Navy SEAL Sam Starrett.

In more ways than one.

A few months ago, she’d married the man—a fact that still seemed surreal.

That she was married at all was odd enough. But that she’d married a textbook alpha male …

Sam—her husband—was standing in front of her now, looking hopefully at her empty glass. A man of action, he liked having something to do. “You want another?”

“No,” she said. “Thanks, but …”

“Didn’t help, huh?”

She shook her head.

He pushed a strand of hair back behind her ear. It always amazed her that someone with such big hands—and an ability to put his fist through a wall when provoked—could have such a light touch. “Another might help you sleep.”

Again, she shook her head. “Tom said he’d call after he spoke to Randy. I want to be coherent.”

“I could talk to him,” Sam volunteered.

“I know,” Alyssa said. “Thanks. But …” Sam hadn’t looked inside that refrigerator.

Her cell phone rang, and she opened it. “Locke.”

“What time is it there?”

That wasn’t Tom Paoletti’s voice. It was … “Jules?”

“It’s nearly three A.M. here, which means it’s not quite six there. Aren’t you allowed to answer your phone with Alyssa at least from, say, two to six A.M.?”

“It’s Jules,” Alyssa told Sam. She and Jules Cassidy had been playing phone tag for weeks now. It was exactly her former-FBI-partner and best friend’s MO to call in the middle of the night after being frustrated by voice mail.

“Are you—honest to God—in a town called No Hope?” Jules asked. “Because I got this weird message from SpongeBob, and it sure as hell sounded like he said you were in No Hope, New Hampshire, and all I could think was shit. No Hope High School …”

“You called Jules?” Alyssa asked Sam.

“No Hope Hospital,” Jules continued.

Sam lifted a shoulder. “It’s been a rough night. I thought you might want to talk to him.”

“I’m really okay,” she said again.

“I know.”

“No Hope Hair Salon …”

“It’s New Hope,” she told Jules as she sank down onto the leather sofa, one leg tucked up beneath her.

“New Hope Hair Salon—that’s almost as good.” His voice changed. “You okay, sweetie?”

Sam sat down on the other end of the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He was trying hard not to look worried.

“We’ve been looking for this woman, Amanda, and we found her tonight. In the refrigerator of an abandoned cabin. She’d been there for six months and … Whoever killed her had …” Alyssa had to stop, take a deep breath.

Sam reached over and put his hand on her foot.

“He mutilated her,” she said. “It was … gruesome and surprising, and …” Sam’s gaze was as warm and solid as his hand. She was, in truth, talking to him. “I think I’m embarrassed. My reaction to seeing her was …”

She’d actually screamed. Only her years of training had kept her from running from the cabin after opening that refrigerator door. Or maybe it had been the lightheadedness and suddenly blurred vision that kept her glued to the spot.

“I almost lost it,” she said. “I actually had to put my head between my knees.” All the while unable to say anything more than Oh, shit, oh, shit …

Which had sent Sam running down the mountain, racing to her unnecessary rescue.

Or maybe it had been necessary. She’d been beyond glad to see him, to feel his arms around her. She’d done everything but burst into girlish tears.

“I mean, come on,” Alyssa told Jules. “What’s that about? I’ve seen murder victims before. This is nothing new.”

But Sam shook his head. “You were caught off-guard. We both were. We were sure she was still alive.”

They’d spent dinner trying to guess where Hathaway and Amanda had gone.

Such optimism was new for Alyssa. In the past, she’d always been a worst-case-scenario thinker. Anyone who’d been missing for six whole months had to be dead. But this time, she had been positive that they’d find Amanda by finding Hathaway. Instead …

The FBI agents heloed in from the Boston office were convinced that Amanda was the latest victim of a serial killer they’d been tracking for years. The Bureau was excited because, even though Steve Hathaway was an alias, for the first time they believed they finally had a photo of the man they were after, thanks to Randy Shahar.

“I liked her—Amanda,” Alyssa told both Sam and Jules. Although she’d never met the woman, she’d read her diaries and talked with her friends. “I thought she’d found true love. I thought she was hiding from her father because she knew he’d be mad that she’d married the ski bum instead of the businessman. I actually pictured her with Hathaway in some little house with a white picket fence, living happily ever after.” Instead, he’d probably made a necklace with her teeth. “God.”

She looked up at Sam and told Jules, “Two months of marriage to Pollyanna here, and I’ve already moved into Sunnybrook Farm.”

Jules didn’t laugh. Instead, he sounded wistful. “That must be nice.”

“Yeah, it is,” Alyssa said. Sam was shaking his head over his new nickname. “It’s scary, though. The potential for disappointment can be pretty high.” As opposed to always expecting to be disappointed. “Look, Jules, I have to go. Thanks for calling.”

“Anytime, sweets. Give Pollyanna a big, wet, sloppy kiss for me.”

“I will.” She hung up the phone.

“You know he’s going to call me that from now on,” Sam said. “For the rest of my life. And, by the way, it’s Rebecca who lives at Sunnybrook Farm. As opposed to Laura Ingalls Wilder, who lives in that little house on the prairie. Pollyanna lives … Shit, I have no idea where Pollyanna lives.”

“Come here,” Alyssa said, moving toward him, meeting him halfway, in the middle of the couch. He put his arms around her, so that she was leaning back against him, her head beneath his chin.

Outside the window, dawn was putting on quite a show.

“Are you going to be able to sleep?” he asked. “Ever?” She laughed, except it came out sounding like a sob, and his arms tightened around her. “I keep thinking, if only …”

“Don’t,” he said. He kissed the top of her head. “Just don’t.”

“I can’t help it,” she said. “I hate it when the bad guy wins.”

“I know. But they’re going to catch this one now,” Sam said. “I hope so.”

“They will.” He kissed her again. The way he put it, it was a when, not an if. He had no doubts whatsoever. For Sam, the future was filled with possibilities, not possible disappointments.

“Nice, huh?” he said as, outside the window, the brilliant colors of dawn—a new day—streaked the sky.

“Yeah,” Alyssa said, loving the feeling of his arms around her. It was very nice, indeed.





WAITING


2005

This story takes place sometime after Flashpoint and before Breaking Point.

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 and 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 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 the 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 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 OCONUS.

A diplomat on a peacekeeping 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 kickass 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. And 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 …

He’d driven Lys to the airport and kissed her goodbye, 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.

Provided Sam could convince Haley to fall asleep. He’d just sat with her for more than 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 the serial killer known as “the Dentist.” Just over a year ago, he and Lys had handled a missing person case that 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.

The line clicked, and Jules finally came on. “Sam.”

“Hey,” Sam greeted him, genuinely glad to hear Jules’s 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. 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.

“F*ck 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-f*cking-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 tranquility,” 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. And as they’d decorated their house she’d paid a lot of attention, for someone so down to earth and practical, to the mood created by color, as well as to something called feng shui. Which was all about furniture placement and good vibes and all kinds of touchy-feelie 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 truthfully, 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.

No one, that is, except for Joan and Savannah and Meg, the long-suffering wives of his three best friends from his days as a Navy SEAL.

Meg Nilsson—Johnny’s wife—had been the first to arrive. She’d just opened his front door and walked inside his house, God bless her, announcing, “Hey, it’s only me. I didn’t ring the bell—I didn’t want you to think I was someone bringing you bad news.”

She’d brought her two daughters—Amy, a teenager from her first marriage, and four-year-old Robin, who had Johnny’s eyes.

Amy possessed a maturity and sensitivity far beyond her years. She’d ushered both Robin and Haley outside, where she kept them occupied and entertained. Even now, hours later, Sam could hear their laughter from the backyard.

Shortly after Meg arrived, Chief Ken “WildCard” Karmody’s wife, Savannah, pulled into the driveway. Mikey’s Joan was right behind her.

They’d each given him a hug and told him they weren’t going to let him go through this alone.

“Joan’ll let me know if it’s Jules on the phone, right?” Sam asked now, as he went back into the kitchen, where Meg and Savannah were sitting together at the table.

At first glance they seemed to be unlikely friends.

Savannah was a high-powered attorney who had just made partner and opened a law office in San Diego, after years of a bicoastal marriage. She came from money and worked not because she had to, but because she wanted to. Sam suspected that, if and when the time came to start a family with Kenny, she would throw herself into it with the same wholehearted devotion.

Kind of the way Meg did. A brunette to Savannah’s elf-princess blonde, Meg Nilsson worked part-time from a home office. Her standard uniform was very different from Van’s lawyer clothes—T-shirts and shorts, sneakers on her feet—better for chasing after little Robbie.

And yet Savannah and Meg were friends. They both loved their husbands—who willingly traveled to war zones and other places that were hazardous to one’s health.

They both knew that their husbands might be injured or even killed in the line of duty at any given moment.

They knew what it felt like to carry around that anxiety, to live for those overseas phone calls that usually came in the middle of the night: I’m sorry it’s so late, but I have cell service—it’s weak, but it’s there—and I’m not sure when I’ll get it again …

Four days ago, before the helo crash, he’d gotten a call like that from Alyssa. And for five minutes while he spoke to her, he could breathe again. She had been safe, and he knew it.

For those five minutes.

It ended far too quickly, and as soon as he hung up the phone the anxiety came screaming back.

Alyssa was scheduled to be away for just a short amount of time. SEALs, however, often went out for months. Sam absolutely couldn’t imagine living like this for more than a few weeks.

“Jules said it would be a while before he called again,” Meg gently reminded him.

“Have you tried cleaning the refrigerator?” Savannah suggested. “I’ve found it helps a little if you just keep moving.”

Sam sat down, wearily rubbing his forehead. Jesus, his head ached. “I did the fridge the night Alyssa’s flight left,” he said on an exhale. “Then, in the morning, I took an ax, went out in the yard and removed this old stump we’d been talking about getting rid of.” He’d chopped the crap out of it in about four hours.

“I usually stick to cleaning out closets.” Savannah was impressed. “I’ve never tried anything that involves an ax.”

“I have,” Meg said dryly. “Don’t bother. It doesn’t help.”

Nothing helped.

“If you want,” Savannah suggested, “we could help you organize your closets. It’ll keep you busy. And you’ll also win big bonus points when Alyssa comes back.”

When Alyssa comes back. They were sitting there, all three of them, pretending that if Alyssa comes back wasn’t what she really meant.

God, he hated this. But the alternative was sitting in his kitchen by himself. Or trying to fool Haley into thinking everything was all right, and sneaking into the bedroom every ten minutes to turn on CNN, see if there was any new information that made it to the cable news station first.

So he told Savannah, “I did the closets on the second night. It took a while, but I wasn’t going to sleep, so …”

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Meg asked, clearly working to keep the conversation going. “Just how much junk two people can accumulate in a short amount of time …?”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I found this old hat—a baseball cap—that I thought I lost years ago and—” He broke off. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry, I can’t stand it. I’m just sitting here, so freaking helpless—I can’t do a thing to help her. Even if I got on a plane …” It would take him at least forty-eight hours to get to Ikrimah. He closed his eyes. “Right now, she could be dying. Right now. Right now. And I can’t help her.”

Meg took his hand. “I know,” she said quietly. “It’s hard, isn’t it?”

Sam looked at her, and he knew that she knew exactly what he was feeling. “How many times have you done this?” he asked.

“Thought John might not be coming home?” she clarified. She didn’t wait for him to respond. “There’ve been, oh, I guess three or four times somewhat similar to this situation. But, you know, every time he’s out there and there’s some news report about a helicopter crash or a suicide bomber or …” She laughed as she shook her head. “Believe me, there’s a lot of prayer involved when you’re married to a SEAL.”

“And a lot of really clean refrigerators,” Savannah added.

“Pristine closets.”

“Well gardened yards.”

“You see, John knows where he is when he’s on an op,” Meg told Sam. “He knows when he’s safe and when he’s at risk. But all I know is he’s somewhere dangerous and …” She shrugged. “It sucks.”

No kidding. “I had no idea,” Sam admitted. “Before this, I just …” He shook his head. When he’d gone wheels up with the team he’d understood that it was no picnic for the wives, girlfriends, and significant others they left behind. But he’d had no clue just how awful it could be.

Joan appeared in the doorway, cordless phone in her hands. “That was Mike,” she told them. “The team’s training exercise’ll be over in an hour. He and John and Ken’ll bring dinner when they come.”

The phone rang again, and Joan retreated toward the living room. “Starrett and Locke residence,” Sam heard her say. But then she gasped. “Oh, my God!”

Sam was up and out of his chair, and he nearly collided with her as she came racing back into the kitchen, thrusting the phone at him.

“Jules,” he said as he clasped it to his ear. Please God, let this be good news. “What’s the word?”

“It’s not Jules,” Joan said, but he waved for her to be quiet, because all he could hear was static, and then …

“Sam, it’s me. I’m all right,” Alyssa said—beautiful, wonderful, vibrant, and so-very-alive Alyssa—her voice suddenly clear as day.

“It’s Lys,” Joan announced, which was good because try as he might, Sam couldn’t get the words out.

“Ah, Jesus, thank you, God” was all he could manage, and even that was little more than a whisper.

Meg and Savannah both leapt to their feet. Meg pulled one of the kitchen chairs behind him, and Savannah tugged him back into it, Joan pushing his head down between his knees—as if they thought he might actually faint.

“Hey!” But, shit, he was dizzy and on the verge of falling out of the chair, so maybe they were onto something there. But before he could thank them, they all left, hurrying out into the backyard to give him privacy.

“The SAS came in and … Gordon MacKenzie, remember him?” Alyssa asked. “His team pulled us out. He remembers you. He wants to know what you think of his SAS boys now.”

Gordon MacKenzie …?

“Gordie told me his SAS team did some training exercises with SEAL Team Sixteen, back a few years,” Alyssa continued as Sam desperately tried to regain his equilibrium. “He said they learned a lot from you—that you used to rate them on a scale from one to ten. But you never gave them anything higher than an eight.”

Yeah, he remembered that. MacKenzie had gotten in his face and accused him of being a hardnosed a*shole. Actually arsehole was what he’d said in his quaint Scottish accent. Sam had countered by standing his ground and saying he’d give them a ten when they f*cking deserved a ten. And no sooner. Maybe they’d earn it next year, he’d told MacKenzie when the exercise had ended.

“Sam, are you still there? Can you hear me?” Alyssa was saying through the phone.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yes. Lys, are you really all right?” Frickin’ Gordie MacKenzie’s team had helped save Alyssa’s life. Next time he saw the dour bastard, he’d kiss him on the mouth. “Where are you?”

“The helo just landed on an aircraft carrier,” she said. “We’re safe.” She sounded exhausted, and she exhaled hard. “Those of us who made it out alive.”

“Are you hurt?” he asked, heart in his throat.

“Just a little tired,” she told him—she always had been the queen of understatement. “Well, yeah, okay, I could use a few stitches—just a few, don’t get upset, I’m fine. We’re pretty dehydrated, though. They’ve got us all on IV drips.”

“I am so freaking glad to hear your voice,” he told her, and she laughed. “You have no idea.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Actually, I do. Although, don’t be jealous. I have to admit, as glad as I am to talk to you, I was even more glad to hear Gordie MacKenzie’s voice this morning.”

No kidding. “Tell Gordie that I love him,” Sam said.

Alyssa laughed again. “Those aren’t the three little words he’s longing to hear from you, Sam. Seriously, what they did was … It was remarkably courageous. We were trapped and … I honestly didn’t think anyone was coming for us—that anyone would be able to … I thought … It was bad,” she said quietly.

Sam had to put his head back down between his knees. Alyssa, who never gave up, who wouldn’t dream of quitting, had honestly thought she wasn’t going to survive.

“He doesn’t need me to give him a ten,” Sam told her. “He knows.”

“Still …” There was a storm of static. “… ignal’s fading—I have to go. Sam—”

“I love you,” Sam told her. Thank God, thank God, thank God …

“I know.” Alyssa’s voice was fading in and out, but he could still make out her words. “There was a point where it would have been easier to, you know, just … have it over and done, but …”

“Thank you,” he said, hoping she could still hear him. “For not giving up.”

“How could I?” She sounded as if she were a million miles away. “You were with me, you know. Every minute. I could feel you by my side.” Sam could just barely hear her laughter over the static. “Ready to give me shit if I so much as faltered. Gordie told me you have a permanent spot on his shoulder, too—whispering into his ear. And here you thought you were taking it easy, sitting around the kitchen with your feet up.”

Taking it easy. She had no idea.

“I love you,” he heard her say right before his phone beeped.

He looked at it and yeah, the signal was gone.

Sitting around the kitchen … He’d been on dozens of dangerous missions. He’d risked his life more times than he could count.

None of it had been as hard as the past few hours.

Sam dialed Jules Cassidy’s phone number, left a brief message. “Alyssa called. She’s all right.”

Through the kitchen window he could see Meg and Joan and Savannah out in the backyard with Haley and the other girls.

Sam punched Johnny Nilsson’s cell number into his phone. The SEAL lieutenant was still out on a training exercise, so he left a voice mail. “Alyssa’s safe. I just got off the phone with her. But that’s not the only reason I’m calling. I think it would be smart if you brought your wife an armload of flowers when you came home,” he told his friend. “Tell Mike and Kenny, too. Not just tonight, but every night for the rest of your lives.”



It was already a half hour past Haley’s bedtime when Sam sat on the edge of her bed. He’d promised she could watch a little bit of the football game with him, only it had started later than he’d thought.

“You want Duck or Hippo in there with you tonight?” His daughter frowned, and he quickly added, “Or both, on account of it being a special occasion.”

“Because Alyssa’s okay?” Haley asked.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling into her anxious blue eyes. “And because she’ll be home the same day as your momma.”

Haley nodded, taking that in. “Amy said we had to stay outside in case you wanted to cry and say bad words,” she told him. “Did you?”

“I think I said a few,” Sam admitted. “And, yeah, I might’ve cried a little.”

Haley nodded, so seriously. “If you want, I could put my fingers in my ears, like when the fire truck goes by.”

Sam struggled to understand. “You mean … so you won’t have to hear me cry? Hale, I’m not going to—”

“In case you say more bad words,” she explained.

“I won’t,” he told her, struggling now not to laugh. “How about giving me a hug and kiss good night, Cookie Monster?”

“Sometimes there’s nothing to do but have a good ol’ cry,” she said, repeating his words from the night before. “If you want, I could cry, too.”

“No.” Sam smoothed back her hair and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you, but no.” He tucked both Duck and Hippo in with her.

“If you want,” Haley suggested, clinging to his fingers, “I could hold your hand. Keep you company until you fall asleep. I’m not very tired.”

But her eyes were all but rolling back in her head. Amy had done quite a job, running Haley back and forth across the yard playing tag and Red Light Green Light and Follow the Leader and other games Sam didn’t even know the names of.

He’d keep that in mind tomorrow. Maybe they’d take a ride over to Coronado, buy a kite, and run up and down the beach a few thousand times.

“I love you, Hale,” he whispered, but she was already asleep.

Sam left her door open a crack and went into the living room, where he turned on the TV and watched the football game right to the bitter end.

He then watched the news, where the anchors solemnly reported that five members of Eugene Ryan’s delegation to Kazbekistan had died when their helo was shot down.

Five families had gotten the kind of phone call he’d been dreading. They had been given the message Meg and Savannah and all of the other wives of the SEALs in Team Sixteen prayed they’d never receive.

Their husband, wife, son, or daughter was never coming home.

It was entirely possible that any tears that Sam may have shed were the result of the Cowboys losing the game.

But probably not.