Killing Time

12

Eva’s heart started racing the moment Mike began to tell his story. It still raced like she’d run a marathon when he stopped. She’d felt his fear. His pain. His despair over his lost team. Eight years after the massacre had taken place, he’d taken her back in time to that tiny village where so many had died.

Including Ramon.

A tear trickled slowly down her cheek. Only when she reached up to brush it away did she realize that she’d covered the hand Brown had fastened in a deathlike grip on the armrest while the words had tumbled out of him, slowly at first, then lightning fast, as though he couldn’t stop the runaway train of memories.

And only as she reluctantly pulled her hand away, feeling the absence of his warm palm against hers, did she realize that somewhere during the telling, he’d turned his hand over and linked his fingers with hers.

As if just now realizing the intimacy they’d shared, he straightened in his aisle seat, rolled his shoulders.

“Well,” he said, attempting to inject a lightness she knew he couldn’t possibly feel, “I’m thinking that right about now you’re sorry you ever asked.”

Not sorry. Horrified. But relieved, too. She knew the truth now. She hadn’t realized how much it would hurt to hear how her husband had died.

Just as she hadn’t realized how badly she’d wanted to believe Mike Brown.

When had a fact-finding mission transitioned into this desperate desire to prove his innocence? Maybe when she’d finally realized that he worked too damn hard to mask his innate decency behind that smart-ass grin. Maybe because he hadn’t been able to conceal a primal, masculine rage that she’d sensed from the moment she’d made contact with him in the cantina. A rage that dated back eight years. The rage of an innocent man.

Reading his pretrial statements from the pages of the OSD files hadn’t prepared her for the reality. Those pages had only told half the story. They hadn’t detailed the fear, the grief, the utter sense of desolation. Those pages hadn’t made her believe.

Brown had.

The trouble with believing, however, was that it opened up an entire new line of questions.

“I don’t understand why your CO didn’t stand up for you. Why he let it get as far as court-martial proceedings.”

Brown stared at the seat back in front of him. “You have to look at it from his angle. The Afghani government was all over the U.S. Joint Command demanding explanations—and justice. There was a village full of dead civilians, dead U.S. military personnel, a downed Black Hawk. Added to that, neither the Afghani or U.S. military radar had any record of an unaccounted-for chopper in the area that night—which left my story full of holes.”

“But you saw it. Why wouldn’t it show up on their tracking system?”

“Because that terrain sucks for radar detection. Even the antimortar radars have a problem with the mountains and valleys. And let’s face it—the Taliban have no air game.”

“So, they decided you were making it up?”

“That was the consensus, yeah. Webber was dead. Taggart and Cooper had been unconscious or too disoriented to know what had gone down. I was the only one telling the story. And remember, I was already guilty of disobeying a direct order. They pegged it as CYA—cover your ass—all the way.”

“Your decision was mission critical. You couldn’t leave those men there to die.”

He shook his head wearily. “Everyone was covering their asses. The Afghan government was all over Com Cent. They wanted a fall guy—it became real clear real fast that it was going to be me.”

“I still don’t understand why you let it happen.” She couldn’t keep the frustration from her voice.

“You weren’t there, okay? So don’t judge me.”

“Then I’m judging your CO. He never should have signed off on that report.”

“You think he wanted to? Look, Henry Brewster was a stand-up guy. He ran the FOB, for God’s sake, yet he took time to come to see me in the brig. Told me he was sorry I was taking the heat and the rap, and assured me that after some time passed it would blow over and all go away.”

“So you agreed to plead no contest?”

“Hell no. I didn’t agree to anything. Not then. I waited. I counted on Brewster coming through. Then I got sent back stateside. To Bragg.”

“Wait.” She held up a hand interrupting him. “Fort Bragg? You were Navy. Why were they holding you at an Army base?”

“The One-Eyed Jacks team fell under Joint Special Operations Command. JSOC is based at Bragg. And JSOC is all about command and structure. I was a fault line in that structure that threatened their very foundation. They wanted me gone, incident forgotten, end of story. The base commander at Bragg—James Slockem—made sure it happened.”

“And Brewster didn’t stop it.”

“He did what he could,” he repeated defensively. “He was still in Afghanistan. Dealing with the troop surge, a complete operational reorg, and a bump from one to two stars—so yeah, he was a little busy.”

“Too busy to stand up for his own men?”

His jaw clenched. “Let it go.” He stared her straight in the eye. “You’re barking at the wrong dog. Brewster was… he was the man, you know? The One-Eyed Jacks was his pet project. He fought for the unit, put it together. No one went to bat for us like he did. No one would have let us get by with the shit we pulled but him. He had our backs time and time again.”

“Just not when it counted.”

He closed his eyes. “Especially when it counted. Who do you think arranged for the plea deal? Brewster set it up. He pulled the strings, pulled in markers. He made the file go away. He made it all go away. He did the best by me that he could. If he hadn’t, I’d be rotting in a military prison somewhere.”

“He could have exonerated you.”

He swore wearily. “Enough. I don’t want to hear any more about it. It was all on me, okay? I’m fucking guilty. That kind of weight doesn’t transfer. Not to Brewster. Not anyone else. I didn’t save them. That’s the bottom line.”

She got it. He felt tremendous guilt because he hadn’t saved his men. For him, there would never be any getting out from under that guilt. She, however, wasn’t saddled with that particular problem. And whether he liked it or not, she was looking into Brewster. The man might be a god to Mike, but she wasn’t worshiping at his altar.

She understood something else, too. Mike needed to believe in Brewster. If not his CO, then there was no one he could believe in.

And maybe he was right. But she was going to follow up, and then they’d both know.

“The bottom line remains, someone sold you out,” she said quietly.

He swiped a hand over his jaw, an action she’d noticed he used when he felt pressured. “Let’s say I was a casualty of war. My JAG attorney convinced me that I wasn’t going to beat the rap. He said Brewster had moved heaven and earth to get the military to even consider a plea. So I buckled and went for the less than honorable discharge instead of the court-martial.”

Her father had been a JAG attorney before he’d retired two years ago. She couldn’t help but think that he’d never have let this happen to Brown.

“Taggart and Cooper?”

His eyes looked bleak. “Got caught in the crossfire. The deal was, I took the plea and they walked with me. If I fought it and lost, we all faced a death sentence.”

“Do they know that?”

His silence answered that question. No. They didn’t know.

“I didn’t sell them out. I saved their lives.”

He’d done what he’d done to protect them—and to this day they hated him because they didn’t know the whole story.

Well, that was something she could rectify. And she would, as soon as they got their feet under them in D.C. She figured she owed Brown that much for the Ketamine alone.

Right now, however, there were still more questions than answers.

“We’re still at square one. We have to figure out who sent me that flash drive,” she said abruptly. There were all kinds of implications that came with it.

When the flight attendant walked by, Mike moved his leg under the seat in front of him and out of the aisle. If he was aware that, in the tight quarters, his thigh now pressed against hers, he didn’t let on.

But she was aware. During the entire flight, she’d been too aware of him too many times to count. So she swiftly moved her leg out of touching distance.

“Gotta be someone who knew about Operation Slam Dunk,” he said, appearing not to notice her sudden discomfort. “Someone with high-enough security clearance to give them access to the database containing the file. Someone who knew your connection to Ramon.”

“You’re right. It has to be someone who was there,” she speculated, feeling a thread of excitement. He was on to something. “Someone stationed at the FOB when this all went down.”

“Makes sense. Still doesn’t answer why. Specifically, why now? What’s their stake in this? And why wait eight years to bring it to light?”

“Maybe they’ve felt guilty for what happened to the team but couldn’t decide what to do about it. Couldn’t do anything about it without implicating themselves. But then… I don’t know. Something changed? Now they suddenly feel free to bring the events of that night forward? Set the record straight? And because they knew I was Ramon’s widow and worked for the CIA, they figured that I’d do something about it?”

“Works for me. It also rules out anyone currently on active duty. You don’t shit in your own nest—not if you want to get ahead.”

“Someone who retired, then? Or separated from service recently?” She wondered what Brewster was doing now. Wondered if she’d been too quick to judge. Maybe Mike was right. Maybe Brewster had stood for Mike the best he could by arranging the plea deal—even if he knew he should have done better. Had a fit of conscience prompted him to bring the file to her attention? She kept those thoughts to herself while a trickle of excitement eddied through her.

Beside her, Brown rolled his head on his shoulders, clearly weary of the long flight. “Seems like a good bet. It also opens up a lot of possibilities. There were a lot of personnel on the ground at the FOB.”

“But how many knew what happened? I’m thinking not that many. I need to get hold of staffing records for that period.”

“You can do that?”

She had access to databases that others didn’t. Still, it wouldn’t be easy. “I can try.” Brewster may be ringing her alarm bell right now, but she was going to ferret out every possibility. Including Slockem, the base commander at Bragg who was so quick to hang Brown out to dry.

“There’s a flip side to this, you know.” He turned his head and looked at her. “Someone else out there doesn’t feel an ounce of remorse. What they feel is threatened. So threatened they want you silenced.”

She looked away. Not merely silenced. Someone wanted her dead.

Like Brown could have been dead, right alongside her.

The realization that she didn’t want him to die hit her like a bullet. A hard punch of guilt delivered a second shot. How could she be thinking about losing Brown, how could she suddenly be so aware of him as a man, when moments ago she’d discovered the truth about her husband’s death?

In her mind’s eye she saw the grisly scene in the village. Felt the heat of the fire. Ramon’s body had been among the charred remains.

She swallowed hard. Had to ask the part he’d left out. “Did they… did they ever recover Ramon’s body?”

His jaw tightened. He didn’t want to tell her.

“Please. I need to know.” Heart hammering, she waited.

“No.” He shook his head, closed his eyes. “I’m sorry. His dog tags were all that was left to ID him.”

Her chest clenched so tight, she couldn’t breathe.

Suddenly she had to move. She had to get some distance—from Brown, from the horror of the image of a beautiful, vital man reduced to ashes—before she did or said something really stupid… like break down and bawl like a baby.

“Excuse me.” She unbuckled her seat belt, scrambled past him, and made a beeline for the lavatory.

Mike let her go. What could he say? What could he do? She might think she’d hidden her tears, but she was dead wrong.

She’d just heard him confirm, in graphic detail, how her husband had died. Didn’t matter that it was eight years ago. It hadn’t felt like eight years when he’d been telling it. It had felt like it was yesterday.

He breathed deep, tried to force distance between the present and the past. Not that it ever worked.

And yet… inexplicably, he felt less burdened than he had in a very long time.

Because he’d spilled his guts? Lightened his load? Because he’d done a good thing and spared her the pain of knowing her husband had been a liar and a cheat?

Because he was finally doing something other than hiding out?

He gripped the armrests hard when the flight attendant strolled by, asking for drink orders. He thought, instead, of the moment he’d become aware that Eva’s small hand had covered his. Not to steady herself, but to ground him. To keep him from nose-diving off the deep end.

He’d latched on like a drowning man clutching a life raft. Clung like she was a rock in a sea of sifting sand.

Surprises. The woman was full of them. And she didn’t seem quite so crazy anymore.

What she seemed to be—God help him—was the saner of the two of them. And despite the fact that she’d finally shown her vulnerable side, he admired her for her strength and a whole Pandora’s box full of traits he really didn’t have any business contemplating.

So he wouldn’t. He closed his eyes, surprised to find himself beginning to relax and actually drifting off when he sensed her presence beside him in the aisle. He straightened to make room for her to squeeze past him, her flat stomach directly in front of his face.

Of course, it had to happen. She tripped over his foot—with his size twelves, she hadn’t stood a chance. He reached out reflexively, circled her ribs with his hands, and steadied her.

And Lord, sweet Lord, his thumbs brushed against the underside of her breasts as she fell forward, catching herself with her hands on his shoulders.

It was all about timing. And reflexes. And damn bad luck as he looked up to see if she was all right, and his mouth came within a breath of touching her left breast.

Mother of God.

Heat. Lush softness. Need.

The sensations all registered at once, shooting electricity straight to his groin.

He set her aside as if she was a hot potato.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, not looking at her as she buckled up beside him.

And said nothing.

Holy hell.

He could not be attracted to this woman. A hot enchilada in a seedy cantina, yes. That was allowed. Because he’d been drunk. Because she’d been—hell—she’d really been something in that red bustier, skin-tight pants, and fuck-me stilettos.

But he could not be attracted to this woman. To Ramon Salinas’s widow.