SEAL My Home: Bad Boys of SEAL Team 3, Book 2 (SEAL Brotherhood Series 9) (12 page)

T.J. and Brady’s heads whipped around as they stared at Rory. T.J. looked down at the wrapped bottle. “That asshole is your dad?”

Rory rolled his shoulder. “So he seems to think. Between you and me, T.J. I think it’s another one of those stories. Remember? My parents are invisible.”

‡

M
egan was used
to losing herself in books, especially when she was hurting. She could throw herself into great novels and be transported to lands in faraway time zones. Her life never matched the excitement of the heroines in the romance novels she read. She was used to reading a book a day. Some days she would read two.

She’d had a taste of the excitement with Rory, and, unlike before, she found herself drifting off while reading, remembering being with him. She was usually so glued to her stories that her days went by fast. She would read on her breaks. She’d listen to audio books on her way into work and on the way to the store and on the way home. Some of her friends joked with her that she spent most of her waking life in a fantasy. And it was nearly true. Heroes could be counted on, the end always turned out the way she wanted it. What was wrong with that, compared to the reality of unending tragedy in the news and on TV?

But today, she couldn’t get into the stories. She’d tried three different books on her To Be Read pile, books she was dying to read, and she couldn’t get past the first chapter in any of them. This had never happened before.

By now, Rory had been transported to the hospital where the surgery would be done to repair his hip. Lindsay called her midafternoon to ask if she’d heard from Rory, and she had to tell her sadly, no.

“And don’t go telling him I’m waiting for a call, either. He has a lot to take care of and deal with. Speaking with me is not a priority right now, nor should it be,” she said and hoped Lindsay would believe her lie. She was hoping for the best, but she was building that shield around her heart just in case.

On the way home, she decided to skip her dinner and attend the Bikram yoga class, since she had her gym bag with her containing her clothing, mat, and stainless steel water bottle.

Midway through the class she was grateful for the peace it gave her. Worries of the day shed off her as she sweated in the tiny room, following the instructions from the “little brown man” as Lindsay had called him, Baba Omar. He had laughed when he teased them one day that after going to a month worth of classes with him, “You won’t be able to get my voice out of your head.” But as the minutes ticked by, the man whose voice Megan was hearing now, despite how hard she tried to push it to the side, didn’t sound anything like her instructor.

She tried concentrating on the heat and how much her body was sweating. That worked better.

Lindsay wasn’t there, so after class, Megan walked outside to her car alone. She stopped at a health food store on the way home and picked up some fresh carrot and ginger juice and had them add a shot of wheat grass. Her nerves were calm. She felt serene.

A hot shower was next. Stripping off her yoga pants and other clothes, she enjoyed a long shower, washing off everything from the day. Her intention was to curl up with a book, grab a big glass of ice water, and read until she fell asleep.

Catching herself in the mirror, she noticed the rosy glow to her complexion, partly from the heat, but partly from the flame that burned in her chest. New love felt like this. The dull ache for him, missing him, was painful. But it was evidence that she was alive and the emotions growing inside her were exciting and new and would grow regardless of anything she could logically reason with herself or explain away.

The neighbor’s dog was barking again like it had last night. Megan hoped she’d be able to sleep through it.

When she set her alarm, she noticed she’d missed a call. She quickly retrieved the message, her heart pounding in her chest.

Hi there, Megan. It’s Rory. I’ve just settled in at the medical center in LA. Got me poked and hooked up and ready for surgery tomorrow, so I’m signing off early for bed. Fingers crossed I’ll not wind up in a walker. I’ll make sure Lindsay lets you know how it went. Glad you got home safe. Some day, when I’m done with the surgeries and the healing, I’ll give you a call. Until then, be safe!

‡

I
n his private
room at the hospital in L.A. Raymond Corrigan met the man in the blue suit with the alligator briefcase. Only a few places in California you could get away with showing a case like that. He made a point of being obvious about noticing it since that’s why the man had brought it.

His name was Tariq, which wasn’t his real name, but something that was considerably shorter than his real name, or so the man told him. Corrigan knew enough to understand that although his henchman was from the Middle East, he was a naturalized U.S. citizen. His knowledge of Middle Eastern politics was invaluable in dealing with foreign companies and kingdoms.

The competitive nature of Corrigan’s business meant that he was at war with someone or some Board of Directors or ruling family every day. It paid to know as much as possible about either the enemy or the prey, and the man with the alligator briefcase was very good at digging up details that could be exploited for Oakwood Partners’ advantage.

He’d found Tariq several years ago when one of his wealthy clients, an Iranian relative of the old Shah, suspected her husband was having an affair and had hired Tariq to find out. And he did. The job was done professionally, without the torrid photographs but with just enough detail and surveillance to make the case. She was able to excise her cheating spouse before he could organize a takeover of her family’s fortune, doing it all without any scandal hitting the papers or affecting the value of her portfolio.

Corrigan considered the handling of his client’s case a thing of beauty, so ever afterwards Tariq became Oakwood’s inside henchman, an important element in his recipe for success. Tariq told him he was divorced and had no children. However, one day when they were chatting he’d let slip that he had family inside Syria.

Raymond had decided he personally wasn’t the marrying kind because he never trusted anyone he couldn’t pay. Love was expensive and very messy, often foolish. He’d seen lives and fortunes ruined because of it.

The heart is the most vulnerable, the weakest part of a man’s soul.
Tariq had told him he was a wise man.

Corrigan had a gift when it came to making good decisions, sometimes very tough ones, but he never did things on an emotional hunch that he couldn’t back up with evidence. Tariq brought certainty to his world.

Therefore, today’s job was different. He wasn’t asking Tariq to check on the dirty little secrets of a competitor or client. He needed to identify or rule out paternity. He trusted Tariq with this information because he paid him. And paid him very well.

Corrigan had a plastic baggie with a water cup inside. He handed it to Tariq.

“The person I need tested drank out of this cup. I believe he’s the only person to do so.”

“And what are we going to match it with?” Tariq’s cool demeanor, the way his accented words cut to the meat of the matter in an instant, told Corrigan he didn’t leave anything to chance or possible misunderstanding. Tariq did not guess.

“Mine. I want to know if he is my son.”

Tariq didn’t flinch. He never flinched. “We’ll need a swab. I don’t have the testing kit here. You should have told me. I would have been better prepared.”

“Not over the phone. Never over the phone.”

“Why is this so important to you?” Tariq asked. He dished out a clipped smile, the first one Raymond had seen in many months.

“Wouldn’t you want to know your own son?”

Tariq examined his fingernails. “No.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t pay me for that information. I am not your client. I am your employee.”

The steely answer left Raymond in shivers.

Tariq tried to smile again, perhaps reconsidering his answer. “I apologize. I should not have asked you.”

“I don’t have a problem telling you, my friend, if I may call you that after all these years.”

Tariq bowed humbly.

“I tried to find him some twenty-five years ago. She was not my wife at the time.”

“Nor subsequently.”

“Correct. She simply vanished. After years of searching, I gave up, thinking that perhaps they both perished somehow. There was no trace of them. Not like today. It would be easier today. But then, all I knew was that she had a son.”

“Who told you this?”

“Someone sent me a note. All it said was that I had a son.”

“You still have this note?”

“Somewhere in my things at home. Yes. I think I can find it.”

“If you do, I shall have it analyzed. It could be an important part of the puzzle.”

Tariq searched around the room and found another water pitcher, with two plastic glasses encased in sterile bags next to it. He grabbed one water glass unpeeled the bag, handing it carefully to Corrigan without touching the cup. “Spit in it and I’ll use that.”

“Don’t you need blood work?”

“We can follow up that way, but this is 99.999% accurate.”

Corrigan did as he was told and handed the cup back to Tariq, who double-wrapped it in the second bag, setting it in front of him on the table.

“Now, anything else I need to know? You have a rare disease or familial trait?”

“Our blood type, both of us have AB positive. I think less than 3% of the population has that type. I have not verified that, just something I overheard.”

“Where did you hear this?”

“At the hospital. We were in the same room together.”

“Okay. Fate then, is that correct?”

“I don’t believe in fate. I make my own.”

“Indeed you do, but not this one, Mr. Corrigan.”

“So no one needs to know about this. As you can imagine, this could cause a stir.”

“Part of my fee is the guarantee my of silence. What you do with the information is your business. I don’t ask if there is permission granted. I take the items and have the analysis done.”

Corrigan passed Tariq an envelope from the tray table next to him. “This is your usual. Let me know if you need more.”

Tariq examined the cash without expression, put it back in the envelope, and slipped it inside the briefcase along with the two cups. “It’s adequate. I should be able to get the results in two days. You’ll still be here or are you going back to New York?”

“I’m due to stay here about a week, they say. I want to wait until I know for sure before I talk to him again.”

“He lives here in Los Angeles?”

“San Diego. Kid’s in the Navy.” Corrigan decided not to tell Tariq what Rory did for a living except on general terms.

“Understood.” Tariq rose, bending over to shake Corrigan’s hand. That’s when he noticed the man wore cowboy boots.

“Well, I never pegged you for a cowboy.”

“I’m not.”

“Never seen you wear boots before, Tariq. Don’t see much of that in California, either.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. Depends on where you look.”

After the man left, Corrigan thought about the woman he knew to be Rory’s mother. Though he’d spent a lot of money trying to find her, she’d vanished without a trace. But she did go to college in Portland. He’d never been to Oregon. He wondered if she was still there.

Derek visited with him later and told him Rory was admitted and was scheduled for surgery in the morning. Corrigan decided not to add any more burden to the one the young man was carrying. He turned on his hot spot and checked his computer until he found messages that snagged him. He buried himself in work. It was going to be a long two days.

‡