Hold on Tight (11 page)

“Yeah, sounds good,” he muttered, because his gut clenched when Doc mentioned the range. Typically, it was his favorite place to be, and he knew he needed to force himself to head there immediately, to push himself over the initial hump.

This had been the longest he’d ever been away from firing a weapon since he’d entered the Navy ten years earlier.

He kept most of his rifles under lock and key in the training room. Now he opened the metal bin and surveyed his choices.

In the field, he used the match grade M25, but today, his first impulse was to grab his favorite, a worn Parker Hale M85 from the U.K. Mark had given it to him years earlier, when it became apparent Chris would overshadow the senior chief as a sniper. Mark gracefully handed over that position for the good of the team and worked on being Chris’s spotter.

Now Chris ran a hand over the long, worn barrel, his fingers instinctively rubbing the old notches, the deep scars of the metal. The rifle had been used, and used well, a gift to Mark from an SAS operative he’d worked with in his early days as a SEAL.

Sentimental value—today, he needed that to be enough as he walked to the open range set up toward the west end of the base.

The Marine in charge checked his ID again and his weapon. Said he was sorry to hear about Mark, and Chris nodded, but couldn’t get past the gate fast enough.

It was loud and crowded because it was a perfect day for shooting—high visibility, low wind. Chris put his iPod ear-buds in, rather than the standard earplugs, to drown out the constant, sharp sounds of bullets hitting their targets.

Belly down. Adjust scope. Try to forget his spotter wasn’t there.

He brushed it off, because he had to do this. Time to get back on the motherfucking horse and stay there.

He turned the music to blasting in a futile attempt to keep his mind from running away from him while he concentrated on the target—a trick Mark had taught him when Chris found himself distracted …

Fuck
.

Come on Chris, pull your shit together
.

Target locked.

The first time his skills had been used in a combat situation, he’d destroyed three compounds full of illegal weaponry. He’d done so easily—it had involved no loss of life.

Most of the time, a sniper’s biggest contribution was the art of surveillance, which meant watching and listening, without the benefit of actually hearing what the enemy said. Instead, it was about sensing. Checking hand movements. Gut instincts. And sometimes, plain old-fashioned luck.

Time to rock.

But his finger didn’t move, not when Mark’s face, bloodied and battered, flashed in front of him.

He pulled away from the scope fast, realized he was breathing hard and drenched in sweat.

He turned over in the dirt and lay, faceup, staring at the clouds, attempting to convince himself that he hadn’t just had a panic attack, that his heart wasn’t beating hard enough to come through his fucking chest. Told himself that his nerves were jangled from the investigation, from seeing Jamie.

Told himself that somehow it would be all right.

He knew he wasn’t supposed to feel better immediately about what happened, or anytime soon, but the pain was still a hot, fresh jab he didn’t want anyone to see.

Mark was gone and Chris couldn’t help Jamie. There was no one he could fucking help right now and that just about killed him. It was never more than at times like this, when his gift haunted him relentlessly, that he hated it.

His parents seemed to deal with their gifts effortlessly. Chris had never been able to integrate it as well and so he tried to tamp it down as much as possible. Even so, the universe’s rhythms always seemed to affect him more than other people—it was why he chose to spend time alone, as too much of the world at a time could wear him down quickly.

Music was okay. Large crowds, not so much. He felt too much push-pull, too frenzied, and so anytime he could take a mike and sing, he would. It calmed his nerves. Centered him.

Jake would roll his eyes when he talked like that but Chris knew both his brothers got it.

He broke down the rifle and got the hell off the range. Halfway to his car, his phone began to vibrate in his hand. He hadn’t even realized he’d fished it out of his pocket minutes earlier and was just holding it, waiting for the call to come in.

He flipped it open as he stuck his keys in the ignition. “I knew. I knew, and I let him go anyway.”

“Would it have mattered? You saw what you saw.” His dad’s voice was calm and quiet, as if he knew saying the wrong thing now could cause Chris to hang up the phone.

“It might have.”

His dad didn’t say anything then and Chris sighed as he pulled off base and headed toward the lawyer’s office.

“I don’t know if I believe that destiny’s set in stone,” he continued.

“You don’t want to believe it. You’re still thinking in terms of good and bad, not what is.” His father was patient, always so fucking patient with this issue.

“Maybe it should’ve been me.”

“No.”

“How can you say that? You weren’t there.” Chris tapped the edge of his fist lightly against the steering wheel.

“I can say it because if it had been your turn, it would’ve happened. You can’t control everything, Christopher, no matter how hard you try.” Dad paused. “You think you’re at a career crossroads, but you’re not—you’re at a life crossroads … but you’ve known that for a while now. Stop trying to walk around this one; you’re going to have to travel straight through the fire.”

Fuck
. “I can’t talk about this anymore.”

“I’m just glad you finally picked up the phone,” Dad said quietly.

Chris couldn’t say the same, especially not the way his gut churned and his throat tightened. “Later.”

He clicked the phone shut and held on to it tightly, in case Jamie called. Which, of course, she hadn’t, because she was still pissed off.

He tried to picture her with Mike—with any man besides him—and he couldn’t; somehow, the only way he saw Jamie was with him at her side.

There was so much he knew about her—and so much more he needed to know, about what happened to her when she was little. The whole story. Maybe because he just couldn’t shake the very real feeling that the break-in at her house wasn’t about Gary Handler, no matter how many indicators pointed to the man.

He’d be back there tonight, unless she needed him sooner.

“He shouldn’t have been here anyway,” she muttered, even as her face flushed remembering what his hands had done to her. Between her legs ached with that sweet soreness that only came from being touched well; the rest of her night had been fueled by hot, sweaty dreams of Chris that left her sheets a twisted mess and her ever-so-slightly cranky.

“You’re still talking to yourself.” It was more of a comment than a question from Kevin, who’d arrived an hour earlier and insisted on making her breakfast. He leaned in to pour her a mug of coffee and she put her hand out. “No thanks.”

“No coffee?”

“I’m trying to cut back. I’m doing the tea thing now. Decaf.”

Kevin didn’t say anything and she wondered when—how—to tell him about her situation.

“My men said you had a visitor last night,” Kevin said finally, after taking a long slug of his own coffee.

“A friend stopped by.”

“Until three in the morning.”

“I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to have boys over after midnight. Besides, he’s not a suspect.” Not in this case anyway.

She had a meeting at JAG later with Chris and his lawyer that she wasn’t looking forward to, especially not after the horrible way they’d left things last night.

Kevin shook his head. “Right now, everyone is. How do you know him?”

“He’s military, a SEAL.” She checked her watch as she steeped her tea—she had two hours to continue stewing over the mess. Her supervisor had already called her twice that morning about the Gary Handler situation and she wondered how long it would be before the FBI decided she needed protection.

“Name,” Kevin insisted.

“Chris Waldron.”

“I met him in Africa. He saved a man’s life.” PJ’s voice floated across the kitchen.

When Jamie turned toward her, PJ held up her hand and gave a small wave. She didn’t smile until Jamie did and then she moved forward and sat down at the table.

Kevin slipped the surveillance monitor he’d set up last night into one of the kitchen drawers before he turned back to PJ.

“Plenty of food here,” he told PJ, gave her a wide smile. Both had agreed earlier not to tell her anything about Handler or the break-in for right now. The men who’d watched Jamie’s house through the night had left about ten minutes earlier, so PJ would have no reason to be suspicious. And luckily, PJ seemed to only catch the very last part of their conversation, which was Kevin asking about Chris.

“I’ll take some eggs,” PJ agreed, but refused Kevin’s offer of coffee and ignored his mumblings of something not being right with the world when people stopped drinking coffee in the morning. Instead, she went to Jamie’s fridge and pulled out a Diet Coke, and for a few minutes things were normal.

If Kevin knew what had happened to PJ in Africa with GOST, he wasn’t letting on, treated her exactly the same as he always did—joking with her, telling her she needed to eat more.

God, it was nice, so much so that Jamie was nearly able to forget that Gary Handler could be gunning for her. The feeling of dread balled in her stomach and she sipped some of her tea in hopes it would quell the feelings.

PJ was eating eggs and sitting across from her, and Jamie realized how lucky her sister was to be alive. But PJ had always been lucky, a cat with nine lives, even though she never saw her good fortune as luck. And so they talked about everything but their jobs and their pasts.

“How’s Grace?” PJ asked finally.

Kevin’s face tightened for a second and then, “I don’t know if we’ll be together for much longer.”

“I’m surprised you lasted this long.”

“PJ, Jesus.” Jamie fought the urge to kick her sister in the shin under the table for good measure.

“What? It’s the truth.”

“It is the truth.” Kevin took another slug of his coffee and grimaced. “Christ, I make shitty coffee.”

Jamie wasn’t sure what to say next, wondered if the heavy cloak of guilt for all the lives around her that got messed up ever got any lighter. But Kevin’s phone rang, saving them from any further awkward conversation.

When he stepped out of the kitchen to answer his call, PJ conspiratorially leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “Why’s Kevin asking about that Chris guy? Are you dating him or something?”

“Yeah, something,” Jamie muttered.

“He seemed good for you.”

“You met him for five seconds.”

“Longer than that. And you like him.”

Jamie rolled her eyes. “As if you know what I like.”

“As much as you know me. That’s why we fight.” PJ made it sound so incredibly simple, and maybe it was—at least that part of it was. But everything else was all mashed together in a large ball of complication that was impossible to pick apart at this point.

No, much easier to shove it into the closet and pretend it didn’t exist. But Jamie was tired of doing things the easy way. “No, PJ. I don’t know you anymore. I don’t know what happened to you in Africa when you were part of that group.”

“I’m not ready to talk about that. I might never be.” PJ shrugged, took a long drink from the can of soda before putting it back down on the table and staring at it like it held all the world’s secrets.

“Where have you been staying?”

“With a friend.” She paused. “He lives on the beach. He’s military. A SEAL, like Chris. John St. James.”

Great. Just great. Jamie shot her a look. “You used to avoid Special Forces men like the plague.”

Her sister smiled. “I’m not marrying him or sleeping with him—or planning on staying with him. I’m just camping out on his deck. And stop trying to change the subject about Chris.”

Deflecting the topic away from herself was definitely PJ’s modus operandi, but still, something in her tone didn’t convince Jamie at all. Maybe it was the way PJ had avoided looking at her when she’d spoken, or the fact that she was busying herself buttering toast, when Jamie knew she didn’t like butter, but it was enough to tell her that something was up.

She wanted to tell PJ that Saint was Chris’s CO, that the men were friends, but she didn’t. She wouldn’t mention the investigation either—couldn’t, really. But it would be nice being able to talk about Chris with someone. “Chris and I had a fight. About Mike. Or something.”

She pulled apart the toast with her fingers and shoved a piece in her mouth so her stomach wouldn’t be completely empty for the meeting.

PJ pressed her lips together before she spoke again. “You loved Mike … but you weren’t in love with him.”

“You weren’t there all that much. You have no idea what Mike and I had.”

“He was a father figure. A friend. You were living like roommates, not lovers.”

Jamie wanted to tell her to go screw herself, that she was completely and utterly wrong. Instead, she blurted out, “I’m pregnant. And it’s Chris’s.”

“Pregnant,” PJ repeated, stared Jamie up and down as if looking for physical evidence. “You’re sure?”

The test could be wrong … No, she couldn’t lie to herself any more than she could lie to her sister. “Yes. And Kevin doesn’t know,” she added quickly with a glance over her shoulder, out the opened doorway of the kitchen, to where the man stood on her front porch.

“You’ve got to tell him. You might need more protection with a baby. It makes you more vulnerable. You have to know that.” She turned back at PJ’s words to see her sister gripping the back of the kitchen chair tightly, her hand nearly white from the pressure.

Jamie almost told her about Gary Handler but felt as if she’d already revealed far too much. She didn’t want PJ here, gun in hand, protecting her. It was too soon to hit her sister with another potential danger; until Jamie knew what PJ had gone through as a forced mercenary—eight long months of bondage—she was prepared to keep her problems to herself.

Well, most of them. The pregnancy was just too big to ignore—too much for her to sort through alone. And she certainly wasn’t ready to discuss it with Chris.

“I don’t need any more protection.”

“You told Chris—he knows, doesn’t he?”

“I had to. You know Nick was involved in what happened in Africa, that Chris traveled with me. He only knows we were in witness protection, though—he doesn’t know who we really are or what happened.”

“You’ve got to deal with this immediately, Jamie. How the hell could you let this happen?” PJ demanded. “Bad enough that you nearly got married.”

“There’s no law that says I can’t get close to someone. That’s your rule—the one that keeps you from anyone who tries to care about you.”

“You’re not turning this around on me.” PJ’s voice shook. It was probably the most upset Jamie had ever seen her. “I can’t be here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I have to stay away from you. If that fucking psychopath Alek follows me and finds you, the baby … I’ll never forgive myself.”

“You never have forgiven yourself—that’s part of the problem.”

“That’s what some therapist told you, right?”

A sudden sharp sound came from the front of the house—probably just the guards coming back, maybe scraping outdoor chairs around, but it put PJ into full alert mode.

To be fair, Jamie had jumped at the sound too, had put her hand to the weapon that was holstered over her plain black T-shirt. All the fear of seeing the bedroom ransacked came flashing back and she knew there was panic in her eyes.

PJ reacted to that, immediately began to check that the windows and the sliding glass doors that led to the back patio were locked before she shut the shades, drew them tight so the sunlight was gone. And then she grabbed the kitchen table and prepared to flip it onto its side so it would provide cover for some of the glass—provide cover for some invisible enemy who, in PJ’s mind, was already shooting at them.

“PJ, you’re acting cr—”

PJ whirled around on her, gun drawn but pointed to the ground. “Crazy? Maybe I am, Jamie, but you’re waiting here like a sitting duck—you’ve always done that. Don’t you know that he could come get you at any time?”

Jamie took her hand off her own gun. “I can’t think about it that way. I’d lose my mind!”

“What the hell is going on here?” Kevin stood in the middle of the kitchen, looking between the two women. Jamie was breathing hard, the tears rising, and she cursed PJ and Chris and her hormones, was ready to hunt Gary Handler down single-handedly at this point.

“Ask Jamie—ask her about the baby, about how she’s going to keep a child safe.” PJ looked around as if realizing what she’d done.

“What baby? What is she talking about, Jamie?” Kevin asked.

Jamie didn’t bother to try to sidestep the question—he had every right to know what was going on. “I’m pregnant, Kevin. It’s Chris’s baby—the man who was here last night.”

“Is he marrying you?” Kevin demanded. He’d always been old-fashioned, so much so that neither PJ nor Jamie had even tried dating when they lived at home with him. A big man who carried a weapon for a living put a real kink in the old social life.

“Kevin, we’re not even dating … I mean, I don’t know what we’re doing.” She glared at PJ and then continued.

“I want to speak with Chris,” Kevin told her.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Jamie said.

Kevin looked torn—as if he wanted to hug Jamie and yet part of him was squarely on PJ’s side. But his softer side won out and he reached over to embrace her.

She allowed the hug, buried her face against his shoulder the way she had that very first night she’d met him, all those years ago when she’d been young and scared and had no idea what the future held.

Not much had changed at all.

“I wish you’d told me—with everything else happening, it would’ve been a good idea,” Kevin told her.

“I just found out. I’m still trying to process it,” she admitted.

“What else aren’t the two of you telling me?” PJ demanded, and no, there was no keeping anything from her now. She was deeply in mission-mode, her gun still grasped tightly in her hand, her eyes watching the environment around them instead of focusing on Jamie and Kevin.

That was actually the correct way to do a watch, something a lot of people didn’t realize. If you watched the person who was in trouble, you weren’t actually watching the trouble.

Kevin remained silent as Jamie took a step toward her sister. “Gary Handler—the man who shot me—escaped. I think he’s been here.”

PJ didn’t say anything, but her chin raised as if in response to a threat. “I’m staying with you.”

“I don’t want you here. You’re too volatile right now,” Jamie told her, despite the fact that it broke her heart to do so. “You shouldn’t even be carrying a weapon. You know that.”

PJ slid the magazine out of the gun and laid both on the counter next to the coffeepot before she brushed past them and out the front door.