The Edge of Trust: Team Edge (11 page)

As soon as she had the bag and blanket secure, she started off down the beach.  Driven.  Determined.  And nowhere near ready for a hike.  She zigged one way and zagged the next.  Dillon stared after her, then turned to the paramedic.  “You figure she’s going to be all right?” 

The medic shrugged.  “Should be.  Her vitals are stable.  You’ll still want to watch her.  And put some ice on that shiner.”  He handed Dillon a plastic bag containing what appeared to be wet clothes.  “She may want these.”

Dillon took the bag and started off after her, tossing a “Thanks” over his shoulder. 

He caught up with her in four long strides.  “Sara?”  When she stumbled sideways, he caught her.  The bag of clothes landed in the sand, and as Dillon turned her to face him, his heart stopped.  It just completely stopped.

His wife was alive. 

Alive and home and in his arms.

So where in God’s name had she been?

<><><>

Other than Matt, no one had called her Sara in twelve months.  Not Craig.  No one.  Her own name sounded foreign to her, but at the same time so very familiar, and wonderful, coming from Dillon.

Her gaze traveled over her husband’s face.  He was still too handsome, with dark, almost black hair, a chiseled face, and eyes bluer than a sunlit ocean, but he looked different now.  Sure, he still had laugh lines at the corners of his eyes.  His chin still wore a slight cleft.  And yes, he still had the rough, lined face of a man who’d seen too much, worried and cared too much about the world around him.  Which was, of course, what had made her fall in love with him in the first place.  She’d never met anyone quite like Dillon and a large part of her mourned what he’d done, what he’d missed, and what might be.

His face was clean shaven now, tanned from the sun, and his long hair was gone.  Even with the GQ looks, he looked grittier than he had a year ago.  Harder somehow. 

Strong arms eased her against a muscled chest, held her gently.  He nuzzled her hair.  “Sara,” he whispered.  “You’re really alive.  What happened?  Where have you been?” 

Her first reaction was hug tightly, to pull him close, to nuzzle.  Then immediately on the heels of that was the thought to push him away.  To fight off any hands that touched her.  But after the day she’d had, her defenses were dull and his words so choked with feeling, that for a moment she surrendered and just let him hold her.  Her emotions skidded and whirled in a chaotic blend of the known and purposely forgotten. 

He's not like the others.  He's kind and gentle.  He's not those men.  He’s not Sanchez.

He’s not your father.

Dillon won't hurt you. 

But he
had
hurt her.

And because of that hurt, she shoved him off.  Regret and sadness, anger and fear collided.
 

Together, you make the perfect target.

“I can’t stay here.”  She sidestepped around him, trying once again to escape. 

He caught her arm and said, “Sure you can.”  Voice soft.  Eyes firm.  Both bewildered.

Dammit.  She didn’t want this.  Couldn’t afford it.

Except… She had no money, no ID, no clothes, not even shoes.  The only thing she did have would likely get her killed.

Your fault Dillon. Yours, yours, yours.

And…mine.  Dear God, I never should have followed you.

She pulled her arm away.  As she did, she stopped, looked hard at her left hand. 

Her ring.  She didn’t even have her ring.  Not that her wedding ring should mean much at this point, but the fact that it was no doubt at the bottom of the Pacific by now, well, hurt.  It hurt a lot.

The raw fatigue that had been shadowing finally slammed into her.  She felt herself sway.  

“Oh hell,” Dillon whispered, “you always did know how to make an entrance.”  And before she could decide what to do, where to go, Dillon matter-of-factly swung her up into his arms and carried her over the sand, over the blacktop, into a quiet, cool building. 

“I suppose,” she said, and let her head rest against his shoulder.  She just needed a minute to rest.  Just a minute and then she’d be back on her feet and out of his life.

He didn’t stop until he reached the inner sanctum of his office.  After setting her gently in a chair, he closed the door, then in one fluid motion he was kneeling next to her, touching her face, her hair, her arms.  “You’re really here.” 

The nightmare bled in.  Faces shimmered, danced, merged.  She pushed him away.

Dillon stood and folded his arms across his chest.  Leaned a hip against his desk.  “No touching.  Okay.  You’re hurt and I can see that.  But what I can’t seem to figure out is why you seem so bent on dodging me.  You going to help me out?”

She inhaled and let her breath out slowly.

Tall and broad shouldered, Dillon wore a green Special Forces T-shirt stretched tightly over thick muscles.  His windblown hair, the darkness of it, in contrast with the blue of his eyes, was striking.  He looked strong and powerful.

And vulnerable.   

But dammit, everything she’d gone through--all those
months of hell--the pain, the fear, the isolation and loneliness, the worry for her child, Sanchez…everything…his fault. 

Yes, she should not have followed him.  She knew that now.

But Dillon had done the unforgivable, the inexcusable.  He had broken a sacred vow.  He may have broken them all.

To love, honor, cherish, he’d said.  To protect he’d promised. 

Liar.  Liar, liar, liar.

She sat in fear and anguish and confusion, sat and fumed in disdain and resentment, and thought that maybe she hated him....or if not him exactly, then what he’d let happen to her, what he’d done with another woman, and she realized as she sat there, debating an umbrageous departure, that she couldn’t leave because she not only didn’t have clothes, she had no direction.

Her anger lost momentum as a dull ache started behind her eyes and the bravery she'd held on to started to crumble.  Find Craig.  Get Ellie.  Then, she wondered, would she still have to hide?  Would the contents in the nylon bag end this nightmare? 

“Sara?”

“Wait.  Please.  I need to think.”

He pushed away from the desk and paced.  Scrubbed a hand over his face.  “Think?   About what?  What the hell’s going on?  I thought you were dead.  I saw it happen with my own eyes.  Why haven’t you contacted me?  Why didn’t you let me know you were alive?” 

Dillon wanted answers she couldn’t give.  Not yet.  Better to keep him at arm’s length until she knew more.  Until they were both safe.  “I have to go,” she said, tightening the blanket.  “Please.  I can’t be here.  I need to leave.  I’m sorry.” 

He rocked backward.  “Go?  Where is it you think you’re going?”

She ignored him as frightening images came and went.  Outlines, blurs, sharp, solid images...and the fear.  The fear was real.  And locked up so tight inside her she felt crazy with it.

Dillon walked over to his desk.  Slowly turned a picture toward her.  “Don’t you think this means I deserve some answers?”  The photo, in a pewter frame, showed a young couple in a church on their wedding day, gazing at each other with enough love in their eyes to last ten lifetimes.

Her vision tunneled, and when Dillon spoke again, his voice seemed to come from a far away place.  “Talk to me.  Tell me where you’ve been, what’s happened.”

She shook her head.  “I need some clothes.”

“That’s it?  You need some
clothes
?  What about us, Sara?” 

Dammit, how could he ask that?  He’d been the one who’d lied.  Who’d started this nightmare with Sanchez and…oh God, maybe even another woman.  Could he…had they…did Dillon even love her?  “I don’t know,” she said.  “Not anymore.”
  

“You don’t
know
?”

“I’m sorry, I--” she said, standing.  “Please.  I need some clothes, shoes, cash, a cellphone--”

“You really expect me to just let you walk?  After a year?  After everything that’s happened?  With no explanation?  Just ‘see ya, bye’?”

She took a deep breath, looked him straight in the eye, and said, “Yes.”

With that one simple word, when it finally sank in, Dillon stumbled to his desk chair and sat.  “Holy God.  You did this.  You actually let me think you were dead, for an entire year,
on purpose
?”

<><><>

The smell of hotdogs, popcorn, and beer hung in the cool night air.  The stadium was crowded, packed to capacity, but he’d never be seen.  No, professionals were never seen.  And when it came to killing, Rafael Sanchez was nothing if not professional.  This time would be no different.  Lessons had to be taught after all, and he was an expert teacher. 

Jaw set with a grim smile, he tightened the silencer on the end of his rifle.  He never should have trusted Manny Vega.  The liar, the
traitor
, had let Sara Caldwell jump overboard with something several governments would kill for. 

A sneer curled his lips. 

If the Caldwell woman hadn’t drowned, if she’d made it to shore even half alive, Rafael knew she’d go straight to familiar territory.  Dillon. 

The name itself ignited hatred, and in case Caldwell got any noble ideas, Rafael was going to give him a warning.  It wasn’t quite a payback for Marco’s death, but revenge would come later.  In so many ways. He did, after all, have one hell of a trump.

For now, he wanted what was his.  What the Caldwell woman had in her possession.  What Manny had given her.  Rafael was soon going to put a bullet in Manny’s forehead for what he’d done, but until then he’d use Manny as leverage.

First the warning.  Then he’d make a call and find out if Sara Caldwell was still alive.  And then, then he’d settle this very personal score for once and for all.

Amped and out for blood, Rafael squinted through the scope on his rifle and smiled with a cruel twist of his lips as his finger found the trigger. 

<><><>

The only things Craig Duncan loved as much as his job with the DEA were baseball and women.  Especially the Padres and especially the woman with the long red hair and bright smile sitting next to him.  She had to be the sexiest thing on two legs.  Leaning toward her, he whispered into her ear, “Did you know that this stadium is the site of Willie Mays’ six-hundredth homer?”

Stacy laughed, turned and kissed him full on the mouth.  “Keep talking, sexy man, you’re getting me hot.”

Hot?  Over a baseball stat?  Who would’ve thought?  But hey, he wasn’t about to argue, a turn on was a turn on.  And since he was batting a thousand, he smiled and added, “Lou Brock became the majors’ all-time stolen base leader here on August 29, 1977.”

Stacy leaned back with a smile and a sigh.  “Now I’m hungry.”

“Hungry?”  Craig’s smile faded a little.  He didn’t get the connection.  How on earth could she go from horny to hungry in just a few words? 
He
certainly wasn’t thinking about food.  He was too busy looking at the way her breasts strained against the soft, white tank top she wore.

“Yeah, stealing bases, you know, all that running must tire a guy out.  Which would make him really thirsty, and since I’m not really thirsty, I figure a hotdog sounds pretty good.”

Hotdog?
  He shifted in his seat and looked at the dazzling female next to him.  As long as he lived, he was sure he’d never understand how a woman’s mind worked.  Blowing out a deep breath, he gave up trying and just smiled instead.  “And here I thought I was gonna get lucky.”

She ran her hand along his thigh, then reached up and looped an arm around his neck so she could speak directly into his ear.  “Patience, you hound.  Food first.  Baseball second.  Sex third,” she whispered, “if you behave.”

Craig nuzzled the side of her sweet, beautiful face.  “Honey, let me help realign your priorities.  Sex is never third.”

She laughed and elbowed him in the ribs. 

“Okay, okay.  One hotdog coming right up.”  He stood with a grin and signaled to a vendor walking up the aisle toward them.

He didn’t hear it.  He didn’t see it.  But he sure as hell felt it.  Something hot slammed into his chest with the force of a sledgehammer and drove him backward.

Looking down in amazement, he saw a patch of dark red staining the front of his pale blue Polo. 

His mouth opened and he gasped for air.  Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard Stacy scream, heard all hell break loose, but the only thing he could think of was that somehow,
somehow
, they’d made him.  And then the bastards had shot him.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Journal Entry

Fuck.  Fuck, fuck, fuck.  I killed a kid today.  A damn kid.  Rival cartel bullshit.  We were coming out of an upscale mercado, with the air hot and the fruit ripe, Sanchez has six freakin’ bodyguards surrounding him and a green sedan slows down, and right there in a crowded market some crazy-ass cowboy thinks he’s gonna be a hero, gain respect from his
jefe
or whatever, and aims an AK-47 right at Sanchez.  Sanchez hit the ground, the kid got off one round that went wild, and I made the kill shot before the poor bastard ever realized he’d missed.

The kid never stood a chance. 

These cartels down here recruit kids,
kids
, and it just makes me sick inside.  You see the shacks, the squalor, an endless sea of poverty, and maybe you know why some feel they need to do this.  Young, poor, disposable teens who think they can take on the world and win.  Child soldiers they’re called.  Only they’re not soldiers, not in any way, they’re just children.  Now this one’s dead and it pisses me the hell off.

The media will call him just another invisible victim in a violent sea of thousands.  Well, bullshit. 

When his parents find out, will they grieve?  Feel outrage?  Despair?  Fury? 

I sure as hell do.  ~~ D.C.

<><><>

Dillon slumped in his chair feeling sucker punched.

Felt happiness and hope die away.  Stony now.

He gave Sara a long look, then strode to a closet, grabbed a clean set of gray sweats that were big enough to swallow her whole, and tossed them to her.  “Here.  Get dressed.”