Into the Fire (57 page)

Dr. Heissman was awake, sitting at the table, playing a game of solitaire with a deck of cards that someone had given her. She swept the cards into a pile as he put her phone and handbag on the table in front of her.

“You’re alive.” She gazed up at him, and Decker knew she didn’t miss the bulkiness of the bandage on his shoulder, beneath the ill-fitting shirt someone had lent him—he couldn’t even remember who.

“I am,” he said. “And you’re free to go.”

But she didn’t stand up. “Did you kill him?”

By him, she meant Ebersole. Decker shook his head. “No. He’s in custody. At least he will be after he gets out of surgery.”

He’d surprised her with that. But then she acknowledged her surprise with a laugh. “I really should’ve expected that—with your moral compass and all. I just…I heard about Jim Nash. And I’m so, so sorry.”

And she really was. The compassion and sympathy that Decker saw in her blue eyes was sincere. As was her heartfelt relief that he’d survived. Go figure.

And then she surprised him. By gesturing to a chair across the table from her. “Will you sit?”

He shook his head.

“Coccyx?” she asked.

“No. I’ve got to get back to the hospital.”

“Tess Bailey?” she asked.

Decker nodded. “Yeah.”

“She’s lucky to have you as…a friend,” Dr. Heissman said.

Decker didn’t respond to that, so she stood up, gathered up her things. “I want you to know that I’ll be sending Tom Paoletti a letter of resignation in the morning.”

Decker’d expected that. But he couldn’t stop himself from needling her. “So what was the reason you gave him?
It’s Lawrence Decker’s fault…”

“Of course not,” she said. “The blame is entirely mine. But I’ll be telling him the truth—that the main reason I’m leaving is because I’m unable to continue working with you, as your therapist, because our relationship crossed into inappropriate territory the other night.”

And okay. It was now two to one. She’d surprised him again.

“That’s not the way I remember it,” he said. “You were extremely appropriate.”

“I was,” she agreed. She walked past him, out of the conference room. “It’s not what I
did
that was inappropriate. It was what I
wanted
to do.”

Decker followed her down the hall. “That’s total bullshit.”

“I assure you, it’s not. Dave was right—you
are
an alarmingly attractive man. And I know my limitations. So I’m delivering myself from temptation.”

“It’s
deliver us from
evil,
lead us not into temptation,
” he corrected her.

“That, too,” she quipped.

He ran to get in front of her, to block her path. “We both know the real reason you’re leaving is because James Nash is dead. Because there’s no longer a need for you to monitor him for Doug Brendon.”

Dr. Heissman crossed her arms. She was obviously tired, but she still radiated plenty of that warrior-goddess attitude. “Back to this again? Let me repeat myself, Mr. Decker. I no longer work for the Agency.”

Decker nodded as he held her gaze, as he searched for the truth in her eyes—and didn’t find it.

“I hope, for your sake, that’s true,” he told her quietly. “Nash died because he was off his game, because of the black ops he was forced to perform—against his will—for the Agency. If I find out you were part of that? I’ll hunt you down and I’ll kill you.”

She didn’t blink, didn’t flinch, didn’t move. She just stood there, looking back into his eyes. But she finally nodded. “I don’t work for the Agency,” she said again, and she turned and went out the door.

This time, Decker let her go.

The hotel bar was still open, and Dave held out a stool for Sophia, before dragging his sorry, tired ass onto the next one over.

“Whoo-hoo,” he said. “Isn’t this where we celebrate? Mission accomplished? Oh, yeah, except for the body count, which includes a good friend.”

“That wasn’t your fault,” Sophia said quietly.

Yeah, right. Dave closed his eyes and rested his head on his arms, right there on the bar. “Let’s get shit-faced drunk.”

She laughed. It was, however, very, very sad, very soft laughter.

“I’m serious, Soph,” he said, lifting his head to look at her. “This thing with Nash hasn’t quite kicked in, and when it does, I’m going to be a mess. And dear God,
Tess…
How do you ever recover from something like that?”

He realized what he’d said as the words left his mouth.

Murphy had had to recover. And so had Sophia, whose husband had died as violently as both Angelina and Nash had.

Dave winced as he sat back up. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive.”

But she shook her head and answered as if his question had been real, not rhetorical. “If you’re me,” she said slowly, “you spend a few years in a fantasy world, imagining that you’re in love with someone you probably instinctively know will never—can never—return your affection. Which is good, because that makes this place really safe, which is what you need for a while. But then one day you wake up and you think,
Hmm, I’m alive.
And
Maybe I should see what happens if I spend a little time with someone who truly loves me….”

Dave just looked at her. “I have no clue what you just told me,” he finally said. “It sounded important, but…” He shook his head.

Sophia smiled, and she was so beautiful, he almost started to cry, because he couldn’t help but think of Nash, who would never again see Tess’s equally beautiful smile. Of Tess, who wouldn’t smile again, for a long, long time. It was so goddamn unfair.

“I heard what you said,” Sophia told him, “when you were in the car with Jenk and Lindsey and…I pretended that I didn’t hear it, because I couldn’t…It was too much, you know? So I hung up on you and pretended we lost the connection.”

Oh, good. “You mean…”
I’m in love with you…
This was going to be the perfect crappy end to his outrageously crappy day.

“Can I take your order, folks?” And yes, that was the bartender, because what Dave absolutely needed right now was an audience for his humiliation.

He gestured for Sophia to go first, more than half expecting her to make her excuses and go up to her hotel room, reminding himself that, unlike James Nash, at least he wasn’t dead.

But Sophia apparently really needed that drink. “I’d like a glass of wine,” she told the barkeep, who was a good-looking young man, clearly appreciative of beautiful women. “Do you have Shiraz?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He forced himself to stop smiling into her eyes and turned to Dave. “Sir?”

“Shot of whiskey,” he said. “Lower shelf, make it burn. Keep ’em coming. Beer chaser.” He looked over at the tap. “Alaskan Amber. Start a tab, please—room 515.”

“Sir, yes sir.” The bartender looked at Sophia and winked. “Looks like you got yourself a real cowboy there, ma’am.”

“I do,” she said. “Dave saved my life tonight. And I mean that very literally.”

“Oh please.” Dave rolled his eyes.

“But a friend of ours just died,” Sophia told the man, “so if you wouldn’t mind adding the word
quickly
to our order…?”

Shazam.
Way to magically make their drinks appear. The bartender left the whiskey bottle, too, vanishing down to the other end of the bar, because his need to avoid the people with the dead friend trumped even a woman as pretty as Sophia.

Dave glanced at her as he picked up his shot glass. “Way to go.” The whiskey burned all the way down, making his eyes tear—which maybe wasn’t such a good idea—as he braced himself for Sophia’s gentle letdown.

I’m so glad we’re friends
was how it would start. Or maybe,
We’ve been friends for so long…

“Have you ever thought about having children?” she asked as she delicately sipped her wine, as his beer went down much colder than that whiskey had. She smiled at his confusion. “I was just thinking about Eden and…” Her smile faded. “A few years ago, I had a miscarriage. I was barely even three months along, and…It was awful. I can’t imagine what she’s feeling tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” Dave said. Dear God, life could be a real bitch. “You didn’t…want to try again?”

Sophia shook her head. “I focused on my company. Work became my baby. I was afraid to…And then Dimitri…You know.”

Dave did know. Dimitri had died. “I’m sorry,” he said again. It was the refrain of the evening.

“So…have you?” she asked. “Thought about it?”

“Having children?” He laughed. Poured himself another shot. “Not really. I mean, yeah, I grew up watching the
Cosby Show
and I always thought
I’d like to be a dad like that,
but…” He shrugged. “I’d also like to be a billionaire and an astronaut. Or even better, a billionaire astronaut.” He toasted her and tossed back the whiskey.

“I’d like to have children,” Sophia said, “and it’s important to me that any man I start a relationship with is at least open to the idea.”

It was then, as Dave was struggling to breathe again after that whiskey burn, that dawn broke.

Any man I start a relationship with…

“I’m open to the idea,” Dave whispered, because his vocal cords appeared to have stopped functioning. He took a long slug of his beer, because, damnit, he had something he needed to say. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe this
wasn’t
the time to mention that, in a weird way, by Nash’s dying, maybe the universe had been set right. Decker was with Tess—as he should have been from the start and…Yeah, this was definitely not the moment for that conversation. Sophia had been on that chopper ride to the hospital with Decker and Tess. She’d surely seen what Dave had seen—Decker’s protective and tender possessiveness of his dead friend’s fiancée.

But it seemed as if, even before that, Sophia had come to the conclusion that Deck was never going to give her what she wanted.

Which, apparently, included children.

She gazed into her wineglass, as if she were embarrassed or even shy. “I’ve been thinking about it,” she told him, “all day. What you said on the phone. And…I think I would like, very much, to spend some time with someone who loves me.” She then turned and looked at him.

And there he was. Sitting on a stool in some crappy hotel bar, lost in the heaven that was Sophia’s eyes.

“That would be me,” he told her. “Of course, there’s a lot of us in that subset,” he felt compelled to point out. “Dan Gillman, for example…”

Sophia laughed and slid off her stool. “In that case, I guess I should go find Dan—”

Dave knew she was only teasing, but he caught her arm, reeled her in. “Don’t. He’s a…a child.”

“Maybe,” Sophia agreed, her hand on the back of his neck, in his hair, making his mouth go dry. “But he’d probably know when to stop talking and kiss me.”

And it was then that hell froze over. It was then that it snowed in July. It was then that pigs flew. Because it was then that Sophia leaned over. And kissed Dave.

She
kissed
him, and her mouth was so soft…

Dave had always thought that he’d faint—he’d just drop, bang—if that ever happened. But he was wrong.

He didn’t faint after all.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SEVEN

E
den didn’t say much of anything to anyone.

She ate when the nurses brought the breakfast tray—when she was prompted. She took the medicine that was given her. She obediently watched the videos on taking care of her stitches, on her post-op care.

But she didn’t say much. Not to Izzy. And certainly not to Danny when he came to visit.

And wasn’t
that
a fun half hour?

Although it did spark a conversation that she’d been avoiding:
What are you going to do now?

Izzy had been constant, to say the least. He’d stayed with her. He’d held her hand while the doctor explained why Pinkie had died. He was there when they brought the baby in to her and let her hold his tiny little body, and he’d held her tightly afterward, in his arms, as she’d wept.

He’d even cried a little, too.

But then he’d asked her, gently, who the father really was, and she realized what he must’ve known from the moment he’d seen Pinkie, before she’d regained consciousness after her surgery—that Richie wasn’t the baby’s father after all.

And she’d said, “I don’t know,” because she
didn’t
know, and she’d grasped at straws: “Maybe someone else was there with Richie, that night…” But then she’d stopped, because she knew that Izzy no longer believed her.

She didn’t blame him.
She
wouldn’t have believed her.

So there wasn’t much to say.

Except,
what are you going to do now
had been laid on the table.

Izzy started. “I’m going wheels up in a few days. I already spoke to the senior chief and he tried, but he couldn’t get me leave—not right now. Not for a couple of weeks. But Lindsey volunteered to—”

“No,” Eden interrupted him. “I don’t need a babysitter. And I don’t need you to come back early.”

Izzy nodded. “Regardless, I’ve already put in the paperwork. I’ll be back in San Diego on thirteen August—at the latest, and I’ll have a whole month to—”

“Why bother?” Eden asked. “You shouldn’t. You should just—” She exhaled wearily. “I’m not very good company, anyway. We’d just sit around staring at each other. I mean, I can’t even have sex for, I don’t know,
months,
so…”

He was silent, just watching her, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

“Well, I can’t,” she finally said.

Izzy nodded. “And since that’s all I’ve ever wanted from you…” He stood up, a fluid burst of energy, as if he couldn’t sit still another moment. “I know you’re angry at the entire world, Eden, and since I’m a resident here—”

“I just want to be left alone,” she implored him. God, God, don’t let her start to cry again…“
How
long until we can get a divorce?” Izzy had told her that the health insurance company would look at them funny if they immediately turned around and dissolved their marriage.

He rubbed his forehead now, and she knew he had a headache. She had one, too. “I don’t know, Eed. Let’s just…I’ll be back in a few weeks. Stay at the apartment until then, okay? Lindsey’ll check in on you, and when I get back, we’ll sort everything out.”

Sort everything out.
As if everything would be hunky-dory in a week or two. As if her heart and soul hadn’t been burned to ashes in that horrible little box with Pinkie. As if she’d ever feel like smiling and laughing again.

“Okay,” she said now, because it was easier than arguing. Because she knew that she could—and would—leave long before he returned.

Because she’d discovered that there
was
something worse than someone not believing her and ditching her in a Krispy Kreme.

It was Izzy—not believing her, yet still not cutting his losses and walking away.

Decker’s shoes squeaked on the tile in the hospital corridor, as he looked for room 261.

It was kind of obnoxious—the noise that he made—and as he passed room after room, he tried walking on his toes, hoping he wasn’t waking anyone.

The doctors had estimated at least another two weeks before release—maybe longer—which meant Decker would be back here tomorrow.

Wearing sneakers.

He stopped in front of 261. The door was closed, so he knocked softly, which was stupid, because Tess was injured. It was highly unlikely she was in there, dancing naked.

“Come in,” she called, and Decker went in.

She was out of bed, sitting up, her eyes bright with tears, as if she’d been crying.

He would have thought that—eventually—she’d stop. Apparently not.

“How’s he doing?” Deck asked.

“Freaking great—for a dead man.” Jim Nash opened his eyes to look at Decker.

“He’s awake,” Decker said, somewhat inanely, to Tess.

She nodded. “He’s pretty groggy.”

Nash looked like shit warmed over. His skin was gray and he looked almost small in that hospital bed. He was hooked up to monitors and machines and IV tubes and God knows what-all. And yet he still managed to be a demanding son of a bitch.

“Are we really safe?” he asked. “Is Tess…?”

Decker went over to him and kissed him on the forehead. “She’s safe,” he reassured his friend. “You’re safe, I’m safe. Jules Cassidy helped me get you here. We’re very safe.”

Thank God for Jules Cassidy. When Decker had told him what he suspected was going on—that Nash was being blackmailed by someone from the Agency—Cassidy hadn’t been surprised. Apparently, there was an ongoing, top secret FBI investigation into illegal Agency operations. The high-ranking FBI agent couldn’t say too much about it, but when Decker had suggested that Nash not survive his gunshot wound from the recent battle with the Freedom Network, in order to pull him free from the Agency’s grasp, Cassidy had nodded.

And he’d gone about making it happen, coming back into that conference room to say quietly to Decker, “Nash is dead.” Meaning he’d successfully moved Nash from surgery to this safe location, while providing the necessary paperwork—and even a body—to convince the Agency’s leaders that Nash would be taking all of his secrets with him to his grave.

“Does Dave…know I’m not dead?” Nash now asked.

Decker shook his head. “No.”

“Who knows?”

Decker ticked them off on his fingers. “You, obviously. Me. Tess. Cassidy.” That was it.

“Gotta tell Murph,” Nash said. It really was a struggle for him to talk. “Don’t let this…fuck him up…”

Decker looked at Tess, who nodded her agreement. “I trust Murphy,” she said. “I trust Dave, too—”

“I can’t,” Decker said. “Tell him. Not without…” He cleared his throat. “He’s been spending a lot of time with, um, Sophia. We have to draw the line.”

Nash nodded. “It’s your call.”

And there Decker stood, just looking at his friend’s legs beneath the hospital blanket. Because God knows it would’ve been too hard to stand there looking into Nash’s eyes.

“You should have come to me,” Decker said quietly. “You should have told me what was going on.”

Nash laughed. Winced as if laughing hurt. “I just had this…exact same conversation…with Tess.”

“You’re going to have to talk to both of us,” Decker told him. “About everything. Working for the Agency’s Ghost Group…?”

Nash glanced at his fiancée.

She leaned forward. Narrowed her eyes at him. “Did you
really
think I didn’t know
some
thing like that was going on?”

Nash held out his hand to her, and she took it. “We’re really safe?” he asked Decker again, his voice a whisper. “All of us?”

“We are,” Decker promised him. “We’re safe.” He put his hand on Nash’s head, the way he used to do to Ranger, when his dog was too keyed up to fall asleep. He gently covered Nash’s eyes, gently forcing them to shut, and, with them closed, his friend finally relaxed into sleep.

Tess was watching him, and Deck met her gaze. “He’s safe,” he reassured her. “The Agency thinks he’s dead. I made sure of it.”

“Playing dead didn’t work for Tim Ebersole,” she pointed out.

“It worked for him for four months,” Decker countered. “Hopefully we won’t need Nash to stay dead for that long.” He headed for the door. “We’re going to fix this, Tess. I promise you.”

“You need to sleep sometime, too,” she called after him.

“I know,” he called back. “There’s one more thing I’ve got to do…”

Murphy was far more coherent the next time he woke up.

Hannah had curled up next to him on the bed, which was probably breaking all kind of hospital rules, but she was so tired, and she needed to feel him, safe and solid beside her, in order to fall asleep.

He was awake when she finally stirred. He was running his fingers through her hair, and Hannah just lay there for a while, enjoying the gentleness of his touch. She finally looked up at him, and he smiled.

“You need a good hosing down,” he said. “I’ve been introducing you to the nurses as Hannah, who was raised by wolves.”

She laughed as she moved off the bed, careful not to jostle him, settling back into a chair that was an olfactory-safe distance away. “Think they’ll let me shower down the hall?” she asked. “Because I’m not leaving the hospital. Not even to shower.”

“I think they’re circulating a petition to make it mandatory,” he said, spelling out both petition and mandatory with his fingers.

She shot him an easily recognized sign language message that was American, if not quite ASL, and he laughed. “Me, I’ve always loved the way you smell.”

She nodded. “Right.”

“I have,” he admitted. “From day one, Han. I’ve always had a thing for you.”

“So you marry my best friend?” she scoffed, but then looked down at her lap, because she knew what was coming, and she wasn’t ready for this conversation. “Can we not talk about Angelina? I’m just…I want to talk about her but…Not today. I mean, I want you to know that I really am okay with being, well, your second choice. She was special. I know that.”

A crumpled tissue landed in her lap, and she forced herself to look up at him. He was shaking his head at her.

“You don’t want to talk about her,” he chided, “except then you go and talk about her.”

“I just wanted to say that one thing,” Hannah defended herself.

“Don’t I get to say one thing?” he countered.

“No,” she said. “You don’t.”

Murphy laughed his disbelief. “Don’t make me get out of this bed.”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay.
One
thing.”

“It was easier,” he told her, spelling out the word, “to fall in love with Angelina, than it was to deal with the fact that I’ve always been in love with you. You remember the day after my father’s funeral, when I told you that, you know…”

That Angelina had jumped him the night before, while she was out directing traffic after a high school basketball game. Hannah nodded. She remembered that night, very clearly.

“I came this close,” Murphy held his thumb and forefinger apart about a half an inch, “to kissing you that night. But I was scared of losing you as a friend. And there was Angelina. And I have to admit, it was nice to be wanted. And then, I fell in love with her because…it was so damn easy. Don’t get me wrong, I loved her. With all my heart. I still love her, I always will. But…I know I’ve told you this before—I’m not the same man I was back then. I’m different—and I’m more equipped to deal with things that are…harder.

“And I know that telling someone you love them in times of duress—” he spelled it out as he continued “—is maybe not the smartest thing in the world to do. Because maybe you only
think
you love me, and if that’s true, that’s okay, because I’ve learned, the hard way, that I can live without you. I’m a survivor, Han. I’m going to keep on keeping on, no matter how hard it gets. But I’d like—very much—to live the rest of my life with you. You’re the love of my life—this new life that I’ve chosen.”

Hannah waited, but he was finally done. And she had to give him shit—it was that or cry. “That was one thing?”

“I love you, Han,” he said.

“I love you, too,” she told him, her chest aching with the tears she wouldn’t let herself cry. “But Vinh, you didn’t choose to live. You got lucky. When you went out into the compound…”

“I wouldn’t have done it without the body armor,” he reminded her.

“Really?”

“Okay,” he said, “you’re right, I probably would have, but my only other option was to shoot Craig Reed. From where I was hiding, I had a pretty clear shot. But doing that would’ve definitely gotten me killed.”

“You could’ve stayed hidden.”

“No,” Murphy said emphatically, “I couldn’t. Look, Han, I was buying time, when I did what I did. I knew Jenkins and Gillman were coming with the trucks.” He shook his head. “I remember hiding in the compound, and thinking,
I’ve got a future again.
I don’t know exactly when it happened, when I started thinking that it’d be nice to do more than eat and sleep and get through another day. But I’m here. There. Here. And I
definitely
didn’t want to die. I didn’t bank on Reed trying to start a war with the FBI, though. That was a potentially fatal call. I thank God Decker was there.”

Decker, who blamed himself for Angelina’s death…