Next to Die (3 page)

“Have you shown them Daddy’s journal yet?”

“No, I have an appointment on Thursday.”

“Oh, good,” said Lia, rubbing her arms as if chilled.

“I’m glad you’re moving in with me for a while,” Penny decided suddenly. “We’re better off sticking together on this.” She didn’t like the thought of Ophelia being scared.

Lia sent her a grateful smile.

Over Felix’s purrs, Penny overheard the newscaster mention something in the news about Navy SEALs. She turned her attention to the television, hushing whatever Lia was about to say.

“. . . northeastern Afghanistan, the worst disaster inSpecial Forces history,” the female anchor was saying. “Known casualties include the sixteen men aboard the Chinook helicopter and three SEALs found dead nearby. Taliban leaders claim to have beheaded the fourth SEAL. An unprecedented search continues, despite those claims. The identity of the missing SEAL has not been released.”

As the anchor moved to a bombing in neighboring Iraq, Penny directed her gaze out her window to her neighbor’s dark, empty home, and her heart constricted with empathy. She wondered if Commander Montgomery knew any of the casualties personally. The Special Forces community was especially tight-knit.

“Do you think your neighbor was involved?” Ophelia asked, following her gaze.

“No,” Penny answered definitively. “He’s a high-ranking officer. He’d never be out in the field. But he probably knew a lot of those men,” she added, aware that the tragedy would have touched him deeply. When a neighbor had returned from Iraq half-paralyzed last year, the SEAL built a handicap ramp and organized hospital transportation for the man. He was considerate like that.

He was also six feet three inches of sculpted muscles, with sun-streaked hair and khaki green eyes. Penny’d had a crush on him for years, but with gorgeous women jumping in and out of his hot tub with him, she knew she never stood a chance. Besides, he’d scarcely even spoken to her, except in polite greeting.

He had no idea that she cared for his cat and kept his front yard tidy while he was out playing commando.

With a hidden sigh, she retrieved her half-eaten cheesecake and carried it to the kitchen. “I’d better go to bed,” she announced, rinsing the plate and sticking it in the dishwasher. “I have to get up early for work,” she added. “I think you’ll find everything you need upstairs.”

“Thanks,” said Lia, who’d flopped into the recliner and was flipping through channels.

As Penny slipped into bed minutes later, she remembered the nineteen men who’d lost their lives. As a lieutenant in the United States Navy and a proud patriot herself, her heart ached for them and their loved ones. She considered the commando still missing.
Let him be alive,
she prayed.

Then, as her mind had a habit of doing, she conjured an image of her awe-inspiring neighbor. His first name was Joseph; she’d overheard his friends call him Monty. But to her, he was more of a Mighty Joe. Given the concern he’d shown the injured vet last year, she just knew that Mighty Joe was taking this tragedy very personally, and she wished with all her heart that she could comfort him.

I’m going to die here,
Joe thought, collapsing in the meager shade afforded by a rock overhang.

He panted, hungry for oxygen to feed his fast-beating heart. Near the height of this mountain chain, fourteen thousand feet above sea level, the air was terribly thin. It was warm by day, but at night the temperatures plummeted, leaving him shivering in his dust-covered uniform.

The relentless wind chapped his lips and stung the burn on his cheek. His mouth was so parched that his tongue had swelled. If he didn’t find water soon, he’d have to steal it from the soldiers hounding him. And wouldn’t that be fun?

The escape-and-evasion plan was weak, another oversight of this botched mission. Joe would have been better off slipping through enemy lines to reach coalition forces than he was penetrating the Hindu Kush to seek the E & E extraction point. For four endless days, he’d been chased by guerillas familiar with the terrain. And all he’d had to eat in that time was a lizard, caught basking on a rock.

He’d come so close, so many times, to being caught. But the fear of death—especially death by beheading, which the Taliban were notorious for—kept him moving, to no avail. The extraction point remained elusive.

He was stuck in a death trap where nothing made sense. How could everything have gone so wrong so quickly? Why couldn’t he find his way out of this labyrinth of terror?

The sound of distant bombing was his only connection to reality. The Americans were retaliating.

Then a remote-controlled drone darted past him, diving down into a valley. It was searching for him, he realized, shedding tears of frustration.

There was no way to signal his location. Along with his floppy hat, he’d lost the glint tape he kept Velcroed to the underside of the brim. He’d ditched his infrared strobe when he’d ordered his squad to shuck their rucksacks. His E & E kit, with signal mirror, was lost when he fell four days ago. There was no other way on this barren mountainside to signal an SOS.

His only choice was to stay on the move or risk capture, but he’d driven himself to exhaustion. He lay in the scant shade afforded by the rock beside him, panting what might be his final breaths.

Was he turning delirious? He thought he heard voices, where before there was only the howl of the wind.

He tried to rouse himself, but he could scarcely crack an eye. As he pulled his knife free, it clattered from his clumsy fingers and rolled away.

Shit, he’d just given himself away.

The voices stopped talking. Cautious footsteps came closer.

Be merciful, God
.

He struggled to his elbows.

Through bleary eyes, he blinked at the vision of two men, swathed in cream-colored robes and wearing turbans. Angels? he wondered, blinking to bring them into focus. But then he heard the bleating of sheep; no, they were herdsmen.

They approached him cautiously, conferring between themselves, casting glances all around. The only word Joe recognized was “Amerki,” American.

One of them produced a knife and he flinched, expecting the worst. But it was his own knife, which they’d retrieved. The older of the two laid it on Joe’s abdomen. The man reached under his robe for a goatskin canteen and offered it, his eyes watchful and concerned.

“Thank you,” Joe managed to rasp. He lifted a hand to bear the canteen to his lips, but he was shaking too badly.

The stranger helped him. As Joe sipped the rejuvenating liquid, fighting the impulse to guzzle it, the older man said something to the younger. “Come,” he added to Joe, urging him to sit up.

Joe hesitated. Who was to say these men wouldn’t turn him over to the Taliban? As if sensing his distrust, the man said again, “Amerki.”

Hope made Joe’s extremities tingle. Maybe, just maybe, they were going to help.

Eric Tomlinson’s persistence paid off. On his third visit to Ophelia Price’s apartment, a German woman, with her hair in rollers, stuck her head out of the opposite apartment and demanded, “Vy do you knock every day on Lia’s door ven you can see she isn’t home?”

With a bead of cold sweat sliding from his temple to his jaw, Eric summoned a ghastly smile for her. “Do you know . . . w-w-w-where she is?” he asked.

“Vy shoult I tell you?” the woman asked, running a wary eye over his gaunt frame.

“I have to . . . t-t-talk to her.” His body twitched with the effort needed to get the sentence out.

“No, I don’t know vere she is,” insisted the frau. She stepped back, intending to shut her door.

“Wait!” Eric threw himself across the breezeway, putting a shoulder against the door before she could fully close it. “You do know,” he accused. He could see it in her fleshy face as she battled to push the door shut.

“Go away. She vent to stay vith her sister, okay? She vill haf friends stayink here. Dat’s all I know!”

He stepped back suddenly, and the door slammed shut. Her sister? Ah, yes, Danny’s Price’s older daughter. Eric had preferred her over the impious Ophelia. But Sonja, his wife, had liked the younger daughter.
Isn’t she beautiful
, she would say about her red-gold hair and turquoise eyes.

Yes,
he would agree,
but the older one is smart, like Danny.

Danny’s insight had brought Eric to the brink of ruin five years ago. Danny’d died because of it, taking Eric’s secret to the grave.

Or so Eric had hoped.

Ophelia Price seemed to know the truth.
How do you sleep at night?
she’d demanded of him.

He hadn’t slept a wink since her call.

How could she have guessed, he agonized, unless Danny left a note, a clue, a message from the grave? It wouldn’t take long for the elder sister to get the feds involved.

He would have to silence both of them, or they’d all be sorry.

Chapter Two

Afghanistan

The hospital facility at Bagram Air Base was made of prefabricated materials and powered by generators. There was no hot water.

Having requested a real shower in lieu of a wipe-down, Joe found himself in a communal bathing area, shivering under the trickle that came out of the showerhead. Soap in hand, he set about scrubbing a week’s worth of filth from his body, mindful of the treated burn on his right cheek, which he’d been told to keep dry.

Soap stung the cuts and blisters on his hands. His sunken abdomen, jutting hip bones, and torn skin gave testament to just how desperate his plight had been.

The men who’d rescued him were a tribal elder and his son. They sent word of their discovery to coalition forces, and six men from the Joint Special Operations Task Force had flown up to the remote mountain village to escort their ops officer back to Bagram. He was fussed over and cared for and denied even a moment’s isolation in which to mull over his role in the disaster.

Joe’s commander, Captain Lucas, had blamed the Taliban.
God, it’s good to get one of you back, son
, he’d said with tears in his eyes.
Who would have thought they’d score a hit like that with a thirty-year-old SAR, an SA-16 Gimlet? It sure as hell did the job for them, though, damn them to hell!

He was sending Joe home to recuperate.
You’ll need time to deal with this, Monty,
he said, his hands heavy on Joe’s shoulders.

How could it have happened? Joe wondered, watching the water swirl down the drain. He’d done everything he’d been trained to do. Those men should not have died.

He put a hand against the shower wall, fighting to inhale. The crushing weight on his chest made him want to double over.

He’d never known defeat could hurt so much. Until this impasse, all he’d ever tasted was glory.

Sure, he’d known a sliver of doubt at BUD/S, when for the first time ever he’d found himself in the company of men as fit and focused as he was. But even then it hadn’t taken long to prove himself, to rise above.

The sound of a door closing snatched Joe from his misery. He turned off the water and reached for the towel. Girding his hips, he pulled aside the shower curtain, only to freeze at the sight of Chief Harlan—“Harley”—planted in the center of the locker room.

He’d come to talk to him.

Sean Harlan wasn’t a tall man. Not only did Joe tower over him, he significantly outranked him. But rank didn’t mean much in Special Ops. Wearing crisp desert cammies over his athletic frame, his head shaved as smooth as a baby’s bottom, with blue eyes and a mobile mouth that worked in tandem, Harley cut an intimidating figure. Those eyes and that mouth could go from warmly amused to coldly unimpressed in under a tenth of a second.

Right now, both were flat, concealing his thoughts.

From the moment Harley’d joined the JSOTF, he had garnered Joe’s respect. With sixteen years of experience in the field, he knew more about SEAL tactics, techniques and procedures, weapons, demo, and mission planning than any SEAL Joe knew, including himself.

Joe acknowledged him with a nod. “Chief.” Harley was supposed to have been the OIC on the mission gone wrong, but when he’d spiked a fever, Joe had opted to take his place at the last minute, rather than postpone the time-critical reconnaissance.

Harley’s stare centered on Joe’s bandage. “Sir.” His blue gaze then raked Joe’s frame, as if seeking evidence of his travail.

Joe had lost fifteen pounds. His cheeks were shrunken and sunburned, his lips blistered, his feet and hands swollen.

When Harley finally looked him in the eye, the grim set of his mouth was not without compassion. “I’m glad you made it, sir,” he said gruffly.

An invisible noose looped around Joe’s throat. “Thank you,” he managed.

“I want to know what happened,” Harley demanded, in a voice that grew gravelly with emotion and, to Joe’s horror, accusation. Moisture glittered in his bright blue eyes. The hands at his side curled into fists. “Those were
my
boys,” he added. “I was responsible for them.”

At the possibility that Harlan was blaming him, a cold sweat bathed Joe’s pores. “Everything went wrong at once,” he sought to defend himself. “We were compromised and had a running gunfight with about a hundred of them; the gunship was nowhere within range. Nikko got hit and went under; we had to get him out fast. The tangos had mortars and our ammo ran dry.” He couldn’t begin to summarize the odds they’d faced.