Next to Die (6 page)

“You owe me dinner,” the soldier reminded, following her to her car. “Don’t break your word.” He shut her door for her. “Seat belt,” he added, tapping on the glass.

With a growl of annoyance, Lia whipped the seat belt across her chest and snapped it into place. She looked up to see Soldier Boy slipping fluidly into his car. He skewered her with a look in his rearview mirror, and then he took off, his motor roaring loudly.

“Annoying brat,” Lia muttered, her own car lurching into drive. She was shaken by the incident, but it served at least to take her mind off greater worries, like whether Eric knew she had gone to the FBI and whether he was plotting his reprisal.

At seven-thirty in the morning, Penny stepped out of her house in her uniform, relieved that it was Friday. She paused on her front stoop to savor the crisp air drawn in by last night’s rain. The sun edging over the house across the street had turned the sky a buttery yellow. She would have preferred to watch it rise over the Atlantic Ocean, but duty called and she had to go. At least she would have the weekend off for working overtime.

The thud of a closing door drew her gaze to Joe Montgomery’s house. She watched him limp toward his Jeep. He wore his dress blues, complete with golden tassels and brass buttons that fairly gleamed, topped off by a smart combination cap. She wondered what function he was headed to, dressed like that.

As if sensing her perusal, his head turned and his stride faltered. Despite the shadow cast by the brim of his cap, she could see lines of pain etched on either side of his mouth.

“Good morning,” she called across the lawn. Had he slept at all since his return? He’d left the lights on every night.

“Morning,” he growled back. Averting his gaze, he continued doggedly toward his Jeep.

She watched with concern as he shut himself inside and backed the vehicle slowly out of his driveway.

He used to drive like a bat out of hell.

With a shake of her head, Penny told herself not to fret over him. There were plenty of patients at Portsmouth Naval Medical Center who welcomed her attention.

Joe wanted to die. The pain in his chest took up so much room, there wasn’t space for oxygen. His eyes burned. His knees quaked as he stood in formation with the other SEALs in attendance at Smiley’s funeral.

Arlington National Cemetery was a palette of autumn hues. Pots of colorful mums flanked the myriad headstones. Vermillion maples and golden oaks fortified the perimeter of the graveyard. Was Nature mocking him? How could she seem so vibrant in the presence of death?

The air was saturated with the scent of lilies. In the midst of dripping blossoms lay Smiley’s coffin, draped with the stars and stripes of the American flag.

The bugler lifted the horn to his lips to emit the purest notes Joe had ever heard. They cut straight through his heart.

Day is done. Gone the sun. From the lakes. From the hills. From the sky. All is well. Safely rest. God is nigh.

Boom.
The first volley of the seven M14s cracked into the silence. Joe locked his knees to keep them from buckling. In his mind’s eye, Nikko passed out, dragging Curry down with him.

Boom.
Mortar rounds punched into the earth and made the mountain tremble.

Boom
. The fireball within the helo mushroomed outward, thrusting Joe away on a wave of incinerating heat.

He swayed. The men standing at attention on either side of him shifted closer. “Sir?” one of them inquired beneath his breath.

“I’m fine,” rasped Joe, but he wasn’t.

If the men around him knew he’d been Smiley’s OIC, they were circumspect enough not to mention it. If they didn’t know, they would never guess. Middle-aged officers didn’t take the place of savvy, experienced chiefs. It was unheard-of, a put-down to the enlisted man’s integrity.

So why had he done it?

Beyond Smiley’s mourning family, there stood the press, momentarily subdued, oblivious to the fact that he was the sole survivor of that hideous disaster.

God, keep it that way.

I have to get through this,
Joe told himself, digging deep for composure. It was nearly over. The funeral detail stepped forward to fold the flag in a shape reminiscent of the tricorn hats of the Revolutionary War. Admiral Johansen presented it to Smiley’s mother, who cradled it in her arms like a baby, the way she’d once cradled her son.

Joe squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t watch.

The honor guard withdrew. It was the SEALs’ cue to merge and form a line. Joe fumbled to remove his trident pin. His fingers were still swollen, tender. He couldn’t see through his tear-blurred eyes. He trailed the man in front of him. And then it was his turn to hammer his pin into the lid of the coffin.

Boom.
Half-blinded by tears, he somehow managed to align his pin with the others. His teammates went to shake hands with family members. Joe broke rank and limped toward his car.

Once inside his vehicle, he clung to the steering wheel and let his chest heave. The salt of his tears stung the wound on his cheek.

Help me, God.
The pain in his heart was getting worse, not better.

Twenty minutes later, Joe drew his first full breath.

With a sharp sniff, he lifted his gaze at the coffin, awaiting burial at the height of the hill. Smiley’s family still hovered around it, loath to leave their beloved Richard.

I’m so sorry,
thought Joe, looking up at them.
If my arrogance and ambition got him killed, please forgive me. ’Cause I can’t forgive myself.

Twenty-eight trident pins winked in the sunlight.

Commander Montgomery was finally back. Penny rolled over as the headlights of his Jeep strafed her ceiling. He cut his engine and slammed his door shut.
Now I can sleep,
she thought, snuggling deeper into her pillow.

But then strange noises seeped through the window she’d cracked to counteract the higher thermostat setting Ophelia preferred. Thuds and shouts snatched her from her sleep. She slitted an eye and realized that, in contrast to the previous nights, her neighbor was keeping the lights off. What on earth was going on with him?

It was out of character for the SEAL to make any noise. Certainly he’d thrown a couple of parties that got loud, dragging on until three in the morning. But the commander by himself was so stealthy that Penny never noticed his comings and goings.

Until tonight. Something was terribly wrong. Penny had dealt with wounded soldiers too long not to sense it. And she couldn’t sleep because of it.

Another thud reached her ears, followed by a sound like a roar.

That’s it
. Throwing back the covers, she rolled out of bed. What if he was hurt and shouting for help? Her professional role would not let her turn a blind eye.

She snatched up her bathrobe, wriggled her feet into slippers, and left her room.

A peek into the guest room showed that Lia was sleeping soundly. Penny went downstairs, fetched her house keys, and locked her sister inside.

The keys jingled in her pocket as she crossed the lawn toward his dark house. An early frost crunched beneath her slippers. Her breath came out in a snowy vapor. She arrived at Joe’s door, chilly in her night attire, and knocked.

What am I doing here? Penny wondered, hearing nothing but silence coming from inside her neighbor’s house.

She reassured herself that she had every right to be concerned. If he rebuffed her, she would at least tell him to tone it down.

She raised a hand and knocked again.

Nothing. Perhaps he’d finally gone to sleep.

Lovely. She could go back to her own bed. But as she turned to go, the sound of shattering glass wrested her attention. A lurid curse followed.

Not only was her neighbor still awake, but he sounded like he’d just hurt himself. Penny swiveled toward the door and knocked more loudly, calling, “Commander? Are you okay?”

She put her ear to the door and overheard a loud thud followed by a moan. She reached for the doorknob and found it locked.

Okay, she had a choice: help herself to the key that she’d seen Barbara, the cat-sitter, use, or walk away.

She started to leave. Three steps from the door, she sighed and doubled back. Retrieving the key from under the third flowerpot, she let herself in.

“Commander?” she called with a shiver of uncertainty. “It’s your next-door neighbor, sir. I’m coming in.”

Chapter Four

Penny slipped inside Lieutenant Commander Montgomery’s front door and shut it quietly behind her. Not only was the foyer dark as pitch, but his house was bigger than hers, the layout unfamiliar. She pocketed his key alongside her own and waded into shadow.

A light, shining from deep within the recesses of the home, was her only beacon. As she felt her way past a flight of stairs, something silky rubbed against her calf, emitting a yowl. “Felix!” she breathed, her heart hammering.

The hardwood under her slippers transitioned into steps that descended to a sunken family room, a space scantily illumined by the light, which she now saw was coming from the kitchen. Across the distance, she spied broken bits of glass glinting on the countertops amid a spattering of blood. The potent scent of whiskey reached her nostrils. “Commander?” she called in consternation.

A shackle seemed to close around her right ankle. It startled a hoarse screech from her throat as it yanked her off her feet. She threw out her arms out to break her fall and landed across the hard body of a man lying concealed in shadow.

He wasn’t content to bring her down, either. He grappled and rolled her to the floor. In the next instant, she was lying on her stomach with her right cheek embedded in the carpet and her left arm locked behind her back. A heavy weight pressured her spine. Her legs were immobilized.

“Who’re you?” he growled in her ear, his words slurring together.

Something warm and wet plopped upon her cheek.

“Lieutenant Penny Price, sir,” she said breathlessly, “from next door.” He was bleeding on her, she realized, catching the scent of blood.

“Penny.” Some of the pressure eased from her spine. “Copper penny,” he mused on a strange note. “Never knew your eyes were blue.”

There was no way he could see her eyes in the dark, which meant he’d noticed them the other day. “Sir, I believe you’re hurt. I’m in the medical profession. I can help you,” she added in a no-nonsense voice.

“Cut my hand on glass,” he corroborated. He grew abruptly heavier, and she feared he was passing out on top of her, in which case, she might never get out from under him.

“Commander!” she said sharply.

He lurched to attention. “Hmmm?”

“You’re hurting me. Do you mind getting off me, sir?”

“Sorry.” He withdrew his weight, and she rolled to one side until she made him out, struggling to sit back on his heels. A dark stain streaked down one side of his face, coming from a cut above his right eye. He hadn’t gotten that by picking up glass.

“Let me help you,” she repeated. Clambering to her feet, she sought to help him rise. “Up you go, sir, before you bleed all over your carpet.”

He went up easily enough, but then he nearly pitched over again, and she had to muscle him upright, propping herself beneath his armpit. “Which way to a bathroom, sir?” she asked, wanting to avoid the kitchen and all that broken glass.

“’hind you.”

Sure enough, there was a door in the opposite wall. “Okay, let’s get you cleaned up.”

She half-dragged, half-carried him toward the opening in the wall. It was impossible not to notice how hot, big, and lean his body felt, draped heavily over hers. “Watch your eyes,” she warned, fumbling inside the door for a light.

As he flinched and groaned, she took in the room beyond her with second thoughts.

Oh, dear, this was his bedroom.

And what a bed he had, she marveled, her gaze momentarily glued to the California king. It was covered with a thick black comforter that reflected the rest of the room’s decor—black and khaki geometric patterns. His dressers and bed were of Scandinavian design, with clean, uncluttered surfaces.

He started toward the wide, inviting bed.

“Oh, no, in here,” she urged, tugging him toward what had to be the bathroom.

As she wrestled him into the room and flicked on the light, she noticed more blood dripping from his right hand. So he
had
cut himself picking up glass. Was that before or after he cut his brow ridge?

She positioned him in front of the vanity, noting in her peripheral vision the burgundy wallpaper and handsome brass-and-marble fixtures. “Let’s have a look at you.”

Propping him against the sink, she craned her neck to assess the cut just beneath his eyebrow. Blood still pulsed in a sluggish trickle. Meanwhile, two fingers on his right hand were bleeding all over the tile floor.

“We’re going to treat your hand first,” she decided, cranking on the water.

“What happened?” he wondered, squinting at his reflection. He touched the cut. “Ow!”