Night Hush (27 page)

 

Chapter Forty-­Five

September 11. 3:55
P.M.

Recreation Center, Dogwood Beach Housing Area

E
VERYTHING IN
H
EATHER FROZE.
Jace had been shot. There was blood everywhere. He was on his knees because he could no longer stand.

Zaahir was going to kill Jace with his own gun.

Time slowed down. She seemed to have all the time in the world to dive across the pavement, scoop up the terrorist's PHP VM-­17 pistol, and roll out into a crouching firing position. Time to steady her aim, time to squeeze the trigger.

The first shot hit him high in the shoulder. He jerked, but did not fall. The next blew a hole in his face. Heather pulled the trigger over and over, until the steady
click-­click-­click
finally penetrated the red haze in her brain, and she realized the magazine was empty. Fifteen rounds.

Zaahir sprawled in an expanding pool of blood.

Nevertheless, she crept up on his body, ready for him to leap to his feet and grab hold of her. His sightless gaze reassured her. Backing away from the spreading puddle, she turned and dropped to her knees beside Jace.

“Jace? Jace, look at me!” She gripped the bottom of his T-­shirt, already torn, and ripped it further, trying to get a good look at his wound. The bullet had penetrated his upper chest, above and to the left of his heart. Blood poured from his torn flesh. The gory ruin terrified her.

She gagged.

Forcing herself straight, she fought down her nausea. She turned him in order to lay him flat, alarmed at how easily he fell. Placing both hands over his wound, she leaned her palms into it, applying pressure. “You stay with me, Jace, do you hear me?” she said. “Don't you dare leave me!”

Jace's mouth turned up at the corners. “Wouldn't dare,” he managed. He tried to raise a hand to her face. She caught it and lifted it to her cheek. His blood and her tears mingled together.

“You know I love you, right?” Her tears dripped onto his hand.

He moved his head in what could have been a nod. He shivered, going into shock.

Police cars and an ambulance veered around the corner, their sirens piercing. They drove almost up on top of them, and suddenly the loading area was swarming with ­people. Firm hands pulled her away.

She let them separate her from Jace, weeping, panic freezing her insides. The medics palpated the area around the bullet hole, packed it, started fluids, and shifted Jace into a neck collar and spinal board, just to be safe.

“His systolic is above eighty,” one told her. “That's the good news. I've called for a life flight. We need to get him to a trauma center.”

Heather crept back to his side. He was still conscious, barely, hanging on until he saw her. This time, she got a faint smile.

“Love . . . you,” he whispered.

Heather smoothed her hand over his short hair. “Save your strength,” she murmured. “I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you. You live for me, do you hear me, soldier? You don't get to swoop into my life, then leave me.”

Trevor appeared on the loading dock, hobbling, with a medic hovering at his elbow in case he fell. He made it over to the ambulance under his own steam. “How is he?” he asked.

The other medic scanned the sky. “Better if we get him to the hospital,” he said. “His blood pressure is dropping. I've called for an air ambulance.”

The Blackhawk medical helicopter took five and a half minutes to arrive. Heather knew, because she alternately scanned the sky and checked her watch. Jace slipped into unconsciousness as the medic labored to keep him stabilized.

The flight medics loaded him onto the helicopter. Medics on the air ambulances were qualified combat medics, she knew. Trained specifically to stabilize and treat battle-­wounded men. That didn't stop her from wringing her hands after she scrambled onto the bird behind him. Trevor had been put on another stretcher bed, and the third medic immobilized his wrist and checked his ribs for breaks. She barely spared him a glance. He would live.

So would Jace. He had to.

Running her hands over her knees, she tried to still her trembling. Someone draped a blanket around her shoulders. One of the medics knelt in front of her. “I'm going to cut your pants at the knee, okay?” he asked. “I need to check your injuries.”

What injuries? She looked down in surprise. Her jeans were torn and bloody. It must have happened when she'd fallen, when Zaahir dragged her away from the injured Jace. “I'm fine,” she said. “Take care of Captain Reed.”

The medic patted her hand. “We're doing everything we can for him. He's as stabilized as he can be until we get to the trauma center. Time to check you out.”

Heather pulled away and went to sit next to Jace. “Later.”

The medic hesitated. “We're one minute out.”

She stroked Jace's hair and held his hand. There wasn't anything else she could do.

The Blackhawk landed on the roof of the al-­Zadr base hospital. Several medical staffers waited on the roof; they moved Jace to a gurney and rushed inside. Heather tried to follow him, but a nurse guided her, instead, to a curtained-­off area in the emergency room, where she ordered Heather, kindly but firmly, to remove her pants. Heather almost screeched her frustration.

“He's going into surgery, darlin' ” the nurse said. “You got a wait ahead of you anyways. Might as well clean out those abrasions.”

Sighing, Heather did as she was told. Truth was, the scrapes stung. They weren't serious; the nurse cleaned and bandaged them. Refusing her offer of “something for the pain,” Heather instead began to pace.

 

Chapter Forty-­Six

September 11. 8:00
P.M.

Base Hospital, al-­Zadr Air Force Base, Azakistan

H
EATHER SAT IN
Trevor's visitor chair, not saying much. Until someone updated her on Jace's condition, there wasn't much to say. The bullet had smashed into his upper chest, missing his collarbone and his heart by just a few inches. Her worry hung palpably in the air.

“He's still in surgery,” she said, as though Trevor didn't already know that.

“We'll know something soon,” he soothed, as though he hadn't repeated the words half a dozen times already. He reached for the water pitcher, but Heather beat him to it, pouring it for him and holding it to his mouth. He gave a half grimace and took it from her. “Broken ribs are a pain in the arse,” he said, “but my arm works just fine.”

“Your left one, anyway,” she said. His right wrist rested in a heavy splint until the swelling went down, at which time it would be put in a plaster cast to heal. He didn't seem to appreciate her fussing, so she began to pace instead. “Why isn't anyone telling us anything?”

“Patience, ducks,” he said. “Still in surgery is good. Still in surgery means they're fixing him up like new.”

Heather threw herself back into the visitor's chair, arms crossed over her chest as she slumped back. “I know.”

The Defense Threat Reduction Agency was on its way to take charge of the phosgene in the oil truck. Heather and Trevor had both been furious to discover LTC Louis Jowat, in charge of security into and around the parade grounds, had intercepted and overridden Shelby's order to evacuate the military and civilian visitors at the parade ground. The president had already started his speech, and Jowat decided, unilaterally, the danger at the recreation center was too far from the site of the president's visit to pose a threat, and the president would be gone before any threat from the recreation areas could affect him. The Secret Ser­vice was livid, demanding Jowat be court-­martialed for endangering the life of the President of the United States. Heather wasn't too broken up about it. The man had made serious errors in judgment.

A figure appeared in his doorway. Heather shot to her feet. “How is he? Is he out of surgery? Can I see him?” It was not, however, Dr. Denby.

It was Shelby.

Trevor sat up, chuffing out a pained noise. Heather shot him a chiding look.

“Your own fault for refusing pain meds,” she said.

Shelby trickled a gray silk scarf through her fingers several times. Finally, she took a few small steps into the room. “Am I interrupting?”

“No. Not at all. Absolutely not,” Trevor said.

She wouldn't look at him, not directly. Instead, she crossed to Heather and hugged her. “I'm glad you're all right. Both of you,” she added, but still wouldn't meet Trevor's gaze.

“We're waiting for Jace to get out of surgery,” said Heather, returning the hug. Her eyes filled with tears; she couldn't help it. What would she do if Jace died? Part of her would die, too.

Shelby looked her over, and she realized she still wore her torn jeans. The blood caking it made the denim stiff and uncomfortable. She hardly cared. No way was she leaving before she'd seen Jace.

Shelby wandered to the window and looked out. The late afternoon sun dipped toward the horizon. Shadows lengthened across the hospital grounds. Heather glanced askance at Trevor, and he gave a small nod.
Yes, please leave.

She started toward the door. “I'm going to get some coffee. And then I'm going to go down to surgery and see if there's any news.”

Shelby turned sharply. “Oh . . . no, please. Don't let me displace you.”

Heather hesitated. Which friend did she sacrifice for the other?

“You need to stretch your legs, I'm sure,” Trevor said. “You've been cooped up in here for quite a while.”

She gave a small shrug, cast an apologetic look Shelby's way, and went out the door.

“Nice view,” she heard Shelby say. The window looked out over the parking lot, as it happened. The view stunk. Heather wandered down to the nurses' station.

“Any word on Jace Reed?” she asked. The nurse, an older woman with steel gray hair, picked up the receiver and dialed down to the surgical ward without a single comment or reprimand. Heather had asked her the same question twenty times in the past two and a half hours.

“They're still operating,” she reported back a moment later. “It's likely going to be another hour, at least.”

Breathing deeply, reminding herself that the continued surgery meant that Jace still lived, Heather thanked the patient woman. More coffee was last thing she needed—­five cups already swirled in her bloodstream—­so she walked back to Trevor's room.

She leaned against the wall opposite the doorway, trying to tune out the conversation between Shelby and Trevor. She couldn't.

“I bet the State Department's in chaos,” Trevor was saying. “A lot of political fallout from this.”

“Yes, it's crazy. The Azakistani woman, Aa'idah Karim, came to the embassy, asking for asylum. I think she'll get it, too.” Pause. “Look, Trevor . . . what happened last week . . . us, um, you know. After the Festival Gala. It was a mistake. I'm sure you've realized it, too. So it shouldn't be a problem, um, for us to . . . just forget it ever happened, right?” The pause felt weighted to Heather. “I mean, it's not like our paths are likely to cross again anyway, right?” Faint desperation tinged her tone.

Heather cursed the poor timing. Two broken ribs, head split open, broken wrist, gunshot to the shoulder . . . Trevor was lucky to be alive. And Shelby chose to dump him now, while he was still in the hospital?

Trevor sighed. “I did not leave your bed to go to Christina's,” he said. “She was in trouble.”

“Yes, I understand,” Shelby spoke over him. “That's not why . . .”

Heather rubbed between her eyes, trying to dislodge some of the pressure there. Not long ago, she might have run from a relationship, too. Now, she just wanted Jace to live. It was vital that he live. Little mattered beyond that right now.

She would do anything, anything at all, for him.

Marine Gunnery Sergeant Hugo Bisantz of the Embassy Security Group strolled up the hall, out of uniform in casual slacks and a black, button-­down shirt.

“Evening, ma'am,” he said politely.

Until that moment, Heather had not registered that Shelby was dressed in a short, flirty skirt. Dangling earrings. Heels. Careful makeup. And apparently not for Trevor.

“Are you here to visit Captain Reed, Sergeant?” she asked pointedly.

“I'm waiting for Shelby, ma'am.”

Heather's heart sank. At least the Marine had the sense to stay out of the hospital room. A tense silence had settled inside. Just as Heather straightened from the wall to go rescue either or both of them, Shelby spoke again, her voice overly bright.

“Well, I just wanted to check in to see how you were doing. Ambassador Stanton inquired, so now I can give him a firsthand report.”

“Yeah, you do that.” Trevor's voice grew an edge.

“I'm sorry you were hurt,” she said. “Truly I am.”

“Not your fault,” Trevor said. “Not any of it.” He sighed, sounding tired.

Shelby hovered by the door, clearly eager to leave. “Goodbye, Major Carswell,” she said.

“Yeah.”

But as Shelby passed through the doorway, Heather saw the anguish, the unshed tears, the sorrow in her eyes. And even as Hugo placed a hand at the small of her back to lead her away, she glanced longingly back toward Trevor.

Sometimes life just sucked.

 

Chapter Forty-­Seven

September 14. 3:15
P.M.

Base Hospital, al-­Zadr Air Force Base, Azakistan

J
ACE KNEW
INSTANTLY
he was in a hospital. If the familiar smell of antiseptic and Band-­Aids didn't orient him, the wretched throbbing did. He flexed various muscles to check the severity of the damage. And immediately stopped.

Oh, yeah. He'd been shot. Pain in the . . . well, chest, in this case.

He opened his eyes. Why did they have to paint hospital walls stark white? And keep the lights so bright? Squinting a little, he looked around at the tubes and wires attaching him to various machines. Bandages covered his chest and shoulder. And then he forgot those trivial details.

Heather slept, her head near his thigh. She had pulled the visitor's chair close to him and sort of doubled over to get close enough to lay her head on his bed. It looked uncomfortable, but he didn't wake her. He remembered drifting in and out of consciousness; each time, the gladness in her eyes enveloped him. She stroked his hair, held his hand. Coffee cups littered the table and floor, too. How long had he been out?

She stirred, as though sensing his wakeful state. He couldn't not touch her; he shifted his hand by increments to her hair. It had fallen out of whatever twist she'd put it in and cascaded over her shoulder onto the bleached white sheets. Exhaustion smudged her elfin face, streaks of dried tears leaving a path of clean down her grimy cheeks. Her eyes opened, lit up when she saw him.

His heart did a slow flip.

“Hey,” she said, voice rough from sleep.

“Hey, yourself.” He wiggled his fingers, and she obliged by twining her hand into his. He tugged, and she shifted onto his bed next to him until they were nose to nose. “How long have you been sitting there?”

She shifted her shoulders, looking away, which meant she'd been here since he'd gotten out of surgery. “Let me go get the doctor.”

“I don't need a doctor. I need you.”

That coaxed a smile out of her. “I'm all yours. How do you feel?”

“Like I was shot in the chest.” Her smile disappeared, and he kicked himself for the thoughtless response. “Heather, really, I'm going to be fine. That's what the doctor said, too, right?” He vaguely recalled someone in a white coat reassuring him he would make a full recovery. Heather nodded, frowning, clearly unconvinced. She slid off his bed.

“I'm at least going to tell the nurse you're awake.”

He tightened his grip on her fingers, then reluctantly let them slide free. The truth was, he didn't want her out of his sight. They both had come too close to death.

The room seemed dim and cold after she left. The other bed in the windowless room lay empty. He sighed, looking at the television mounted high on the wall. CNN was reporting on a mudslide in Ecuador. When a commercial came on, he let his eyes close again. He dozed until the doctor entered. He took Jace's pulse and blood pressure and made some notes on the clipboard at the foot of his bed.

“How's your pain level?”

“I'll live,” Jace said. The mass of agony in his chest would ease eventually, right? The doctor gave a disapproving shake of his head and adjusted the drip running into Jace's arm.

“I get you're tough,” he said. “But you don't get brownie points for suffering needlessly. I'm giving you fentanyl.”

The narcotic worked fast, and Jace felt himself fading. “Make her go eat,” he slurred.

A
T THE DO
CTOR'S
insistence, Heather returned to her quarters on base, showered, changed, and ate. Feeling more human, she tumbled into bed.

And couldn't sleep.

What was she doing? Everything in her demanded that she return to Jace's side. It had taken nearly losing him for her to acknowledge how vital he'd become to her. Whatever her love meant, wherever it took her, she needed to be with him like she needed to breathe. He filled her life with color and joy, things she'd never even realized were missing.

If she stayed with Delta Force support, they could never be together. Only civilians could fraternize with military operators. An obscure paragraph in a regulation that was going to force her to make the hardest choice of her life.

Was she really willing to give up her ambitions for him? Yes, her heart sang. Not so fast, her brain countered. Following a man from military base to military base, surrounded by what she'd chosen as her career, what she loved . . . could she bear it?

No. She had to be honest with herself. To sit on the sidelines and watch while Jace put himself in harm's way, unable to help, unable even to know where he was going or what his mission was, would be unendurable.

There had to be an answer. She frowned unhappily. The Finance guy and the woman in charge of the Research arm were both civilians. Maybe she could take accounting classes? It would be better than nothing. Or she could ask Colonel Granville to transfer her to another unit on base, and hope the Army was nice enough to move them together when it was time to permanently change duty stations.

Finally,
finally
, she drifted to sleep. She didn't dream at all.

When she awoke, she felt strangely calm. At peace, because she knew what she needed to do. Four in the morning in Azakistan made it—­she did some quick calculations—­more or less four in the afternoon, yesterday, at Fort Bragg. She picked up the phone.

An hour later, she had a job.

Fort Bragg hosted special operations units, yes, but also the Special Warfare School. Which needed trainers. Starting next month, she would support the instructors teaching the Special Forces Operations and Intelligence Course, and would also teach the six-­month Arabic language course. For whatever time Jace spent at his home base, they could be together. It was enough. It would have to be enough.

Slipping into her favorite cotton sundress, the one with the scooped neckline and yellow abstract poppies along the bottom of the skirt, she left her hair down for once, letting her natural curl give her a windswept look. Her pale pink t-­strap wedges pushed her height above six feet. A swipe of mascara to enhance her eyes, and she was ready.

She knew her efforts had been a success when Jace saw her and nearly spit out the juice he was sucking down.

“Holy Jesus!” he croaked. “Wow.” His gaze incinerated her. “Come over here so I can strip that off you.”

Heather laughed. “That would earn you another week in the hospital.”

“It would be worth it.”

He flapped a weak hand, and she went to him. Without thinking, she bent down, her lips touching his. He snaked his palm around the back of her neck, opening his mouth and slanting it for better access. She leaned into him, the electric slide of his tongue against hers sending thrills down her spine. Both hands came up to frame his handsome, precious face. She traced his lips with her tongue, let him suck it into his mouth, let him nibble her chin and kiss each eye closed. His fingers scalded her skin, the rasp of calluses causing goose bumps to rise. She didn't want to stop. “Careful of your stitches.'

He groaned. “Don't wanna.” But he slumped back against the raised bed, tugging her down to sit beside him, looking tired. His obedience told her more than anything else how much he was still hurting.

“When did you have your last pain meds?”

His gaze softened and turned tender. “I'm okay.”

“You will be, and that's all that matters.” The words she really wanted to say stuck in her throat. Now she was here, doubts assailed her. What was she doing? What if she was making a terrible mistake? Once she sounded the bell, there was no unringing it. What if Jace . . .

“Whatever it is, just tell me.” Worry replaced the tenderness in his eyes. His hands clenched the blanket, and he looked ready to leap out of bed. “You're scaring me.”

It terrified her that, in such a short space of time, this man had become so critical to her happiness. She had never been cowardly about going after what she wanted, so why now?

“Heather?” Jace interlaced their fingers, tacitly offering his strength. It steadied her. She blew out a breath.

“I'm not going to take the assignment,” she blurted out.

He cocked a head at her, clearly not understanding.

“My new position supporting Delta,” she clarified. “I'm going to refuse the orders.”

Jace couldn't have looked more shocked if she'd told him she was secretly a nun. “What?”

She tried to rise, to move away from him, but he refused to let her go. “Heather? Talk to me. You can't refuse orders. You know that.”

She swallowed hard. “I can if I resign my commission.”

The declaration lay between them. The silence stretched out past the point Heather could stand.

“Jace?”

His eyes became solemn as he looked at her. “I'm going out on a limb here—­are you doing this for me? For us? So we can be together?”

She couldn't seem to speak above a whisper. “Yes. If that's . . . if that's something you would want.”

He laughed, a sudden burst of air that became a groan of pain. “Hell, yeah, that's what I want.”

Something deep inside her relaxed. “Then . . . it's settled. I'm going to resign my commission.”

“I accept your resignation,” boomed a voice from the doorway. Heather jumped. Bo Granville leaned against the doorjamb, not bothering to conceal he had been eavesdropping. Heather tried to untangle her feet to rise, but he waved her back down with a casual hand. “Sit, sit.”

Heather pressed her hands together in her lap to still the faint trembling. It was done. There was no going back now. “Thank you, sir.”

Colonel Granville guffawed. “Don't thank me yet, missy. You haven't heard my conditions.”

Conditions? Ultimately, he could not truly prevent her from separating from the Army. He could, however, draw out the process and make it miserable if he so chose.

“Sir, being offered the opportunity to work with Delta is a dream come true—­an amazing privilege, and I recognize the compliment.” She glanced at the man in the hospital bed. “But accepting this honor would mean Jace and I can't be together. Frankly, sir, my career doesn't mean much if I can't share it with him.”

“That your final word, Lieutenant?”

Heather opened her mouth and killed her career.

“Yes, sir.”

He nodded and crossed his arms across his massive chest. “Okay. Get your paperwork together, and I'll muster you out.” He rolled his mouth, looking for his cigar. Even Bo Granville wasn't allowed inside a hospital with tobacco, lit or unlit. “But I got me a problem, kid.”

He looked at her expectantly. Heather wrinkled her brow. “Sir?”

“I visited one of my soldiers in the hospital, who was careless enough to get himself shot while he was saving the life of the President of the United States and the lives of hundreds of Americans and Azakistani civilians.” He jabbed a thick finger at Jace. “Guess what he said to me?”

Heather had no idea where the colonel was going with this. “Don't know, sir.”

“Well, see, here's the thing. He gave me an ultimatum. He said there was this girl he wanted to marry. He told me to find a way for y'all to be together, or he would quit my team.” He frowned at Jace, annoyance and displeasure clear. “It's an ultimatum a man can make exactly once in his career,” said Granville. “If he weren't one of my best officers, I'd have booted him out in half a heartbeat. But, since the Army's spent a bucketload of money on his ass . . .” Granville yanked a manila envelope from inside his uniform jacket and presented it to her with something of a flourish.

Heather took it, not sure what it might be. She tore open the flap and pulled out several sheets of paper. As she read, her eyes widened.

It was a job description. For a civilian intelligence support role with Delta Force. She would be doing exactly what she was doing now, except she would no longer be an Army officer. And there were no restrictions on relationships between the military and civilians. She and Jace could be together.

“You game, girl?”

Instead of answering, she turned to Jace. “This is a full operational intelligence position,” she told him. “You have to understand that. It means I'll be sent forward, in advance of Delta operations. I'll be sent into potentially hostile areas to gather intelligence.”

Jace swallowed hard but met her gaze steadily. “I won't lie to you, Heather. It's going to be tough for me. I'm going to want to protect you and keep you safe. But I won't stand in your way. I promise I'll support your career. On one condition.”

Her heart clogged her throat. “Anything.”

“Marry me.”

Tears rushed to her eyes. Gazing at Jace, letting him see her tears, she spoke to Colonel Granville. “I accept the job, sir.” She leaned toward Jace. He met her halfway, capturing her lips as surely as he had captured her heart.

When she surfaced many moments later, she realized they were alone. And together.