Finally, Deacon and Garrett reached what must’ve once been a pretty nursery, only to now find “Die America” written in what appeared to be blood on yellow floral wallpaper.
Peering over the edge of a dark wood crib, Deacon found the source of the tears, only to recoil in horror. The infant wearing soiled pink pajamas couldn’t have been much over six months old. She also happened to sport a belt comprised of neat white strips of C-4 explosives attached to a blasting cap and timer. The glowing red digital display read :32, then clicked to :31, :30…
“Damn!” Deacon took what knowledge he had of the explosive to rationalize that without the blasting cap, the C-4 was stable. The problem was figuring which plastic-coated line was attached to what.
Outside, gunfire erupted.
The automatic rounds could be heard pinging off the house’s plaster exterior.
:20…
:19…
“Smile,” Garrett said, nodding toward a cheap video cam someone had thoughtfully set on a dresser. “We’re on Candid Camera.”
“Damn.” With twelve seconds to go, sweat literally dripped from Deacon’s forehead onto the wires he needed to clip. Odds were, whoever had planned this show wasn’t smart enough to have booby-trapped the explosives. Regardless, it was too late to do anything about it now.
At seven seconds, he said a prayer and eased his knife between rows of what looked like pale sticks of butter, to have his eye catch on what earlier had blended in. Velcro. The entire bloody thing was attached to the infant with simple strands of Velcro.
At four seconds, he ripped open the closure.
At three seconds, he kicked out the window.
Chapter Three
Ellie sipped green tea, staring out rain-streaked windows to the dark yard. How many times had she performed this vigil for Tom? Wondering where he was. What he was doing. Now that he was gone, she should’ve felt at peace, knowing he was safe in the arms of angels. But with Deacon now in danger, along with all Tom’s other team members, apprehension was still Ellie’s closest companion.
Wind shook the small house, pelting rain so hard against the glass it sounded like tacks hitting the panes. The night was miserable, blustery and colder than normal for the end of summer.
Though exhaustion clung to her like a heavy sheet, dulling her senses, sleep was out of the question. Ellie had tried reading, but her thoughts were too frenetic. TV held no appeal.
Wandering into the nursery, she peered at her child, at the long lashes sweeping those chubby cheeks. Even at rest, Pia’s beauty never failed to thrill her. Ellie and Tom had had epic, laughing battles over what their little girl might grow to be. Tom had claimed Pia was destined to be the first female SEAL. Ellie had insisted she would for sure be a doctor or movie star—maybe both.
Was Tom looking down on them now? If so, what did he think of Ellie’s deception? Would he have hated her for not telling the truth from the start? Or understood and appreciated her rationale, and invited Deacon to be an integral part of Pia’s life?
Setting her tea on a nearby bookshelf, Ellie covered her stinging eyes with the heels of her hands. Given the chance to do it all over, would she wish her night with Deacon had never happened?
One look at her child confirmed what she already knew—that no matter who Pia’s father was, Ellie loved her with every breath in her body. The night she and Deacon shared had given her life’s ultimate gift. By introducing her to Tom, Deacon had given her yet another present of incalculable worth.
Were he here, she would thank him.
But only after begging him to maintain her small family’s status quo.
* * *
WHEN THE TIMER HIT two seconds, Deacon tossed the C-4 explosive out the hole where there had once been a window.
At one second, he cradled the baby against him while the whole house rattled violently from concussive force.
Deacon held tight to the now-screaming baby girl. Even from outside, the fire’s heat could be felt.
“Nicely done,” Garrett shouted. “But we gotta get out of here.” Rounds of gunfire could now be heard above the roaring flames.
“No kidding.”
Garrett radioed that they’d accomplished their mission of scouting the house and securing remaining occupants.
With insurgents outside, apparently pissed to have had their big, televised show of force to the Western world ruined, Deacon led the way at a hurried, albeit cautious pace down the hall toward the boy.
They found him still in the closet, cowering in a corner with his hands over his head.
“Come on,” Deacon shouted, “your sister’s safe. Let’s get you out of here.”
“B-but they’re shooting.”
“I know,” Deacon said above the noise, “but would you rather die from fire or a bullet?”
“I don’t wanna die!” the kid wailed.
“Me neither,” Deacon cried. “Which is why we’ve gotta haul ass to somewhere safe. Come on! Pretend we’re in a video game!”
Garrett helped the kid to his feet, and a minute later, keeping to back staircases, they slipped into a basement and crawled out a window that led to a formal garden. The visual serenity of dimly lit, winding gravel paths among fragrant flowers felt incongruous given the gunfire surrounding them. The baby let them all share her discomfort with continued screams.
A minute later, the firing stopped.
Through his earpiece, Deacon’s commander said, “Cease fire. Rendezvous like ghosts at staging area five.”
Garrett snorted. “Easy for him to say. He doesn’t have a screaming baby in tow.”
“How do I get her quiet?” Deacon asked the girl’s brother.
“She’s probably scared and hungry, and needs her diaper changed.”
Right. None of those bases had been adequately covered in training.
By now, local officials were arriving, sirens blaring, red and blue lights adding to the already chaotic scene. It would be simple enough to run around front and ask for medical assistance. Trouble was, not knowing which government was currently in charge, or their opinion of the good old U.S.A., put them in a bind.
As Deacon’s commander had said, they needed to be ghosts, leaving as stealthily as they’d arrived.
With the staging area a good mile east, Deacon cradled the infant as close to his chest as he could while still hugging shadows and staying alert for additional danger. Most of all, he prayed his own daughter never found herself in this much danger.
* * *
FIVE DAYS AFTER Ellie had last spoken to Deacon, she opened the front door to him, the scent of honeysuckle heavy in the twilight’s warmth. Knees rubbery, she had to keep a strong hold on the door frame so as not to crumple.
“Hey.” He was dressed in cargo shorts and a navy T-shirt. Even with his eyes hidden by gold-rimmed Ray-Bans, Deacon looked exhausted, but still steal-your-breath handsome. Tall, with broad shoulders and a square jaw sporting stubble. His dark hair had grown out of its usual buzz and now was a rummaged-through mess. When he smiled—oh, when he smiled—that was when she’d always had to work to keep her pulse from racing. White teeth and a lopsided dimple drew in the ladies more effectively than a 75% off sale at Jimmy Choo.
“I’d ask where you’ve been,” she quipped, striving for a lighthearted tone, beyond relieved that he was okay, “but Tom taught me better.”
“Yeah, uh…” With