Winter wind blew off the Atlantic as he got out of his car across from the Norfolk, Virginia, address with the speed and agility of an eighty-year-old. At twenty-five, it sucked to be so fragile. He leaned against a wide oak tree and checked out the town house she’d purchased last year—he’d found that out on the internet.
Two years was a long time to wait. Justin Berger wouldn’t blame her if she hadn’t. A five-month affair in the desert during wartime didn’t qualify as lifetime vows. Even if memories of their time together had gotten him through a year as a POW, several near-death experiences and torture by the enemy, and led to his eventual escape and rescue. It’d be different for her; she thought he was dead.
He’d spent the last five months recovering in the best rehabilitation center on the planet, Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in the greater Washington, DC, area. Before that he’d been in Landstuhl, Germany, where they’d saved his life. The pain had been worth it. Torture with a purpose.
He still needed the cane, and the doctors were certain his femurs and pelvis would never be completely pain-free when he walked. But he was young enough to bounce back and he had the ability to return to his life. A lot of his SEAL teammates didn’t. There was no person on earth he wanted to celebrate his survival with other than her.
Finding her had been easy. He’d asked his higher-ups where she was stationed. Because of the top secret mission, an operation that had officially never existed, his assumed death and actual time as a POW were classified, too. He could have told his parents if he’d had any. A product of the foster system, he didn’t. He only had his brother, who he’d gained permission to inform he was still alive. He could tell her, too, and start life over as a civilian. If she still wanted him. His other option was to work for the CIA under a new name. It would make it nearly impossible for any future targets to research him and find out his full capabilities.
Before he walked across the street, an SUV pulled into her driveway. His gut tightened; his throat closed against the immediate lump at the sight of Trina getting out of her car, her hair pinned up as part of her Navy uniform. Her face, the long, lean lines of her feminine body, was more beautiful than he remembered. If he thought his voice could reach her, he’d call to her, give a slight wave. Anything to connect.
She opened the rear driver’s-side door and leaned in, probably for her laptop or groceries. Another car eased next to hers in the two-car driveway. A man emerged from behind the wheel. Tall, broad-shouldered, in a business suit and topcoat. Dread combined with months of fearing this exact scenario. It poured through his veins, temporarily paralyzing him on the spot. They wouldn’t notice him as the street was wide, with several cars parked along both curbs. The tree provided him excellent cover. Protection he hadn’t expected to need.
He watched as the man walked over to Trina, who waited for him with a large bundle in her arms. A child, a toddler, dressed as a boy. In a bright green parka, with a cartoon hero ski cap, the little tyke clutched a construction truck in his mittened hand. The man took the boy into his arms and laughed, holding him overhead for a quick moment before hugging him to his massive chest and leaning down to kiss Trina on the cheek.
She hadn’t waited. She’d found another and had a child. Trina had her own family now. He’d known it was possible, probable, but still, he’d have bet against it. Hoped she’d mourned for him, needed him. He was caught between the tragedy of his own sorrow and disappointment, and the darkly sick humor of having to struggle to stand upright, quietly, under the large oak tree. If she looked over she wouldn’t recognize his shattered silhouette; she’d only see what looked like an older man with a cane. But he didn’t want to take any chances that she’d see him. If she got the quickest glance at his eyes, she’d see without a shred of doubt that he was a man with an irreparably broken heart.
As soon as they disappeared into the townhome, he arthritically folded himself back into his vehicle and drove away, refusing to look back.
So it was to be the CIA job. Justin Berger had been dead to her, to the world, for two and a half years. Now it’d be forever.
Three and a half years later
Rob Bristol was pissed off, tired, hot and horny. Not all in that order, but close enough for government work. He shot back the rest of his electrolyte-enhanced water, keeping his gulps silent. As he stretched his neck with a couple of creaky turns of his head he remained vigilant, doing a 360-degree scan of his perimeter. Once settled back on his stomach, he wrapped his arms around his precision sniper rifle and adjusted the sight. His shoulders ached, as did much of his skeleton. Another reminder that his days as a top-secret operative were nearing their end, twenty years earlier than for most.
“Gosh-damned boonies.” The Trail Hikers had once again sent him out to the most dangerous, remote operation the government shadow agency was involved with. In the continental US, anyhow. He couldn’t complain about his employer, though. Rural northern Pennsylvania was still better