"Good, okay." Scorch's voice moved closer. "Just—"
A hand smacked J.T.'s back. "No talking!" a heavily accented voice shouted. "No talking!"
O-kay.
Footsteps shuffled along a dirt path. Or sand. Who knew? The guards talked back and forth, not that any of it made sense.
Hands guided them up concrete steps. Inside. The haze darkened.
The hood swept up and off J.T. blinked against the stark lightbulb inside what appeared to be a craphole jail. Standard for this country. He hadn't expected any better from these guys than where they would keep their own prisoners.
He stared at his three crewmates, probably the last time he would see them until they were released. The interrogations would start now. Rough. But at least they were in official hands.
One of the foreign soldiers stepped forward. "We question now. You." He pointed to Spike. "We start with you."
They knew what to say, what not to say. Although Spike had the most to cover, and would benefit from more time to gather his thoughts. Hellish luck that they'd decided to begin with him.
J.T. glanced at Scorch. Their mission. Keep the enemy off Bo and protect Spike's secrets. J.T. started to speak, to divert attention and buy Spike extra minutes, but Scorch beat him to it.
"We demand our rights under the Geneva Convent—"
A rifle butt landed on Scorch's jaw.
The aircraft commander slammed against the wall. Blood spurted into his sand-caked mustache.
J.T. winced. But the foreign soldier reacted as expected. He shifted his attention from Spike to Scorch and hauled him off instead.
A minor victory, establishing some control over their situation.
The remaining soldiers led them away, separating them. J.T. watched until the last one faded … from … sight.
J.T. stared out into the dark void of the night sky. Empty. He closed up the hatch along with his memories. "All jumpers clear," he called into his headset. "Door secure."
J.T. strode back up the steel cavern to his station, the instrument panel and seat situated below the cockpit. Their part was done. He'd be home soon. Where his wife waited, something he hadn't fully appreciated until he'd screwed up his life.
He thought about fishing out his book, but found himself staring up at the tangle of cables tracking the ceiling instead. Right now, he wanted to pass out in his own bed with his own wife, against her soft body. Wake up and lose himself in her body.
Not gonna happen, of course.
But he would be across the hall. He was back in the house. Progress in regaining his world.
And not being stuck in a cell in some foreign freaking country.
Two hours later, he turned the corner onto his street to find police cars lining the curb. Foreboding gripped his gut in an icy, unrelenting fist. He threw open the door of his truck, boots pounding up the driveway, across the yard, just as hard and fast as when he'd run across the Rubistanian desert, raced to Rena in the wrecked car.
Control over his world shattered in more pieces than his living-room window.
Rena held on to her composure—barely—for once thankful her aching foot offered an excuse to sit in the overstuffed chair rather than stand.
She faced the two police officers in her living room, alone, except for an over-pale teenager shuffling his feet by the piano. She could do this by herself, but damn it, she didn't want to. She wanted to lean on her husband while he leaned on her.
And when this bizarre night ended, she wanted to crawl into the strength of his arms, lay her head on the breadth of his chest and listen to his steady heat thrum under her ear. She wanted him to tell her everything would be fine. It was just coincidence that Chris's car had been hit and a rock pitched through their window all in the span of two weeks.
She needed to hear that their son wasn't mixed up in something bad like her every parental instinct was screaming.
Hell, who was she kidding? She just flat out wanted J.T. with her.
And as if he'd somehow heard her, her husband plowed through the front door. Intense. Focused.
On her.
He stalked straight to her chair, ignoring everyone else in the room. Dropping to his knees in front of her, he clasped her by the shoulders, firm, solid. "Is everyone all right? Are you all right?"
His concern pulsed into her, soothing and exciting all at once. "I'm fine. Someone threw a brick through the window. A scary way to wake up, but nothing overly dangerous. I just thought it was important to report it to the police."
His gaze fell to the splash of glass glinting on the floor, to the harsh gouge in the wood inches away from the couch, then up at her rumpled blanket and pillows. "You were asleep in here when it happened?"
She nodded. Only a few hours ago she'd nestled into those pillows with plans to show J.T. the ultrasound photo.
His fingers bit into her skin. She struggled not to flinch and up his concerns.
"But I'm fine. Really. I wouldn't lie about this, not when it comes to the baby."
Jaw still tight, J.T. stood, turning to Chris. "Son, are you okay?"
"Yes, sir." Chris fidgeted from foot to foot, his baggy clothes rippling with every agitated move. "I was on my way home from work. I would have been home sooner but there was a backup on the bridge. God, Mom, I'm so sorry I wasn't here. Maybe I could have done something."
Horror splashed through her. "You would have stayed right here in this house with me while we called the police." She couldn't even let herself dwell on what could have happened to him out there. "No more Price heroes for me this year, thank you very much."
The senior cop stepped forward, hat tucked under his arm. "Sir, we did a walk around of the yard, had a second car run a quick canvas of the area. There's nothing to report. It's probably just a teenage prank, like rolling a house with toilet paper."
"I'm not buying that." J.T. shook his head. "Didn't my wife tell you about the hit-and-run two weeks ago?"
The younger female cop thumbed through her notepad. "We have that report, too, and will follow up. We'll schedule a car to cruise by your house. Unless you have something else to tell us, that's the best we can do for now." She flipped her notebook closed. "You'll want to board up that window tonight, just to be safe."
"No problem," J.T. answered, already looking in need of some physical release for the tension visibly knotting his shoulders.
The police tucked away notepads and started to pack the evidence bag with the brick inside.
"Hold on a second." J.T. frowned, stepping closer. He cocked his head to the side for a better look at the brick. Forehead smoothing, eyes icing, he jabbed a finger at a painted discoloration on the side. "Damn it, that's the same symbol as on the bumper of the hit-and-run car."
Rena leaned nearer. How had she missed the markings? The inked red circle with a black triangle inside wasn't all that large, still it niggled at her brain with familiarity. Maybe because J.T. had told her, but she'd been too foggy from the accident to process the information?
Until now. Her fears for her child grew exponentially while foreboding smothered her.
"Uh, Dad?" Chris inched forward. "Can we, uh, go in the kitchen for a minute. I really need to talk to you."
Three hours later, J.T. hammered the last nail in the plywood covering the broken window. Pounding nails didn't come close to releasing the anger boiling inside him.
Somebody had screwed with his family. Put his wife's life at risk. Dared try to suck his kid into underworld crap.
J.T. gave the nail a final whack, driving it home.
Chris had given his full statement to the police. For now, it didn't look as if they would need a lawyer, but if things shook down the way J.T. suspected, they would all be spending time testifying in courtrooms before this was over.
His son would have to testify against the people who'd threatened him. The scum-sucking bastards had come after his family, leaving him in his front yard in the middle of the night doing his damnedest to take some precautions for his family while the police looked into things.
Dangerous and scary-as-hell things.
It had taken guts for Chris to come forward, and J.T. couldn't help but be proud of his kid for making the stand. Although he wanted to shake the boy for not doing it sooner. Just thinking about what could have happened—
He jammed another nail home.
A cop cruiser drove past for the second time while he'd been repairing the window. Some reassurance. His military web belt now in place with his 9mm holstered provided a little more.
Except there wasn't enough reassurance to douse the fire in his gut. He'd rather be back in Rubistan sweating it out while he waited for an ass-beating thinly disguised as an interrogation than have to worry about his family. He might not have provided the most glamorous life for Rena, but damn it, she was supposed to be safe in her own house.
The hammer thunked to one side. Grazed his thumb.
Crap. He needed to get his head together before he faced Rena again. She would want to talk, and he wanted to pound more nails.
Pound some heads.
At least she was occupied now hovering over Chris. The kid was scared spitless. As well he should be. He could use some coddling from his mom and wouldn't want his dad around to witness him scared and tucked into bed.
Rena's face had been so pale when he'd walked through the door, he'd thought for certain someone had died. She didn't need this. She should be putting her feet up and banging back bowls of peach ice cream.
Instead, they were facing court cases and God only knew what from this Miranda person and her deliveries. Most likely it was a drug purchase.
How ironic. He was busting his ass trying to collar drug runners to stop that very thing from happening to other people.
He'd already left a message for Spike about setting up a meeting with the OSI to report the brick incident. Not much sleep for the OSI agent tonight after the dive, but there were too many coincidences stacking up. Even if this bore no relevance to their investigation, he was bound by his job to report any brushes with possible illegal activities. Hell, even a happenstance chat with a stranger in a bar might not be so coincidental.
Had his family somehow been targeted because of him?
Paranoid? Possibly. But he couldn't be too careful when it came to Rena and the kids.
Crouching down by his toolbox, he tossed in the hammer, nails, and wished life could be this easy to organize. He hefted the box up, nails rattling against wrenches, and strode to the garage door, punched in the code. The door rolled up and open. Inside, he closed the door and double-checked the lock. Checked the window as well, then cranked the fan in lieu of a breeze since that window would be staying shut from now on.
He ditched the toolbox on his workbench—beside his Shakespeare anthology. The book was getting dog-eared from overuse these days.
Thumbing along the edges, he slowed, flipped it open. Two Gentlemen of Verona. "The private wound is deepest."
Well, hell. He could use a little less insight tonight. He smacked the book shut. He'd have to work off his tension in a more basic way. Sex would be great. But not wise. And not an option.
Exercise.
He sat on the edge of the weight bench and unlaced his boots, one, two, tucked them to the side. He unhooked his web belt, placed it within easy reach on his workbench, then peeled off his sweaty flight suit. God, how many hours ago had he put the thing on?
Wearing only his black T-shirt and boxers, he reached for a pair of workout shorts flung over a weight bar.
The door from the house opened—revealing Rena. His hands closed around the shorts. Talk about being caught with his pants down.
She startled to a stop. Tension to match his rippled off her in visible waves. Corkscrew spirals of hair all but crackled with energy.
After a quick flicker-glance down his near-naked body, her gaze met and held his. "I have something I need to say."
