SEAL Under Siege. Liz JohnsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
the same. And they did, as if they’d practiced this single move every day for a year. Conversation ceased, and she quivered under the weight of so many eyes.
“How’d you get in here?”
She pointed over her shoulder, half turning toward the trailer’s front door before thinking better of spilling the whole story. It was best to just ask for what she wanted to know. “I’m trying to find a lieutenant.”
The man at the front squinted at her, his scowl growing. “We have a couple of those, but none you’d like very well. What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I’m looking for a specific one. But...well...” She stared at her clasped hands just long enough to build up the courage to look back into the wall of men. “I’m afraid I don’t know his name. I’m Staci, Staci Hayes. And there was a SEAL, a lieutenant, I believe, who rescued me in Lybania.”
“L.T., do you want to take this one?”
Like the Red Sea parting when Moses lifted his staff, the men moved against the walls until a familiar figure walked down the aisle. His gait easy and confident, he squinted at her until he’d reached the front of the pack, his hands resting loosely on his hips.
“Ms. Hayes, what can I do for you?”
She held out her hand, hoping he’d take it, hoping she looked less foolish than she felt.
He glanced down at her hand, and when his eyes rose, they stole her breath. There was no mistaking this was the man who had rescued her. His eyes weren’t friendly, but they hadn’t been two weeks ago, either. Then and now, they were focused and direct—taking in the situation at hand. At least she had his attention.
“I’m Staci.” She pushed her hand farther forward, ignoring the lump in her throat as her fingers passed the halfway point between them.
He nodded to the group still congregated behind him. “They call me L.T.” His eyes searched her face, finally lighting on her right side, on the scar that the doctor had said would probably always be visible.
She pulled back the hand that he obviously wasn’t going to shake, and used it to cover the scar, staring at the floor in front of his feet. Apparently he wasn’t going to give her his name, no matter how hard he stared at her. All right. She didn’t need his name. Just his help.
“May we speak?” She glanced around his muscled shoulder—the same one she’d been slung over—into the faces of his men. “In private.”
His face pinched for a moment, all the air in the trailer suddenly vanishing. Still he stared at her, his eyes roaming from her hair to her feet and back. It wasn’t an obnoxious assessment, or even inappropriate. Clearly he was a man used to knowing what was coming, and her surprise visit didn’t suit him.
The silence dragged on for what felt like hours, but all of the men remained motionless. She didn’t even catch one blinking. Perfectly silent. Perfectly still.
By comparison, she felt like a camel in a crystal store, every straightening of her sweater or twitch of her neck amplified, every shuffle of her foot echoing to the farthest corner of the hall. But she couldn’t seem to stop moving.
A strange habit she’d picked up during her time in captivity. Movement meant she was still alive. It gave her something to focus on in that pit, something to touch when she’d almost forgotten the feel of her own skin.
Now she was a hummingbird among ravens. Why couldn’t she stop drawing attention to herself?
Wrapping her arms around her stomach, she held her breath and pinched her eyes closed until the man responded.
“All right.” Her eyes flew open, and he nodded toward the nearest office with a wide window looking into the hallway.
He held out his hand, and she scurried in the direction he indicated. As she passed him, he cupped a hand under her elbow, and she flinched. Once he’d closed the door behind them, he spun on her, his eyes flashing with an intensity sharper than a sword. “Are you still injured?”
Her hand got to her shoulder before she realized she was going for her scar again. “No. Why do you ask?”
“Out there in the hallway, you flinched when I touched you. Did that hurt? Did the bullet do serious damage?”
“Oh.” She bit her bottom lip. How was she supposed to explain that she still wasn’t used to human touch? After three weeks of only painful interactions, even her mother’s hug felt unnatural. “Um...no. It didn’t hurt. The doctor on the aircraft carrier said it was a clean exit. I’m fine.”
He ran his hand over his face, the sinewy muscles of his forearm bunching and pulling taut as he stared at the ceiling and blew out a slow breath. “Ms. Hayes, what are you doing here? This—” He flicked his finger back and forth between them. “This isn’t allowed. You’re not supposed to be here. We aren’t supposed to communicate once the mission is over. Didn’t the PAO tell you that?”
“I know.”
“Where are you supposed to be right now?” His brows furrowed, compassion transforming his features.
She looked away from the Pacific blue of his eyes, her words caught in her throat.
“How’d you get on the base?”
She wheezed around the lump sitting on top of her airway, hugging her sweater in place. “I was supposed to have an interview prep course with the lieutenant commander in the public affairs office.”
He marched to the far side of the desk, the only significant piece of furniture in the room, glanced at her over his shoulder and began pacing, hands grasped behind his back. “I understand that you’ve been through a serious ordeal, and I’m sorry that you had to go through that. But I’m not allowed any private contact with you.” He scrubbed his face again with an open palm, still not looking in her direction.
It was easier to think and speak when he wasn’t staring her down, so she rushed to tell him everything. “Do you remember the last thing I said to you that night?”
He stopped but kept his head straight forward. “I do.” With the shake of his head, he ran his fingers through his pale brown hair. “You were under a lot of stress, and you’d been imprisoned for weeks. It isn’t unusual to hallucinate under those kinds of conditions.”
“I wasn’t hallucinating.”
He turned back toward her, but she couldn’t meet his gaze. It was too disarming. So she looked around the room, searching for something—anything—to help steer this conversation where it needed to go.
Hugging her arms around her stomach, she took a deep breath. If she didn’t lay it all on the line now, there might not be a later.
“You said I was safe. You said you’d protect me.”
“I did. You made it safely home, didn’t you?” His words were short but not unkind.
“I made it home, anyway.”
Those blue eyes sliced into hers.
“What does that mean?” His lips barely moved.
“Someone has been following me, and I think it’s the same man from Lybania.”
“The one who will know that you know?” His arms crossed over his broad chest, the sleeves of his T-shirt pulling snug around his biceps. He looked so intimidating. If he hadn’t leaned toward her, head cocked in concern, she’d have turned and run.
She nodded slowly. “Yes.”
“Did you call the police? Tell them you’re being stalked, and they can look into it for you. They can handle things like that.”
“I did call the police. They wouldn’t help me. I promise you’re the last person I want to bother with this, but I don’t have anywhere else to turn.”
He sighed, dropping his hands to