Five

Dan Warren, aka Senior Chief Dean Baylor, needed a drink. Which was exactly why he wasn’t going to get one. Having a drunk for a mother had taught him a few things at least.

It was what had kept him from the bottle these past two months after the goat fuck in Russia. Men dying was part of the gig. They all knew that. Dean had had men die on him before. But not like this. Not so many. It wasn’t the kind of thing you got over. Process? Accept? Maybe. But get over? Never.

The fact that any of them had walked out of there at all was something of a miracle. They should all be dead. And whoever was responsible for this was going to wish they were. Dean was going to make damned sure of it.

But not from here. Not doing this. And the frustration of having his hands tied was getting to him.

As he walked along the waterfront, leaving the boat tied up on the dock behind him, he knew he’d better find another outlet for his foul mood or he was going to explode.

At 0130 hours his choices were pretty limited. He thought about returning to the dock and going for a swim but didn’t want to take the chance that someone would see him, and wonder what the hell he was doing swimming in the ocean in the middle of the night.

Maybe a run? A long hike?

Sex?

He nearly groaned. God, that sounded perfect.

But knowing it wasn’t in the cards, he cursed. Great. Now his body was teeming with even more frustration, which wasn’t what he needed after another long, fruitless night patrolling the shipping lanes around Scotland looking for . . .

He had no fucking idea.

A needle in the proverbial haystack?

Keyser Söze?

It felt like a little of both. Even if the Russian sub seen in these waters a few months ago was here now, finding it would take something along the lines of a miracle.

Dean’s nighttime forays over the past few weeks when the dive boat wasn’t being used sure as hell weren’t getting him any closer to an answer.

But he had to start somewhere. That his best option was returning to the place of the platoon’s last deployment before the op to Russia said a hell of a lot about what he had to go on. Which—other than that the Russians had known they were coming—was squat. But the British government had sought their help in tracking down Russian sub incursions in the waters around Scotland about a month before the mission to Russia, so here he was.

Like a fucking jerk-off.

Literally and figuratively.

The lack of progress in finding out who was responsible for the deaths of his comrades in Retiarius Platoon was eating away at him. Lying low. Disappearing. Standing by. Playing dead. They went against every bone in his body. He wanted to do something. And this wild-goose chase wasn’t it.

The Russians had been tipped off to their op. But by whom and why? Had it been an accidental leak or had someone set them up?

His fists squeezed. When he found out who was responsible . . .

Unconsciously his thumb rolled over the scarred knuckle of his right hand where a thick fragment of glass had been embedded. It was one of dozens. He’d been a human pincushion, pummeled by fragments of metal, glass, and wood from the explosion. His ballistic FAST helmet, which he didn’t usually wear, and SPEAR body armor with the plates that he’d debated not wearing because of the added weight had probably saved his life. He’d been lucky.

But others . . .

Fuck. He swallowed hard, his gut twisting as the familiar image flashed before his eyes. He couldn’t stop seeing the kid’s—Brian’s—shocked expression right before the missile had struck and he’d been engulfed in the fireball of the explosion.

Dean could still feel the blistering heat from the explosion that had sent him flying and turned the camp into a wasteland. Everything had been leveled. Erased. Lieutenant White’s squad . . . half the platoon . . . gone in an instant.

There was nothing he could have done to help White and the rest of Navy Squad, but Brian’s death was on him. Dean had ignored a direct order and the kid had paid for it.

He owed Brian and the rest of the men who’d been killed an answer. But he sure as hell didn’t think he was going to find it in Stornoway chartering scuba divers—and sexy protesters.

“For once just follow a fucking command, Baylor!”

Dean’s mouth tightened in a grim line as Lieutenant Commander Taylor’s voice came back to him. He would do so, damn it. But he didn’t like it.

Digging his hands in his sweatshirt pockets, he headed toward his temporary home. He’d let a room in a flat not far from the port, which required him to pass by the protester camp. From the noise and light coming from that direction, they were apparently still going strong.

He caught a whiff of another familiar memory from his childhood as he walked by. How many times had he returned from school to the skunk smell of weed?

Whenever his mom could afford it.

He wondered if she had any idea that he was dead. He doubted it; he hadn’t seen her in years. Not since she’d come looking for money when she found out he’d made the Teams.

The memory still pissed him off.

Dean was about to turn up his street when a woman darted past him. She was so preoccupied with whatever was bothering her that she didn’t notice him.

But he noticed her. The sexy brunette had been the focus of too many of his sex-starved thoughts for him not to have recognized that shadowed figure right away.

His thoughts immediately turned to anger. What the hell was she doing out here alone at this time of night?

Granted Stornoway wasn’t exactly the mean streets of name-your-favorite American inner city, but it had its share of illegal activity—especially along the waterfront—and it wasn’t a place where a young woman should be walking alone in the middle of the night.

He went after her without thinking. Proving his point, she took way too long to realize he was behind her.

He could tell by the way she jumped when she turned around that he’d startled her.

But it didn’t last. As soon as she recognized him, her eyes narrowed angrily. “Why are you following me? You scared me!”

“Good. You shouldn’t be out here alone—” He stopped suddenly, seeing her expression. She looked about ready to burst into tears. “What’s wrong?”

Unconsciously he’d reached for her arm. Why the hell he’d done that he had no clue. He didn’t go around touching women without an invitation.

He released her before she could protest. But if she’d noticed the too-personal gesture, she didn’t let on.

“Nothing,” she replied, her expression too blank.

He held her gaze long enough for her to see that he knew she was lying. It must not be something she did often, because a guilty blush rose to her cheeks.

She was so damned cute. He wanted to . . .

Fuck.

He took a step back.

Go dark. Don’t do anything to risk your cover.

He heard the warnings loud and clear. But he couldn’t very well let her walk around alone. What if something happened?

“Where’s your boyfriend?”

The tightening around her mouth before she responded gave a big hint of what might be bothering her. Trouble in paradise? Now, that was a cryin’ shame.

“He’s still at camp. He’s hanging around for the music. Julien plays guitar.”

Dean didn’t care if he was Jimmy Hendrix returning from the dead for one last show. “And he let you walk back alone?”

She immediately stiffened, giving him a scathing look. “He didn’t let me do anything. I make my own decisions.”

From the way she said it, it was clear she thought he was some kind of medieval misogynistic pig.

One of those, was she? He should have guessed. That kind of oversensitive feminist crap drove him crazy—not everything was a “microaggression.” Being a strong woman didn’t mean you could be stupid about personal safety. And all he’d meant was that the douche bag should have cared enough about her safety to insist on accompanying her.

Although admittedly Julien probably wasn’t much of a defense.

“Then your decision was a shitty one.”

She looked stunned. “You just say whatever you think, don’t you? I wasn’t asking for your opinion.”

“Well, you got it.” He gave her a long look, taking in the Tulane sweatshirt, tight jeans that left no room to hide anything, and flip-flops. “And unless you are a black belt jujitsu specialist or trained in self-defense and carrying some kind of weapon, I’m walking you to the guest house.”

She looked up at him half outraged and half bemused, as if she couldn’t quite believe someone like him actually existed. It was a look he’d been on the receiving end of more than once.

Eventually her mouth twisted with a smile. “How do you know I’m not?”

“Because if you had any secret ninja skills, from the way you were looking at me a few minutes ago, I’d be on my ass right now.”

•   •   •

Annie couldn’t help it. She laughed.

The Canadian captain was outrageous and yet oddly charming at the same time.

She had to admit that walking back alone might not have been her best decision. She’d reacted so defensively only because he’d been blunt enough to call her on it.

If she was tempted to argue with him, the group of men who’d just poured out onto the sidewalk ahead of them made her think again. The pub must have just closed, and by the level of boisterousness and general weaving, they’d been in there awhile. More than one didn’t look likely to be scared off by a look-into-the-eyes “hello.”

“Alas,” she said, turning back to Dan. “No secret ninja skills, but I’m definitely wishing otherwise right about now.” She looked him up and down as he’d done her. The flood of warmth that poured through her told her that might not have been a good idea. Despite the bulky sweatshirt and loose jeans, the guy was built. Built. She pulled her eyes away before she was caught staring—again—and looked back up at him. “Although something tells me that you wouldn’t be so easy to put on your ass even if I were.”

He grinned and the effect was startling. It felt as if she’d been struck square in the solar plexus.

He was good-looking. Even with the stupid beard. What would he look like without it?

That probably wasn’t something she should be thinking about.

“You might be right,” he said. “But let me know if you ever want to try.”

Was he flirting with her? It was hard to tell. The words were mildly provocative, but they’d been said matter-of-factly and without any innuendo.

That was him, she realized. Matter-of-fact and without innuendo. What you saw was what you got. He wasn’t the type to sugarcoat. He would tell it like it was—or at least how he saw it—whether she liked it or not. She suspected there was quite a lot of my way or the highway with him. She couldn’t decide whether he was overbearing or old-fashioned. Probably a little of both.

Still, she might not agree with him—and she guessed she wouldn’t on many things—but there was something refreshing about his no-BS straightforwardness.

She supposed she wouldn’t lose her feminist card if she went along with it this one time.

When he made an “after you” gesture with his hand, she didn’t object and moved to the right enough for him to walk beside her.

She peered up at him from under her lashes, taking the opportunity to observe him. Strong “don’t mess with me” jaw, razor-sharp eyes that didn’t miss anything, squared “ready to take on the world” shoulders. Confident. Tough. Smart.

But defensive. There was a wall up around him that seemed to warn her not to get too close, and there was that grim shadow that she’d sensed earlier.

What was his story? There was something about him that didn’t quite fit, but she couldn’t figure out what. He didn’t seem the type to be involved in something illegal or disreputable as she’d first assumed. He was too solid and principled. But there was definitely something off about him; something that made her think he was trying to fly under the radar. The beard, the hat, the baggy clothes, the job with the not-quite-on-the-up-and-up charter company.

She probably should just let him walk her back and leave it at that, but curiosity got the better of her. It was a downfall. “How did a Canadian boat captain end up on the Isle of Lewis?”

She thought he might have stiffened slightly, but he answered the question so unhesitatingly that she realized she must have been mistaken. “I visited here once as a kid. I was looking for a change of pace when I saw the job opening posted on the Internet.” Seeing her expression, he quirked a smile. She wished he’d stop doing that. She liked it too much. “They do have the Internet here, you know.”

She laughed. “I’m not sure I’d call it that. The Wi-Fi at the guest house is painfully slow, and my phone seems to work in about a two-block radius.” She frowned, wrinkling her nose at something in his voice. The tempo was slow and very deliberate. “Where are you from in Canada? I can’t quite make out the accent. It’s not French, and I haven’t heard one ‘eh’ yet.”

“Vancouver,” he said. “What about you?” He glanced meaningfully at her sweatshirt. “From your lack of accent, I’m guessing not New Orleans.”

She was surprised that he knew where Tulane was. A lot of Americans didn’t even know that.

She shook her head. “I’ve been in school there for the past eight years, but I was raised in different parts of the South.” She guessed his next question. “I was born in Florida, which is why I don’t have an accent.”

“Eight years?”

She nodded. “I just finished my PhD.”

“Congratulations. I think I heard your boyfriend mention that. What field was it in?”

“Marine ecology.”

He nodded as if something suddenly made sense. “So that is how you became involved with the protest?”

She shrugged. “Sort of. It was Julien who told me about it.” She went on to explain how she had met Julien at a fund-raiser for the BP oil disaster a couple of months ago, and how they’d bonded over the devastation and wanting to make sure something like that never happened again. “But these are mainly his friends. I didn’t know many of them before I came.”

She didn’t know why she’d just made the disclaimer.

Or maybe she did. Maybe the situation with Jean Paul was bothering her more than she wanted to admit. So much so that she didn’t want Dan associating her with him.

And what about Julien? Was he bothering her, too?

She knew the answer.

She was tempted to say something more. Tempted to voice her concerns that her boyfriend had been acting strangely, and she was having second thoughts about their plans.

Why she thought she could confide in Dan, she didn’t know. But not since her father—in the old days—had she been around someone who gave off that “you can count on me” vibe.

Of course when it mattered, she hadn’t been able to count on her father at all.

But she sensed Dan would be a good sounding board. He had to wonder—probably even suspect—what they were planning to do, didn’t he?

They’d reached the guest house and stopped. She turned slightly and realized how close they were standing, from the blast of body heat that engulfed her. There wouldn’t be any cold winter nights with him. He smelled good. Not like the colognes that Julien wore, but fresh and bracing like the wind on the sea.

Was that where he’d come from? She’d been so startled by his sudden appearance that she hadn’t even thought about why he’d been out so late. “Where were you tonight? It’s a little late for a charter, isn’t it?”

He stepped back, and it was as if that wall she’d imagined before came slamming back down. There was nothing remotely welcoming or inviting about his expression—had there ever been? It was as blank and hard as stone.

“Fishing.”

She didn’t believe him, but neither was she going to argue with him. His tone left no room for challenge. The conversation was clearly over.

The easygoing conversation we had going? Forget it. We aren’t going to be friends.

Got it.

She couldn’t explain why it stung. Why his sudden withdrawal upset her so badly. Why she felt even more alone than she had before.

Their eyes met in the semidarkness. She wanted . . .

Nothing.

She barely knew him. She didn’t even like him. Why would she want to confide in him about anything? “I—” Her voice caught. She shook herself and drew a deep breath. “Thank you for walking me. I’ll see you in a couple days.”

He nodded, and then seemed to hesitate as if he were grappling with saying more. He turned to leave and even took a few steps before turning back again. “Go home, Miss Henderson. You don’t belong here.”

Miss Henderson.

The ominous warning dissipated in the cool night air as he disappeared into the shadows.

She was tempted to listen to him.